Part two: Revenge is a dish best served with balloons
Pugsley rubbed his chafed wrists as he sat down at his computer. He aimlessly checked his emails and his various online amusements such as a discussion board he started on a particularly gruesome website on the effects a sulfuric acid cocktail on the human body. No one seemed to have anything intelligent to add to his descriptions so he checked the shipping status of his latest order, a small nuclear reactor from a seller out of Bangladesh. Cheered that his package should arrive any day, Pugsley closed his browser.
Of course, as he did so, he noticed the bright pink blinking ad hidden behind the browser. As he moved to shut it too, the heading of the advertisement caught his eye. In obnoxious blinking letters, the ad read, "Lonely? Life Full of Woe? Sad and Unloved? We Can Help!" The grin on Pugsley's face spread slowly as a plan started to form itself in his mind. He got up from his desk, and, pacing the room, stopped to stare out the window at his little sister who was at that moment curled up beneath the outstretched arms of the statue over Aunt Laborgia's tomb, iPod on and furiously sketching out something in her notebook. He imagined it was probably some elaborate scheme to bring his parents or Pubert down. Wednesday never liked to leave any member of the family unscathed. And she wouldn't want Pubert to get too comfortable with having her as an ally. If there was any twinge of guilt for the plan he had in store for her, when he saw her hard at work it evaporated. As he set the pieces in motion, he laughed, "It's time I showed you how it's done little sister."
Pubert raced into the living room, foils in hand, in search of his father. It was nearly a daily routine, fencing after lunch. He found his father, in his traditional reading pose (that is, standing on his head), looking over an old photo album, cigar between his teeth, and intermittently turning pages with one hand. In Pubert's haste, he at first missed the tears in his father's eyes, but once he was up close, Pubert's curiosity overwhelmed his innate sense of tack and he blurted, "Father, are you crying?"
Across the room, Morticia's head came up from her knitting and she chided her son, "Pubert, give your father some space. He is reminiscing." Despite her words to her son, Morticia gave Gomez a look that said, "Stop wallowing in what is past, and be a father for your son now!" As if he heard every word, Gomez snapped out of his self-pity and, vaulting to his feet, swiped one of the foils from Pubert's hand in the same motion and was shouting "En garde" even before Pubert noticed the move. Pubert immediately burst into delighted laughter, laughter he quickly stifled and replaced with his version of a fierce, if not slightly arrogant, fencing face, signaling his father that he was prepared to fight.
Morticia smiled as her boys vaulted over furniture, overturning lamps and smashing the bric-a-brac, stepping on Bruno and causing him to growl furiously, and nearly taking off Mama's head as she rushed down the hallway. "Ah," she thought, "the sounds of a joyful family."
Just as the noises of the raging battle started to dim, the doorbell rang. Slightly confused as to who might be calling on a Saturday afternoon, Morticia rose to accompany Lurch to the doorway. She became even more confused when Pugsley raced down the stairs grinning widely, and cut her off with assurances that he'd see to the mystery visitor. Before he reached the door, she stopped him with a question; "Pugsley, dear, have you seen your sister today? I haven't seen her all morning."
If possible, Pugsley's grin became even more pronounced as he asserted, "Oh she's not really feeling well today. I think she is resting in her room." Morticia nodded, and as she turned, she mumbled, "Ah the benefits of youth."
In her room, Wednesday contemplated her current predicament. She internally cursed herself for falling for Pugsley's seemingly innocent offer of a cup of henbane tea. She'd checked for all the usual poisons but in her haste to get back to her scheming she'd neglected to check for paralytics. So here she was, lying supine on her bed, unable to move or speak, let alone rip Pugsley to shreds with her bare hands, as she wanted. Knowing Pugsley, she imagined that this was likely the end of her torture for the day. With that in mind, she rifled through her memory trying to remember typical time frames for the body to process and breakdown paralytics in the bloodstream. Before she could recall, however, she heard Pugsley outside of her doorway. He spoke in whispers, likely to Pubert or her parents, telling them to stay away so they wouldn't know what he'd done. Or else bragging about it.
In the hall outside of Wednesday's room, Pugsley had prepped the visitor with the details of Wednesday's "condition," and the kind of comfort, support, and uplifting entertainment that just might lift her from this "paralyzing depression" into which she had sunk. Pugsley explained, "We just don't know what else to do for her. We've had shrinks in, and a minister stopped by the other day. But she simply won't move, or talk, or anything." Pugsley's guest nodded solemnly, took a deep breath and boldly walked into Wednesday's bedroom.
What walked into Wednesday's bedroom can only be classified as a demon sent straight from Wednesday's personal hell. At 5'3'', Charity Vanderbilt had never scared any person in her life, until now. Just the sight of her sent chills down Wednesday's paralyzed spine. With bouncing blonde curls tied up in a pink bow, gleaming white teeth, and the heart-shaped face of a porcelain doll, Charity's appearance was only topped by the things she carried with her into Wednesday's room. One fist was wrapped tightly around the strings of several large, brightly colored balloons, many with smiley faces or kittens on the surface. The other held what was either a giant, white dust mop head or the furriest cat ever. It too had a giant pink bow around its neck. As if to make matters worse, over her shoulder she had slung a large bag, filled with, Wednesday was sure, numerous more torture devices, all in bright colors with baby animals painted all over them.
If Wednesday could have made noise, she would have screamed. As it was, she shuddered a tiny bit and large quantities of air came rushing in and out of her lungs, making a hissing sound reminiscent of the rattle of a rattlesnake. Pugsley had to stifle a laugh as he heard her panic and saw how her eyes were bugging out of her head. At the sound of Pugsley's choked laugh, Wednesday was immediately reminded of the importance of remaining calm, of keeping the balance of power tipped in her favor. She must not let Pugsley gain too much satisfaction from his little victory. Besides, she had endured all manner of bubbly, air-head types in her life and had handled them all. Granted, she was never incapacitated at the time, but still, this would be simply a new challenge. Without moving or talking, she would find a way to break this blonde bimbo. Somehow.
Charity worked extremely hard to conceal her horror upon entering the room. Draped in all shades of black and grey, the bedroom looked like a torture chamber or Dracula's guest room. "Well duh!" she thought, "no wonder this girl is so depressed. Her room looks like a funeral reception!" One look at Wednesday had her convinced that the girl was in need of serious help. She saw a girl figuratively (or so she thought) chained to the bed by sadness, so far gone that merely the addition of a new person into the room threw her into hyperventilation. "Yes," she thought, "I can help this girl. She just needs a little love, a little color, and a little fun!"
Speaking slowly and clearly, Charity said, "Hi Wednesday, I'm Charity Vanderbilt, and I'm just here to sit with you awhile, maybe chat, play a game or two, and have a little fun. Is that OK with you?"
Wednesday tried with all her might to move some part of her body, or to use her voice, even just a squeak. But Pugsley's paralytics were holding and she was forced to watch as Charity looked to Pugsley for help. He feigned a smile of concern and said, "See what I mean, she won't talk. She is in desperate need of help and some company." He moved to crouch down at Wednesday's head, positioning himself so his back was to Charity. "Isn't that right, little sister? Now you be good and talk to the nice lady. She'll make you feel better. And I'll be in to check on you in a few hours." His smile grew more pronounced throughout the little speech. He dropped his voice so it was barely a whisper, "And don't worry about the paralysis. I used so much you'll likely be able to play with your new friend for days." A quick wink and an ironic kiss on her forehead ended the charade, and Pugsley took one last look at Wednesday's panicked expression before he left the room. She was able to hear the sound of one, poorly stifled laugh before Pugsley closed the door to his room. "I'll get you for this," she thought, "Just you wait."
Even though she knew Pugsley was lying about the duration of her paralysis, she was still tormented by the idea of spending the rest of the day incapacitated with this bimbo. It wasn't long before Charity gave up on getting Wednesday to talk about her feelings. But it took a few hours before she stopped telling Wednesday inane anecdotes from her own life, all terminating with the ways that she escaped the "dark clouds" of depression, or the "saddies," as she called it. On several occasions, Wednesday had to wrestle back her urge to vomit, imagining that the likelihood that she'd actually die from choking on her own vomit was less likely than simply getting it all over herself and then having to endure the rest of the day covered in mess. After Charity had run of out stories from her own life, she decided that what Wednesday REALLY needed was a brighter, happier atmosphere in her room.
"All these drab colors, Wednesday, they are so bringing you down. What you really need is some bright colors. Hm, let's see, what colors would suit you best? Oh, I know! PI-NK! (She said this as a sing-song, in two-syllables). Wednesday felt a new and excruciating wave of horror as Charity began taking down Wednesday's black drapes and her posters of her favorite bands, and replacing them with pink polka dotted lace curtains and posters of kittens hanging from tree branches with the caption "Hang in there, baby," or puppies piled on top of each other below the caption, "You can lean on me." But Wednesday truly thought she'd burst from her unmoving body when Charity made a move toward her favorite piece, a print of Salomé's Blood Bath from 1979, which had hung over her bed since her 16th birthday. "And this hideous thing," Charity whined, "this has GOT to go!"
Luckily for Wednesday, and unluckily for Charity, the sustained panic had caused Wednesday's heart to beat much faster than usual, causing the paralytics in her bloodstream to metabolize much faster than even Pugsley had imagined. Because of this, at just the moment when Charity reached for Wednesday's prized portrait, Wednesday finally gained some control over body and was able to shriek right in Charity's face as it hovered over her own. The look of fury combined with what Charity could only describe as the sound of the demons of hell scared Charity so badly that she ran screaming from the room, and straight out of the house.
As her fury slowly subsided, Wednesday was able to note that she had not, in fact, been able to scare Charity without moving or speaking, but that, at least, she'd managed it sooner than she'd hoped. Exhausted from the panic and fury, Wednesday decided she'd kill her brother in the morning. However, as soon as she could move her feet, she got up and locked her door. Just in case he got cocky and tried for two in one day.
Feeling incredibly proud of himself, Pugsley decided to check in on his sister before retiring to bed. He hoped he'd given her enough paralytics to keep her immobile throughout the night. He knew she'd retaliate, and he'd rather it not be when he was asleep (again). However, Pugsley knew he was in for it when he saw that her door was closed and locked. "Great," he thought, "apparently I'm staying awake tonight." It was no wonder he'd recently started to develop those dark circles around his eyes, Pugsley thought to himself. What with being chained to crosses and having to stay awake the whole night to make sure he'd actually be alive to wake up the next morning, Pugsley wondered if he'd ever get enough sleep to lessen the swelling. Then again, the circles were sort of becoming. Well, if he was going to be up all night, he figured he might as well pass the time playing with his new chemistry set. He'd really gotten behind on his bomb-making and figured it was about time to practice. Speaking of practice, maybe he should practice undoing knots and chains while he was at it. Planning out his night, Pugsley lumbered up the stairs to his room.
Meanwhile, Morticia and Gomez were preparing to retire to bed as well. Gomez was in a substantially better mood after his sword fight with Pubert, and his high spirits had carried him throughout the day. He was especially cheered when Pubert, to the supreme pleasure of his father, asked if he could be chained into bed in the usual way. So it was with a light heart and soaring sense of satisfaction that Gomez mounted the stairs to his bedroom arm in arm with the most beautiful woman in the world. Never the one to hold back his feelings, Gomez told Morticia just that. "What a beautiful day, my love. And to think, after such a beautiful day, spending my nights with you puts that beauty to shame. I am the luckiest of men."
Morticia smiled, long used to the extravagant flattery of her darling husband. "Indeed you are, mon cher," she teased, "but I wonder, how will your luck hold tonight?" A flirtatious smile bent her lips and her long eyes sparkled with fun and ferocity. Gomez felt as though his blood had come to a boil and that, instead of blood, fire now raced through his veins. It took all his might to control his feral urges enough so that when he took her into his arms, his hands were gentle. The fire was contained in his eyes and his lips as he fiercely pressed his mouth to hers.
Morticia prided herself on restraint and self-control, but the feral intensity of her husband frequently made her weak in the knees as well as in her will. A low moan escaped her control as Gomez's feverish fury consumed them, but she found the strength to utter, if only in broken sentences, that, "perhaps – darling – we should – retire –" and move their passionate exchange from the top of the stairs, the final several feet to their bedroom. "Capital idea," Gomez slurred, in that passion-filled sluggish voice of a man engrossed. Too impatient for civilized walking, Gomez lifted Morticia off her feet and carried her, as he had done on their wedding night and many, many nights since, into their bedroom. Startled by his sudden movement, Morticia gasped before smiling at her husband's impatience and charm. "Some things never change," she chuckled.
Gomez turned to gaze meaningfully at his wife, feeling touched by her continued attempt to cheer up his earlier melancholy. But then, feeling playful and devilish, replied, "And some things do, Querida. I got an idea when I was chaining in Pubert tonight. I think it might be a fun thing to try, you know, in the spirit of change," he added with mock innocence. Slightly nervous, highly aroused, and utterly charmed by her husband's proposal for the evening, Morticia decided to play along. "In the spirit of change," she agreed, and smiled her coy smile, inciting Gomez to pick up right where he left off.