"Um… Hi. Hey."
"Hello, mortal Renn. How are you on this day?"
"Okay, I guess. Thanks. I'm fine, really."
"Injured in a major, life-threatening way?"
"Not particularly."
"Suffering from a debilitating disease that has removed your ability and willpower to live?"
"I don't think so."
"In any way close to death in a particularly grotesque, humorous or otherwise dramatic manner?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Then why, mortal Renn, have you come to me?" The Nye raises eyebrows that are not there and places its hands on its hips.
"I wanted to speak to you about Clarabelle."
"Who's that?"
"You're kidding, right?"
"I don't believe I am, though one can never be sure."
"Your assistant?"
"Ah, yes. Her. What about her?"
"Do you think she might be, I don't know, crazy and sadistic to the point of being able to cheerfully slaughter?"
"Oh, absolutely! She's completely cold-blooded, heartless, cruel and absolutely capable of killing you a hundred ways to midnight. It's sweet, really, to see her performing vivisection on the still-breathing corpses and listening to them scream. Why, why do you ask?"
Fletcher blinks and swallows the urge to run away crying bloody murder. It's not easy at all.
A/N: The Nye is such a delight.
~Mademise Morte, December 20