The Sampson Inheritence
Posted: Mon Dec 15, 2008 8:10 pm(Given that this is set up as a competition, feel free to inform me of any off-screen activity you wouldn't want others to notice via. pm instead of post.))
The black car ground to a halt as it pulled up to the mansion's front door. The engine died and the driver's side door opened. Soon, a tall man in a suit stepped outside of the car. His pale hair and equally pale skin were obvious inheritance from some northern European immigrant so many generations ago. The man reached back in for a few moments to grab his briefcase. Then he locked the door, closed it, and walked up to the door. He fished around in his pockets briefly before producing a large key. Slowly the man raised the key to the door.
Just before the key touched the lock, the man stopped. It would be better to wait for the winners to arrive. The will had specified that he was to be dramatic, and keeping everyone outside until the event formally started seemed commensurate with that goal. It was his job, after all, to honor his clients' last requests, and the money Sampson had paid him was more then enough to ensure he ran the man's joke
The man took a second to glance around at the estate that would be his home for the next week as he monitored the winners and helped them reach an agreement. The gardens were expansive, large to the point of being ridiculous, with three pools, a tennis court, and even a baseball diamond. Sampson, oddly enough, had hated sports. Why he'd have these built was anyone's guess. The man shook his head ruefully. The day he understood his eccentric client would be the day he died.
He turned his head back to the only road that led to the house. It was a dirt road. After all, there wasn't another house, much less any sign of civilization for a few hour's drive. Everything else in this area was forest. Jeffrey Sampson, public figure though he may have been, held a great enjoyment for privacy when he could find it.
Indeed, it was no wonder that Sampson had pored a few of his copious millions into buying and renovating the old building. The man sighed. He hadn't been Samson's greatest friend; but, the two had not been strangers, and the mansion, though the man had never seen Sampson here, seemed to fit the odd millionaire to a T. Large, with hundreds of rooms, most of which would never be used. A mish-mash from varying ages, half of the things there looking like they'd been put there for the sole expediency of fitting in, despite the fact that the mansion was designed to be isolated and private. It was, like Jeffrey Sampson himself, a study in contradictions.
The man pulled up one sleeve to glance at his rolex. It was time, the winners, no, the contenders, would be arriving soon, ready to determine who, out of a collection of strangers, would inherit well over a hundred million dollars.
The black car ground to a halt as it pulled up to the mansion's front door. The engine died and the driver's side door opened. Soon, a tall man in a suit stepped outside of the car. His pale hair and equally pale skin were obvious inheritance from some northern European immigrant so many generations ago. The man reached back in for a few moments to grab his briefcase. Then he locked the door, closed it, and walked up to the door. He fished around in his pockets briefly before producing a large key. Slowly the man raised the key to the door.
Just before the key touched the lock, the man stopped. It would be better to wait for the winners to arrive. The will had specified that he was to be dramatic, and keeping everyone outside until the event formally started seemed commensurate with that goal. It was his job, after all, to honor his clients' last requests, and the money Sampson had paid him was more then enough to ensure he ran the man's joke
The man took a second to glance around at the estate that would be his home for the next week as he monitored the winners and helped them reach an agreement. The gardens were expansive, large to the point of being ridiculous, with three pools, a tennis court, and even a baseball diamond. Sampson, oddly enough, had hated sports. Why he'd have these built was anyone's guess. The man shook his head ruefully. The day he understood his eccentric client would be the day he died.
He turned his head back to the only road that led to the house. It was a dirt road. After all, there wasn't another house, much less any sign of civilization for a few hour's drive. Everything else in this area was forest. Jeffrey Sampson, public figure though he may have been, held a great enjoyment for privacy when he could find it.
Indeed, it was no wonder that Sampson had pored a few of his copious millions into buying and renovating the old building. The man sighed. He hadn't been Samson's greatest friend; but, the two had not been strangers, and the mansion, though the man had never seen Sampson here, seemed to fit the odd millionaire to a T. Large, with hundreds of rooms, most of which would never be used. A mish-mash from varying ages, half of the things there looking like they'd been put there for the sole expediency of fitting in, despite the fact that the mansion was designed to be isolated and private. It was, like Jeffrey Sampson himself, a study in contradictions.
The man pulled up one sleeve to glance at his rolex. It was time, the winners, no, the contenders, would be arriving soon, ready to determine who, out of a collection of strangers, would inherit well over a hundred million dollars.