Disclaimer: Last time I looked, there were no mentions of English teenage girls having any ownership of Sweeney Todd. One can only dream.
2nd Disclaimer: Do you seriously think I'm Gerard Way?
………
"You should be a poet," was the last thing the man said before he was tipped back and sent down to Hell, as Todd had christened the bakehouse.
He'd replied, "I don't think so," and then calmly slit the man's throat. Well, it had made his victim's neck smile, at least. He hadn't heard much out of the jeweller's mouth.
Sister, I'm not much a poet but a criminal.
How could the Yorkshireman have known that the last thing he'd know in this life would be the gurgle of his own blood? Well, actually if Sweeney hadn't killed him someone else would, for strangers were never missed in London. You had to be careful.
And you never had a chance.
She often complained about the mess. The floor of the backhouse was forever having to be cleaned, and Sweeney himself went through at least two shirts each day, the white fabric dyed deep red. She called it "unnecessary", but then she would.
Love it, or leave it, you can't understand.
The next customer caught him almost by surprise, and he hastily threw on his jacket over the bloodspattered shirt and waistcoat. To his surprise, it was a young woman that entered, with perfect dark ringlets and a rose-pink dress.
"I know a barber usually shave's men's beards, but… I was wondering if you could trim my hair?" she asked hesitantly. Sweeney raised an eyebrow.
"Looks all right to me, madam."
She shook her head. "I have this silly side bit of hair that always looks out of place but I don't want to cut it off myself, so I came to you, would you? I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I've a ball to attend in the evening and I want my hair to be just right!"
Good Lord, she carries on more than Lovett, Sweeney thought in dismay. Still, he politely offered her the barber's chair. Within about a minute he thought he would have a nervous breakdown if he heard her voice any more, so he impulsively slashed across her white neck and dispatched her down with no feeling of remorse.
A pretty face but you do so carry on and on and on.
With his latest customer lying lifeless on the floor, Sweeney wondered why she'd come to him. If he'd been a silly young woman (thank God he wasn't), he'd have been more attracted by the fancy ensemble that Pirelli and the like had set up, rather than his austere, dingy first-floor establishment.
He didn't want to change it, despite Mrs Lovett's mutterings that it was a horrible, filthy place. It reflected his personality, and what the world had become.
I wouldn't front the scene if you paid me.
Sweeney gazed out of the large window, drinking in the sight of London in the morning gloom. His eyes scanned the buildings until they came to rest on the Old Bailey.
"You made me what I am today," he hissed vehemently.
I'm just the way that the doctor made me.
The dreary routine of the day continued much as it always did, with some going free and some providing lunch for Mrs Lovett's hungry patrons.
On and on and on and on.
One such pie filling had been going to get married next week, so Sweeney had been stupid to kill him, but he'd confirmed as he sat down that his visit was impulsive and no one knew where he was. Shame about the bride though – she'd have probably already made her dress.
Love is the red, the rose on your coffin door.
He peered down the chute and saw that the man was bleeding an inordinately large amount, and soon he'd be lying in a red pool. He must have dug the razor in deeper than he'd thought.
What's life like bleeding on the floor, the floor, the floor?
He couldn't leave London, much as he hated it. He remembered something Mrs Lovett once said to him: "You don't leave London. I was born 'ere, I live 'ere an' I'll die all in London."
The city truly was the end of the world. He'd probably made it a lot better by killing all these damned people.
Turpin was here, festering in the filth. And as long as he lived in his opulent mansion, Sweeney stayed in London.
You'll never make me leave. I wear this on my sleeve. Give me a reason to believe.
For the second time that day, Sweeney glared down at London's populace from his window.
They'd all want to kill him if they knew the truth.
Let them try.
So give me all your poison, and give me all your pills.
Everyone there had hopes, dreams, most would never happen. He'd had a hand in ending some of those, but he didn't feel at all guilty.
And give me all your hopeless hearts and make me ill.
He suddenly spotted two peelers at the street corner, where Fleet joined with the Strand. They moved urgently through the crowd, probably chasing a pickpocket or petty thief. Even if they caught them, there would always be more.
You're running after something that you'll never kill.
A gunshot rang out, making Sweeney start. They were getting serious.
Shoot me if you dare. I'm the one you should be after.
The policemen of London were so very blind.
If this is what you want then fire at will.
He wondered of what professions the men he'd killed today had been. Carpenter, juror, jeweller, that annoying young woman, priest… he smiled at the latter. Mrs Lovett would adore the chance to finally serve a "little priest". He found priests annoying anyway, yammering on about God-given salvation and the like. The only kind of salvation Sweeney would get damned him in the eyes of the Lord.
Preach all you want but who's gonna save me?
He absently stroked the edge of his razor. As well as being his family and his Excalibur, they were a source of comfort. How strange, because most people are distinctly uncomfortable around sharp metal.
I keep a gun on the book you gave me.
He turned away from the window and went downstairs. Mrs Lovett was clearing up and shooing the last drabble of customers away. She'd had to impose a time restriction, otherwise her patrons would have been here till midnight, it took nearly an hour to clean up and she had to get up at seven as it was. She glanced at the doorway and saw Sweeney standing there.
"Do you need somethin', love?" she asked, shutting the door. Sweeney shook his head.
"Have you been in the bakehouse this evening?" he enquired softly.
Lovett looked puzzled. "No, why?" He smiled. "Show you."
They opened the door on a nightmare of gristly, bloody tools and a pile of dead bodies. Todd strode over to one of them and motioned her to follow.
"Look – you can serve up a little priest," he said, smirking.
She smiled, but her grin vanished when she saw Sweeney's woman victim lying in a heap.
"Where'd she come from?!"
He rolled his eyes. "She wanted her hair trimmed. She was annoying me."
"You're barkin' mad, you are," she muttered, but Sweeney heard her. He had his razor out in a trice and held it against her neck.
"Everything was your idea. Shut up or you'll be joining her." He quite liked threatening Mrs Lovett and pretending she was Turpin.
"I'm not objectin' to nothin', but I thought we agreed to take people 'oo wouldn't be missed."
Sweeney shrugged. "Pirelli wasn't one of those."
"Pirelli was tryin' to blackmail you. Anyway, I'm gonna lock up, Toby might stumble in 'ere."
They both walked up the steps and Mrs Lovett locked the bakehouse up, leaving all the bloodstained evidence behind a heavy iron door.
Hallelujah, lock and load.
***
Sweeney Todd's arms and back were covered in scars, some from the whip, some self-inflicted, and some from the other convicts in the colony he'd been in. There was a burn mark up his right arm where the tip of a brand iron had been dragged up it. It was his own fault really – he'd asked for it, daring the man to steal a brand iron and burn him. After that, several of them had reckoned it was a test of nerve, and it had been surprisingly popular; God, it had hurt.
Test of nerves? More like a test of stupidity.
Black is the kiss, the touch of the serpent son. It ain't the mark or the scar that makes you one, and one, and one, and one.
He angrily pulled on his fingerless leather gloves and opened the shop door, scanning the overspill area of his partner's pie shop to see if there were any men down there in need of a shave.
Mrs Lovett had told him from overheard chatter that a lot of people found him very peculiar, suddenly appearing in London, renting rooms in her building and public ally challenging Adolfo Pirelli. Apparently a lot of them found him unnerving and hoped he would leave London as abruptly as he came. Fat chance.
You'll never make me leave. I wear this on my sleeve.
He got the feeling from Nellie Lovett that she would rather this whole business was abandoned, they moved out of London and lived happily ever after by the fucking sea. If she didn't like the business, she shouldn't have voiced the idea. He was quite happy slitting throats. It didn't feel like murder to him, more like something he had to do to cleanse London, which sounded ridiculous but true. If Nellie didn't like it, she should have found something else rather than how delicious priest can be to interest him.
You wanna follow something – give me a better cause to lead.
Sweeney was scared that the bloodstains weren't worth it, that after all the sweat and tears it would never be all right, he'd never get the judge, never see Johanna…
Just give me what I need – give me a reason to believe.
He had no doubt his hatred would kill him in the end, unless London did for him first.
So give me all your poison, and give me all your pills.
Everyone down there, eating breakfast below him, seemed so hopeless. Their hearts might stop beating the next day, or even today if he was in a bad mood.
And give me all your hopeless hearts and make me ill.
Sweeney Todd surrounded himself with death, and he knew where his customers would end up, but he had no idea which of the people in this sorry city would be the end of him. It was an interesting predicament.
Fire at will.
………
Song: Thank You for the Venom (MrsMargeryLovett helpfully reminded me that I missed that first time round)
Holy cow that was a long chapter (for me), running onto 6 pages on Word. Hm, fun.
Reviews: Pretty please with a meat grinder on top.
