Sweeney Todd : The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (mr_todd) wrote in parabolical, @ 2008-08-24 12:35:00 |
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Entry tags: | open, sweeney todd |
Who: Sweeney Todd (Open)
When: Afternoon
Where: His barber shoppe
Why: A man needs to make a living
Status: In Progress
Rating: R (just to be safe)
The only customer Mr. T had over the span of the last few days was an elderly man and his grandson. With each pass of the silver blade over his skin the urgent need to spray his blood on the terribly white walls grew. Yet the bright blue eyes of the boy no more then five stared up at him. It was maddening.
All he saw was red as young Timothy grilled him with a series of questions. What is that white stuff on Grandpa's face? Does that hurt? Are you gonna cut my Grandpa?
Not yet boy. Not yet. If only he would turn 'round. Draw the blinds and kill them both. The metallic friend in his hand begged for just a taste of Grandpa Joe's blood. Mr. Todd's ears were not properly trained to tolerate the terrible sound a screaming child was sure to make. Perhaps it was the loss of his own girl that he felt slightly cold and callus towards the young ones. Perhaps it was something much more sinister.
As the sun rose that particular morning he found nothing spectacular about it. The air was filthy as always, casting a haze over everything. They had all grown so use to the grime that surrounded them that they didn't even see it anymore. What a beautiful morning, they said. Can you smell the fresh air, they whispered as they walked. What you are smelling love is the shit the world is filled with.
Leaning against the window he stared at the lone flower in the vase. In his apron the money from his last patron was stuffed in an unkempt wad. It was a filthy world indeed and he was not talking about the poor quality of the air. Staring through the window his own angry eyes reflected back at him in the glass. It was not just anger that lurked there but a secret need. One he must satisfy.
Outside the door of his shoppe a red and white striped cylinder twisted and turned, each time it turned it cried out a low whine of protest. Lifting his dark, murky eyes from the single stem he glowered at the bodies on the street passing by. Never was good at hiding the thoughts lurking behind them. The blade was closed and slipped away into the folds of his woolen trousers. Back to work, back to work. Mr. Todd began to clean up the residue left behind in the sink, he wiped down the chair that was in serious need of repair. When that was done he took a seat in the rickety old maniacal and began to sharpen his lovely blade along the leather strap hanging from his waist.