8. Destruction Versus Acquisition

The first thing Archibald Snatcher attended to was the coat. If he couldn't look perfect, at least he could stand out visually; give Lord Portley-Rind something that would burn his image into the lord's memory. And so he took to the sewing floor of Snatcher's Stitches, rolling out a thick red fabric, cutting and piecing together a magnificent tailed coat of scarlet.

When all was done, he donned the coat before a mirror, admiring himself. The sight didn't please him as much as the image of Madame Frou Frou did, but it wasn't shabby at all, to his mind. Though it did seem to be missing a certain something.

Casting his gaze about the shop, Archibald noticed a tall, somewhat crooked red top hat in the corner. He couldn't remember exactly what the hat had been made for, but it had obviously never sold. No one had wanted something so garish. Archibald swiped the hat and perched it atop his head, turning back to the mirror. Now he looked even taller, more elegant, more memorable. Lord Portley-Rind would come to associate that red hat with him, and all for the better.

He couldn't have guessed how much he would come to resent being associated with that red hat. And yet he would never let it go until the White Hat was in his hands.

As he walked out, he closed and locked the doors of Snatcher's Stitches for the last time. A new family would soon take up the trade of town tailors and dressmakers, and the Snatcher legacy of working with fabric would be absolutely forgotten in place of something new and horrifying.

...

In the darkest hours of the night, Herbert Trubshaw was awake, gently rocking Arthur to try and calm a fit of crankiness that had overcome the child. He paced up and down the halls slowly, singing softly, tunelessly, to his beloved son.

There was a soft knock upon the door.

Cautious, Herbert proceeded toward the entryway. The knock sounded again. "Hello?" Herbert called out.

The knock came a third time, and Herbert realized that whomever was knocking could only reach as high as halfway up the door. That narrowed down considerably who could have come to visit. Herbert gladly flung the door open to see Fish and Shoe standing before him; they spread their arms wide and said a word that Herbert knew translated to "CONGRATULATIONS!"

Neither Boxtroll understood, at first, why Herbert burst into tears upon viewing the gesture. Fish gently asked if everything was all right, pointing out that he had expected Herbert to be happy because of his new son.

Shoe, in the meantime, just brought out how annoyingly loud the baby was.

"I am happy to have him," Herbert said softly between his tears. "So very happy. He's the most precious person in the whole world to me. But Marjorie…she…" He swallowed hard; he wasn't sure he could ever find the words to express it. Then, at last, he confessed, "She's gone."

Fish asked, gingerly, whether she had merely left, or if she had suffered a more permanent fate.

"Dead," Herbert confirmed, feeling the blow to his heart all over again.

Fish and Shoe were both taken aback. They looked to each other, not sure how to proceed, exactly. Then Fish trod forward softly, tugging on Herbert's sleeve. Herbert knelt, and Fish enveloped him as best he could in an embrace of comfort.

After rolling his eyes, Shoe joined in as well, and the three of them remained in that position for some time, with the squalling Arthur at the center.

Fish burbled that he was very, very sorry to hear of Herbert's loss.

"It'll be all right," Herbert said, and as he did, his tears finally abated. "It will have to be all right."

Fish insisted that Herbert wouldn't be alone at all; he, Shoe, and the other Boxtrolls would be there for him.

"Thank you," Herbert said gratefully. "Thank you so much."

Shoe just grumbled that this had better not mean that he would have to take care of the baby, which was still far too loud.

...

It was with a heavy heart that Royce Pickles knocked on the door of the house he shared with his constant companion. Said companion, one Edward Trout, answered the door and remarked, "You're home early."

"Yes, well…" Pickles sighed. He gave the chimney-sweep's brush in his hand a halfhearted spin. "It seems I won't be needing this anymore."

"They fired you?" Trout asked in concern.

Pickles nodded.

"Come in, then," Trout encouraged, beckoning for Pickles to enter the small abode. "We'll get you a spot of tea, and that'll make things look better."

"Don't know that we'll be able to afford tea much longer," Pickles sighed as he followed Trout inside.

Once Pickles was seated at the small, rickety table, Trout, pouring him a steaming cup of tea, asked, "So what happened this time?"

"The same thing that always happens, I'm afraid," Pickles sighed. "They found out about us. And I was being so careful to keep it a secret. But with the number of employers we've both gone through, everyone in town must know by now."

"Maybe…well, maybe we shouldn't…" Trout began, but found he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Be together?" Pickles completed it for him. "But the thought of that's worse than the thought of never being employed in this town again."

"I know," Trout agreed. "I was thinking the same thing. That's why I didn't finish the sentence, you see." He took a moment to press a brief kiss to the side of Pickles' face before taking a seat across from him at the table with his own cup of tea.

"Do you remember when we were younger, and we used to dream of being heroes that would be celebrated throughout the whole town?" Pickles asked. "Defeating great evils, saving the town from peril?"

"Seems so long ago," Trout said with a nod. "But I remember." He took a pensive sip of tea.

"Couldn't be further away from that, now, could we?" Pickles sighed.

"Here's a thought," Trout said suddenly. "We can't leave each other. That's not an option. But everyone in town knows, well, that we're with each other. What if we left here and found another town? We might be able to keep our secret better there. Get real jobs."

"A capital idea, Mr. Trout!" Pickles affirmed; much like Archibald, both of them had been so conditioned to referring to others by their surnames for respect that they had trouble even using each other's first names, intimate as they were with each other, and had both gotten used to being referred to by surnames affectionately. "Maybe there's even a place out there where they'll accept us for who we are. A place where two men in love isn't strange."

"It'll be an adventure to find it!" Trout declared. "If we can't be heroes, the least we can be is adventurers!"

And they might have begun their great adventure that very night if the insistent rapping hadn't come upon their door just then.

"A visitor?" Pickles turned to look at the door, perplexed. "But no one visits us."

The rapping came again, and a pleasant-sounding baritone called out, "Gentlemen! Mr. Trout! Mr. Pickles!"

Exchanging looks of suspicion, both Trout and Pickles got up to answer the unexpected caller. Upon opening the door, Pickles told the visitor, "Er…yes, that is us. Can we help you?"

Archibald Snatcher grinned at the pair, and neither could truly read his expression. "I had heard that the two of you had been suffering some…misfortune," Archibald began.

"You don't know the half of it," Trout sighed.

"Let me hazard a guess, at least," Archibald said playfully. "Run out of occupation after occupation because no one wants to employ a queer man. Afraid it's a disease that'll catch, they are. Absolutely no respect for the fact that you're lovers whatsoever."

"How did you – " Pickles began.

"Oh, everyone in town knows by now," Archibald stated. "One needs only pay attention to recent gossip."

"I knew it," Trout sighed.

"I have decided, however," Archibald continued, "out of the kindness of my heart, to take pity on you poor luckless gentlemen." It had very little to do with kindness and more to do with the fact that he needed help to pull off his plan, and the easiest way to acquire help was to prey upon those in town who were further outcast than even Archibald was. "I've a job offer for both of you, if you're willing to take it."

"A job?" Trout repeated, as he and Pickles exchanged looks yet again, unable to believe what they were hearing. "For us?"

"What sort of job?" Pickles asked, turning back to look at Archibald.

"This town is plagued by a great evil," Archibald explained with a smug grin. "One that we have feared for years, and yet not done a single thing about. No one has yet been brave enough to stand up to the cannibalistic, savage force that lurks beneath our very streets! No one, that is, save myself, Archibald Snatcher! It is my intent to save Cheesebridge from this impending threat, but of course, I cannot do it alone. I need at least three men of strong mettle. Men who can be heroes."

"We've always wanted to be heroes!" Pickles said excitedly.

"What sort of evil are we talking about, exactly?" Trout asked.

"Gentlemen," Archibald revealed, "we are going to kill the Boxtrolls."

Trout and Pickles both gasped and flinched. "But the Boxtrolls…well…they eat people," Pickles stammered. "They're pure evil. We can't possibly stand up to them!"

"Oh, but we can," Snatcher insisted, thinking back on the docile interactions between Herbert, Fish, and Shoe, "and we will. If we don't make this town safe for our children to play in the streets, than who will? And if we don't act fast, the Boxtrolls may very well do something horrible that we'll wish we could have prevented. They could…steal a child."

"No!" Pickles cried.

"Yes, I'm afraid," Archibald said with a solemn nod. "Will you join me in this noble quest as Boxtroll exterminators?"
"I…don't know…" Trout said tentatively.

"Well, all right, then," Archibald replied. "I can see when my offer isn't welcomed. I'll find other men, of course. Good luck finding another job, fellows! From what I've heard, oh, you'll need it." He turned as though to walk away, knowing all the while he would be stopped.

"Wait!" Pickles called after him.

Archibald halted, smiling due to the knowledge that everything was going exactly as planned.

"I'll do it," Pickles volunteered. "I'll join you in defeating the Boxtrolls."

"And so will I," Trout agreed. "Maybe…if we save this town from Boxtrolls…they'll actually like us."

"My thoughts exactly, my good sirs!" Archibald said gladly, turning back to face them and shake each of their hands in turn. "No matter what you may have done or been, how can anyone say no to their heroes? Once our work is done, you'll have people lining up at your door to request your services helping them with problems great and small, and offering a wealth of riches for it! Why, if all goes as well as planned…no, no, that's just a speculation. I mustn't say it out loud. Don't want to get your hopes up, after all…"

"What is it?" Trout asked. "You can't just say a thing like that and not explain it."

"Well, if you insist," Archibald replied. "If all goes as planned, our heroic deed will earn all of us…White Hats."

"White Hats!" Pickles was taken aback. "We've never even dreamed we could be White Hats."

"Then you haven't dreamed big enough, quite obviously," Archibald stated cavalierly. "Rescuing Cheesebridge from the ultimate evil will of course be enough to earn us those coveted hats. Then you won't even need jobs."

"This all sounds very exciting," Trout replied. "Almost too good to be true."

"That's how most good things seem, Mr. Trout," Archibald cajoled. "Now. I've got both of you on board, but I'll need at least one more. Where can I find another man down on his luck, who needs a helping hand, but who has great untapped potential for heroics?"

"Can't think of anyone off the top of my head," Trout stated.

"Well…" Pickles thought it over. "There is the madman who lives atop the hill. He's got to be the most unfortunate man in town. But I don't know if you'll be able to talk to him. He's a bit…odd."

"Oddness from a madman is to be expected," Archibald stated with a nod. "Tell me more."

...

The case of Cuthbert Gristle was tragic. No one knew exactly what made his mind so different from others in town; no one had the language for it besides such terms as "madman." And as such, no one knew what to do for him, how to care for him. His parents had died young, and he lived alone in what had once been their house, with no visitors; no one dared come close. He could occasionally be glimpsed around town taking care of basic errands; he spoke in one-word sentences. And about him, there seemed to be a sense of inexplicable glee that caused discomfort in others, for he wasn't cheered up by such things as the sun shining on a warm summer day or being greeted by a friend, but instead stepping on the tails of alley cats and knocking over piles of groceries in the shops. The people of Cheesebridge feared him, worrying that at his core, there lurked something very sinister. In truth, what was sinister about him was lured out of him, molded by an outside circumstance that wished to take advantage of him.

That circumstance turned up on his doorstep dressed in scarlet. "Mr. Gristle, I presume?" Archibald Snatcher asked.

Gristle was at first just stunned by Archibald's vibrant appearance. "Red!" he commented.

"Quite," Archibald agreed, wondering if he was to regret this alliance before it had even begun. "Now, tell me, Mr. Gristle. Have you ever wished to be a hero?"
"Hero?" Gristle replied.

"Have you fantasized about the glory that would befall you," Archibald continued, "if you were responsible for the extermination of all Boxtrolls, which are perhaps the most monstrous evil to ever poison this town?"

"Ex…terminate?" Gristle wasn't sure.

"Exterminate," Archibald repeated. "Eliminate. Annihilate. DESTROY."

"Ohhhh, destroy!" Gristle nodded. Out front of his abode, a bat lay propped up against the wall, and near it were some cardboard boxes from things he'd purchased. Gristle, eager to demonstrate to this stranger what he'd just heard, took the bat into hand and began striking the boxes flat with it. "DESTROY!"

As he watched Gristle beat the boxes into ruination from which there was no return, Archibald's smile grew wider and wickeder. "Exactly, Mr. Gristle," he muttered. "Destroy."

...

And so Archibald came to the final phases of his plan, in which he knew he would need one last piece, one he was loath to acquire. But there was literally no one else who could put the scheme into motion as it was scripted.

He trusted no one else but Gristle to accompany him on the quest to put the final piece in place. He knew quite well that things could easily turn ugly, and the likes of Pickles and Trout would be offput and doubt Archibald's intentions if his hand were forced. He needed them to trust him, believe in him. Gristle's loyalty didn't hinge on the same sort of upstanding morals. And if a rougher hand was required, Archibald knew Gristle would back him up rather than try to talk him down.

And so, with Gristle in tow, Archibald knocked on Herbert Trubshaw's door.

His old friend answered, and Archibald was pleased to find that this time, his heart rate stayed stagnant. Herbert's expression was likened to one who had seen the dead come back to life. "Archibald…?" he said softly, stunned.

"Hello, Trubshaw," Archibald said innocently. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"It's been years," Herbert reminded him.

"Have you got any time to catch up with an old friend?" Archibald asked.

"I…I thought I was never to speak to you again," Herbert told him.

"I may have said some very foolish things in the past," Archibald replied. "But let's just let bygones be bygones, shall we? I have so missed your company."

"Well, then, by all means!" Herbert's face lit up. He then turned his attention to Archibald's new companion; "And who might you be?"

"Gristle!" Gristle put out his right hand; Herbert grasped it and shook it firmly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gristle!" Herbert said, sincere as always. "Come inside, both of you! I'll put a kettle on."

Herbert readied a table on the upper floor, and as he did so, he was made aware of Arthur crying out from the adjacent room. Herbert quickly rushed to gather his son into an arm, carrying the babe with him as he set about making and pouring tea.

"So this is your bouncing baby boy, is it?" Archibald said as he looked over small Arthur. Babies disgusted him, he decided on the spot. This one in particular was drooling most uncouthly.

"His name is Arthur," Herbert introduced lovingly. "Arthur, this is Archibald. He's an old friend."

Arthur made some babbling sounds in reply. Archibald grimaced.

Once all were seated, Herbert still cradling Arthur, Archibald stated, "To tell you the truth, I had wished to discuss a matter of business with you, Trubshaw."

"Business?" Herbert asked. "Of what sort?"

Here came the difficult part of the endeavor. "I've decided to take my career in a…new direction," Archibald began. "And in order to do that, I have realized, I am going to need a machine. I've never been gifted at all with such things, but you…you always were so talented with mechanics."

Herbert's face fell; Archibald could tell he was disappointed that Archibald had only showed up because he wanted something. Still, Herbert wasn't going to turn him away without hearing him out. "What sort of machine did you need?"

"An indestructible one of great size," Archibald described, "from which a man might tower over the whole town. Something built to capture. And, if needed, destroy. In other words, your greatest mechanical doohickey yet."

Herbert was taken aback. "And for whatever would you need something like THAT?"

Archibald had rehearsed various lies for this part, but, looking into Herbert's eyes, he once again succumbed to weakness. Herbert could no longer make his heart race; he could, however, turn Archibald into an honest man. "It's my plan to take the White Hat," he stated. "I'm finally going to do it, Herbert. But in order to do it, I shall need some…leverage. It occurred to me like a bolt from the blue: your Boxtrolls! If I were to destroy them in one fell swoop in front of Lord Portley-Rind, he'd have no choice but to give me the White Hat! Hasn't this town been running scared of the little beasts ever since we were children? What if they were suddenly gone? Would the one who rid the town of them not become the most celebrated man in all Cheesebridge? Or, should I say, the ONES who rid the town of them become the most celebrated MEN in all Cheesebridge? Think of it, Trubshaw!"

Herbert's teacup shattered against the floor. "You can't be saying what I think you're saying," Herbert said shakily. "My friends. Fish. Shoe. You want to…you want to kill them."

"You still believe yourself friends with those monsters?" Archibald scoffed. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. But you do know, Trubshaw, they'll never be human. If you're waiting for them to be worth your time – "

"They ARE worth my time, Archibald. They've been worth my time from the moment I met them," Herbert insisted. "They may not be human, but they are PEOPLE. People like you and me."

Archibald shook his head. "I truly thought you were more intelligent than that, Trubshaw."

Herbert rose angrily from his seat; "And I thought YOU were more intelligent than THIS! You really think you can earn a White Hat for bloodthirst? Lord Portley-Rind will see right through you! What if killing innocents gets you absolutely NOTHING in return? What will become of you then?"

"Why, then I will have a machine of terrible destruction, of course," Archibald said casually, "and if they won't listen to me for saving their town from the Boxtroll menace, then they WILL listen to me when I hold THEIR lives in my hands. Of course, I should hate for it to come to that. I do so wish for them to grant me the White Hat with true respect. But if I can't have that, I suppose I can settle. You know what they say about it being better to be feared than loved."

"You're mad," Herbert accused. "You were never like this. The Archibald Snatcher I knew would never cause a genocide just to acquire power. The Archibald Snatcher I knew was a kind man and a loyal friend."

"The Archibald Snatcher you knew was young, misguided, and weak," Archibald insisted, rising to look down upon Herbert. "I've learned something, Herbert. I've learned you were right about the White Hats. They never will reward my efforts to please them by doing honest work for this town. No, to them, so long as I play their game, I'll always be ugly, queer Archibald Snatcher, the lowborn tailor's son. But there is a way to win this game, Herbert, and that's to cheat! Don't you see? This doesn't just have to be about me!" He was surprised at his own sincerity in the next words he spoke: "It can be for both of us! Look at you! Without Mrs. Trubshaw, you've nothing left! But it can be the way it used to be: you and I together! We can turn this town on its head, Trubshaw! Envision it: White Hats for the both of us! Together, WE can be the heroes of the story! Or, failing that, WE will be the villains! Either way, you and I will finally win! All I need is your help, Trubshaw!" Archibald's eyes glimmered with greed, and Herbert backed away, holding Arthur protectively.

"No," Herbert said softly, hardly daring to look his former friend in the eye. "No…no, I won't do it. I never WANTED that sort of power, Archibald. All I wanted was to be happy. I never wanted to win. And I won't win. Not if that's what it takes."

Archibald's expression immediately soured. "I've been reasonable," he growled. "I can be UNreasonable."

Herbert finally found his voice: "I'm an inventor! NOT A KILLER!"

Slowly, the smile spread back over Archibald's face. His eyes flicked down to tiny Arthur. He knew what would get Herbert to crack. "Maybe…if I hold onto your son – "

Archibald reached out to grab the child; Herbert shoved him roughly back, shouting, "NOT MY SON!"

Gristle, catching on to Archibald's intent, had crept around to Herbert's other side, and lunged at him; Herbert planted a deft kick in Gristle's chest, sending him flying across the room. Herbert now knew there was no talking Archibald down from the evil that had overtaken him, and he knew he had to remove Arthur's safety from the equation as quickly as possible. He rushed to the window, where he, Fish, and Shoe had set up a pulley system with a bucket for trading tools and building supplies through said window. The last few things the Boxtrolls had given him had come up in a spare box, one first fashioned to deliver eggs, and it was in this box that Herbert quickly nestled Arthur, looking down to the street.

Fish and Shoe were watching from below, eyes wide with horror. Herbert wondered how much they'd seen, how much they'd heard, how much they knew. The window would have given them a pretty good view, and his argument with Archibald had become loud. He prayed that they knew the imminent danger enough to get Arthur as far away from the situation as they could. The pulley was let down, and Arthur, "eggs" box and all, was lowered to the street. "RUN!" Herbert screamed at Fish and Shoe. "TAKE MY SON!"

Gristle's arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him back. He heard Arthur crying from the street below.

Herbert's penchant for inventing had caused him to leave all sorts of tools around the house. On the tea table, next to a half-finished device featuring a propeller, lay a wrench. Archibald seized both opportunity and the wrench, charging the struggling Herbert and Gristle, raising the wrench high over Herbert's head.

Herbert turned just in time to look up and see what was about to happen to him. "Archibald, NO – "

The wrench came down hard. Not hard enough to kill, but hard enough to knock Herbert senseless. As Herbert slumped unconsciously to the floor, Archibald rushed to the window. Perhaps his leverage wasn't gone. Perhaps the boy was still within reach.

His gaze met Fish's for a moment. Then, before Archibald could react, Fish had swept up Arthur and begun to run, the shadows concealing his destination from Archibald.

A thousand hypothetical undoings began to rush through Archibald's mind. That child was a liability, so long as he went unfound. He was proof of what had happened. But at the same time, Archibald realized, the child was an opportunity. For all intents and purposes, the Boxtrolls had done exactly what he'd wanted. They had taken a child. And he knew how to tell the story in his own favor.

Gristle hovered over Herbert's head, holding the teapot high above it, ready to smash. "Destroy?" he asked.

"…No," Archibald told him after some thought. "Not destroy. Acquire. We still need him, Mr. Gristle. And we'll need those Boxtrolls of his after all. How did it not occur to me before? Trubshaw's mind is useless without their little hands." He turned away from the window. "Help me carry him out of here."

"Trout?" Gristle asked. "Pickles?"
"Need only know this was a liar and a wicked, wicked man who is best brought to justice," Archibald told him, "and that his helping us build our machine is his penance for his crimes. Just as putting the Boxtrolls to work is penance for their crimes."

"Put to work?"

"Yes, Mr. Gristle. Put to work. We shall need to acquire them as well. All of them. Now, help me move Trubshaw! We'd best get a move on! After all, I have a visit to pay Lord Portley-Rind. The unspeakable has happened, and we must speak of it immediately."

...

When Herbert came to, he was utterly perplexed. First of all, he was upside-down. Looking up – or was it down? – he found that his feet were encased in metal boots that were stuck to a great magnetic plate. Second, he seemed to be located in a basement of some sort. It was spacious, but very dark.

"Comfortable, are we?"

The voice startled Herbert, and he could make out a silhouette leaning against the wall across the room. Even upside-down, he knew the shape well. "Archibald. Where am I?" All the memories came rushing back of Archibald's surprise visit, of his revelation of his sinister plan, of how he'd attacked Herbert. Herbert hoped beyond hope that was all somehow just a terrible dream, but given the current circumstances, that seemed ever more unlikely.

"Now, does that really matter?" Archibald asked him mockingly. "Though you might be interested to know that I got the idea for that magnet and those iron socks from the late Mrs. Trubshaw. Seems she had one or two good ideas after all."

"Archibald," Herbert pleaded, "don't do this. You…you can do whatever you want to me. But don't hurt the Boxtrolls. Don't hurt the people of Cheesebridge. And please, PLEASE, Archibald…don't hurt my son."

"Your son is dead," Archibald stated. "Or, at least, he is as far as anyone else is concerned. And he will most certainly be dead when I catch up to him. In the meantime, the tragedy of the Trubshaw Baby and his father will be known throughout all Cheesebridge. Everyone will come to know the tale of how the Boxtrolls ruthlessly cannibalized the both of them."

"They'll never believe you," Herbert spat.

"Won't they?" Archibald countered. "No, I suppose not. They never did listen to me. Oh, if only there were someone around who would be taken seriously. Wait. There is." He chuckled. "And her name is Madame Frou Frou. Oh, don't doubt for a second that Lord Portley-Rind isn't smitten with 'her.' How's that for irony, Trubshaw?"

"You know I won't help you with your infernal machine," Herbert growled.

"We'll see how you feel after you've spent some time in that position," Archibald told him. "After all, I don't intend to let you right-side-up until we're done. But it isn't all going to be bad, old friend. See, if you help me out, I'll let you have all the jelly your little heart of gold desires!"

"Archibald…" And now the tears came, running out of Herbert's eyes and trickling up over his forehead. "We were friends."

At that, Archibald made his way to the door of the basement without a word. He paused just before his exit, turning to look over his shoulder at Herbert. "We were," he confirmed, "weren't we?"
Then, utterly satisfied with himself, he ascended the stairs, leaving Herbert to sob in solitude.