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 Posted: Thu Jul 24, 2008 9:11 pm
Slim, pale arms moved about a small cottage as the pale poneko known as Lovett cleaned up her work area… if you called turning a grimy green into a brown moldy one dusted with grey and white powder. Beady little eyes darted to the side as a small critter crawled over to the newly “cleaned” work space. With a small twitch and taking a wooden roller, Lovett meandered on over and whacked the little bug across the room and watched as it flopped over, quite dead she should add.
“Such a poor thing. To fall from such a fling… Oh well.”
Plopping the dead bug into her hand, Lovett wandered back to her workplace and plopped the bug into a cup where she would use an array of ingredients to make the day’s pies…
“Now. If Mr. T would just bring back the main course…
Perhaps a little priest? At the least?
They aren’t lean… but they are fit for the Queen.
Better then beans!
Now a squire would be very clean. Pretty little boys who are very keen.
Now that would be nice. Certainly at a price.
By the fire, we play a lyre.
But who’d ever know that it came from the song writer?
And the kitchen, there’s a pitch and…
Who’d ever know that it came from a Richard~?”
Singing to her lonesome self… Lovett made little sense, if any, with what she was “singing”.
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Posted: Thu Jul 24, 2008 9:39 pm
Mr. Sweeney Todd was on his way home from the grocery store. He hummed a little as the sacks he carried in each hand jostled merrily around. He really liked that grocer, he gave him half-way decent flour in exchange for a shave. And in the interest of future business transaction (Mr. T wanted Mrs. Lovett's pies to have all the help they could get) he had actually left the man intact with a nice smooth shave.
The man should be grateful he'd only have to replace an errand boy. Nice, young, and tender.
He soon arrived at their little cottage, home. Overgrown rose bushes had scaled the fence, their flowers wilting on the vine as the thorns presented all the welcome that the two inside had to offer. The gate swung lazily, its latch long since broken. The once carefully placed stepping stones were hidden by grass and weeds. At one time neat little vines had been cultivated to meander up the cottage, now they devoured it, leaving only small holes for the windows and a gap for the door. Home.
He pushed open the gate with a sack that was beginning to leak red and walked up the overgrown path, slowly so that whatever was in the weeds could get out of his way.
His stomach growled, he remembered with thanks that he had picked up an extra bottle of gin.
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