Playing nice after the Apocalypse Eol Stoltio Playing nice after the Apocalypse Eol Stoltio Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Playing nice after the Apocalypse Playing nice after the Apocalypse Eol Stoltio Eol Stoltio An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Playing nice after the Apocalypse T he sun was setting over the grand Abercrombie estate as Albert Abercrombie, having spent an interminable seven years in exile (a period that, he later concluded, had provided ample opportunity for reflection, mild panic, and a most unfortunate hairstyle), finally made his return. He had anticipated a reception worthy of a Shakespearean hero: trumpets sounding, servants scattering rose petals, and perhaps a choir of cherubic voices singing his praises. However, what he found upon arriving was the sound of indignant voices rising from the drawing room, followed by the unmistakable spectacle of his siblings, Mabel and Horace, engaged in a duel of words so vicious that one might have thought a fortune had been gambled away over an ill-timed game of charades. Eol Stoltio “Oh, I say! What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?” Albert called out, stepping into the fray with the poise of a man who was underwhelmed by the reunion he’d been daydreaming about for the past decade. He had expected a warmer reception than this, but alas, the Abercrombie family had a longstanding tradition of turning every quiet moment into a competitive shouting match. It was, quite frankly, their specialty. Mabel, who looked as though she had just received an unsolicited invitation to a bath in vinegar, narrowed her eyes at Albert. “You’re back,” she hissed, her tone dripping with enough disdain to make a vicar nervous. “Indeed, I am,” Albert replied, giving what was supposed to be a casual shrug. It came off as more of a spasm, as his muscles seemed to have forgotten what function they were meant to perform. “Had a bit of a... um, jaunt. You know, exile and all that. Took a stroll around the world. Just stretching my legs, as it were.” Horace, who had been pacing like a disoriented pigeon trying to figure out where it had misplaced its dignity, suddenly halted mid-step, turned, and gave Albert a look that could have charbroiled a lesser Playing nice after the Apocalypse man. “A stroll around the world? It took you seven years to ‘stretch your legs’? What, were you stopping for tea every three yards?” “Well,” Albert began, clearly caught off guard, “there was this rather smashing jazz band I encountered in New Orleans... and then, well, there was the slight issue of not getting punched in the face by anyone who remembered my name.” He offered a sheepish grin, but only because he didn’t know how else to proceed without giving the impression that he had, indeed, spent much of his time avoiding public altercations. “You know how it is.” Mabel’s eye roll was so monumental that it threatened to end up in a different hemisphere. “Honestly, Albert. Seven years. Seven years! And this is all you have to say for yourself? I suppose I was foolish enough to imagine you’d return with something grand—perhaps a fortune? Or at least a slightly better scent than that of a man who’s spent the better part of his existence sleeping in a stable.” Albert sniffed at himself, aware for the first time that he might have overestimated the powers of his travel-sized soap. “Might I remind you, Mabel, that it was you who persuaded Father that I was a dangerous influence on the family and needed to be sent off to wander the globe in the first place?” Eol Stoltio Mabel raised her eyebrows in a manner that suggested she found this both tedious and unremarkable. “Yes, well, I didn’t expect you to come back smelling like an unsavoury batch of old cheese. I was rather hoping for something more along the lines of ‘successful adventurer,’ but that’s clearly not in the cards.” “And I,” Albert said, looking dramatically at his siblings, “didn’t expect to return to find you two plotting to assassinate each other over a mere trifle of the family fortune.” He paused, wiped his brow, and muttered under his breath, “Honestly, if I had known that this is what awaited me, I might have simply stayed in exile. In fact, I think I might have revisited that jazz band in New Orleans for a few more years. They were quite good, you know.” Horace, who had finally stopped pacing to stand with his arms folded, smirked. “Oh, come now, Albert. Don’t be so dramatic. We were merely discussing the matter of the inheritance family business, nothing more.” “Family business,” Albert echoed, shaking his head. “Oh, yes. Of course. The family business of bickering like a pair of cats locked in a bag.” Playing nice after the Apocalypse Mabel huffed indignantly. “We would have preferred a more civil approach to the matter, but, alas, one of us had to be the sensible one.” Albert stared at her. “Sensible? You mean to tell me you’re in the midst of a full-scale verbal civil war and consider it ‘sensible’?” “Well, it’s not as though we’re simply throwing pies at each other, Albert,” Mabel retorted with a shrug, as if this somehow made the situation less alarming. Albert sighed. “And to think I was hoping for a quiet return. I was imagining warm embraces, maybe a little bit of weeping, but no, it seems I’ve come back to the world’s most theatrical squabble.” “Well,” Horace said, leaning in with the air of a man who had just discovered the secret to world peace, “you might as well join us in the fun, old boy. There’s plenty of wealth to go around, and I’ve even drafted a few strategies on how to divide it. Would you like to see them?” Albert gave him a look that might have melted the heart of a less stubborn man. “Horace, I’d sooner take up fencing with a porcupine than join in your latest scheme.” Eol Stoltio Mabel looked to the ceiling, exasperated. “I honestly don’t know what’s worse: your sudden reappearance or the fact that we’re stuck in a battle royale for our own inheritance.” Albert raised an eyebrow. “I believe I was the first to point that out, Mabel.” At that, the room went silent for a moment, with only the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere on the estate breaking the tension. “Ah, family,” Albert sighed. “Nothing quite like it.” Playing nice after the Apocalypse I. After the warmest welcome the Abercrombie family could muster (which, to put it mildly, was not much), Albert Abercrombie found himself seated in the drawing room with his two siblings. His long- anticipated return had, as usual with the Abercrombie clan, arrived with as much fanfare as a cup of tea at a funeral. There had been no banners, no outpourings of joy, nor the heartfelt embrace he had envisioned in his dreams. No, his welcome consisted of a lukewarm handshake from Mabel, who still seemed somewhat put out by his mere existence, and a gruff nod from Horace, who appeared to have been interrupted in the middle of something terribly important. The something in question, Albert soon discovered, involved a great deal of paper, an odd number of biscuits, and a rather suspiciously large stack of what appeared to be unpaid bills. Eol Stoltio “So, you’ve returned, have you?” Horace asked, his voice dripping with all the enthusiasm of a man who had just learned he would be spending the next two weeks in a room full of very damp wallpaper. “I have indeed, Horace,” Albert replied, straightening his shoulders with what he hoped looked like a triumphant gesture. “Alive, breathing, and most importantly, back to rescue this fine estate from the brink of ruin.” Horace squinted at him as though he were an especially irritating fly buzzing about a rather dull luncheon. “Rescue the estate? From what? A lack of ambition and common sense?” “From you, mostly,” Albert said, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “But that’s beside the point. Mabel, darling, it’s been so long. How have you been? Still plotting to turn the family fortune into something truly catastrophic?” Mabel, who had been deeply engrossed in the letter she was reading, barely looked up. “Plotting? Albert, you’re mistaken. I’ve been merely trying to make sure we don’t lose the rest of our assets before breakfast.” She glanced up briefly, then back down at the letter. “Do pay attention, will you? You’re interrupting my business.” Playing nice after the Apocalypse “Business?” Albert echoed, momentarily taken aback. “What business could you possibly have that requires you to spend the day reading the letters of every creditor in London?” Mabel snapped the letter shut with the precision of someone closing a coffin lid. “I’m ensuring that Horace doesn’t bankrupt us before lunch. As I said. It’s a full-time job.” Albert stared at his brother. “Bankrupt us? Horace, what have you done now?” Horace, who had been surreptitiously hiding a small stack of bills under his chair, smiled with the smugness of a man who had just realized his secret plan might be more diabolical than even he had imagined. “Nothing too dreadful, dear brother,” he said in a voice that could have sold ice to an Eskimo. “Only the small matter of selling off the family silver to fund a rather... ambitious... venture in the Swiss Alps. You see, I’m making cheese.” Albert blinked. “Cheese? You sold our silver for cheese?” Horace nodded solemnly, as though he were announcing the creation of a cure for the common Eol Stoltio cold. “Not just any cheese, mind you. This is The Connoisseur’s Embrace. You can’t even begin to imagine the demand for it. Very niche market, you see. We’ll have buyers lined up from here to Paris.” Albert took a moment to digest this. “Horace, when I left, you were still, if memory serves, trying to turn the family’s carriage collection into a series of horseless carriages that went nowhere. And now you’ve opted for cheese?” “Well, you can hardly blame a man for trying to make a living,” Horace replied with a shrug that suggested he had been watching too many business documentaries. “Besides, have you ever tasted the stuff? It’s absolutely divine. The French would practically give their vineyards for a slice.” Mabel, not one to pass up an opportunity for sarcasm, scoffed. “Oh, yes, I can see it now. ‘The world’s finest cheese, made by a man who sold off his inheritance to fund his dreams of gastronomic grandeur.’” She shook her head in disbelief. “Horace, I can’t help but wonder—how exactly do you plan to pay for the repairs to the family estate? Have you considered offering it as collateral for a cow?” Horace, unperturbed by her jabs, leaned back in Playing nice after the Apocalypse his chair. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I’ve got it all planned. I’ll host a grand cheese-tasting event. Very posh, you know. Imagine it, opulent surroundings, a select crowd of discerning tasters, and, of course, a large supply of wine to go with the cheese. We’ll rake in a fortune.” “Wine and cheese?” Albert echoed, wondering whether Horace had been living in a cave for the last decade. “Is that really your grand scheme? Have you consulted a single reputable financial advisor? Or did you simply ask a couple of cheese merchants what their thoughts on ‘long-term investments’ might be?” “Oh, please,” Horace said dismissively, waving a hand. “What does a ‘reputable financial advisor’ know about cheese? And as for investments,” he added with a smirk, “I’m simply thinking outside the box. Or, in this case, outside the cheese wheel.” Mabel leaned in with a glare that could curdle milk. “Horace, I’m going to be perfectly clear: your cheese empire is not going to make us any wealthier. It’s going to make us the laughingstock of the ton.” “Let them laugh,” Horace said, unshaken. “I have a foolproof plan. You’ll see. There’s an untapped market for artisanal cheese, and I...” Eol Stoltio “And I suppose you’ve also cornered the market on... making sure we’re broke before the season even begins,” Mabel interrupted. Albert, finally recovering from the shock of his brother’s culinary aspirations, looked between them both. “Oh, what on earth have I come home to? A family destined for bankruptcy... over cheese?” Horace grinned widely. “It’s not just cheese. It’s an experience.” “An experience,” Mabel repeated, rolling her eyes so dramatically it was a wonder they didn’t fall out. “I’ll take your word for it. But while you’re busy turning us into a joke, I’ll just be over here, trying to figure out how we pay for repairs, a new roof, and perhaps a small fortune to keep the neighbours from laughing themselves sick.” Albert sighed deeply. “You two are impossible.” “Well, that’s what family’s for, isn’t it?” Mabel quipped, with a small smile that almost looked like a truce. Almost. Albert gave a resigned nod. “Right. Family. I’ll go make some tea. Perhaps it will help me forget about the fact that we’re likely to be living in a hovel by next week.” Playing nice after the Apocalypse Horace nodded seriously, his eyes lighting up with a sudden thought. “Tea. Yes. We can serve it at the cheese-tasting event. A perfect pairing. Do you know anything about the finer points of tea?” Albert felt the creeping sensation of a headache building. “Horace, my dear brother,” he began slowly, “if you mention one more food pairing to me today, I will personally take a spoon to the pudding at dinner.” “Ah, yes,” Mabel said dryly, “the pudding. That’s the only thing you can count on in this family.” Albert grinned at her. “I’ll take my chances with that pudding, Mabel. The way things are going, it may be the last thing worth saving.” Eol Stoltio II. The day started, as most days in the Abercrombie household did, with Albert sitting at the breakfast table and trying to figure out which of his sibling’s latest harebrained schemes he was expected to support. It was, as he had grown accustomed to, a rather thankless task. His attempts to bring order to the family estate were increasingly overshadowed by the antics of his brother Horace and the icy detachment of Mabel, who seemed to exist solely to make him feel more guilty for abandoning them all those years ago. “I’m telling you, Mabel,” Albert muttered, stabbing his toast with far more force than was strictly necessary, “this is all a disaster. I don’t know how I’m going to fix this. I’ve ruined everything, and now I have to come back and deal with... this.” Playing nice after the Apocalypse Mabel, who was expertly balancing a cup of tea in one hand and the morning paper in the other, didn’t even glance up from her reading. “Albert, darling, I think you’re overstating things. Our fortune might be gone, but we still have a roof over our heads, don’t we?” “For now,” Albert replied darkly. “But with Horace selling cheese and biscuits to the Duke of Something- or-Other, that roof might not be as secure as you think.” At that moment, Horace himself burst into the room, looking as though he had just returned from some grand adventure. He was holding a tray of biscuits, each one carefully buttered, as though they were the crown jewels rather than mere baked goods. “Good morning, all! I bring tidings of progress!” he announced, setting the tray down with a flourish. “Behold! The latest iteration of our new business venture: Buttered Biscuits for the Duke!” Albert stared at the tray with a mix of horror and disbelief. “Horace, please tell me this isn’t true. Tell me you haven’t started selling biscuits to the Duke.” “Oh, but I have,” Horace replied, completely unperturbed. “Not just any biscuits, mind you. These Eol Stoltio are buttered biscuits. The Duke is positively mad for butter. I overheard him at a party last week, gushing about how he couldn’t find any quality biscuits in the entire county. Well, we shall be his salvation!” Albert stared at his brother. “Horace, we’re nearly bankrupt. We’ve lost nearly everything, and your solution is to butter biscuits and hope the Duke takes a fancy to them? What’s next, Horace, are we opening a bouncy castle business for the Queen?” Horace looked a bit affronted at the suggestion. “Don’t be absurd. We’re talking about the Duke of Biscuitworth , Albert. A man of refined taste and discriminating palate. I happen to know, thanks to my extensive network of kitchen staff, that he’s been looking for a biscuit supplier for months.” “And how,” Albert asked, rubbing his temples in exasperation, “did you happen to know this?” Horace puffed out his chest proudly. “I have my sources, Albert. You might be surprised how much information can be gathered from a butler with an unfortunate addiction to gin.” “You’re honestly trying to convince me that we’re going to turn this family around by selling biscuits?”