Ridiculous. He had never been so ill-treated in his whole life. To think that such an imbecilic, poorly-dressed, snivel-nosed shit could have the AUDACITY to pour a saintly bordeaux all over his wife put such beet red hues into his cheeks as to suggest asphyxiation, or potential heart failure.

The fat man shook, with an angry tectonic rumble, and the whole room seemed to hold slack for his reaction, volatile elements stirring with life...

"What in the hell do you THINK you ARE DOING!??" the fat fuck rumbles. His gold watch chain jangles with the bulbous rolling of his obese rolls. His wife attempts to feed him treacle tart — a favorite of his upper estate upbringing — to absolutely no avail. In fact, this seems to upset him further, taunting his unimaginable anger at life, his wife, and the current matter of spilled vino.

A dab of her handkerchief looks ridiculous, vain, play-acted by a woman versed in theatrics — she is on stage six times per day, pretending to love the horrible man beside her. If only he knew her true thoughts.