SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

Sit.22: The Attack

We were having dinner when it happened. There I was, cooking squash and onion stew for my lady, her lighting candles on the table – it was meant to be a romantic night in. Then two men, piss drunk and loud as hell, busted in and announced themselves.
"I'm The Lackey!" said one, bearded and jacked-up like a war-hammer, dirty slacks and no shirt. His shoes were caked in dry mud, which flaked all over our floor.
"And I'm The Minion," said the other, thin with beady eyes and a sad smile. His overalls were all he had on, shoulders bare and feet stained green on the bottom.
They laughed with each other about their titles, and pointed at one another. They were so inebriated, I couldn't tell if they were having a bender-extender into my house, or if they were breaking and entering. I recognized them from the pub as two of the fan-boys, whom I'd previously thought of as soft-mannered and intelligent. But as they stumbled around our kitchen, The Artist was forced to blow out the candles or they'd set the table on fire by knocking them over. Some melted wax did spill, and it annoyed me to see it. I acted quick, lidding the pot in the stove and using a bucket of water to put out the fire inside. I saw that The Lackey was, standing up, a surprisingly muscular man with a hairy beer gut, curly bear-brown hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a beard of red that he kept thin. He was standing in The Artist's room, peering into her wardrobe and sniffing her night-gowns... which was hardly charming. He had a hawkish manner, as though he were hovering over his prey – giving it time for anxiety to claim its heart with seizure before diving in. The Minion, hair equally curly but black, was even thinner in the eyes, and almost as thin all over his body. He leaned on The Lackey's shoulder, trying to kiss his neck. When The Lackey shoved him off, he went to my room to sit on my bed. He looked like a lost calf, who'd been rejected by its mother and left to fend for itself. Then he took off his straps, rolled down his chest cover, pulled out his tadger and balls, chugged 'imself to a stauner, an' cried, "Oh my GOD, why does nobody WANT me?!"
The Lackey shouted, "You have a GIRLFRIEND, ya fuckin' twit!"
The Minion shouted back, "She's BORING! All she does is nag, nag, nag... I hate her. I just can't tell 'er so, or she'll leave me." Then he looked up and saw me holding a skillet for self-defense, trying to decide if it was murder to do 'im in while he was sloshed. He said, "Oh my GOD, there's GIRLS here! Brother, come look! I think THIS one likes me!"
The Lackey stumbled into my room and put his brother's boaby back into 'is clothes and rolled them back over 'is shoulders. He growled, "Quit gantin', ya fud, I cannae keep tuckin' yer baws in!" He carried his brother up by his shoulders, and said to us, "Boss sends his regards... says you should'na crossed 'im. Sent us to wreck up your place when you least -hic!- respected it."
"EXpected it," corrected The Minion.
I glared at them. "Well I can hardly respect you either, can I? Not right now."
Before even considering what 'e should say back, the fuckin' tosser kicked our table over – spillin' a vase of wild-flowers, breakin' candles against the ground, an' smashin' plates into bits – all in one go. I waited for 'is next move, and kept The Artist behind me – but the stove was still hot, and as she was pushed against it even gently, she yelped! I turned to pull her away from it, but the bastard Lackey took me by surprise an' trew a hay-maker at the back of my head. Everything went black. When I came to, the stove was still hot, radiating at my face near inches away – my hands had been saved by the space underneath it alone, though they were mildly singed from the contact it took to get there. Everyone was gone. I heard in the distance, a women shouting, "HELP!", followed by a shriek over dull giggling. The heartless morons. I got up slowly, barely able to stand from the rush of blood to my head and the sharp throbbin' on my skull. 'SKULL!' I thought, and stumbled to my room to kneel at the edge of my bed. It still smelled like dick and booze, with tones of throw-up and unwashed sweat. I yucked and held my breath, pulling out the little red chest. Inside was my father's skull, and from inside the lid fell a folded up piece of parchment, signed: 'From The Author, to The Grim Reaper & to my dear sister.' I was shook, and paused – but it would have to wait. I took the mask, put it on, and slid the chest back under the bed with the letter inside. Then I stood up, head starting to clear, and put my black, long-hooded cloak over my black, long-sleeved dress. I looked for my scythe – it was gone. I cursed out loud, "They must have grabbed it, the fuckin' hooligans!" I grabbed the skillet off the floor and set it on the counter so I could tie my dress into a knot at the back. The clothing was comfortable for a date night, aye, but impractical for combat – but there was no time to change. I grabbed the skillet again and tapped my other palm with it. Then I ran out the door, and followed the screaming.