At least he had Carots

Carots. That's the only language Mr. Midas spoke. Don't even talk to him unless there was a jingle of sparkly red in your pockets. That's how it was and how it always will be.

The old rabbit lounged on his favorite red loveseat, which, all things considered, did not live up to its name. There was no love where he lounged.  

“Ruby, be a dear and bring me another Moscow Mule,” he flicked aside his cigarette’s ashes into his golden tray and took another deep breath. Maybe some more spirits would raise his spirits. 

“Yes sir,” The tiny bunny squeaked and gave a polite bow before darting off on all fours into the little servant doggy door, bonking her crystal horns on the top.

He liked that little girl only because she looked a bit like him. Everyone made comments about their cosmetic similarities, but he knew they couldn't be further unrelated. She smelled sweet of sugar and berries, silver eyes full of hope despite her impoverished background. He picked her off the streets out of pure greedy vanity. He always got exactly what he wanted.  Soon enough she returned with a glass of blood red on a tray on her little head, and Midas took it ungratefully. 

“For a gluttonous girl, you are quite modest,” The CEO sighed as he squished the cigarette out.  

She meeped, uncertain. 

“You have permission to speak, dear…” he rolled his eyes. 

“Um, y-yes, sir.”   “Yes?” He raised a nicked brow.  

“How can I help you, sir?”  A pause hung in the air between the two, the tension was so thick he could cut it with a knife. He gave up.

  “Nothing,” he dismissed her with a wave of his hand and a hearty sip."Leave.”

  “Yessir,” she timidly scampered off with the empty tray in her front hooves, leaving the lonely man as she found him: still alone. At least he had his carots...