Six Feet Under Chapter 12: The Song and Dance Routine, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 12, everybody! In which we—

…

DAY-O!

*ahem* Anyway….

Reference The Little Mermaid and the Mask comic "Toys in the Attic" here—looked up the etymological origin of "natch": apparently it's jive slang for "Naturally," and originated in the 1940s. The more you know.

NoUsernamesAreAvailable, thanks for the glowing review! :D Although I wouldn't go that far….(you make me blush :D).

"Oof!"

"Oog!"

They looked around, realized they had landed on Delia's ugly couch in their ravaged living room.

"What just happened?" Wilson asked.

"Let me guess," Maxwell said, sitting in one of the uglier wingbacks. "It was the wallpaper that killed you."

"We're not dead," Wilson said irritably.

"Denial. Classic. Anyway." Maxwell stood up and paced over to some of Delia's so-called 'artwork.' "Ugh—that should be classified deadly right there."

"Okay, that's why we want these people out," Willow said, standing.

"Their furniture with them," Wilson added, standing as well.

"Sure, sure," Maxwell said, producing a pencil and a notepad and writing on the latter. "Well, this should be entertaining at least—oh, there's that pesky little matter of payment."

Wilson had been afraid of that.

"I haven't checked my bank account in a while," he mused.

"That's not exactly spendable for me. How good is this relationship, by the way? I've been needing an assistant."

"Excuse me?" Willow asked.

"On second thought, you're too short. No, I think…let's see, for something like this…."

Wilson had seen this pitch before, by salespeople—whatever this was going to be, it was going to burn. Painfully.

"That copy of the Handbook would do nicely for this, I think," Maxwell finished, pointing his pencil at them.

"The handbook?" Wilson echoed, not comprehending.

"That useless thing?" Willow asked. "You can have it."

"Perfect!" Maxwell chimed, flipping the notebook shut and pocketing it. "They'll be out before you know it."

"Go easy on the girl—we like the girl."

"Yeah yeah, sure sure—"

"Ah," Wilson noised, one hand up. "Before you do—we'd like to try one more time."

"You would?"

"We would?" Willow echoed.

"We would," Wilson confirmed.

Willow snapped her fingers. "The dinner party. If we can't pull it off then, then you can go nuts with these people."

Maxwell was snickering as he rolled his eyes.

"Sure, pal," he all but sneered. "Go ahead and knock yourselves out. I've been needing a good laugh."

And with that parting shot, he was gone—poof through the floor once again.

Wilson hesitated, then got down on his knees and checked the floor through which Maxwell had vanished. Nothing. It didn't even sound hollow.

"How did he do that?" Wilson wondered aloud.

"Maybe he is magic," Willow said.

"Please, he's no more magic than you or I are."

"Well here's hoping he's scarier than you or I are."

"I think that's been established."

"Then why did you want to give it one more go?"

Good question—he wasn't entirely sure himself.

"I have a better question," Wilson decided to address instead. "Why does he want the handbook?"

"No clue. But it's not like we were getting much use out of it."

"True…."

She sat on the floor next to him. "So," she said, twiddling her fingers. "Any plans for screwing up the Deetzes' dinner party?"

Wilson gave it some thought.

"How do you feel about Harry Belafonte?" he asked finally.

In Willow's opinion, the dinner party was dead. Dead, dead, deadski.

That distasteful Otho was back again, along with a few other yuppies from the city, who had found Otho's tasteless comment about the attempted suicide of the girl next to him funny, for some reason.

"Why do they want to hang out with these people?" Willow wondered aloud, peering through the window in the door.

"Not a clue," Wilson replied, straightening his vest for what had to be the fiftieth time. "Are you ready?"

She turned to him with a wide grin on her face.

"'I'm always ready to play, natch!'"

The dinner party had been going just fine, in Delia's opinion.

And then Wendy had to say something.

"I saw some ghosts," Wendy said, in response to a comment by Otho.

Delia's wine very nearly went up her nose. Oh dear, not now….

"That's a—ahem," she coughed, clearing her throat. "That's just a little joke we share. Old houses and weird noises and all that."

"But there are ghosts," Wendy insisted. "A man and a woman."

"Wendy…."

"No, no, I want to hear this," Otho said. "Do go on, dear."

"No," Delia insisted. "I'd much rather talk about—"

Everyone stared as she suddenly cut off.

She couldn't explain it—it felt like someone had clapped their hands on her mouth—

And then she wished that someone had.

Because right now she was bursting into a perfect rendition of Harry Belafonte's Banana Boat Song—she felt marginally better when Charles decided to join in, but then how could she explain the rest of them dancing? At least Otho seemed to be enjoying himself—and Wendy; she was standing behind her chair and laughing.

But Delia was seriously starting to panic—it felt like someone had grabbed her and was twirling her around to the music, making her dance against her will—and then shoving her abruptly into her chair as the song neared its end—

And then the shrimp cocktails attacked.

Wilson and Willow ran back to their attic, cheering in triumph.

They had done it! They had actually done it!

Willow kept repeating that fact over and over again, jumping on Wilson and hugging him once they reached the attic. He heartily returned the sentiment—it felt good to hug her; it drove that blasted itch away.

"That was great!" Willow exclaimed once they parted. "We should totally do that again!"

Totally. He caught her by the elbows as she spun around, sharing her manic grin. "Let's watch them scatter!" he suggested.

"Yeah!" Willow agreed, and together they bolted for the front window.

Wilson couldn't help but elicit an excited hee noise as they looked out on the driveway. "Any second now they'll be scattering like the roaches they are!" he exclaimed.

One minute.

Then two.

"Any second now," he repeated, with less conviction.

A knock at the attic door prompted them to turn sharply around.

"Hi, it's me," they heard Wendy call.

Confused, they exchanged glances, then crossed over to let Wendy in.

She looked distinctly unhappy as she stepped in.

"They want you to come down," she sighed. "Delia says you can wear whatever sheets you want."