Salt 'n Vinegar
A Jack Russell snatched up a white rat in its mid skip, its shrill scream stopping short with the snapping of its spine. The Jack hopped back and spun for another, the colony of 30 rodents scattered and scratched up the pit sides hoping for a ledge. The spectators roared like a fog horn while the lucky few shared a victorious "-ey!".
Along the back wall and farthest from the exit a figure in funeral black hid a bitter smile behind white knuckles. Around him was a hell party of low life workers looking for a lucky buck. Booze, bristled chins, black finger nails and rolled up sleeves plastered in place with skin grease, dust and dirt. The clamoring of trash talking tongues slowed like a record as Undertaker spotted his guy moving through the crowd like a snake in the grass. As all, he was dressed without any need of first impression but his patient eyes and smooth expression suggested another life underneath the tweed. Undertaker lowered his face as the man stepped into his five foot circle of space.
"This is a strange place to meet." The man said without greeting as he twisted his mouth, eyeing two men arguing a few steps off. Undertakers smile sobered but stayed.
"The world beneath can be amusing and the sourness this place gives only makes me giddy." A single high giggle bubbled out into his fist. "But the true joy is seeing you here…in such a place. It's almost payment enough." His shoulders trembled out an inaudible laugh amongst the noise.
"My family is well accustomed to payments in any and all currencies. Besides, I hear Slumming is very popular." The man moved to Undertakers left as the disagreement nearby turned into a brawl that brought sore losers looking for blood.
A grin peeked out from behind the Undertakers hand, his face now lifted and fully forward.
"The arrogance of the elite never ceases to tickle me. Money and titles won't save you from fists and cheated men."
The man smiled this time and a collected calm, like the silence between waves, came over his face.
"I have my hidden dagger."
Undertaker's eyes shifted beneath his mangled, dust heavy bangs and in that breath the man could have sworn he felt a breeze coming from Undertakers very outline. Just past a beer wench, the Undertaker spotted an old man with piercing eyes and hummed. "I see that."
A factory worker with a busted brow fell in between them. With blood and sweat flying the worker jumped up swinging yelling in something that might have been a drunken slur or accent. The Undertaker slunk down the wall to the floor, concealing a giggle as a fist cracked against the brick and mortar. Leaving the drunk to howl through blood tears the two men moved to a far corner. The old man shadowed them and re-stationed himself to the bar, ever watchful.
"So then," the Undertaker brought his long quill fingers together and tipped a grin to the man. "You're here. How deep is your pocket? How much lower can you go for such a debt?" His laugh, the sound of old wheels in rain, hissed out through his teeth.
The man gave a relaxed shrug. "Since your credit system seems to have no limit than I suppose until you are satisfied, my good Undertaker." The space around them was emptying out as another "round" was about to start. Farthest from the open door, the smell of hungry men, damp dog, and spooked rat was caught in his throat like beef grease; the man had to remind himself to just keep breathing. He turned to watch the crowd push forward and jump for space, money and bids flying over head.
The Undertaker started."A free for all? A regular bobbing for apples more like it! I suspect you intend for me to go in blind and happy and to come back wet and unresolved!" His shoulders curled inward and chin tucked down, fingers twitching like spider legs. "No," he rasped more to himself. "I'd like it to be messier but more mathematical. I'd like nothing more than to just go in…" he stuck a nail out at the man, who was betraying some discomfort on his face but kept staring out at the crowd. "…just go in and take out the parts I like best. Bit by sticky bit." Two fingers came together in a pinch; the man could only imagine the click of the long nails crossing.
The man could feel eyes on him. He half wished and half dreaded the unwavering sense that Undertakers eyes might be slanted, ancient and waiting, like those disturbing statues of Japanese gods. Maybe they where dark and deep like horse eyes with heavy lashes, the space beneath them hooded with the ash bruises of too many souls seen walking. But maybe the life he lived made him too romantic sometimes. Staring ahead and into nothing the man was lost in thought for a moment, his vision in a wind tunnel.
A long lacquer nail tinkered with a brass button on his blazer. "Ea-"
"What are your eyes like, Undertaker? Are they like horse eyes?" He internally flinched at himself but when he left his home not a few hours before he knew exactly what this thin man intended to accomplished with this location. However, taking a hawk out of its nest didn't make it any less a hawk. The man turned to face Undertaker fully with his chin up and shoulders still.
Undertaker's mouth became small. The nail pulled away and came up to tap the slick calcium. "What a queer thing for you to ask. So blatant it's almost rude." His smile produced milk glass teeth.
He took hold of a single thin clump of his oil paint hair and kneaded it between fingertips. "I have owl eyes, my good sir. Always open and reflecting the hot fires that burn before them."
A small sliver of yellow, sick like the skin of an beaten tomato caught the man by surprise and it showed in his eyebrows. But he corrected himself and released an amused grunt. "Owl eyes…?" he began with a dismissive sniff, high laughter like rusty bell chimes cut him off. The undertaker nearly doubled over from his personal glee. The man remained amused but puzzled.
As Undertaker straighten himself and simmered down to a bubbling giggle the room pushed in towards the bar, bringing the mob back on them. Rough elbows jabbed the man and brought him into Undertakers stepping room. Putting out his palms the man rest two hands against the wall where Undertakers back rested he anchored himself against the flowing hoard. His eyes averted from the morticians face but the smell was wafting up his collar bone in pungent ariels. Stiff wool, old books, moldy clothes, dirty hair, blown out candles and the acrid scent of burnt dough wrapped around his face and nose. If he has worn his daily best, then he'd never gotten the scent out, like tobacco smoke. From the black edges of his eyesight he could see the dark man's frame starting to tremble.
"So what did you call me out here for," The man side-eyed Undertaker. "to try and make a fool of me?" Undertaker had his face tucked down into the tip of a sleeve.
Undertaker reached his hands up to lift off his dented top hat. Lice or salt stuck to the crown of his head. Hooking two fanged fingers into the rim he fished out two coins, just enough for the bakers left over bread that would never make it to the oil and vinegar of china plates. Replacing the hat he brought a draped hand up to his mouth. Watching while the two coins clinked into his breast pocket, the man chuckled.
"I've been bribed before but if you think that's going to get you more than a nod and smile…"
"-Ha!" The Undertaker huffed from the bottom of his dry well lungs and bared his teeth aggressively. "Thanks to my hobbies I can name the very bone at the base of your spine that I want on my shops window sill and no amount of coin could buy you the knowledge to perform my true desires…" his body trembled. "but you should consider that your change. I'm so full it would be sinful gluttony to scam you after such a delightful evening. Don't spend it all. You never know when you will get on the boat home and you don't want to know where they send those that can't pay their fare." His voice trailed off at an air tight pitch.
The man pushed off the wall and straightened his coat and collar. Tipping his head to the bar the old man moved with his employer as he moved towards the door. This meeting had been pointless but a debt was resolved as per verbal contract. He had started out entertained but now he had missed an evening with his family to tickle the fancy of a shadow man and it pricked at his temples a bit. He pulled poorly knitted wool gloves out his side pockets and slipped them on.
Standing on the snowy street, Undertaker was a step behind him with his sleeves tucked in over his hands. After only a few phantasmal breathes a carriage, finely carved and pulled by a black horse rattled up. A smoking drunk swore in tongues, spat at it, and then gazed hazy eyed at the grey sky.
The man entered his carriage and closed the door. Peering past the curtains he gave the Undertaker a kind but stale smile. "I am sorry I can't give you a ride. I really must be getting back to my wife."
"Yes," Undertaker agreed with a snide tone. "We mustn't leave your loved ones in limbo."
"Have a lovely evening, Undertaker."
A new grin stretched across the Undertaker's face and his cloaked hands came up to hide it. "I did, sir. I did. And I am taking a piece of you home." He flicked his arm and his exposed hand showed a silver ring with a bright ice blue stone. The man started and reached into his breast pocket, only finding the coins.
His eyes lit up. "You slick jester." His face full of good humor. "…Give that back." He reached out an open hand and Undertaker lifted the ring just out of reach, chuckling.
"Even here, why do you keep such a thing with you?" He bought the ring to eye level and twisted it.
The man's hand relaxed for a moment then went stiff. "My families crown goes where I go." His voice was confident and proud, heavy like rich milk.
"…A trinket to validate position." Undertaker shrugged at his own words. "We all have our own memento mori, I suppose."
The Undertaker frowned finally, a single cloud dragged out his mouth, death breath out of a morgue. "A crown…more like a shackle pre-fitted to your heirs." His body seemed to grow thinner with each puff of ghostly air. "No one escapes history." Looking at the ring again he coiled it in boney fingers.
The man raised an eyebrow, his palm still open and empty. "Are you pre-condemning my son?"
An odd smirk came to the Undertaker's face, now tilted down toward the grey street slush. "If the ring fits but his hands are still small. There is time."
"Humph," the man laughed and half stepped out the carriage. With one hand holding the door he took the Undertakers wrist, the wool of his gloves grating on chilled sensitive skin. "And I have no hope I suppose?" He pulled undertaker's arm out and it locked in place like an open iron hinge. The fingers unfurled slowly, one by one, and by releasing the door the man plucked up his ring. The Undertaker took back his hand and hid it deep in his long sleeve. "All that's left is for your soul to board the boat and body to occupy my pine boxes." A full, joyful grin and chuckle snuck out from behind hair and hot air. "It's your son's birthday soon? Get home quick and celebrate another year of his life. There is nothing more precious than the simplicity of kindred souls."
The snap of the carriage door responded. The man nodded as the carriage pulled away. "Let's work again soon, Undertaker."
With a cloaked hand waving back like a black flag the Undertaker hissed through his teeth. "Yes, for the Earl and his butler…my doors are always open!"
The state of the estate was like that of warfare, an isolated tragedy executed and veiled behind dead winter forest and chipper birds. The home had collapsed inwards like a lung with nothing but its timber bones sticking out of ash and a black outline. The Yard was now some steps off after a 'shoo' from the mortician. It's not that he needed room to work; the dead didn't go anywhere fast and didn't fight, but that he would not forgive the soul that stepped absently into the skull of the Earl. He'd been a guest here enough times to contain a basic blueprint of the home layout. He was currently standing in the master's suite. He'd been here once while it was still standing with its high ceiling and now, depending on where he stood, it kissed his ankles. The room rose up around him like runny ink jogging slowly back. Here was a tomb with its four-poster bed, headboard simple with light decoration, drapes hanging thick and heavy like the ash filled air. Bottles of cologne popped, window panes began to go black, and something high pitched was coming from far, wood or an infant. He took in a quick breath and the clean winter released him from the heat.
He found all three in what he was very sure was the study. He'd been here more times than the bedroom, enough times at enough hours to confidently say that the Earl always looked the best in the light of a winter sunset. Sitting with his back to the window was not the safest for the Earl but that was how he lived. His pride wouldn't have it any other way then to dare the world to take a shot. On an evening gradient of pink to deep purple the Undertaker could see him behind desk and paper with a secret smile. He would never say so but the Earl would give anything at any time to get someone to rub his purebred fur backwards. Undertaker let a smile slide across his face and memory.
At his feet, sprawled almost artistically with the dog at their heels, man with woman, he found the mutt, milady and master, all angelic with their black bones. There was not much left to mourn let alone bury, char, fur, two rings and a child missing all together. Since there was not much of a difference between the oppressive mausoleum that made up the mansion, a title and the man that carried both on the hook of his ring finger-all now catching the wind and burning the eyes of the watchful law-the Undertaker could of very well scooped up house ash and presented it as a Phantomhive.