Six Feet Under Chapter 19: The Undoing, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 19, everybody! Yes, it's finally back and updated, although there will be some delay in getting the final chapters out—writing motivation has been entirely elsewhere, and then real-life obligations got in the way. Not that writing is not a real-life obligation, but….Just know that I am 100% frustrated with myself for not getting this done when I said I would, and that I never abandon a story that I publish—it may take me ages to get back to it (fell off of this site for so long that my doc manager emptied, and that never happens), but I'll get back to it or be dead and cremated, mark my words.

Fyoucapslock, thanks for the review! I loved those movies too, so I can understand that completely (I always thought Marty was cute too :D). I did have several good holidays, and I think the number of reviews prepares me for pitching my work (the trick is to find the people the story resonates with). Maxwell's confrontation with Otho in this chapter runs very much like it does in the movie, but rest assured there will be a much more complex confrontation soon(ish). Thank you, and I hope you had some pleasant holidays as well! :)

Sergeant Spectre, thanks for the review! Dangit, you're right—I suppose we can argue the scene in the closet, but that is a point that bothers me. *shrugs*

Whatever they were doing, Wilson hoped it would be over soon.

He had done the thrashing and flailing, trying to dredge up that itch again and get them out of this—whatever it was—but there was nothing doing, and he was quickly losing any and all energy he had….

Well, he decided finally, as his vision started to go black. At least we don't have to worry about sharing the house anymore….

Footsteps, upstairs—Wendy had run up there, probably didn't want to see this—

But the footsteps rapidly coming back down were too heavy to belong to a little girl.

And then, through the haze, he saw Maxwell run down the steps, vault the railing to land in the living room, and come hastening up in a showman's pose.

"Gentlemen, remain calm!" Maxwell bellowed, grinning. "We are taking over this operation!"

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"And who is this?" one guy who acted like he was in charge asked.

Maxwell gave an aggravated what can you do gesture. "Oh I see, you're from the city—you don't impress easy. Well then."

And then Maxwell jumped back onto the table the model town was on—Wilson had a moment to think oh please don't step on that—

Okay, it was hard to tell because of how blurry his vision had gotten, but he would have sworn that Maxwell was wearing a seersucker outfit now. And had a cane.

"Attention K-Mart shoppers! Step right up folks! See the gen-u-ine article! Shanter's very own ghost with the most! Come on a little closer!"

Okay, the good news was, they were leaving Wilson and Willow alone. The bad news was, that wasting feeling wasn't going away. And Maxwell was still there, and that wasn't good at all—

"You know, I feel real good about myself right now," Maxwell was telling the now-attentive yuppies, swinging the cane around and posing with it. "Doing a good deed, helping my fellow man, giving you the shaft, all that jazz. Hated people like you while I was living. Which, for the record, makes this extra sweet."

And with that, he jumped off the table, hit the floor—

And in doing so, used several floorboards to launch the yuppies into oblivion.

Wilson stared in disbelief, would have sagged if it weren't for the fact that his neck made a horrendous cracking noise when he did—better not. And the fact that that made no sense was because his eyesight was going that was it—

Otho was trying to scurry away.

Wilson tried again—without Otho focusing on them, maybe he could break out of it—

Maxwell jumped on Otho from behind—somehow—before he could get too far.

"Ah-ah-ah, fat boy! You and I? We're going to have some laughs," Maxwell snarled, before morphing into a shadow-version of himself and laughing maniacally. Otho, understandably, panicked and ran.

"Otho!" Delia said, her and Charles clinging to each other tightly with Wendy sandwiched between them now. Otho stopped—

Maxwell pointed a finger gun at him, made a little pow noise—

And Otho's outfit ripped off, revealing a pastel suit beneath that somehow horrified the man more than anything else—he ran out into the night screaming.

And then Maxwell was hopping back in front of the town, coming to a halt and back in his old outfit as he turned to face the Deetzes.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I won't do two shows a night anymore. I just won't," he said, waving his cigar around before popping it back in his mouth. Wilson watched worriedly as he turned and started pacing, ticking things off on his fingers.

"Well let's see, took care of the yuppies, the tub of lard—oh," he noised, spotting Wilson and Willow. "I uh, think the Higgsburys have had enough exercise for one night," he said, rocking back on his heels before imitating a golf swing—Wilson didn't even have time to even try to correct him before they went crashing down to the table. Painfully.

"Ow," Wilson muttered.

"So. Took care of them, took care of the other guys—I guess our business is concluded," Maxwell said, clapping his hands before spreading them. "So now I guess it's just the little matter of payment."

Payment?

Charles, to his credit, stepped in front of his family, one shaking hand pointing at Maxwell. "Now see here, you—you spook—"

"Ooh, such verbal repartee," Maxwell sneered in his face, right there and blowing smoke at him—Charles fell back with a cough. "But last I checked, I didn't do any dealing with you."

And with that, he reached around Charles, aiming for Wendy.

"No—" Wilson started—his jaw fell off.

But then Maxwell was stepping back, and the only thing he had in his hand was Wendy's flower. Wilson stared at the oddity, hardly aware of Willow trying to reattach his jaw or the horror involved there.

"That's one," Maxwell said, before waving his free hand—something zoomed over Wilson's head, brushing his hair as it snapped into Maxwell's grasp. The handbook.

"That's two," Maxwell continued, flipping through the book before ripping out several pages and tossing it away—he pulled out a larger, darker book from his suit that shouldn't even fit how—"And now for the third and final part of the trick: getting you lot out of my house."

Do what?

"Th—this isn't your house," Charles tried.

"Oh yes it is."

"No it isn't," Willow croaked—of course, she waited before trying to talk.

"Oh brother," Maxwell sighed, ambling over to lean down and sneer at them. "Don't tell me your boyfriend never told you, during the whole time you were living here, that the house was haunted."

"Listen," Charles tried. "I don't—we own this house now, not you!"

"We owned it first," Willow shot. Definitely feeling better.

"Oh, you'll find I have seniority over the both of you," Maxwell crowed, straightening up. "But all that's a moot point, seeing as how the deed's been handed off—and by the way, I've had enough of your mouth."

And with that, Maxwell spun his hand around—

And some of Delia's hideous art sculptures came to life, crawled over and grabbed both Delia and Charles, leaving just Wendy there, alone and trembling as Maxwell stalked over to her, every step measured. Wilson tried to get up—ended up falling onto the floor. Still not recovered enough from…whatever that was.

"Thank you," Maxwell said silkily, voice dripping with the irony of the situation. "So very much, for agreeing to something without reading the fine print. But—I'm a man of my word. You're off to see your sister."

"You lying snake!" Willow yelled.

"Excuse me!" Maxwell said, spinning to face her. "I have never lied to anyone in this house," he said, stalking over to her and wagging a finger. "You two wanted them out of the house. She wanted to see her sister. Well guess what? I'm granting all those requests—it just involves getting rid of all of you in one fell swoop. Should be enough that that goon out there doesn't complain about the trade-off."

"What—what are you talking about?" Wilson gasped out—at least his jaw didn't fall off and that had happened ew.

Instead of answering, Maxwell lifted up the flower, half-turning to regard Wendy.

"Lovely little thing," he said. "Family heirloom, I suppose?"

"It was my mother's," Wendy said, voice hollow.

"How quaint. It was my wife's first."

And then the answer hit Wilson like a ton of bricks.

Maxwell was going to trade them off to get his wife back.