Madness At Noon {COMPLETED}

Something Wicked This Way Comes 8/10

            I have witnessed Alexander Harberin commit some truly admirable atrocities in the name of "protecting his daughter" (Last Halloween, for example, Grimwade and the Gentleman had gotten into a little 'disagreement' over something or another and had started a rather impressive sword battle in the middle of the Royal Square. I had been watching from Royal Obelisk, enjoying a sack full of caramel, peanut butter, and chocolate treats I had been graciously given for free by the local supermarket because they loved me so, the darling dears. I had not been expecting a midafternoon hero/villain dual to entertain me, but it was a welcome show.

The fight lasted for nearly an hour with both sides very evenly matched, the concrete splattered with delicious blood.

Grimwade was usually cool-headed and quick to think of winning strategies, but this time he made the very foolish decision to attempt to put the Gentleman at a disadvantage by running into the Terrace Building on the east side across from the Royal Obelisk, which housed fifteen Moonbucks, twelve fast food restaurants, eight floors of office buildings, a movie theater and bowling alley, a cigar store that sold far more than tobacco products, two pawn shops, and, on the sixth floor, the Royal Academy of Juvenile Ballet.

I'll give you one guess as to which room Grimwade ran into.

And I'll give you one more guess as to whose daughter attends such an adorable, little class.

The gold and sapphire clock struck six thirty in the afternoon. Time for the parents to pick up their darling screaming things from afterschool activities. Alexander walked into Room 646 with a bag of chicken nuggets and two apple pies to share and was met with the bodies of four little girls and the two dancing instructors. The remaining twelve children were cowered in the corner, dead silent with tears pouring down their face, all except for one who was far too used to such horror.

If you look at the official police report, it clearly states that the unknown masked vigilante known as the Gentleman apprehended Grimwade, and, after one hundred forty-eight days in the ICU of Healing Mercies Hospital, the criminal was returned to Sceptre Asylum to await trial for six accounts of felony murder, an uncountable amount of property damage, and on and on and on. If you look at the official medical report, you will find an unholy long list of injuries, including, but not limited to, ruptured organs, seven broken ribs, one hundred thirty-nine lacerations made with a blade, and a badly crushed skull in the almost exact shape of a large boot print.

Watching from the Royal Obelisk with a pair of ever-handy binoculars and a bag of delicious sweets, I saw what really happened that very interesting day. The Gentleman never stays long enough to correct police reports, and Alexander was not talking. He took his daughter and left. That night he burned his bloody clothes in a backyard fire pit. Very, very bloody clothes.

Grimwade never forgave the professor for that, but the swordsman never, ever went near Alexander or his daughter again. One would almost think that the psychopath was afraid of someone. Or something), but the professor was an abysmal liar. He had a nervous tick in his left eye, completely involuntary, and extremely helpful when trying to extract information from the man.

Drinking tea and eating cookies with a serial killer on just another sunny day in Vexus City, the eye did not move in its socket: Alexander knew nothing of any man by the name of Eric Stein.

I thanked the good professor, a little sour at the deal I had to make to get this information, but eager nonetheless to solve the mystery that had been clawing at my reputation for months now. I did miss little Amelia and had been considering kidnapping her, if only to introduce her to Cheshire – the two would get along swimmingly – but those plans, sadly, had to be put on hold now. I was a woman of my word.

I still could not believe that my three fellow Sceptre inmates had committed suicide. Grimwade was far too angry, Heartshear too proud, and Krókódill... There were several things my boned friend had wanted to do in this world before the end.

Killers tried it all the time: attempting to cover up their crime by making the murder appear as a suicide, but it was almost as if this impossible assassin had specifically chosen the three most improbable people in order to spit on the watching authorities, proof that he or she or it could do whatever they so damned pleased.

Not in my city.

These were my streets, my villains, my heroes, and thanks to one monumentally stupid act of leaving the most obvious piece of evidence possible, I knew who the culprit was. The Royal Guard could set fire to however many buildings they wanted; the Gentleman could glare from the rooftops until his godly gorgeous eyes popped out of his head.

Eric Stein had died the moment Cheshire opened his mouth to scream in the bowels of Sceptre.

When I returned home that afternoon, there was a package waiting for me on the welcome mat. It seemed that the cruel gods of debauchery and bloodshed had not given up on me yet. When I picked it up, keys jingling in my hand as I opened the door and kicked off my high heels, the sweet scent of incense and sin washed over me like a comforting blanket.

Madam Red, my most favorite murdering cult priestess turned Catholic nun, had come through for me at last.