Re: MORITURI TE SALUTANT!! [S!4]
08-03-2012, 11:13 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Not The Author.
“I-I-I don’t like dis, Mac. Spooky in ‘ere.”
“‘S a haunted harse, y’git. S’posed t’be spooky.”
“All da s-same. P-place p-puts me on edge. Why’s it g-g-gotta creak so much?”
“Dunno. Why y’gartta yammer s’much?”
“It’s my nerves, M-Mac. I ain’t s-suited to dis environm-ment!”
“Naw shit i’s yer gardamn nerves. ‘S in ‘ere?”
‘In here’ turned out to be the kitchen. Contrary to the rest of the manor, there seemed a lack of wear or decay – there was the omnipresent layer of dust, of course, and the smell of must and rot still permeated the room, but the walls were unmarred, the counter uncollapsed, the doors still firmly attached to their cabinets, the maid still studiously mopping up last night’s wait a minute
Will only got as far as the fifth G in ‘A ghost!’ before Mac caught on and slapped him upside the head. “Nar such thing’s ghosts, idjit.”
“B-but I can see th-th-through ‘er!”
“Th’, uh… S’trick o’th’light.”
“The light is c-coming from her!”
“Richard? Is that you?”
The old, portly Spaniard fixed her gaze on Will. “I’m sorry, sir, but the servants were in an uproar; I had to send them away. Dessert will be late, I’m afraid.”
“I-I, uh… I a-ain’t…”
“Would you mind, sir, finding someplace to put this in the meantime? Normally I’d not ask you dirty your hands, but as I said, we’re busy with dessert.”
Will’s protests were cut short as when the maid lobbed Aristides’ still-ghost-bleeding ghost-flesh’d skull into his arms. While he juggled the head and stammered incoherently, Mac got down to business. “Look, lady…”
Or tried to, anyway. “Gregor! You’re here as well?”
“Oi! We ain’t ‘quainted, lady. Now shut’cher yap, ‘fore I shut it for yer.” The sight of the meat cleaver dangling loosely from his fat fingers sufficed to prevent a rebuttal, for the moment.
“We’re lookin’ for a, ah, girl, name a’Knight. She’s onna run, see; made some bad choices an’now we gotta find‘er ‘fore she, ah, gets’erself hurt, eheh.”
Will didn’t pay attention to the evolving situation between his partner and the maid – she wouldn’t know anything, and he’d threaten her, and she’d babble about something or other and he’d cut out her guts and laugh and laugh that horrible wet laugh of his. He paid no attention to the head on the counter before him, either, intentionally so – it was a skull but it was a head but it was a ghost and he didn’t want to think about it too hard. No, true to form, Will was being a nervous wreck, eyes darting from one corner of the room to the next. He was apprehensive thanks to his environs, of course, but he was always one for details, and something was bothering him.
“M-Mac?”
People often think things that are obvious to them are obvious to others, and sometimes let slip dangerous information. Mac always told him he needed to ‘cut th’tective crap art,’ but it was just his nature to pick up on those sorts of details. It was what made him such a good shot despite his shakiness.
“Mac, I th-think…”
Swiftly, Will drew his revolver from within his coat, pointing it dead at the window. He could’ve sworn he’d seen movement, and that was what worried him. He’d checked the entire room – barring the walk-in freezer, but that was sealed tightly – and had seen only the ghostmaid and Mac. So…
Who was the ‘we’ making dessert?
“I th-think we ain’t alone in h-here.”
He perked up at a sickly noise, and swiveled just in time to see his brother collapse in a pool of his own blood. The maid looked mortified, screaming about this fresh mess she’d have to clean, and the
The, uh
Will turned
And looked
And saw
And fired on instinct
Three cracks rang out, three shots struck true
And then Mac’s cleaver embedded in his sternum.
“That maid,” his mind muttered as he died, “has some absurdly good aim.”
***
“Tchah, now look what you’ve done! Blood everywhere. I’d just cleaned it all from before, too!”
Apologies, milady, but your life was in danger. …You should probably get yourself cleaned up.
“Clean myself! What of the kitchen? There’s bodies, and blood! This simply will not do.”
The kitchen’s appearance is less important than your own. There are likely others here who would see you harmed; certainly so, whilst clad in the blood you so abhor. Leave this mess to me. I’m starved as it is.
“Come again?”
D- I, uh. Just go! I’ll have this place spotless in no time.
“…Alright, if you say so. Should I take-”
You need not, but others would take it for their own if left unguarded. Happens with aggravating frequency.
The maid shrugged, tucking the unsealed urn in the crook of her arm, and headed off to find a fresh wardrobe. Not a minute later, the only signs of a struggle that remained were a trio of crumpled bullets left on the counter.
A door was opened, then closed, and the kitchen was empty.
“I-I-I don’t like dis, Mac. Spooky in ‘ere.”
“‘S a haunted harse, y’git. S’posed t’be spooky.”
“All da s-same. P-place p-puts me on edge. Why’s it g-g-gotta creak so much?”
“Dunno. Why y’gartta yammer s’much?”
“It’s my nerves, M-Mac. I ain’t s-suited to dis environm-ment!”
“Naw shit i’s yer gardamn nerves. ‘S in ‘ere?”
‘In here’ turned out to be the kitchen. Contrary to the rest of the manor, there seemed a lack of wear or decay – there was the omnipresent layer of dust, of course, and the smell of must and rot still permeated the room, but the walls were unmarred, the counter uncollapsed, the doors still firmly attached to their cabinets, the maid still studiously mopping up last night’s wait a minute
Will only got as far as the fifth G in ‘A ghost!’ before Mac caught on and slapped him upside the head. “Nar such thing’s ghosts, idjit.”
“B-but I can see th-th-through ‘er!”
“Th’, uh… S’trick o’th’light.”
“The light is c-coming from her!”
“Richard? Is that you?”
The old, portly Spaniard fixed her gaze on Will. “I’m sorry, sir, but the servants were in an uproar; I had to send them away. Dessert will be late, I’m afraid.”
“I-I, uh… I a-ain’t…”
“Would you mind, sir, finding someplace to put this in the meantime? Normally I’d not ask you dirty your hands, but as I said, we’re busy with dessert.”
Will’s protests were cut short as when the maid lobbed Aristides’ still-ghost-bleeding ghost-flesh’d skull into his arms. While he juggled the head and stammered incoherently, Mac got down to business. “Look, lady…”
Or tried to, anyway. “Gregor! You’re here as well?”
“Oi! We ain’t ‘quainted, lady. Now shut’cher yap, ‘fore I shut it for yer.” The sight of the meat cleaver dangling loosely from his fat fingers sufficed to prevent a rebuttal, for the moment.
“We’re lookin’ for a, ah, girl, name a’Knight. She’s onna run, see; made some bad choices an’now we gotta find‘er ‘fore she, ah, gets’erself hurt, eheh.”
Will didn’t pay attention to the evolving situation between his partner and the maid – she wouldn’t know anything, and he’d threaten her, and she’d babble about something or other and he’d cut out her guts and laugh and laugh that horrible wet laugh of his. He paid no attention to the head on the counter before him, either, intentionally so – it was a skull but it was a head but it was a ghost and he didn’t want to think about it too hard. No, true to form, Will was being a nervous wreck, eyes darting from one corner of the room to the next. He was apprehensive thanks to his environs, of course, but he was always one for details, and something was bothering him.
“M-Mac?”
People often think things that are obvious to them are obvious to others, and sometimes let slip dangerous information. Mac always told him he needed to ‘cut th’tective crap art,’ but it was just his nature to pick up on those sorts of details. It was what made him such a good shot despite his shakiness.
“Mac, I th-think…”
Swiftly, Will drew his revolver from within his coat, pointing it dead at the window. He could’ve sworn he’d seen movement, and that was what worried him. He’d checked the entire room – barring the walk-in freezer, but that was sealed tightly – and had seen only the ghostmaid and Mac. So…
Who was the ‘we’ making dessert?
“I th-think we ain’t alone in h-here.”
He perked up at a sickly noise, and swiveled just in time to see his brother collapse in a pool of his own blood. The maid looked mortified, screaming about this fresh mess she’d have to clean, and the
The, uh
Will turned
And looked
And saw
And fired on instinct
Three cracks rang out, three shots struck true
And then Mac’s cleaver embedded in his sternum.
“That maid,” his mind muttered as he died, “has some absurdly good aim.”
***
“Tchah, now look what you’ve done! Blood everywhere. I’d just cleaned it all from before, too!”
Apologies, milady, but your life was in danger. …You should probably get yourself cleaned up.
“Clean myself! What of the kitchen? There’s bodies, and blood! This simply will not do.”
The kitchen’s appearance is less important than your own. There are likely others here who would see you harmed; certainly so, whilst clad in the blood you so abhor. Leave this mess to me. I’m starved as it is.
“Come again?”
D- I, uh. Just go! I’ll have this place spotless in no time.
“…Alright, if you say so. Should I take-”
You need not, but others would take it for their own if left unguarded. Happens with aggravating frequency.
The maid shrugged, tucking the unsealed urn in the crook of her arm, and headed off to find a fresh wardrobe. Not a minute later, the only signs of a struggle that remained were a trio of crumpled bullets left on the counter.
A door was opened, then closed, and the kitchen was empty.