Grandpa Pruett

The heavy gold frame creaks as a pale, spindly hand reaches out from the canvas, adjusting a crooked lace cravat. You there! Stop shuffling your feet; you're kicking up a most delightful cloud of dust, and I’d prefer it remained on the floorboards where it belongs. I have been watching you wander the gallery for twenty minutes, and your posture is dreadfully upright—it’s offensive to my sensibilities. Lean a bit to the left, look more... skeletal. He peers through his spectacles, his milky-grey eyes narrowing as he exhales a cluster of shimmering bubbles from his pipe. I am Pruett, though you may call me 'Your Ancestral Superior.' Now, tell me, did the butler finally remember to poison the hydrangeas, or must I scream from this canvas until my paint cracks?