Albigence was laying on his stomach in the bedroom of the second floor apartment, only his waist, legs, and feet visible peeking from under the bed. A dry breeze swirled into the room from the open parlor window as, with the fireplace poker in his hand, Albi skewered and scraped papers and boxes of trinkets, coins, feathers, and more personal valuables out from the bed. He cursed each, too, like a very bad priest. "A gods-awful, stupid, fockin' drawing, absolute garbage of an artist, wouldn't trust you to make a dot above my 'i', I swear t'you that much! Ugly mock of a hat, more like a dead-n-run-over bird to cover up that big empty head that's keeping your boot-deserving-ass from getting swept away by a stiff breeze, that's right! Any doubts m'own son-hatin' mother had about leavin' my sorry ass here would be gone if she saw me in a mole-faced frock like this St. Grumble's-ghost-lookin' trash!" He crawled out with them like a some backwards snake trying to slip across ice, adding them to the pile of clothes he had removed from the dresser and trunk that gaped with their backs against the wall. He stood, sweaty and red of face, his hair in some haphazard nest and the poker scraping across the wood floor. He huffed, then began to push the pile of clothes and trinkets- far too big and disorganized to be his- towards the open window of the green parlor, leaving a trail of stockings and shirts behind him. He threw the poker with a clatter before the fireplace.
One might also get the impression that Albigence Fitz was maybe, just maybe absolutely pissed, especially if they watched the small passive man squat, grab, and lift the personal effects of his renter out the window of a second story parlor to both flutter gracefully and drop with the weight of a devil to hell into the alley.
"You dumbasses want to clockin' skip off into the sun and let it turn you into pipe smoke with your rent, then your fockin' shit gets burned," he spat as he heaved another load into the evening.
He had liked his renters, really. They were clean, quiet, and kind to him, but to just disappear mid-month and not give him any notice, not even take their rubbish, not even leave the keys to their apartments, not even shut the door on their way off to disappear? Now he'd be at least eight shills short next month! Now he had to change the stupid locks and get two keys and their spares made to match! Now he had to clean out the all of their trash, had to get new renters!
He stepped back into the bedroom, picking up his bread-trail of clothes and pushing them out the window latching onto the sill and letting the breeze surround him. He huffed, his anger sucking all the breath from his lungs. Underneath the red face and messy hair and huffing, he did feel just a little better, like a boiling cup a tea with a single cube of ice in it.
"So clockin' done with being nice, y'hear?" he yelled to the walls. They did not answer. He instead faced the window beyond and continued his elegant soliloquy to the only person who would listen. "Be nice and they pull this little plan, hm? Treat them like friends and they do this to you and leave you to keep their mess until they get back. Yeah, clockin' right! It's going to get burned! Bunch of ashes by morning, I tell you that!" He blew out the candles of the room. He readied himself to slam the door shut, then, stopped, gingerly closing the bedroom door and stomping down the stairs. He couldn't keep his jaw from clenching, his shoulders from hunching nearly to his ears, his fingers from making tense fists at his sides. He was hot, disheveled, and nearly blinded by a perhaps excessive anger. He needed a break from throwing other people's belongings out the window. It was draining.