And tonight, for his final act...
Babet stood silently behind the curtain, listening as the emcee shouted in his impeccable, pompous French.
...we have the Incredible, the Magnificent, the best dancer and actor ever who set foot on this stage...
Ah! Compliments! How thoughtful.
He stroked his red cloak once, twice, three times. It was practically a ritual for him. Three times for luck.
It was a fine garment, really. He got it many years ago from his predecessor, Lizot.
Stubborn man! He wasn't even very good at his job, but he didn't want to get replaced. He could've stepped down quietly, gone into retirement in peace, and the world would never hear from him again.
What a shame. The stubborn ones always go down with a fight.
Babet didn't intend to kill him at first, but it happened. He was so overcome with frustration that he didn't think twice when he brought the glinting blade to Lizot's throat, pricked the skin, and in one swift movement... slash! The gurgling sound was actually rather satisfying.
The sight of Lizot's body on the cobblestones horrified him at first. He bent down to touch him.
He was cold--his blood was warm.
Babet removed Lizot's cloak, then headed back to his flat and gazed in a mirror. A thin, haggard figure wearing a black suit and bloodstained white gloves stared back at him. He put the cloak on. It fit him perfectly.
On that day, he discovered how good he looked in red.
...and I tell you, mesdames et messieurs, I'll be sad to see him go! Please, put your hands together for our very own... Babet!
Babet grinned again and pulled his hat over his eyes.
The curtain rose; the first things he saw were the dim stage lights, made even dimmer by the heavy cigar smoke that hung in the air.
He surveyed the smiling, spectral faces of the audience and made a grand, sweeping bow as the music started up.
Time to give them a show they'll never forget...