For ten years the Trubshaw baby, called "eggs" by the boxtrolls who adopted him, was hidden from the world above. Completely oblivious to conspiracy that stole both his life and the life of his father. For ten years, Archibald Snatcher plotted and sowed the seeds that would guarantee his undeserving success. Lying and cheating at every chance on a path to self destruction. Despite his actions, no matter how horrible they may be, he is only a man. As are his fellow exterminators, and they have a story all their own.
—–
Archibald Snatcher had never once stepped food inside the tasting room, only ever stealing glances through the doors left ajar when he visited. From what he saw he knew in the middle of the tasting room stood a grand wooden table surrounded by three wooden chairs with leather seating, in time there would be a fourth chair to join them. From what little of the interior he had seen, he would often dream of his earned seat among the members of the selective society. How they would make pleasant conversation as table surface became covered with various cheeses and wines from places far and wide, all the best that money could buy.
His mouth watered at thoughts of each morsel he would taste, but even in his daydreams his body would react to even a mere hint of cheese. Firstly his once pale flesh would redden in color and itch irritably, his lips would begin to tingle and tremble before swelling up like a balloon. His symptoms would not go unnoticed, the faces of other men at the table would contort into a mixture of concern and disgust. He would shovel another forkful of exquisite cheese into his swollen mouth, assuring himself more so than the men that nothing was wrong. Sweat poured down his forehead and his chest heaved, his heart pounding and his lungs struggling to breathe. His head was swimming and he didn't even notice the men pulling themselves out of their seats and wrapping their arms around him, pulling him away from the cheese covered table. They hoisted him out of his seat and pushed him out of the tasting room, slamming the doors in his face. He was all too familiar with the sight of those doors.
Too often did he awake from this dream, his chest still heaving and flesh covered with sweat. He would lie still until he was calm again before deciding to start his day, slivers of afternoon sunlight penetrating the curtained windows of his private quarters. He felt a knot in his stomach as he dressed, knowing that he would soon be near the very room that plagued his dreams, the room he both yearned and dreaded. Lord Portley-Rind had called upon him earlier in the week to seek audience with him, undoubtedly to back out of his end of their agreement.
Archibald was quick to spread the word, from giving a statement to the local paper to practically screaming it on the streets. Everyone knew Herbert Trubshaw and his son, little Arthur Trubshaw, were dead. Or at least that's what Archibald wanted them to believe, and believe they did. So fearful were the citizens of Cheesebridge that many chose to stop him as he walked in the streets, questioning the safety of the city and what his plan was. He assured them he would rid their fair city of the boxtroll menace, warning them to lock their doors and windows at night and keep their children – and their cheeses close.
As he heated his tea kettle and started making his breakfast his mind wandered to Mr. Trubshaw, locked away from the world right beneath his feet. He hadn't fed the captive inventor the day before, as his punishment for his filthy mouth and failure to cooperate. Archibald cracked another egg into the frying pan, though he was still miffed at the memory but he knew that he couldn't let him go without food for too long. He decided he would bring him some breakfast, after he finished his own, perhaps then Herbert would work with him.
He prepared a tray of food for his captive. A plate of eggs and a cup of tea, all still warm. Quite generous for a slave, Archibald thought. He descended the hidden stairs to his basement with the tray of breakfast and a candlestick to illuminate each shadowy step. Herbert still slept soundly in his cage, slumped to the side with his face pressed against the bars. Archibald used his guiding candle to light more candles placed around the room, the clacking of his heeled shoes against the ground and the light that now filled the room caused Herbert to stir. He blinked a few times, before narrowing his eyes at his captor.
"Rise and shine, Trubshaw." Archibald purred. He placed the tray upon a small table in the corner farthest from the door and pulled up two rickety chairs. The cage door opened, Herbert's joints cracking as exited and stood to his full height. He stretched slightly as Archibald led him to the table. Herbert said nothing, keeping his head down as he scarfed down his breakfast.
"Perhaps after you've eaten you can get to designing my extermination machine just as I asked you last morning." Archibald said as he took his seat across from Herbert.
"I suggest you watch your language this time, a gentleman does not use such vocabulary in good company."
Herbert kept his silence, instead opting to drink his tea before it cooled entirely. Archibald sneered, knowing that nice never got him far.
"I have brought you everything from your home you will need to make your blueprints, and should you need anything else I expect you to tell me immediately. I don't want any further delays."
"I need my son and my life back." Herbert declared slamming his fists upon the table top, causing Archibald to merely chuckle in response.
"Not this again, I've already told you that you're not going free till I get my machine. As for your son, he's probably dead, you know how blood thirsty and dangerous those boxtrolls can be."
He smirked at the inventor, whose thin frame now trembled with rage.
"You know that's nothing but a lie, do you really think anyone will believe you?"
Another dark chuckle escaped Archibald's thin lips.
"They already have, but no need to worry yourself about what I told 'em. Now hurry up and finish your breakfast, you've got work to do!"
The thundering of footsteps from the stairs caused Archibald to jerk his head to the source. Mr. Gristle appeared from the shadowy staircase, flashing his usual dopey grin at the sight of his boss. He sighed in relief, inwardly scolding himself for even believing it could have been anyone else. As he turned back to his prisoner, Herbert's fist came down upon Archibald's, which rested upon the surface of the table the entire time he had been sitting there. A searing pain filled his hand, as he jolted up from his seat he realized what the man had done. Herbert's metal fork pierced his flesh deeply, leaving pronged marks. The inventor retracted the utensil, prepared to use it against Mr. Gristle, a pitiful weapon against the little maniac. Gristle tackled the prisoner, pinning him on the ground and wrestled the fork from his grasp.
Archibald yelped as he held his injured hand, blood beginning to gush between his pale fingers. Seething with rage he swung his foot at Herbert's head, making satisfying impact. The man was silent and still, merely unconscious, but the pair made sure he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. The two men kicked and thrashed at his limp body, until Archibald felt satisfied. He commanded Mr. Gristle to stop, the short man looking up at him in annoyance, like a child told by a parent that playtime was over. Herbert returned to his cage, left in the dark once more. It had only been two weeks since his capture, but perhaps by the time two months had passed his spirit would break. The span of two months would feel like a lifetime for both captive and captor.
Once upstairs, Archibald bandaged his hand the best he could, cursing under his breath as Mr. Gristle fetched his hat and jacket. He finished getting ready and instructed his helper to keep watch over the factory but to not disturb the inventor, he was of no further concern for the day.
The sunlight was blinding to a night owl like himself, Archibald shielded his grey eyes with his bandaged hand as he exited his factory. The streets were beginning to empty, the sun would soon set and though no curfew had been implemented like he had wanted, most people had heeded his word of mouth warnings and stayed off the streets at night. He felt stares and could faintly hear the whispers, but he did not falter. He soon found himself standing before Portley-Rind's marvelous home, his left hand grasping the door knocker thus making his presence known. The butler, a rude little man named Chesire, promptly answered the door and greeted Archibald with his usual sneer.
"What business have you with my lord, Mayor Portley-Rind, Mr. Snatcher." Cheshire asked in his usual dry, uninterested tone.
"Lord Portly Rind is expecting me, having called upon me earlier this week sir." Archibald stated with a forced smile, reaching in his pocket with his good hand to provide proof. A letter from the lord was presented, and Cheshire paused to read it, most likely checking for forgery.
"Right this way then." He shoved the letter back to the guest and hurriedly led him up the stairs. Upon passing the tasting room, Archibald felt a familiar knot in his stomach. He followed the butler up the smaller set of stairs to the right of the tasting room, halfway down the corridor to a large set of doors. Cheshire knocked on the door, opening them when the booming voice of Lord Portley-Rind bid him in. Archibald removed his tall, crooked red hat as he entered the new room. Portley-Rind sat at his large desk, his chair swiveled away from his guest to look out the large ornate windows at the streets below. The tip of his feathered white hat over the top of his chair the only visible part of him. As Archibald approached he couldn't help but take in the décor all around him. Various paintings lined the walls, he recognized some as various landmarks throughout the city. Others were still life paintings depicting exotic cheeses. One painting caught his eye, different from the rest, an infant clothed in white sprawled out on a bearskin rug. Like the man who sat at his desk, the child in the painting had flaming red hair. His daughter, he recalled,having seen an article in the newspaper a few months back.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Snatcher." Lord Portley-Rind greeted at last, albeit dryly. "Please have a seat."
As Archibald seated himself he heard the lord audibly gasp.
"Good Lord, what happened to your hand? Boxtroll bite you?" He asked with a hearty chuckled as he twirled the end of his mustache.
"Heh, good one my lord," he forced himself to laugh along, "not quite but I assure you I'm fine."
"We have much to discuss in only a short amount of time, as mayor you can only imagine how busy I am."
"Of course, Lord Portley-Rind. I have much to tell you as well, already I have begun to-"
"Mr. Snatcher, please spare me your speeches about the dangers of the boxtrolls. You have already made me aware, as well anyone with ears!"
He sighed before continuing.
"Do not mistake me, I do want you to exterminate them. It's your reward I wish to speak about, I'd like you to reconsider. As I originally offered, I am prepared the pay you any price and money is-"
"My lord! Your money is no good to me, I have already told you my heart's desire."
Lord Portley-Rind rubbed his forehead with his gloved fingertips, clearly unsure of how to address the elephant in the room.
"You want a white hat, you want to be one of the elite. Why not just take my offer of wealth? Isn't that the perk you care for the most?"
"My lord, are you expressing that you wish to back out of our agreement?" Archibald asked with feigned shock.
"Yes, Mr. Snatcher. I spoke too soon, acted too hastily when you delivered such grim news that terrible night."
"Such a shame to hear that, it's rather discouraging. I want nothing more than to protect our fair city, to keep safe all those adorable children and delicious cheese reserves, but without a white hat…" Archibald trailed off.
"You care only about status and power."
"As do you sir."
There was a silence between them before Portley-Rind continued.
"A man such as yourself does not belong with men of prestige like myself. Even if were to exterminate all the boxtrolls, with proof I might add, earning your white hat does not earn you the acceptance or respect of my men or myself."
Archibald felt his forced gleeful expression drop into a deep frown, disheartened at hearing words he already knew to be true.
"I want my white hat. I want to be on top, it is my destiny."
"So be it." The lord sneered leaning back in his chair, arms crossed firmly over his chest.
"Tell me then, what actions have you taken to keep my city safe?"
The exterminator perked up at this question, thin lips curling into a smile once more.
"Just this past week I've caught twelve boxtrolls. As I'm sure you know, boxtrolls are nocturnal. The streets of Cheesebridge are littered with these vile creatures at night, I would propose a curfew so no one is harmed by them. This would also allow my men and I to hunt them down safely."
"What men?" The mayor scoffed. "That crazed little man and yourself?"
"Well…yes, currently it is only Mr. Gristle and myself. I am hiring more exterminators but it will take time. I've gotta find reliable men and train 'em to be their best."
"Assemble a reliable team of exterminators and I will consider it, but for now my answer is no. I believe we are done here."
Portley-Rind dismissed the unwanted guest, who bid him farewell in the most lengthy way possible, as he always did. The mayor stood from his desk and approached a cabinet nearby, pulling out a glass and poured himself a glass of rum. Still massaging away his migraine as he drank.
Archibald grumbled under his breath as he rushed through the streets, now sparsely populated as the sun began to set. As he walked down the beaten dirt path to his factory he couldn't help but look over at the river near by. It had been far too long since he last stopped to admire how the sunlight glistened upon the still surface of the river. For years he would come out on nice days and stare out at the body of water, his mind traveling but his eyes slowly taking in the sights around him. It had been even longer since he last went out on the river, his family's boat having fallen into decay before his tenth birthday. The decrepit remains of the boat still festered by the entrance to the factory, a monument to the few good times of his childhood. He sighed deeply and turned his back on the body of water, choosing instead to retreat back to his home, the family factory.
Mr. Gristle eagerly greeted him a the door, like a dog left home alone. Archibald handed the man his hat and coat before seating himself at the table nearby. When Mr. Gristle came back he beckoned him to join him at the table to share with him their new task.
"Well Bernard, my friend, it seems that Portley-Rind has yet to take us seriously. But in time he will, he'll have no choice! We must assemble more men for a proper team, only then will he instill a curfew, and with a curfew the streets will be ours. You know what that means?"
"Hunting!" He exclaimed.
"Precisely! You can hunt around all you want, smash and thrash and no one gets hurt except for those filthy boxtrolls."
"Exterminate!"
"Go get ready, curfew or not we still have work to do tonight."
The man scurried off as instructed and Archibald mused about hiring exterminators, what men he would need for a team and how he would spread the word. An ad in the paper and posters around town seemed his best bet, though all were concerns for the next day. Just like Mr. Trubshaw.