When Dominic gets hungry Dominic eats. He does not cook, nor have to. He rings a bell. Sir? Will the truffled egg white quiche be in order, or does Dominic prefer deviled ham on sourdough? Dominic usually waves his hand in disgust at those who serve him. Uh, sir, egg? Ham? Uh, something else sir? Sir? Dominic has no time to concern himself with answering. Very well sir, they always teeter, I have brought you both. I— I— I had the chef make the lobster Thermidor and— and a fresh pot of consommé, sir. Umm, uh… your sushi’s ready, or, uh… or— your beef Wellington, that is, sir… Sir? Dominic looks up from his latest doodle (to call them paintings would be blasphemy) forks a single edamame, then a spoonful of hot beef broth followed by one small pinky-sized pincer from the Thermidor, reclines, spills his food, reaches up, fingers plastic stars, clicking balls and a diamond mirror.