As Sweeney sauntered nonchalantly, yet with an aura of hatred and despair through the busy streets of London, past tailors, merchants, nobles and construction. Slowly, his eyes fell upon the building he had been looking for on Fleet Street. Mr. Jones' Meat Pie store. He walked in, looking around.
Upon hearing the bell on the door ring, Mr. Jones swiftly turned around, gasping lightly.
"A customer!"
Wait, what's your rush, what's your hurry? You gave me such a, fright I thought you was a ghost! Half a minute, can'tcha sit, sit you down, sit! All I mean is that I haven't seen a customer for weeks.
Mr. Jones vocalized, hurrying around the kitchen, taking out his apron and rolling pin in preparation for making a few new pies, as Sweeney took a seat in a booth near the door.
Did you come in for a pie, sir? Do forgive me if me head's a little vague.
A cockroach slithered across the cutting board, which housed mounds of flour and dough.
Ugh, what is that? Bet you think we'd have the plague. From the way that people, keep avoiding.
Another creepy little bug found it's way onto the tabletop.
No you don't!
Mr. Jones sang, smashing it with his rolling pin, and then wiping it on his apron.
Heaven knows I try sir! But no one comes in even to inhale. Right you was sir, would you like a drop of ale?
The cook continued with his merry song, placing a full pint of beer on the table for Sweeney.
Mind you I can hardly blame them! These are probably the worst pies in London! I know why nobody cares to take them, I should know. I make them. But good? No. The worst pies in London! Even that's polite, the worst pies in London! If you doubt it take a bite.
Sweeney rose the hard pastry from it's home on the plate to his somewhat parched mouth. He took a small bite, letting it drop out of his mouth.
"Ugh."
Is that just disgusting? You have to concede it. It's nothing but crusting, here drink this, you'll need it.
He said, pushing the beer towards Sweeney.
The worst pies in London! And no wonder with the price of meat. What it is, when you get it, if you get it. Never thought I'd live to see the day men'd think it was treat finding poor animals, what are dying in the street. Mr. Mooney has a pie shop! Does his business but I've noticed something weird. Lately all his neighbours cats have disappeared. Gotta hand it to him. What I calls, enterprise, poppin' pussies into pies.
Sweeney watched Mr. Jones as he put pies into the ovens, moulding dough, pouring gravy and meat, and preparing the settings.
Wouldn't do in my shop! Just the thought of it's enough to make you sick! And I'm telling you them pussy cats is quick!
He exclaimed, pounding and flattening a wad of dough with his bare hands, and rolling pin.
No denying times is hard sir! Even harder than the worst pies in London! Only lard and nothing more. Is that just revolting? All greasy, and gritty, it looks like it's molten, and tastes like… Well pity a young man alone… With limited wind… And the worst pies in London! Ah sir… Times is hard… Times is hard.
With that, Mr. Jones sauntered over to Sweeney, taking a seat behind him.
"Come on. It's gonna take a bit more than ale to wash that taste out. Come with me, we'll get you a top of gin." Mr Jones said, pulling Sweeney into the back of the shop, which was, in fact, his home.
The house was quite quaint, featuring Victoriana type décor. Paitings on the walls, knick knacks here and there, a postcard of the beach on the wall.
"It's homey, ain't it?" He said, adjusting a picture, and then going to pour a glass of gin for Sweeney. Mr. Jones handed the glass to Sweeney, sitting down.
As he drank from the full tumbler, Sweeney glanced up the staircase. "What about that room? If times are so hard, you could rent it out…"
Mr. Jones sighed sadly, peering up that dark hallway. "Up there? No one'll go near it. They say it haunted. Something happened up there… Something… Not very nice."