Of all the insulting, disrespectful...

"I've never been so pissed off in my life." Reynolds Portman IV cranked the wheel of the Jaguar XJ13 hard as they ascended the steep, winding road.

"The nerve of those people, asking for proof of our membership." Constance "Connie" Portman, his wife of seventeen months, adjusted the temperature of her heated leather seat.

"Connie, this is obviously a rhetorical question, but I'll ask it anyway." Reynolds' gin blossoms glowed with ire; his pores contracted like clam pits. "Who in his right mind isn't fully aware that the Portmans landed in this country on the Mayflower, that the Portman Trading Company was the first supplier of fine spirits to the native Americans?" The car rolled slowly under the receding garage door and came to a stop.

"Well, sugar angel, we were both aware of the new rule at the club." Connie's Manolo Blahniks clacked hard on the smooth pavement as she stepped past Carlos, who had opened her door. "We're now required to produce our legacy paperwork when requested, or we're not allowed inside."

"I know, I know, but it's utterly absurd, Con Con. Am I supposed to carry around a notarized copy of my family tree every time I feel like taking in nine holes of golf? It's insulting and disrespectful. I feel like I was profiled today simply for wearing an obvious off-the-rack blazer."

"Come on, love. Let's just go inside and cool down. I'll tell Maria to bring a pitcher of martinis out to the pool area. By the way, have you paid the staff yet this week?"

"Oh, I guess I haven't," Reynolds replied. "There are some envelopes of cash in the freezer. If anyone complains about the amount, just tell them they can be replaced...today."

"Yes, of course." Constance disappeared into the main kitchen.