This short tale was written based on the following prompts
Cyril Montgomery Charlesworth the Second had learnt the hard way that his opinions weren’t appreciated, that most just ignored his words of wisdom, that he was the only one who heeded his advice.
Cyril Montgomery Charlesworth the second was a peeved soul, but he wasn’t defeated.
From his position by the window, he watched as the trio sauntered around the room, expressions blank. They were the picture of competence, which only proved that appearances were deceptive. He’d worked it out instantly, but he listened, even when words weren’t spoken.
Sighing deeply, he flitted down to the table, grimacing as he knocked over the card which stated caustically, after the tone.
“Sir,” He piped up, unsurprised when one of the men lifted a finger to rub his ear in confusion, and sighing he yelled, “Down here boffin.”
Now that did garner their attention and as one lowered his hand to right the card, he seized his opportunity, climbing onto a fingertip nimbly.
Dismissing their astonishment he leant forward, his wings ruffling in his excitement at their shellshocked expressions, “This is a murder scene folks, that pink phone has done the deed, go on, lift it up.”
As his instructions were followed, he felt an overwhelming relief, they were listening.
“It’s a dead ant Sir.”
“It’s homicide,” Cyril Montgomery Charlesworth the Second declared, surprised when he was abruptly deposited back onto the table, and the trio linked arms and began to high kick like they were doing the Charleston.
“Dead ant, dead ant, dead ant.”
Cyril Montgomery Charlesworth the Second sighed, perhaps being listened to was overrated.