Hubris Towers Season 1, Episode 2: A Harrowing Beginning

By Ben Y. Faroe and Bill Hoard

It's time for Jimmy Acorn to prove once and for all that he has what it takes to be the new concierge of Hubris Towers. The only problem is—well, he doesn't. 

With his reputation staked on an impossible intercom repair and a frenetic training schedule devised specially by his conniving boss Mr. Schwartz, it's going to be all Jimmy can do to keep his head above water on his first day at Hubris Towers. 

Add a growing list of errands, a band of Russians, a Frenchman, a duckling, and some very poor directions, and Jimmy will need every ounce of luck and ingenuity he can muster—and maybe a little help from his new friends—if he's going to have any chance of staying at Hubris Towers. 

And then there’s the little matter of his hat... 

This is the second installment of Hubris Towers, a fresh comedy series released regularly in 45-55 page episodes. Visit byfaroe.com/hubris for more information and to sign up for updates on new releases and exclusive deals.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clickworks Press
• Release date: Jun 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781943383030

Book preview

Hubris Towers

Season 1

Episode 2: A Harrowing Beginning

Bill Hoard & Ben Y. Faroe

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Copyright © 2015 Bill Hoard and Ben Y. Faroe.

All rights reserved.

First publication: Clickworks Press, 2015.

Release: CP-HT1.2-INT-E.M-1.3

Sign up for Hubris Towers updates at bit.ly/gethubris.

ISBN: 1-943383-03-0

ISBN-13: 978-1-943383-03-0

Hubris Towers

Season 1

Episode 2: A Harrowing Beginning

The morning of his first day as the provisional concierge of Hubris Towers, Jimmy Acorn awoke suddenly, nervous and alert, thinking about wrinkles and a hat. It was still half an hour before his alarm was set to go off, and he had that uneasy feeling of having merely skimmed the surface of sleep as his mind and body geared up for an exciting and nerve-wracking day.

The wrinkles and hat he was thinking about belonged, respectively, to the single suit he owned and to the uniform his brain had apparently spent the night worrying he might have to wear. His introduction to J. Edgar Hubris yesterday was still a bit of a blur, but he seemed to remember mention of a little hat. Jimmy hated uniforms with hats. Especially little hats. They put him in mind of the worst elements of performing monkeys, unsavory cabbies, and low-ranking Nazis. But he was almost sure Mr. Hubris had mentioned a hat. Something about class and panache.

Which led to the wrinkles.

Jimmy really wasn’t certain that a concierge was even supposed to have a uniform. It was, in Jimmy’s conception, more of an expensive-suit position, with uniforms relegated to the doormen and bellhops and assorted lesser staff.

Luckily, something like a plan seemed to have accumulated in Jimmy’s brain overnight. If he were to arrive in a sufficiently sharp, clean, professional suit, a suit simply reeking of class and panache, he might be able to convince his superiors to dispense with the uniform altogether, and so dodge the bullet of the aforementioned hat.

Easy enough, but the problem that immediately presented itself was that Jimmy only owned one suit, and if one were pressed to describe just what it was that that suit reeked of, class and panache—not to put it too bluntly—would not be the items to spring most immediately to mind.

Jimmy’s suit was, in a word, fatherly. It had a comfortable, rumpled sort of air about it. It was the kind of suit one felt one could confide in. But it was not a sharp suit. Jimmy was of the mindset that a suit, being mostly worn in tense two-hour increments, never really got dirty in the strictest sense, certainly not dirty enough to justify the prices dry cleaners were charging these days. Well, the prices he assumed they were charging. He’d never actually been into one, but they struck him as places frequented by people wealthy enough to wear suits all day, and to have suits to wear while other suits were being processed. Which left him with a suit reeking, really, of nothing at all, except maybe a hint of formerly wet wool and a touch of city air.

Which led, again, to the wrinkles.

The fact of the matter was that Jimmy did not even, in the strictest sense, own an iron. So it was that he spent that nervous, alert half-hour before his alarm sounded trying to ease some panache into his old suit with the help of a saucepan that he alternately warmed lightly over the stovetop, then massaged against his suit on the battered kitchen table with vague, hopeful strokes.

He arrived at Hubris Towers a little before his shift was to start, simply oozing with something he hoped might pass for panache.

The intercom at the front gate greeted him with a presumably cheery, Hrrzbx Trbrz, hrrbdy grrbl?

With a smile, he pressed the button.

Jimmy Acorn, concierge, reporting for duty.

Rrzee.

Jimmy thought he detected a touch of coolness, but after a moment the gate opened with a click and Jimmy sauntered along the wide white path amid brilliant green grass, facing down the gleaming, half-constructed building with a confident smile.

As he approached the front door he thought fondly of the woman in bright yellow—he found he thought of her as the parakeet lady—who had mistaken him yesterday for the new footman. He took a quiet joy in not being the footman. Footmen traditionally wore top hats. Concierges traditionally wore suits. If all went according to plan, by the end of the day his headgear would consist of nothing more objectionable than a thick pomade.

He pressed the button.

Hrrbxz Drrbrz, bhrghdai ghllpyww?

Jimmy Acorn, Jimmy repeated. Concierge. Reporting for—

The door clicked open, in a manner that seemed inexplicably tetchy. Jimmy paid it no