Jesus, it's worse than I thought.
Thibs is down in the den, sitting in his favorite leather seat, a scotch in his left hand and scribbling vigorously with his right into a college-ruled notebook. His 6-year-old Persian rubs up against his ankle, where his extra-baggy sweat pants are riding up. He ignores the cat. Dammit, this is important. Suddenly a light caresses the room from the hallway. "You coming to bed, dear?" his wife calls. A barely audible glottal sound resonates from his throat, but doesn't escape his vocal cords.
She smiles a sad, understanding smile. They've been here before. "Well, will you at least take the trash out before coming to bed?" Always the trash with this woman, the parse-faced mad general thought to himself. It's all her Shutterfly gift promo gear anyway. He told her there was no future in that stuff. She walks off, silently divorcing herself from the situation. She left the light on, though, and it's shining in the ol' coach's chestnut eyes.
Oh well, Thibs thought, I have to get up to refill the scotch anyway. He drops a sphere ice cube and some spey-side single malt in a short tumbler. He takes a quick swig before heading back to the den, where his work can be seen atop his orderly wood desk. "Do your job," the furious scribbles say. He sighs, and settles back into the chair for a long night.
Point being, Thibs is in this shit deep.
