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“Beware, beware!” the old priest wailed. He stood atop his platform in the town square, his acolytes surrounding him like the jewels studding a crown, ringing their bells and handing out their holy papers. “Beware the return of the human! Prophesized to be born every ten thousand years! That time is at hand once again, my children! These could be the last days of our glorious utopia!”
Rotlings gathered around the sermon the way maggots did to rotten meat. There was more than could be counted with the naked eye, and they were all hungry for the fear and dread that came with a good doomsday preaching. The twitching eye of The Black Hand was there in the stone obelisk before them, over them, staring through them yet swallowing them with its gaze.
Near the front of the crowd was Mud, the slimy, sneaky scumbag of the Smiling Dead. The sight of these freaks left a bad taste in his mouth, which was saying something for a chronic smoker.
“Buncha suckers,” he grumbled to himself, puffing on his cigarette and looking for wallets to pinch. “Imagine someone falling for something so puerile and… hey, are you even listening to me?!”
Next to Mud was his what he assumed to be nephew; the hulking beast made of bread, appropriately named BreadHead. The monster was smiling as he took in the crowd with his bulging eyes.
“Wow,” he said in a deep, booming voice. “This is one big family.”
Mud had to give BreadHead a second look at that comment. It took some puzzling before realizing that the soft-headed muscle had taken the priest’s ‘my children’ comment literally.
“You really came out that oven half-baked, didn’t you?” BreadHead’s response was to giggle to himself and stare out at nothing in particular.
It was a shopping day for the gang. Normally they avoided this part of The Gaslight District, but it couldn’t be helped today. They were running low on cement and one of Mud’s many contacts was able to hook them up with more, provided they lug it away themselves. Luckily BreadHead was strong enough to carry bags by the armload. The tough cookie was a godsend in moments like these, since Mud’s scrawny arms could barely lift one bag, and Ken had his hands full with other things.
Yes, little Melancholy Hill had joined them for this trip. Normally Ken would have put her down for her nap while the family took care of business. Sadly, the girl had developed a tolerance for Uncle Mud’s extra potent sleepy-time juice, and it was too dangerous to leave alone at the restaurant. Not because of rival gangs or anything. Mostly because she liked to climb and play with the oven. The last thing The Smiling Dead needed was to come home to see their shop was nothing more than a burning whale carcass.
So, while Mud and Breadhead were doing the real work, Mel and Papa Ken were busy dicking around at a pop-up wig shop on the other side of the square. The sight of that little girl trying on wigs big enough to swallow her head was so precious it made Mud want to puke. Though that could also be because the kid was plain ugly. So fleshy and soft. She had to be at least six years old now. Old enough to hurry up and rot already, he thought.
“The tide is rising!” the old priest intoned, reaching the climax of his sermon. “The black blood of the human will wash us all away from our paradise, and send us to our deaths! So be vigilant, my children! This is the greatest battle of our lives! It is a battle we cannot afford to lose!”
And with that, the crowd slowly broke up and went back to their business.
“Oh, finally! I never thought we’d get any peace and-”
“Uncle Mud?” BreadHead asked.
“For crying out…”
“Uncle Mud, what’s death?”
The slimy crook looked up at his nephew, shocked by the sincerity of that question.
“You’re serious? Shouldn’t Kenny be the one giving you this talk?”
The homunculus shook his big, soft head. “Nu-uh. When I ask, Ken tells me stuff like ‘it don’t matter none,’ and ‘get back to work,’ and ‘you’re drooling on the counter again.’”
“Huh, sounds like he’s finally making some damn sense.”
“But I really wanna know, Uncle Mud! Can’t you tell me what death is?”
“Have you lost your mind!? Why would I… oh, fuck this.” With a deep breath, Mud coughed up a wad of something vile and green to clear his throat. “KEN! KEN, GET YOUR FAT ASS OVER HERE AND RAISE YOUR KID!”
Despite screaming blooding murder, Ken did not budge. Little Mel was too busy trying to get a yellow wig over the cleaver jammed in his skull. The kid sure seemed to like playing dress up despite wearing nothing but bandages and oversized gloves every day.
“DON’T IGNORE ME YOU BLOATED PIG CARCAS! YOU DISEASED TOAD! YOU’RE ON MY SHIT LIST FOR THIS, KENNY! YOU HEAR ME, MY SHIT LIST!”
Before long Mud was panting and gasping for breath, coughing up a thick sludge of who-knows-what. BreadHead was still standing there, waiting patiently.
“You’re not gonna let this go, are ya?”
“Nu-uh.”
“Wonderful. Right, let’s make this quick, then.”
Without hesitation, Mud reached an arm down his throat. He went all the way up to the shoulder and pulled out a revolver, the safety already off. BreadHead watched as his uncle spun the cylinder before shoving the barrel under his chin.
“So, death is like this.”
BreadHead didn’t even flinch as Mud pulled the trigger, blowing his own head off. It happened whenever the crook was losing an argument with Ken and needed an easy out. And like those times, the loyal son gathered the pieces and dropped them back on the body.
In time a glow came over the body. BreadHead watched the mark of The Black Hand flash to life as the soupy flesh knitted itself back together, reforming Mud’s head. Then his eyes opened, and the scumbag was back on his feet, wiping the street grime off his coat.
“Like that, but minus the part where my head fixes itself. Got it?”
“Ooooh,” the big loaf said, giggling a bit before getting a serious look. “No.”
Mud could feel his jaw hang looser than it was supposed to at that answer. He snapped it back shut and lit a new cigarette.
“What do you mean no? What’s more clear than my fucking head coming off and staying off?”
“You mean like that?”
Mud looked as the homunculus pointed at a decapitated Rotling passing by. They carried their severed head in a small birdcage.
“You boys like what you see?”
“Screw off Paul,” Mud sneered. “We’re in the middle of some family business here.”
“Gladly,” Paul replied as he flipped the slimy scoundrel the bird. “And by the way, I go by Pauline now.”
“Oh, well in that case, screw off Pauline!”
“I don’t know if you’re being sarcastic or not, but I’m choosing to take that as a compliment!”
“Good! Because it fucking was!”
“Great! I’m going to keep living my best life!”
“Perfect! Go live it somewhere else!”
With that Pauline took off, giving her bony hips an extra sashay so Mud would have to make space.
“Bye, Pauline!” Breadhead yelled to the Rotling. “I like her.”
“Yeah, not a bad fella-I mean gal! Ugh, I have known that sack of shit for two thousand years and if she hears me get that wrong one time I will never… wait, what were we on about?”
“What death is.”
“Ugh, right,” Mud groaned, thinking of an easy way to explain death to this thick-crusted dolt. “Death is… death is when they put you in the ground, and you never come out again.”
“Ooooh,” BreadHead said with a small nod. “Like that?” He pointed again, and Mud saw that there was an arm sticking out of the ground, flailing and struggling. It looked as though someone had buried most of them when they paved the road. They just kept suffocating, then coming back, clawing at legs in the hope someone would help. Mud watched as the arm was trodden on, breaking the bones like stale crackers. Only to heal and for the cycle to begin anew.
By now, Mud was too furious to even manage coherent curses. He sounded like a sack of drowning rats trying to eat each other.
“Fine! Fine. Fuck the verbal learning shit. Should have known it wouldn’t work. Didn’t work for me when I was in school. Fucking waste of time that was…”
“Uncle Mud?” he heard his sort-of nephew ask with deep concern. “Are you okay?”
“ZIP IT!” Mud shouted. He watched as his dim nephew mimed a zipper over his oversized mouth like he was his sister’s age. “You want to know what death is? Close your eyes.”
BreadHead obeyed, squeezing his bulging eyes shut.
“I closed them,” the big boy said dutifully. “Now what?”
“Now nothing,” Mud answered, taking a drag from his cigarette. “That’s it. Forever.”
“But it’s dark.”
“Exactly.”
“But I’ll bump into things.”
“There ain’t nothing to bump into.” Mud took an opportunity to see if there was anything to pickpocket off of the big lug. He got a mousetrap to the fingers for his efforts. A gift from Ken, no doubt. “You can’t move if you’re dead neither.”
“B-but,” BreadHead stuttered out. He was really thinking now. “But if I can’t see, and I can’t move, how do I find you? Or dad? Or Mel?”
“You can’t!” Mud growled, getting exasperated again. “When you die, there’s nothing. No seeing, no talking, no hearing, no smelling, no feeling. And most of all, no nothing else! Why the hell do you think everyone’s so scared of this stupid human?!”
Mud took the time to close his eyes, taking some puffs from his cigarette to calm his burnt-out nerves. Once his filthy heart was under control, he took care of the mouse trap still stuck to his fingers.
“You know,” he sighed, “I’m starting to get why Kenny didn’t want to talk about… what are you doing?”
BreadHead’s face was scrunched in on itself as his many, many teeth ground together. A low murmur turned into a high whine, and tears started to well up at the sides of his still-shut eyes. His chest heaved faster and faster as the brute took quicker breaths.
“Oh no,” Mud mumbled to himself in panic. “No. Nonononono! You are not doing what I think you’re about to do! Stop it! Stop it now, BreadHead! As your uncle I order you to-”
Before another word could escape his dripping lips, a pair of doughy arms pulled Mud into a monster of a bear hug. He could feel his ribs cracking and guts getting forced out of him as BreadHead cried and wailed.
“I don’t wanna die!” the homunculus screamed, totally oblivious to the stares of others around him. “An-and I don’t want you to die! And I don’t want Ken to die! And I don’t want Mel to die… I don’t want anyone to die, Uncle Mud!”
“Oh, what did I do to deserve this?” Mud asked aloud as he felt his insides get rearranged. “Like, aside from the obvious…”
While he could feel his eyes inch towards popping from his skull, Mud sensed an electricity in the air; one that could be felt over his nephew’s thunderous crying. Which meant a certain someone was in the middle of having his bi-hourly rage attack.
“MUD!” he heard Ken bellow from across the square. Typical. “THE HELL YOU DOING MAKING MY BOY CRY?! THIS HOW YOU’RE GETTING YOUR KICKS NOW, YA DEADBEAT?!”
“D-DEADBEAT!” Mud screeched back, filling his punctured lungs with as much air as he could. “I’M THE DEADBEAT?! I’M… I’M THE ONE TRYING TO TEACH HIM ABOUT DEATH, SINCE YOU CLEARLY CAN’T BE BOTHERED!”
“OH, SO YOU’RE AN EXPERT?! YOU LOOKING TO DIE ON US NOW?!”
“DON’T TEMPT ME, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
Ken could feel the fire in his brain fizzle out at the sight of his worthless brother getting thrashed like a cheap ragdoll. He could only stare and sigh. What should have been a simple shopping trip had once again turned into a full-scale production.
“Son of a bitch,” Ken grumbled to himself. “Yeah, takes one to know one…”
“Ken?”
The butcher turned towards the little voice that called his name. He looked down at Melancholy. Really looked at her. Her soft orange hair. The baby fat she still had on her face. The way she rocked on her heels and pulled at the fingers of her gloves. A malevolence of the childish I-don’t-know-any-better variety in her eyes. Hard to believe this was the prophesized human, he thought to himself. Even after all these years.
“Ken,” she said with a gentle directness, “are you guys talking about me?”
The man scratched the back of his neck. He really wished they could still keep her at the shop right now. But she was getting older. Things like this couldn’t be helped. “We’re not, kid. Not really. It’s complicated.”
“Good. Because you know I don’t want everyone to die. I told you so.”
“I know.”
“Just the people who tip with fake scarabs at the restaurant,” she specifies, counting it with a finger. “And people that steal the candy I want from the store before I can steal any. And the dentist. And sometimes Mud.”
Ken couldn’t help but let out a small snort of a laugh, making the girl smile. It was hard to argue with that list.
“But I don’t like everyone being scared of me because of some dumb prophecy,” she grumbled, arms crossed. “I want people to be scared of me because I’m tough and mean, like you!”
“You really got a way with words, you know that?”
“I know. And I also want to be strong like you, too. And I don’t mean the way you smell!”
The man resisted the urge to give his pits a sniff as his technically-daughter smiled. He could tell that she had workshopped that line. Hell, was he this evil back then?
“Listen, Mel,” Ken said as he got down on a knee. “You shouldn’t get hung up on what people say. They’re all assholes.”
The girl giggled, as she always did in the presence of vulgar language. “Even Uncle Mud?”
“Especially Uncle Mud. They have no idea what they’re talking about, especially when it comes to the prophecy. We know the truth. And that truth is…”
“That it’s never coming true!”
“And that’s because no one’s ever gonna find out…” Ken leaned in close, getting right up to Mel’s ear. “That you’re the human.” Then he blew a raspberry, making her giggle again.
“Ewww! Gross!”
The man pulled away so he could look his daughter in the eye.
“Trust me, drumstick. Stay by my side, follow my lead, and we’ll all live forever.”
The girl watched as her father figure held out a massive pinky. That one finger nearly dwarfed her hand, but she still tried her best to wrap her own pinky around it. With that, they had a deal.
“We’ll all live forever.”
“Damn right,” Ken said as he stumbled back onto both feet. “Now, are we buying you a wig or are we just gonna keep screwing around?”
Melancholy ran off, returning with a wig that seemed a bit too big. Ken didn’t mind, since the kid would grow into it. She handed it to him, and the smile started to slip from his face. He looked at it from every angle, and something about it felt off. Something about the curls? The color?
“You, uh… you sure this is the one you want?”
“Yeah!” Mel shouted back, looking determined to stand her ground in case her sort-of dad tried to back out of buying her something. “That one’s my favorite! It looks like the kind the ladies wear in Mud’s magazines!”
“In Mud’s WHAT?!”
“Magazines! He hides them under the cash drawer in the register. They’re all just… just full of pretty ladies! And sometimes there’s these longer pictures that take up three whole pages and… dad?”
Melancholy could see the cleaver rattle in Ken’s skull as the man’s entire body shook. She watched him grit his teeth so hard they might shatter. All his attention was on the tiny wig, staring at it so hard it looked like the veins in his eyes were about to burst.
“Are you going to start yelling again?” she asked, preemptively sticking her fingers in her ears.
Ken’s neck made a sickening snap as he turned to look at Mel. Then he forced a smile that she swore sounded just like glass breaking.
“What?” the man asked with forced jollity. “No, no. Nothing like that. But… why don’t we forget about wigs for now and start taking care of dinner. I was thinking… your favorite?”
The kid let out a gasp. “Really?! We’re having my birthday dinner tonight?!” She looked so happy she might pass out. But then the little devil started thinking. “Wait. Ken, are you extorting me?”
The butcher laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, lambchop. I ain’t extorting you. I’m buying your silence, so it’s closer to bribery.”
“Yaaaay!” Melancholy jumped with joy. “I’m learning, I’m learning! I can’t wait until I get to go on jobs and rip off suckers and… and use a big knife! A really big and sharp one and then I can-”
Ken cut her off by pulling her in close by the shoulder. “Kid, I’m buying your silence.” Without a thought he crushed the wig in his other hand. The fake hair scattered like dried leaves while the netting stuck to his palm. His face grew a very dark shadow as he leaned in. “So cram it.”
“Okay!” Mel responded, seemingly oblivious to the implied threat.
Ken then called for BreadHead to move his buns. The big guy had his arms full with the bags of cement again, still sniffling from his big cry.
“Son,” Ken ordered in a soft tone, lifting the homunculus’s little sister onto his soft head. “You head home. Put the bags away and pull some heads out of the freezer. Big, meaty ones.”
“We’re having deep-fried flies eyes for dinner!” the girl screamed with an excitement that rubbed off on the beast of a baked good. Ken could see the storm clouds lift off his shoulders and some light come back to his red, swollen eyes.
“Really? With the beer batter?”
“With the best rotgut we’ve got,” the butcher answered, making his kids even more excited. “Now get going. Me and your uncle need to talk about a few things…”
BreadHead was off and running without another word. Heads turned as him and his sister chanted ‘deep-fried flies eyes’ over and over.
“AND DON’T LET MEL TOUCH THE OVEN!”
Ken watched the pair disappear over the horizon. He kept his eye on that spot, even as Mud stumbled over, carrying the one bag of cement his boy had forgotten. He was panting like a tired dog by the time he crossed the square, confused at his brother’s smile.
“So what’s got you in such a good mood all of a-”
Ken kept watching that spot on the horizon as he wrapped a hand around Mud’s twiggy neck and squeezed. He turned his head slowly, feeling all that suppressed rage bubble back to the top. He could hear Mud trying to choke out some kind of apology or excuse, naming whatever he thought could be making Ken so mad. But this wasn’t the time for that.
Instead, all business in the square came to a screeching halt as Rotlings looked away from buying watered-down booze and spectating their barely justified knife fights to watch Ken shove fistfuls of cement mix down Mud’s throat. Someone in the crowd yelled to call the Virtues, but it fell on deaf ears. Bets were being made on whether or not they could finish the bag.