There's a Method to This Madness

Ten short stories about friends and family, written for 42_souls.

Part 02: Night of the Macaroons

Prompt: Dark ((troika+Death))

The sound of crashing metal awoke Kid with a start. That, and Liz's ear-splitting scream. Kid had barely managed to open his eyes when he felt Liz clutching at his shoulders. "Kiiiiiiiiiiiid!" she hissed. "Did you hear that?"

"Izzit a ghost?" Patti asked, yawning sleepily. "Sounds kinda like a ghost."

"No no no no no no no no!" Liz whimpered, practically clawing at Kid now. "Not in our freakin' house! There had better not be a ghost in our freakin' house!" She shivered with terror. "Oh please God, please let it be a serial killer or a rapist or something, please please please God, anything but a ghost!"

"It's not a ghost," Kid said, struggling to disentangle himself from Liz's grip. This was somewhat difficult as they were both still lying down in bed. Finally, however, Kid managed to free himself from Liz's arms, and sat up. "It's just-"

More crashing metal clanged together downstairs. Liz shrieked again.

Kid sighed, already imagining the absolute mess that the kitchen would probably be in. "It's not a ghost," he repeated, wishing that Liz would remember that he had the ability to perceive souls, and that when he had said It's not a ghost the first time, he had known what he was talking about. Really, there was no need for any more screaming now.

"So what is it?" Patti asked, also sitting up beside Kid in the bed.

"It's Father," Kid said. "He's downstairs in the kitchen. I have no idea why."

"Oh, for crying out loud," Liz growled, her terror from moments before completely gone, replaced already with an impatient grumpiness. "It's two o'clock in the morning. What the hell is he doing here?"

"I told you, I don't know."

"Then go downstairs and find out!" Liz huffed at Kid. "And tell him not to ever sneak into our house in the middle of the night and scare us again like that, okay?"

"Liz, please do not be disrespectful to my father."

"I'm not being disrespectful. I'm asking you to whack some common sense into his big black head."

"All right, all right," Kid said, removing himself from between Liz and Patti, hopping out of the bed, and throwing on a robe and his slippers. "I will speak to Father about this. I would like to remind you, however, that my father has the absolute right to come into this house at any time that he pleases."

"Does he have the absolute right to mess up your kitchen, though?" Liz asked.

Kid winced as the sound of more crashing metal echoed through the house. "He does not," Kid said, conceding Liz's point. "I trust that my father would not be here without a good reason, however. Let me sort this out with him."

"I'm telling you to sort this out with him," Liz grumped. "Now get going!"

Kid finished tying his robe with a knot in the exact center of his body, then stepped out of the bedroom and headed down toward the kitchen. He could already hear Patti snoring again as he was climbing down the stairs. Whatever unfathomable crisis had caused God himself to descend upon Kid's kitchen in the middle of the night, it was clearly of no concern to Patti, at least not of any amount of concern enough to warrant her staying awake to see the resolution of the mystery. Once again, Kid found himself admiring – and envying – Patti's laid-back attitude.

Kid himself, however, could not afford to be unconcerned, especially not when his honorable father was clearly busy messing up his meticulous, impeccable, perfect kitchen!

Kid stepped into said kitchen and nearly tripped over a roasting pan that had been tossed to the floor. More pots and pans littered the floor, having been removed carelessly from the cupboards beneath the island in the middle of the kitchen. Kid flipped on a light switch and saw his father looming in front of the dish cabinets, trying to push aside the front most dishes with his enormous hands in order to peer behind them, but mostly succeeding in pushing them all out of sorts, sending them rolling or sliding every which way until one inevitably slid out of the cupboard and clattered to the floor. Amazingly, the plate didn't break. If it had broken, Kid likely would have burst into tears. As it was, however, Kid could only look at the chaotic mess in his kitchen and feel rage and disgust twisting in his stomach.

"Oopsies," Death said. Then he turned toward Kid. "Oh good, there you are!"

Kid rubbed at his eyes, if only to disguise the fact that he was momentarily contemplating patricide, and he was afraid that his father would see his homicidal thoughts reflected in the windows to his soul. "Father, what are you looking for?" he asked.

"Coconuts. Where do you keep the coconuts, Kid?"

Kid stared at his father. "We don't have any coconuts." Then he put on his best glower. "And why are you looking for coconuts in the dish cupboards?"

"Well, because there weren't any in the refrigerator. What do you mean, you don't have any coconuts?"

"It's really not something that we keep around the house," Kid said. He stepped around his father and started to pick up the baking pans that had been tossed all over the floor. He forced himself to swallow a rude comment about his father being unacceptably messy. True though the statement might be, Kid still couldn't bring himself to disrespect his father like that. Also, Kid didn't want to be unfair – after all, it wasn't his father's fault that he had such enormous hands.

Kid's father clasped said enormous hands dramatically. "You don't keep coconuts around? Not even in case of an emergency?" He shook his head. "What kind of a son am I raising?" he muttered.

Kid finished gathering the baking pans in his hands, and straightened up. "Father, I fail to understand exactly what sort of crisis would constitute a coconut-based emergency."

"Macaroons!" Death exclaimed. Then he stopped, apparently feeling no need to explain further.

"Father, what are you talking about?"

"Macaroons!" Death repeated. "I need to whip up a batch of two dozen macaroons before eight o'clock tomorrow morning!"

Kid stared at his father.

Then he blinked, slowly. Then he rubbed at his eyes again. Then he frowned. He scratched his right ear, then scratched his left ear for the sake of symmetry. Then Kid took a deep, slow breath. Then he said to his father, "Father, are you really trying to make two dozen macaroons because you want to eat two dozen macaroons, or are you trying to make two dozen macaroons because you want to use them as props in an elaborate visual pun that you're planning to spring on the Archbishop of Macedonia when he shows up for his appointment with you in the Death Room at eight o'clock tomorrow morning?"

Death reached out and ruffled his son's head affectionately. "You're so smart, Kid! You're just the cutest, smartest little reaper ever!"

Kid managed to step away from his father before those enormous hands could move on to pinching his cheeks. "But Father, as I have told you, we don't have the necessary ingredients for macaroons in this kitchen. I'm sorry, but I don't have any coconuts. And it is perhaps just as well," Kid went on. "Personally, I would advise abandoning the macaroon pun and trying for something macadamia-related instead. Save the macaroons for the next time that we get a visitor from Cameroon."

"Hmmmmm." Kid's father contemplated this advice seriously. "You indeed have a point." Then the eyes in his mask of a face crinkled with joy, and he clasped his hands and bounced up and down with glee. "Oooooooh, my son is going to make such a perfect death god someday!"

Kid could not stop a small smile from tugging at the corners of his lips. "Thank you, Father."

"What was your silly old father thinking?" Death went on, gushing. "And here I was panicking about not being able to make macaroons tonight, when all I really needed to do was make some chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies instead!" He looked down at Kid expectantly. "Chocolate chip macadamia nut. Cookies. Instead."

Kid sighed. "Go sit down over there," he told his father, pointing toward the kitchen table on the other side of the center island, "and give me some room to work." He tied on an apron on top of his robe.

"My son is so cute when he gives orders!" Death gushed, flopping his strange black body down in one of the kitchen table chairs.

"Don't play the 'cute' card with me, Father," Kid said, as he began measuring out flour and sugar into a mixing bowl. "This was your evil plot all along, wasn't it?"

"Well, there's nobody in the world who can make a cookie as perfectly as my adorable son can!" Death said, cheerfully. "Also, Spirit was too drunk to do my baking for me tonight." The Grim Reaper watched Kid working for a few moment, twiddling his enormous, strangely-shaped thumbs. Then he asked, "Uh, Kid? So how long are these cookies going to take?"

"Oh, well, I've been working on improving my speed in this matter," Kid said. "The last time that I baked two dozen chocolate chip cookies, Liz timed me at seven hours, fifty-three minutes, and thirteen seconds." He turned toward his father and beamed. "I'm going to do better this time, though. You'll be proud of me, Father."

" 'Do better' meaning what, exactly?"

Kid's eyes shone with manic glee. "This time I'm going to finish in exactly eight hours!" He placed his hand over his heart. "I swear I won't let you down, Father!"

Death glanced at the kitchen clock. "Kid, we only have six hours until-"

"Call the Archbishop and tell him that we will be delayed until ten o'clock," Kid said, already having begun the task of meticulously counting the hundreds of chocolate chips that he was about to divide evenly among exactly twenty-four cookies. "I will not lower my standards, Father, especially not for a visiting foreign dignitary. It would be unseemly for you to attempt to pun him with imperfect cookies."

Death sighed dramatically. "It isn't fair, is it?" he commented, wistfully.

"What isn't fair?"

"You understand me so well, Kid. But there are times when I fear that I may never understand you."

Kid turned toward his father, his brow furrowed with confusion. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Death shook his head. "You just go ahead and concentrate on your baking, Kid."

"I won't let you down, Father," Kid repeated.

"I know you won't," Death said. Even though he had no mouth, his soul was still smiling.