"EEEEEENOUGH!"
Neighbors of Mr. Gold Pawnbroker and Antiquities ran to bolt their doors shut and urged their customers to stand back from the windows as the east wind swirled and ripped through the Westside business district. The sunny sky instantly turned black as a moonless midnight and every building on the block shuddered and the sidewalks and street rose up from the earth to crack and crumble. "Earthquake!" some cried, but others argued, "Tornado!" and still others, "Wraith!" Only the pawnbroker's personal assistant, Mr. Dove, making a few purchases for his employer in Amy's Ice Cream, realized the true cause of the natural cataclysm occurring without warning: "No, it's Mr. Gold."
Mr. Gold, indeed. For precisely ten minutes ago, Bunny Carroll, owner of the Rabbit Hole bar on the east edge of town, had given up on pleading with Racy Lacey to come down off the pool table with her six-inch stiletto heels and put her royal blue sparkling dress back on and for Hera's sake stop playing B-17 ("Panama") over and over on the juke box and go home already! Unsuccessful in her attempts, Ms. Carroll did what any sensible and cowed Storybrooke business owner (except the un-cowed Granny and of course, Mr. Gold) would do: she phoned the woman who had cowed her—brow-beat her, as it were, with threats of higher taxes and a revocation of her liquor license, lest she comply immediately and to the letter. Which is to say, Ms. Carroll phoned Mayor Mills to report Lacey's latest pool table performance.
"What should I do, Madame Mayor?" Ms. Carroll's voice shook, for business had been way off ever since Lacey appeared on the scene; or more accurately, ever since Mr. Gold, in pursuit of his wayward girlfriend, had started bursting into the bar like some wild-eyed latter-day Carrie Nation, cursing the clientele loudly for their crude and disgusting conduct (i. e., consuming alcohol and conversing at little round tables while loud [so-called] music played in the background), threatening the wait staff with eviction notices, and occasionally overturning a few tabletops and smashing whisky bottles with his cane for good measure. So yes, Ms. Carroll's voice shook—for she too lived in a modest house owned by said Mr. Gold, and she really didn't want to have to start sleeping in her car.
"You did the right thing," Ms. Mills assured the citizen, and by "right thing" she also meant demonstrating fear of the power of the mayor's office (or more rightly, fear of the witch who sat in power at the mayor's office). "Let me handle it."
And without a goodbye, she hung up and scrolled to the name at the top of her phone list. "Oh Rumple dear, your beloved little tramp is at it again. This time she's demolished a pool table with her heels. She also pried open the juke box and smashed all the Taylor Swift records. Better hurry; seems she's disrobed down to her lacey lingerie and she's swinging her dress around her head like a cowboy at round-up time. Don't let her catch cold now." (For Ms. Mills knew of Gold's fondness for Westerns, both in print and DVD; nothing escaped Her Majesty). Then without a goodbye the mayor hung up and reclined in her swivel chair for just a moment to kick up her own spiked heels in merriment as a deep, dark belly laugh overtook her. When she'd regained her composure, Ms. Mayor wiped the laugh tears from her cheeks and hurried out to her Mercedes, for she felt suddenly thirsty and required a White Rabbit with a twist of Gold on the side.
It was left then to Tom Clark, who'd dropped into the bar for a quick shot after work, to phone the sheriff, who with a growl threw down her bear claw and leapt into her squad car.
Gold seemed oblivious to the cataclysmic weather his rage was causing as he slammed down his phone, slammed the door of his shop behind him, causing the little bell above it to tinkle frantically, and then stormed out into the street. There would no hopping into a car for him: he walked like a gunslinger right down the middle of Main Street, seemingly unbothered by the wind and the darkness and the broken pavement. Though the Rabbit Hole was located more than three miles from his shop (had it not been, he would have made it so, for there was no way in seven hells that he would allow such a vile establishment to locate near his shop), he walked, ignoring the cars and trucks which slammed on their brakes or pulled off to the side to allow him to pass right down the unbroken white stripe that delineated the east-bound from the west-bound lanes. The entire three miles he walked, barely limping, and so lightly supported by his cane that onlookers forgot he actually needed it for something other than shattering glass and cracking bones. He walked, his teeth bared, his hair whipping about his face, and on the sidewalks, parents grabbed their children's hands and yanked them into the nearest building for safety. All over town, phones started ringing with the news, and anxious but highly entertained faces pressed against windows to watch the spectacle unfold as a middle-aged businessman with a cane walked down Main Street toward a bar on the opposite end of town—toward a saloon in which his drunken girlfriend was causing a public disturbance.
Regina and Emma arrived well before he did, but word had spread that Gold was coming, and Hell was coming with him, so neither woman took action. Regina, of course, had come for the show, and Emma decided, this being Lacey's ninth offense in as many weeks, it was time that this problem be brought to a head and squeezed like a teenager's chin pimple before Lacey (or more likely, Gold) did some real damage. So the women assumed positions, Emma at the foot of the pool table, Regina front and center on a stool at the bar, where Rumple couldn't miss her smirk.
Main Street emptied, except of loose papers being battered by the wind, and still he came. Overhead electrical lines crackled and stop lights exploded, and still he came. Every Smartphone and digital camera in the city appeared in doorways to snap his photo for instant upload to Facebook, and still he came. He came, his Armani jacket whipping open in the wind, and Storybrooke cowered in his wake.
Every patron in the joint, save Ms. Mills and Ms. Swan, ducked for cover under the little round tabletops as the front door crashed open and a whirlwind swept in, shouting, "Belle!" The bartender grabbed three bottles of Johnnie Walker Blue Label— the most expensive booze in the place—from the shelves and like a mother hen sheltering her chicks, lay them lovingly on the floor and covered them with his own body. The wait staff joined him on the floor behind the bar. Ms. Carroll picked up the closest things she had to weapons—a canister of pepper spray and a pool cue—and made ready to do battle. Sidney Glass, long missing and presumed dead, dashed in through the back door with a Nikon to take the photos that he prayed would at long last re-establish his journalistic career.
And still Gold came.
In he walked, gold teeth glinting, cane tapping and echoing in the sudden silence. Behind him, Nature quieted and the sun came out again. "Please, Mr. Gold, I don't want any more trouble," Ms. Carroll tried, but the pawnbroker threw an open hand in the air, serving as both a gesture to shut up and a reminder of his powers, as tiny bolts of magic sparked from his manicured fingernails. Ms. Carroll shrank against the wall, clutching her weapons to her bosom. Yup, there was going to be trouble.
Oblivious to the goings on at her spiked feet, Lacey continued to dance on the torn pool table. At the top of her lungs (and very much off-key) she sang over and over the only lyric she knew to her favorite song: "Panama! Panama!" Never mind the fact that when she started this debacle it was B-16, "Sunshine on My Shoulders," that she had punched up. Lacey swirled and teetered and one of her heels caught in a pool pocket, but oblivious she remained to all but her dance and her song. "Panama! Whoo-hoo! Panama!"
And then the dragon roared. "BELLE!" The juke box shut itself off. The saloon walls shuddered. Still Lacey danced. "BELLE!"
At last Lacey realized her music had ended. Hands defiantly set on her hips, she pried her caught heel loose from the pocket and stared down at He Who Dared Interrupt Her Good Times. "I told you my name—"
Emma tried to intervene. "Gold, I—" But he flicked his hand warningly at her and she wisely backed off.
"EEEENOUGH!" He stretched out his arms and his cane, looking like a modern-day Moses about to part the Red Sea, but Lacey merely pursed her lips and snapped her fingers in the direction of the bar. "Waiter! I need a drink!"
And then Gold tossed his cane to the floor and snapped his fingers.
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Even Regina raised a fascinated eyebrow. From his Ferragamo-ed feet a thick cloud of purple power billowed and rose until his entire body was immersed, and when the cloud blew away it wasn't the middle-aged shop keeper standing there any more: it was the golden-eyed, crocodile-skinned Dark One in all his leather glory.
Lacey stared down at him. "Mr. Gold. You've. . . changed." Understatement of the year.
Sidney's camera snapped away.
Rumplestiltskin's thin lips parted, revealed crooked black teeth. In a barely controlled and now quite high-pitched and elaborately accented voice, he hissed, "I tried being polite. I tried being sweet. I tried being understanding and patient with your circumstances, which I realized were not your fault." His claw snaked out and clamped around Lacey's wrist. "But now I'm going to take the prince's advice: I'm going to be the man you fell in love with." He yanked, throwing Lacey off balance, and somehow he caught her in mid-fall. "No more Mr. Nice Guy!"
A second cloud of magic surrounded the imp and the stunned but intrigued dancer locked securely in his arms. When the magic cleared, the saloon patrons saw the sneering imp had re-attired his beloved in an elegant, off-the-shoulder ball gown (made of gold thread, of course).
"W-w-what are you going to do?"
Regina scowled, for it wasn't dread she heard in Lacey's question; it was excitement. And it wasn't fear that made Lacey throw her arms around the monster's neck and hang on tight: it was lust. As the imp spun on his heel and walked back out into the street, Regina failed to see him roll his eyes.
The patrons remained frozen in place for just a moment. Finally Emma grabbed her gun and ran into the street, and everyone else followed, determined not to miss Storybrooke's own recreation of the final scene of An Officer and a Gentleman, now to be referred to as The Dark One and His Barfly.
But they were gone.
"What are we doing here?" Lacey turned up her nose, for it wasn't his bed he'd transported her to; it was a field on a deserted road.
"Shut up." He dropped her to her feet, now shod in little gold slippers, and he took a few steps forward, then vanished.
"You're not going to leave me here?" she shouted, but there was no answer. She folded her arms, fighting off the chill, and stamped her foot. The lovely buzz with which she'd conducted her pool table performance had abruptly left her, and now she was cold and cranky. . . and quite disappointed in the imp's failure to ravish her.
He suddenly reemerged, holding something in the flat of his hand.
"What's that?" She tried to look but he snatched his hand closed. When he opened it again he peered into his palm, then, apparently annoyed with what he saw, he flung his possession off in the opposite direction.
The earth split open and a gaping hole appeared, a green glow spilling out from it.
The imp seized her wrist. "You promised me forever, dearie. It's time to pay up." And before she could protest he'd swept her into his arms again, and just as she was beginning to feel cozy and squishy in his firm grip, he leapt into the green hole.
"Where are we?"
She wasn't clutched in his arms any more. He stood beside her, staring ahead, taking his bearings, and before she could do the same, he grabbed her arm and pulled her along behind him. They stood before a great castle, and with a flick of his fingers the gate opened for them and he led her into the yard, overgrown with wild grasses and littered with rock. Another flick of his fingers and the iron-barred door swung open, and he let go of her; he knew she would follow, for there was no place for her to go.
She tripped along, trying to keep up, as he marched through the anteroom, through a spacious dining hall, and to a narrow and dark flight of stone steps. "Careful, dearie, wouldn't want you to break your neck on your first day at work."
He snapped his fingers and his magic lit a row of torches in sconces lining the staircase. Down, down into the cold bowels of the castle he led her, ignoring her whimpers and her shivering.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Let's call it 'your room.'"
When at last they arrived at the bottom, he granted her no time to look around: he flipped open a heavy wooden door.
"My room?"
"Well, it sounds a lot nicer than 'dungeon.'" And he pushed her inside, giggling maniacally as he slammed and locked the door.
"You will serve me my meals and you will clean the Dark Castle."
"Oh, is this one of those domination-submission things?"
"Silence! You will dust my collection and launder my clothing."
"Whatever. You got any scotch around here?"
"You will fetch me straw when I'm spinning at the wheel."
"Yeah, right. Hey, you into videotaping? Cause this would make a great tape, the costumes and castle and whatnot."
"And you will skin the children I hunt for their pelts."
"That your idea of black humor?"
"Shut up or you'll spend the night in chains!"
"Ooh, Mr. Gold, you really are as dark as they say."
"You're about to find out just how dark I can be, dearie."
