Hi! It's me again! Yesterday my friend and I were discussing Hamlet since we're performing it as a play this year at school, and suddenly, out of the blue, she says, "You should make a Sweeney Todd story with Shakespeare! You can use that line from Macbeth! You know, the 'Out, damn spot, outIsay!'" So I accepted the 'challange', and this is what I came up with.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sweeney Todd, Mrs. Lovett (otherwise known as Nellie, because I hate the other names for her), or that wonderful line which inspired this story.
Oh, and if you're a Sands and Blood person, don't worry! I will update tomorrow for sure! This was just a short bit of fluff I typed up.
Sweeney VS Shakespeare
Crash!
Mrs. Lovett looked up from her batter, and yet another roach scrambled into it. She sighed and, using her pinky and ring finger, pulled a few stray strands of her curly red hair back into place. "What is that man doing up there?" she wondered aloud. For the past fifteen minutes, unusual splashing noises and crashes had been coming from the room above her pie shop, the barber shop, where Mr. Sweeney Todd (or Mr. T, as she preferred to call him) now roamed.
Splash!
"Alright, then," she muttered to herself before wiping her hands on her purple dress. She stole one last glance at the bowl of floury dough, stifled a gag, and marched up the stairs leading to Sweeney's shop.
"What are you doing?" she demanded in a flurry of purple as she swung the door open.
Sweeney's back was to her, and he apparently hadn't heard a word she'd said. Slowly, she crept up behind him to see what he was doing.
She stifled a gasp.
Sweeney Todd, otherwise thought of by suspicious beggar women as the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, was at his washbasin, with a shirt inside the reddish, soapy water. He was…washing a shirt…
Or at least, attempting to, Nellie noticed with a slight smirk. The water was red and bubbly, with pools of it all over the floor.
Sweeney was scrubbing furiously at a red blot on the sleeve of one of his white shirts, but unfortunately for the barber, the color had spread to cover the entire sleeve and was beginning to bleed into the chest. "Out, damn spot, out, I say!" he shouted at the shirt, and continued to scrub.
"D-dearie? Mr. T?" Mrs. Lovett asked in a tiny voice, leaning in close to him. He ignored her. "Mr. T?" she asked again, this time louder.
"What do you want?!" Sweeney yelled, spinning around and sending soap everywhere. He gave her a dark look.
"I jus' heard you downstairs and thought I could…see wot you was up to…and see if you wanted my help," she replied, stepping back a few paces. "Do ya need—,"
"I don't need your or anyone's help!" Sweeney interrupted, before turning back to his shirt.
Five, four, three, two, one, Mrs. Lovett counted.
Sweeney turned around and glared at the baker. "It won't wash out," he grunted before roughly handing the wet shirt to her.
Mrs. Lovett hid her smirk. "Don't ya worry, dearie, I'll have it all fixed up! Back in a jiffy!" she said before running off, leaving Sweeney with nothing to do but wait.
Mere moments later, she was back, with his shirt only—it was white and dry! She handed it to him, smiling gently.
"How did you do that?" Sweeney asked, a hint of incredulously in his voice.
Mrs. Lovett simply shook her head. "Sorry, dear, but that's my own secret recipe."
Sweeney yanked it out of her hands before striding over to his window and began to pace, tossing the clean shirt carelessly into the barber chair.
Mrs. Lovett, still smiling, turned and walked out of the room. It had been a short walk to the nearest clothing shop, and she'd willingly used a part of her little money to buy another shirt, since the other was ruined for good. Ahh, well. He'll put it to good use, she acknowledged with another little smile.
Meanwhile, Sweeney was thinking one thing, though he denied it in his mind.
Thank you, Mrs. Lovett.