[ Claude Bérubé starts out by hiding his stammer with the kind of success you'd expect of a man in his position - perhaps not entirely smooth, perhaps not as praticed as someone with more experience and more ambition but passable. Vincent tempers down his own immediate irritation and remains in a somewhat generous mood right until the man actually continues his sentence.

Oh, that motherfucker. That absolutely disastrous motherfucker. He's going to rip his hair out, one fucking strand at a time until he's bald on exactly one side of his skull. That absolute shithead. For a moment, Vincent actually takes the phone from his ear and stares at the display before mouthing what the everloving fuck soundlessly into the air. Then, taking a very deep, very audible breath, he puts the phone back to his ear. ]

You figured. That's nice, darling, but unfortunately, you've put me in an awkward position here. I guess you're the prince who sent him a fucking doll for his birthday, too? Fuck's sake, this is unbelievable.

[ There's barely any pause here. ]

What red-carpet event and more importantly, why?