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Scyle
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Jan 23, 2012
"These are my friends...see how they glisten...see this one shine. How he smiles, in the light. My Friend, my lucky friend." From inside of his barber shop, the small figure sang with an innocent and alluring tone. Through his snow white eyes, he viewed upon his silver barber blades, a smirk creeping its way onto his face. "You shall drip rubies." He took a deep breath and then his eyes shot to the door from the sound of a knock, his smirk disappearing. He opened to find Mr. Jimson, an ordinary and rather plain individual. "Here for the haircut, eh Mr. Jimson?" He asked in his child-like voice, a heavy English accent accompanying the statement.
"Why yes I am young sir. Are you the fabled barber of fleet street?" His voice gruff and heavily garbled by his own accent.
His lips then arched widely. "Why yes I am sir. A pence and you can have your hair cut with the mastery of my blade." Scyle stepped to the side and allowed the man to walk in. Jimson set his hat and coat on the coat rack provided on the wall of the small barber shop. Scyle ushered the man into the seat, Jimson promptly taking the invitation. Looking at the man through the mirror, Scyle asked "And how would you like to be butchered?"
Jimson laughed and waved his hand. "Just a simple shortening is all I need."
Scyle smiled and unfolded the blade that he held delicately in his hand. "A simple shortening eh?" His voice was cold but still carried that usual essence. With a swift motion, he ran the blade across the man's neck, the blood pouring from the wound like a fountain of death. No smile was present on Scyle's face anymore, only the sweet twinge of joy he got from another murder. The man gasped for air, but for nothing. His life was draining through his neck and after a brief moment, there was no life at all. "Hmph," he said and pushed the button on the floor. A small area opened in the floor and the chair tilted back, sending the body down the chute. With a skull shattering smack, the cold lifeless body hit the ground, brains and other fleshy items splattering all over the furnace room. Scyle hit the button and the room resumed the same innocent yet dark charm that it retained. There was no evidence of the crime, except maybe a few blood droplets that landed on the floor, Scyle wiping these up with a white handkerchief that were stashed in his breast pocket, stuffing it back in the pocket upon completion.
"Another day, another death." His once gleeful eyes staring out into the hell hole that was London, a truly ugly sight to behold. "There's no place like London." His voice cold, accented, unforgiving. Scyle, aka Sweeney Todd. The Demon Barber of Fleet Street.
He stood in the window, his cold, white, blank eyes staring out into the gray world of London. He hated London with a passion that only compared to his love for his wife. Everything about it was ugly, especially those that inhabit it. One face came up particular. The bastard that damned his life, the one that caused his torment. "Turpin..." A name so vile, so disgusting. Thinking of anything close to him makes his blood boil.
"Alms!? Alms? Alms for the poor?" The voice was weak, scratchy. There was nothing healthy about it, however if one were to examine closely, they would find a hint of beauty. Too bad Scyle never paid much attention to it.
Scyle looked down to the source of the voice, the lowly beggar on the street. She chose Fleet Street as her target. She annoyed him, so worthless. A meaningless existence in the world. He batted away the thoughts with a wave of his hand. Such matters were trivial, he cared not truly. His chin rested in his right hand, his left arm crossed across his torso, holding his vertical right arm. His thinking was abruptly interrupted with a knock on his door. As he turned, he saw Mrs. Lovett peak through the small opening.
"Mr. Todd?" She asked, her voice carrying a somewhat delicate accent.
"Yes?" Scyle answered blankly.
Lovett walked in with a silver plate that was adorned with food and tea. Scyle didn't eat the meat pies for he knew what they were and eating humans just wasn't how he operated. Instead, on the plate were roast beef and a slice of bread. She set the tray on a stand and stood, looking about awkwardly. She smiled half heartedly, opening her mouth for a statement, nothing emitting. She cleared her throat and straightened her dress. "Is there anything you need Mr. Todd?"
Scyle looked to the woman, neither cold nor warm; he just looked to her, albeit his eyes did constantly carry darkness to them, enough to send cold chills down even the most stable person. "No that is all." His voice was hushed and distant. Lovett nodded and walked out the door, closing it behind her. Scyle stared at the tray, he wasn't hungry. He never was. Eating was a commodity to him; he didn't need to he chose to. He smirked and sat in his chair, his legs crossed and his chin in his right hand. His left hung limp of the left arm rest, the other propped up on the right arm rest. He stared at himself in the mirror, studying himself. He looked like a ghost now, his time spent in the hell hole Turpin sent him to have changed him. Upon departure, he was a warm and caring person. He had the love of his life and a child on the way. He had no reason to be sorrowful. Then Turpin came along and mucked his life. He was a ghost of his former self, his eyes cold and ruthless. His face was as pale as snow, a certain element of death lingered about it. Now, he had no reason to be happy. He flicked one of his beloved barber blades in and out, his heart racing.
"You will die."
Once again Scyle was knocked from his thoughts with the abrupt knock of his door. He sighed in frustration as the constant interrupting began to annoy him. He passed across the wooden floor of the shop, his answer predetermined. He opened the door along with his mouth, the words reaching up to his tongue. But he held it back. Why? What honored visitor graced his door? A smile grew wide on Scyle face.
"Mr. Beadle Bamford, correct?" His voice was low, dark, and sinister.
"Why yes I am. Are you Sweeney Todd, the famous barber of Fleet Street?" Beadle was Turpin's right hand man and a main component in the exile and hell that Scyle had been put through. His very appearance was grotesque, almost like a rat in human form. His voice did well to show this as well, the nasally and overall bastardish tone he carried escaping through his buck teeth.
"Indeed I am good sir. May I inquire as to why you are here?" Scyle couldn't care of the answer. He had one thing on his mind and one thing only. (You shall drip precious rubies,) he thought allowing the smile to widen.
Bamford cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I am here for one of your prestigious cuts my good man."
"One of me cuts you ask? Please, be my guest." He opened the door a great way and allowed the pear shape man to enter.
"Your shop is a bit dreary, don't you think Mr. Todd?"
"I suppose you could say that, but I aim for a more modest approach. I let my blades do the talking, not my shop." He ushered for Bamford to take his place on the chair. Beadle hung up hit hat and jacket, checking his pocket watch.
"I don't have much time, I simply want to have a quick shave and cut," Beadle said as he sat in the black leather chair, resting each arm on the arm rests. Scyle, with a devious smile, nodded and answered the man's request.
"A quick cut and a shave. I would be more than honored." A tone of dark sarcasm hid within his voice. He threw the barber's cape around Bamford, fastening it around his neck. He grabbed a cup and mixed a batch of cream, lathering and frothing it to an airy foamy substance. With the brush, he began to paint it onto Bamford's face, the bristles of the brush stroking Bamford's hideous face. After a brief moment, half of Beadle's face was covered in the foam. Scyle sat the cup on his counter and reached for one of his beloved blades. He opened his small box and gazed at his beauties. Without discrimination, he picked one up and closed the box. He opened the blade and stared at it for a second. Bamford look towards him curiously.
"You know, there was a barber that lived here a long time ago that had shears that looked almost identical to those." These words made Scyle's blood turn to ice and cause his skin to clam up. He batted it all away with a simple smile.
"Really now? Can't say blades like this aren't too uncommon. After all, silver is a magnificent color." He began to inch the sharp side of the instrument towards Bamford's foam covered face. He pressed the hard, cold steel to the foam and pushed in and down the face. All hair that ran into the blade was immediately cut, but due to Scyle's skill with the tool no harm were done to any of his clients. Well, not from a cut or a shave. Bamford closed his eyes and relaxed in the chair, Scyle looking towards him with lust in his eyes. He craved Bamford's blood, his neck open and begging to be cut. With another drag here and another there, Scyle began to grow impatient. He wiped the blade clean of the foam and drew it back. He readied his arm to slice open Bamford's neck, causing him to bleed out. However, this death would have to wait.
Beadle bolted up within the chair, somewhat startling Scyle. He withdrew the blade in an inconspicuous manner and looked towards Bamford with a smile. "Something wrong?" He asked.
"I hate to cut this short but I forgot there was one matter I must attend to and it needs to be done quickly." He took a towel from the stand and wiped the white foam from his face. "How much do I owe you Todd?"
"For you Mr. Bamford? No charge at all."
Bamford look at Scyle with a curious and dumbfounded face. "If you insist." He grabbed his hat and jacket and made for the door, Scyle kindly opening it for him. "Another time Todd."
Scyle smiled. "Another time Mr. Bamford." With the statement, Bamford walked out of the shop, Scyle closing the door after him. "You should have had him! He was right there in front of your blade!" He cursed himself mentally for Bamford wasn't too far. Scyle looked down to the shining silver blade, his eyes filled with anger and torment. He took a deep breath. "Soon my lovelies, soon." His voice was low, quiet, determined. He placed the blade back into the box with the others. He crossed his arms behind his back and walked to the window, the grey sky being lit, only slightly, by sunlight. "Soon my lovelies...soon.
Scyle stared out of the window that had manifested in his second story barber shop, his pure snow white eyes lost in the filth and unattractive world that was his "home," the monster that was London. The pure eyes that Scyle looked through were quite the conundrum, for his being was very dark and tormented. Scyle laughed at the thought and turned to walk out the door. He put on his black top hat and his thick black duster and walked from his shop, opening and closing the oak door as he left. As he closed the door, he turned and penetrated the steel lock with a golden key, turning and activating the mechanism causing the door to be sealed. He withdrew the key and walked down the blackened oak steps to the pie shop underneath him. He opened the glass door and looked inside to Ms. Lovett, the owner of the shop and his "friend."
"I'm going for a walk, care to join me?" Scyle asked in a low voice to the woman. Lovett's eyes lit up with joy as a large small arched across her face.
"Of course I would Mr. Todd! Give me just one moment!" The woman exclaimed as she disappeared into the back of the shop. Her voice was quite delicate and lovely, with a hint of an accent. This voice was nails on the chalk board for Scyle. He rolled his eyes as he waited, checking his pocket watch for the time.
"2: 34..." He mumbled as he looked away from the brass contraption, closing it and placing it back into his breast pocket. He took a deep and aggravated breath. "She's taking too long..." But without a moment's notice, Lovett was already in the front pampered and ready to go to the majesty's ball. Scyle looked at her with a rather monotone face, opening the door for her. "After you," he said with a smirk. Lovett smiled and walked through the opening, Scyle letting the door swing closed as she stepped away.
As the two walked through the cobbled and busy streets of London, Scyle looked about at the inhabitants. Dirty, disease ridden, unruly, untidy. All of these words plus more came to Scyle's mind, a look of utter disgust smearing across his face as he looked about and thought. Ms. Lovett was quite the opposite though; she looked about with cheer and joy. She never particularly cared for London, but she was spending the evening with the one she was infatuated with, the one that didn't care about her whatsoever. After a small walk down the poorly structured way, Scyle and Lovett stopped at an old raggedy stand, one filled with trinquets of beautiful lusters, of different shapes and sizes. Scyle snarled his lip as he looked at the goods, turning his gaze to the vendor afterward.
"Hmph," was all he had to say, but Lovett had so much to say. Her eyes were filled with the beauty of it all, her face covered with a large and as Scyle thought, grotesque smile. She was the diamonds, the rubies, the emeralds. Her hands clasped together as she thought of what she wanted to buy. Due to the recent success of her shop, she could afford nearly every one of these small knick knacks but she abstained from splurging. She looked to Scyle, face radiating with happiness. Scyle returned the face with a half hearted smirk, and an even grimmer mind set.
"They're all so beautiful," she said as her eyes brushed every item that lay there.
"Can I 'elp you ma'dam?" The old woman asked her voice grainier than the finest sand and an accent thicker than the best molasses. The old woman was covered with dirt, filth, grit, and grime. Her clothes were perfect for her disposition, ragged, ugly, and completely void of life. Lovett once again turned to Scyle, her face filled with everything positive, his filled with everything negative. She turned back and focused on one piece that truly caught her eye. It was a silver brooch that held a beautiful ruby in the middle of it. She picked it up and studied it further, finding everything she found to her liking.
"This!" She exclaimed. "I'll take this." Her voice was lighter than usual and filled to the brim with joy. "How much?" She asked getting out her coin purse. The old woman saw that Lovett had quite a bit of money so she attempted to sneak in a little deviousness.
"Tha'll be fifty schillings." She smirked with poison laced lips as she spoke. Lovett looked at her like the woman just asked her to bed, withdrawing her purse into her bosom.
"Absolutely not! It will be twenty schillings or you can go home starving." The old woman lowered her head at the statement, a physical yet un-spoken sign of defeat.
"Alright, twen'y ih is." Her voice still grainy and gnarled, but filled with sorrow. Lovett smiled and handed the woman 20 schillings, throwing in 5 pence.
"There, I'll give you a little something extra for having such beautiful things," Lovett said as she took her newly purchased brooch. The old woman took the money and placed it in her pocket, smiling and nodding.
"Thank you, thank you," the old woman radiated minorly with joy. Ms. Lovett turned to Scyle, Scyle taking a face of surprise and nervousness.
"Here," she said as she held out the brooch. "For you." She spoke with a face most innocent and alluring, well to a normal person. Scyle took the piece and smiled slightly, his mind completely opposite of what the smile told.
"Thank you," he said as he placed the brooch in his right pant pocket, his head nodding slightly. Ms. Lovett ruined not the mood with words so all she did was smile and nod, taking Scyle's arm as they walked away. Scyle's mind ran rapid with angered thoughts, but he just looked on as though he were sulking. Lovett didn't pay attention at all to it, she just went about merrily and gay as they made their way back to the shop.
“Tonight is the night, tonight is the night Turpin’s head is mine.” Scyle sat within the darkness of his shop, twirling one of his beloved razors within his hand. He sat low within his barber chair, contemplating the demise of the sole being that caused him more grief than he could ever imagine, his mind filled with red and death, bringing a most devilish smile upon his pale face. He stood and looked into the mirror, viewing upon the demon he had become. He continued to smile as a thought sprang into his head, watching his magnificently silver blade.
“The Demon Barber of Fleet Street,” he said with a demonic chuckle, almost like he was singing it to his blade, as though he were the devil’s very own bard. He walked over and placed the blade within the box, setting it with its brethren, within the embrace of the soft plush lining, to gain rest for tonight would be an eventful night. Slowly and calmly, he made his way for the door. His footsteps fell silent against the oak floor, making short but fluent strides, nothing rushed but all graceful. He approached the door and clutched the archaic handle and pulled the door open, sweeping outside and closing it all in one fell swoop.
Breathing in the disgusting air that plagued the space of the general portion of the urban London, he walked down the steps and passed into Lovett’s shop. From his breast pocket, he pulled his watch and observed the time. (8:23, she should still be asleep.) He stopped and looked at the back door that lead to her housing complex, a toothy grin upon his face and devious intentions upon his mind. If he were to truly be ready to take Turpin’s neck into his razor, then he must first rid himself of one nuisance.
Without the creak of a floorboard or the squeak of an improperly lubricated door, he slipped into Lovett’s personal quarters, finding her lying sweetly upon her bed. The thought of her at peace made him want to gag; it truly sickened every fiber of his being. He knew of her intentions, she looked to steal his heart away although his heart only belonged to one and only one. She was an insect in his life and now that time has come for the pest to be exterminated. He moved to the side of her bed swiftly, but pausing a one time due to a twitch from her unconscious body. He grabbed a nearby poker from the side of the fireplace, choosing this to be the demise of the wench rather than his mythical silver blades. Why did he choose such a remedial device over his beloved? She was unworthy and he wanted not her tainted blood upon his blade.
He neared her, the demise of the woman clutched within his right hand, slowly raising and preparing to take the life of the bitch where she slept. However the move awoke the victim, Lovett now staring right into Scyle’s pure white eyes. She opened her mouth to scream but Scyle drove the poker into her throat, cutting off any form of vocalization she may have once possessed. He watched as she squirmed in pain, fear, panic; a look of shear terror written upon her face. It brought great joy to Scyle, even seeing her eyes as they projected an emotion of “why.” He tossed the poker to the ground as she rolled from the bed, dragging the covers with her. He watched her delicate life force drain through the puncture in her neck, all emotion fading from his face. He held a very scornful demeanor now and he made sure she saw it. He knew she realized his reasoning when the terror turned to horror, the realization that she was nothing to him but merely someone along for the ride. He walked out as she bled out, her life truly leaving her only a mere moment after his departure.
With one deed done, Scyle closed the door to her housing and walked back into his shop. He again pulled out his brass pocket watch and looked at the time, realizing his appointment with Turpin was only mere minutes away. He opened the box that held his blade and took one of his darlings into his hand, its shine merely silver within the light. He drifted off into a state of thought as he awaited the man that caused him more grief in a single 10 years than anyone could suffer for a millennium. He thought of the precious rubies dripping from Turpin’s neck, the fulfillment that would follow. He snapped back to with a knock upon his humble door, a smile creeping across his face. Heart pounding, palms shaking, he took a deep breath and opened the door and low and behold, a rugged Turpin stood upon the frame of the oak awaiting his cut and shave.
(Oh I’ll give him a cut,) Scyle thought within his mind as he motioned Turpin into the dark fixture. “Good morning Mr. Turpin,” he said to the tall man as he closed the door behind him, ultimately sealing the bastard’s fate.
“Good morning Mr. Todd, how are things going for you upon this beautiful day?” Turpin answered within his deep and hollow voice.
“Quite well I thank you, finally accomplished some dealings I had nagging me for quite some time.” Scyle said as he motioned for Turpin to sit upon his throne of death. Turpin hung his coat and hat upon Scyle’s rack and sat within the barber’s chair, Scyle wrapping the covering over Turpin’s body and around his neck. Tying the not smoothly and quickly, tugging on it and letting go before there was too much resistance. Hands shaking, palms sweating, Scyle’s voice upon the brink of quivering; he clasped the blade within his hand as he proceeded upon acting “normal.”
“So what shall we start with Mr. Turpin, your shave or your cut?” He asked into the mirror, his view upon Turpin’s reflection. He held a wicked smirk upon his lips as he listened to Turpin retort.
“I feel it would be most appropriate if we start with the shave,” Turpin responded somewhat agitatedly.
With a smile Scyle began the lather of doom, the concoction frothing marvelously. He took the brush and like the fabled Michelangelo, swiped it across Turpin’s stubbled face with masterful and smooth strokes, soon covering his face within the entire lather. He set the cup upon the barber work place and opened his blade. Turpin closed his eyes and relaxed as his death drew near, inching ever closer as Scyle brought the blade to his neck. With the cold silver now upon Turpin’s jugular, he pressed it into the skin and began to enact his final play. However, the fates had other ideas for such an occasion. Almost as the skin began to puncture, a loud banging came about his door. Eyes wide with fury, he left Turpin and answered his door. Behind the oak stood 3 police officers, all there to arrest the infamous Demon Barber of Fleet Street.
“Sweeney Todd we are here to arrest you on the account of countless murders of innocent folks within this immediate area of our beloved London,” one said.
“You are a sick bastard and must be condemned immediately,” another added.
Scyle immediately slammed the door as the grabbed for him, a look of panic flooding his face. By this time Turpin was already up from the chair and on his way of escaping Scyle’s grasp. (No, I’ve come too fucking far goddammit!) He exclaimed to himself mentally.
“NO! YOU’RE DYING NOW!” He screamed at Turpin with the intent of a most gruesome murder within his mind. “YOU’VE DAMNED ME AND NOW IT’S YOUR TIME TO SUFFER!” Scyle charged Turpin and without hesitation placed a deep and fatal laceration across Turpin’s throat. Turpin now flooded with fear himself and Scyle standing over his bent figure with a smile more evil than that of Satan upon his face. Scyle took Turpin’s head within his hand and made him look upon his face.
“Do you know who the fuck I am? DO YOU!?” He met the exclaimed question with a fierce back handed fist across Turpin’s face, picking him back up and looking into his eyes, relishing in the fear of Turpin. “You remember this face; think you worthless piece of pig shit. THINK!” And with the words, Turpin’s mind went to work piecing the facial structure of the man. It only met one and only one, a look of shear terror combined with the worst horror mixed upon Turpin’s face as he realized just who Sweeney Todd was. Scyle laughed demonically for he knew he was recognized now.
“Yes, that’s right. Tis Scyle, the man you damned all that time ago. I’ve come back for you and now your blood is upon my hands. I hope you rot in hell for the horror that you truly are.” And with no more words, he tossed the bleeding Turpin onto the floor and kicked him in the gut. Scyle stared upon the blood of Turpin upon his hands, having not realized the cops banging and finally knocking the door from its hinges. They attempted to arrest him but Scyle flew out the window before they could come within arm’s distance. Scyle took off down the street and disappeared instantly, leaving the cops to tend for Turpin.
A few days later a procession was held for Turpin’s death, his family members, friends, and other loved ones attending. In the back, sat a small man clad within a black attire, face shrouded by the brim of a top hat. He watched with vigor as the funeral took place, an unnerving smile upon his face the entire time. He watched as the dead were wept over, he watched as he was set into the ground and buried, and watched the end of the end. He stood and clapped as all left, everyone’s eyeing him as though he were a madman. Truth be told, he indeed was and thus was the end of his madness. He raised the brim of his top hat and brought his face into view. One of the cops that was in the arresting party looked upon the man as he exited, a look of fear replacing his once curious expression. He realized just who the man was and before he could call out, the man snapped his fingers and was gone into thin air; a lone black feather taking its place within the man’s now gone presence.
Such was all anyone of London ever saw of Scyle ever again. He lived infamously within England’s history as the killer most bold, even surpassing that of Jack himself. He was fabled and never forgotten. They gave him a name most appropriate and most ironic.
Scyle aka Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
"Why yes I am young sir. Are you the fabled barber of fleet street?" His voice gruff and heavily garbled by his own accent.
His lips then arched widely. "Why yes I am sir. A pence and you can have your hair cut with the mastery of my blade." Scyle stepped to the side and allowed the man to walk in. Jimson set his hat and coat on the coat rack provided on the wall of the small barber shop. Scyle ushered the man into the seat, Jimson promptly taking the invitation. Looking at the man through the mirror, Scyle asked "And how would you like to be butchered?"
Jimson laughed and waved his hand. "Just a simple shortening is all I need."
Scyle smiled and unfolded the blade that he held delicately in his hand. "A simple shortening eh?" His voice was cold but still carried that usual essence. With a swift motion, he ran the blade across the man's neck, the blood pouring from the wound like a fountain of death. No smile was present on Scyle's face anymore, only the sweet twinge of joy he got from another murder. The man gasped for air, but for nothing. His life was draining through his neck and after a brief moment, there was no life at all. "Hmph," he said and pushed the button on the floor. A small area opened in the floor and the chair tilted back, sending the body down the chute. With a skull shattering smack, the cold lifeless body hit the ground, brains and other fleshy items splattering all over the furnace room. Scyle hit the button and the room resumed the same innocent yet dark charm that it retained. There was no evidence of the crime, except maybe a few blood droplets that landed on the floor, Scyle wiping these up with a white handkerchief that were stashed in his breast pocket, stuffing it back in the pocket upon completion.
"Another day, another death." His once gleeful eyes staring out into the hell hole that was London, a truly ugly sight to behold. "There's no place like London." His voice cold, accented, unforgiving. Scyle, aka Sweeney Todd. The Demon Barber of Fleet Street.
He stood in the window, his cold, white, blank eyes staring out into the gray world of London. He hated London with a passion that only compared to his love for his wife. Everything about it was ugly, especially those that inhabit it. One face came up particular. The bastard that damned his life, the one that caused his torment. "Turpin..." A name so vile, so disgusting. Thinking of anything close to him makes his blood boil.
"Alms!? Alms? Alms for the poor?" The voice was weak, scratchy. There was nothing healthy about it, however if one were to examine closely, they would find a hint of beauty. Too bad Scyle never paid much attention to it.
Scyle looked down to the source of the voice, the lowly beggar on the street. She chose Fleet Street as her target. She annoyed him, so worthless. A meaningless existence in the world. He batted away the thoughts with a wave of his hand. Such matters were trivial, he cared not truly. His chin rested in his right hand, his left arm crossed across his torso, holding his vertical right arm. His thinking was abruptly interrupted with a knock on his door. As he turned, he saw Mrs. Lovett peak through the small opening.
"Mr. Todd?" She asked, her voice carrying a somewhat delicate accent.
"Yes?" Scyle answered blankly.
Lovett walked in with a silver plate that was adorned with food and tea. Scyle didn't eat the meat pies for he knew what they were and eating humans just wasn't how he operated. Instead, on the plate were roast beef and a slice of bread. She set the tray on a stand and stood, looking about awkwardly. She smiled half heartedly, opening her mouth for a statement, nothing emitting. She cleared her throat and straightened her dress. "Is there anything you need Mr. Todd?"
Scyle looked to the woman, neither cold nor warm; he just looked to her, albeit his eyes did constantly carry darkness to them, enough to send cold chills down even the most stable person. "No that is all." His voice was hushed and distant. Lovett nodded and walked out the door, closing it behind her. Scyle stared at the tray, he wasn't hungry. He never was. Eating was a commodity to him; he didn't need to he chose to. He smirked and sat in his chair, his legs crossed and his chin in his right hand. His left hung limp of the left arm rest, the other propped up on the right arm rest. He stared at himself in the mirror, studying himself. He looked like a ghost now, his time spent in the hell hole Turpin sent him to have changed him. Upon departure, he was a warm and caring person. He had the love of his life and a child on the way. He had no reason to be sorrowful. Then Turpin came along and mucked his life. He was a ghost of his former self, his eyes cold and ruthless. His face was as pale as snow, a certain element of death lingered about it. Now, he had no reason to be happy. He flicked one of his beloved barber blades in and out, his heart racing.
"You will die."
Once again Scyle was knocked from his thoughts with the abrupt knock of his door. He sighed in frustration as the constant interrupting began to annoy him. He passed across the wooden floor of the shop, his answer predetermined. He opened the door along with his mouth, the words reaching up to his tongue. But he held it back. Why? What honored visitor graced his door? A smile grew wide on Scyle face.
"Mr. Beadle Bamford, correct?" His voice was low, dark, and sinister.
"Why yes I am. Are you Sweeney Todd, the famous barber of Fleet Street?" Beadle was Turpin's right hand man and a main component in the exile and hell that Scyle had been put through. His very appearance was grotesque, almost like a rat in human form. His voice did well to show this as well, the nasally and overall bastardish tone he carried escaping through his buck teeth.
"Indeed I am good sir. May I inquire as to why you are here?" Scyle couldn't care of the answer. He had one thing on his mind and one thing only. (You shall drip precious rubies,) he thought allowing the smile to widen.
Bamford cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I am here for one of your prestigious cuts my good man."
"One of me cuts you ask? Please, be my guest." He opened the door a great way and allowed the pear shape man to enter.
"Your shop is a bit dreary, don't you think Mr. Todd?"
"I suppose you could say that, but I aim for a more modest approach. I let my blades do the talking, not my shop." He ushered for Bamford to take his place on the chair. Beadle hung up hit hat and jacket, checking his pocket watch.
"I don't have much time, I simply want to have a quick shave and cut," Beadle said as he sat in the black leather chair, resting each arm on the arm rests. Scyle, with a devious smile, nodded and answered the man's request.
"A quick cut and a shave. I would be more than honored." A tone of dark sarcasm hid within his voice. He threw the barber's cape around Bamford, fastening it around his neck. He grabbed a cup and mixed a batch of cream, lathering and frothing it to an airy foamy substance. With the brush, he began to paint it onto Bamford's face, the bristles of the brush stroking Bamford's hideous face. After a brief moment, half of Beadle's face was covered in the foam. Scyle sat the cup on his counter and reached for one of his beloved blades. He opened his small box and gazed at his beauties. Without discrimination, he picked one up and closed the box. He opened the blade and stared at it for a second. Bamford look towards him curiously.
"You know, there was a barber that lived here a long time ago that had shears that looked almost identical to those." These words made Scyle's blood turn to ice and cause his skin to clam up. He batted it all away with a simple smile.
"Really now? Can't say blades like this aren't too uncommon. After all, silver is a magnificent color." He began to inch the sharp side of the instrument towards Bamford's foam covered face. He pressed the hard, cold steel to the foam and pushed in and down the face. All hair that ran into the blade was immediately cut, but due to Scyle's skill with the tool no harm were done to any of his clients. Well, not from a cut or a shave. Bamford closed his eyes and relaxed in the chair, Scyle looking towards him with lust in his eyes. He craved Bamford's blood, his neck open and begging to be cut. With another drag here and another there, Scyle began to grow impatient. He wiped the blade clean of the foam and drew it back. He readied his arm to slice open Bamford's neck, causing him to bleed out. However, this death would have to wait.
Beadle bolted up within the chair, somewhat startling Scyle. He withdrew the blade in an inconspicuous manner and looked towards Bamford with a smile. "Something wrong?" He asked.
"I hate to cut this short but I forgot there was one matter I must attend to and it needs to be done quickly." He took a towel from the stand and wiped the white foam from his face. "How much do I owe you Todd?"
"For you Mr. Bamford? No charge at all."
Bamford look at Scyle with a curious and dumbfounded face. "If you insist." He grabbed his hat and jacket and made for the door, Scyle kindly opening it for him. "Another time Todd."
Scyle smiled. "Another time Mr. Bamford." With the statement, Bamford walked out of the shop, Scyle closing the door after him. "You should have had him! He was right there in front of your blade!" He cursed himself mentally for Bamford wasn't too far. Scyle looked down to the shining silver blade, his eyes filled with anger and torment. He took a deep breath. "Soon my lovelies, soon." His voice was low, quiet, determined. He placed the blade back into the box with the others. He crossed his arms behind his back and walked to the window, the grey sky being lit, only slightly, by sunlight. "Soon my lovelies...soon.
Scyle stared out of the window that had manifested in his second story barber shop, his pure snow white eyes lost in the filth and unattractive world that was his "home," the monster that was London. The pure eyes that Scyle looked through were quite the conundrum, for his being was very dark and tormented. Scyle laughed at the thought and turned to walk out the door. He put on his black top hat and his thick black duster and walked from his shop, opening and closing the oak door as he left. As he closed the door, he turned and penetrated the steel lock with a golden key, turning and activating the mechanism causing the door to be sealed. He withdrew the key and walked down the blackened oak steps to the pie shop underneath him. He opened the glass door and looked inside to Ms. Lovett, the owner of the shop and his "friend."
"I'm going for a walk, care to join me?" Scyle asked in a low voice to the woman. Lovett's eyes lit up with joy as a large small arched across her face.
"Of course I would Mr. Todd! Give me just one moment!" The woman exclaimed as she disappeared into the back of the shop. Her voice was quite delicate and lovely, with a hint of an accent. This voice was nails on the chalk board for Scyle. He rolled his eyes as he waited, checking his pocket watch for the time.
"2: 34..." He mumbled as he looked away from the brass contraption, closing it and placing it back into his breast pocket. He took a deep and aggravated breath. "She's taking too long..." But without a moment's notice, Lovett was already in the front pampered and ready to go to the majesty's ball. Scyle looked at her with a rather monotone face, opening the door for her. "After you," he said with a smirk. Lovett smiled and walked through the opening, Scyle letting the door swing closed as she stepped away.
As the two walked through the cobbled and busy streets of London, Scyle looked about at the inhabitants. Dirty, disease ridden, unruly, untidy. All of these words plus more came to Scyle's mind, a look of utter disgust smearing across his face as he looked about and thought. Ms. Lovett was quite the opposite though; she looked about with cheer and joy. She never particularly cared for London, but she was spending the evening with the one she was infatuated with, the one that didn't care about her whatsoever. After a small walk down the poorly structured way, Scyle and Lovett stopped at an old raggedy stand, one filled with trinquets of beautiful lusters, of different shapes and sizes. Scyle snarled his lip as he looked at the goods, turning his gaze to the vendor afterward.
"Hmph," was all he had to say, but Lovett had so much to say. Her eyes were filled with the beauty of it all, her face covered with a large and as Scyle thought, grotesque smile. She was the diamonds, the rubies, the emeralds. Her hands clasped together as she thought of what she wanted to buy. Due to the recent success of her shop, she could afford nearly every one of these small knick knacks but she abstained from splurging. She looked to Scyle, face radiating with happiness. Scyle returned the face with a half hearted smirk, and an even grimmer mind set.
"They're all so beautiful," she said as her eyes brushed every item that lay there.
"Can I 'elp you ma'dam?" The old woman asked her voice grainier than the finest sand and an accent thicker than the best molasses. The old woman was covered with dirt, filth, grit, and grime. Her clothes were perfect for her disposition, ragged, ugly, and completely void of life. Lovett once again turned to Scyle, her face filled with everything positive, his filled with everything negative. She turned back and focused on one piece that truly caught her eye. It was a silver brooch that held a beautiful ruby in the middle of it. She picked it up and studied it further, finding everything she found to her liking.
"This!" She exclaimed. "I'll take this." Her voice was lighter than usual and filled to the brim with joy. "How much?" She asked getting out her coin purse. The old woman saw that Lovett had quite a bit of money so she attempted to sneak in a little deviousness.
"Tha'll be fifty schillings." She smirked with poison laced lips as she spoke. Lovett looked at her like the woman just asked her to bed, withdrawing her purse into her bosom.
"Absolutely not! It will be twenty schillings or you can go home starving." The old woman lowered her head at the statement, a physical yet un-spoken sign of defeat.
"Alright, twen'y ih is." Her voice still grainy and gnarled, but filled with sorrow. Lovett smiled and handed the woman 20 schillings, throwing in 5 pence.
"There, I'll give you a little something extra for having such beautiful things," Lovett said as she took her newly purchased brooch. The old woman took the money and placed it in her pocket, smiling and nodding.
"Thank you, thank you," the old woman radiated minorly with joy. Ms. Lovett turned to Scyle, Scyle taking a face of surprise and nervousness.
"Here," she said as she held out the brooch. "For you." She spoke with a face most innocent and alluring, well to a normal person. Scyle took the piece and smiled slightly, his mind completely opposite of what the smile told.
"Thank you," he said as he placed the brooch in his right pant pocket, his head nodding slightly. Ms. Lovett ruined not the mood with words so all she did was smile and nod, taking Scyle's arm as they walked away. Scyle's mind ran rapid with angered thoughts, but he just looked on as though he were sulking. Lovett didn't pay attention at all to it, she just went about merrily and gay as they made their way back to the shop.
“Tonight is the night, tonight is the night Turpin’s head is mine.” Scyle sat within the darkness of his shop, twirling one of his beloved razors within his hand. He sat low within his barber chair, contemplating the demise of the sole being that caused him more grief than he could ever imagine, his mind filled with red and death, bringing a most devilish smile upon his pale face. He stood and looked into the mirror, viewing upon the demon he had become. He continued to smile as a thought sprang into his head, watching his magnificently silver blade.
“The Demon Barber of Fleet Street,” he said with a demonic chuckle, almost like he was singing it to his blade, as though he were the devil’s very own bard. He walked over and placed the blade within the box, setting it with its brethren, within the embrace of the soft plush lining, to gain rest for tonight would be an eventful night. Slowly and calmly, he made his way for the door. His footsteps fell silent against the oak floor, making short but fluent strides, nothing rushed but all graceful. He approached the door and clutched the archaic handle and pulled the door open, sweeping outside and closing it all in one fell swoop.
Breathing in the disgusting air that plagued the space of the general portion of the urban London, he walked down the steps and passed into Lovett’s shop. From his breast pocket, he pulled his watch and observed the time. (8:23, she should still be asleep.) He stopped and looked at the back door that lead to her housing complex, a toothy grin upon his face and devious intentions upon his mind. If he were to truly be ready to take Turpin’s neck into his razor, then he must first rid himself of one nuisance.
Without the creak of a floorboard or the squeak of an improperly lubricated door, he slipped into Lovett’s personal quarters, finding her lying sweetly upon her bed. The thought of her at peace made him want to gag; it truly sickened every fiber of his being. He knew of her intentions, she looked to steal his heart away although his heart only belonged to one and only one. She was an insect in his life and now that time has come for the pest to be exterminated. He moved to the side of her bed swiftly, but pausing a one time due to a twitch from her unconscious body. He grabbed a nearby poker from the side of the fireplace, choosing this to be the demise of the wench rather than his mythical silver blades. Why did he choose such a remedial device over his beloved? She was unworthy and he wanted not her tainted blood upon his blade.
He neared her, the demise of the woman clutched within his right hand, slowly raising and preparing to take the life of the bitch where she slept. However the move awoke the victim, Lovett now staring right into Scyle’s pure white eyes. She opened her mouth to scream but Scyle drove the poker into her throat, cutting off any form of vocalization she may have once possessed. He watched as she squirmed in pain, fear, panic; a look of shear terror written upon her face. It brought great joy to Scyle, even seeing her eyes as they projected an emotion of “why.” He tossed the poker to the ground as she rolled from the bed, dragging the covers with her. He watched her delicate life force drain through the puncture in her neck, all emotion fading from his face. He held a very scornful demeanor now and he made sure she saw it. He knew she realized his reasoning when the terror turned to horror, the realization that she was nothing to him but merely someone along for the ride. He walked out as she bled out, her life truly leaving her only a mere moment after his departure.
With one deed done, Scyle closed the door to her housing and walked back into his shop. He again pulled out his brass pocket watch and looked at the time, realizing his appointment with Turpin was only mere minutes away. He opened the box that held his blade and took one of his darlings into his hand, its shine merely silver within the light. He drifted off into a state of thought as he awaited the man that caused him more grief in a single 10 years than anyone could suffer for a millennium. He thought of the precious rubies dripping from Turpin’s neck, the fulfillment that would follow. He snapped back to with a knock upon his humble door, a smile creeping across his face. Heart pounding, palms shaking, he took a deep breath and opened the door and low and behold, a rugged Turpin stood upon the frame of the oak awaiting his cut and shave.
(Oh I’ll give him a cut,) Scyle thought within his mind as he motioned Turpin into the dark fixture. “Good morning Mr. Turpin,” he said to the tall man as he closed the door behind him, ultimately sealing the bastard’s fate.
“Good morning Mr. Todd, how are things going for you upon this beautiful day?” Turpin answered within his deep and hollow voice.
“Quite well I thank you, finally accomplished some dealings I had nagging me for quite some time.” Scyle said as he motioned for Turpin to sit upon his throne of death. Turpin hung his coat and hat upon Scyle’s rack and sat within the barber’s chair, Scyle wrapping the covering over Turpin’s body and around his neck. Tying the not smoothly and quickly, tugging on it and letting go before there was too much resistance. Hands shaking, palms sweating, Scyle’s voice upon the brink of quivering; he clasped the blade within his hand as he proceeded upon acting “normal.”
“So what shall we start with Mr. Turpin, your shave or your cut?” He asked into the mirror, his view upon Turpin’s reflection. He held a wicked smirk upon his lips as he listened to Turpin retort.
“I feel it would be most appropriate if we start with the shave,” Turpin responded somewhat agitatedly.
With a smile Scyle began the lather of doom, the concoction frothing marvelously. He took the brush and like the fabled Michelangelo, swiped it across Turpin’s stubbled face with masterful and smooth strokes, soon covering his face within the entire lather. He set the cup upon the barber work place and opened his blade. Turpin closed his eyes and relaxed as his death drew near, inching ever closer as Scyle brought the blade to his neck. With the cold silver now upon Turpin’s jugular, he pressed it into the skin and began to enact his final play. However, the fates had other ideas for such an occasion. Almost as the skin began to puncture, a loud banging came about his door. Eyes wide with fury, he left Turpin and answered his door. Behind the oak stood 3 police officers, all there to arrest the infamous Demon Barber of Fleet Street.
“Sweeney Todd we are here to arrest you on the account of countless murders of innocent folks within this immediate area of our beloved London,” one said.
“You are a sick bastard and must be condemned immediately,” another added.
Scyle immediately slammed the door as the grabbed for him, a look of panic flooding his face. By this time Turpin was already up from the chair and on his way of escaping Scyle’s grasp. (No, I’ve come too fucking far goddammit!) He exclaimed to himself mentally.
“NO! YOU’RE DYING NOW!” He screamed at Turpin with the intent of a most gruesome murder within his mind. “YOU’VE DAMNED ME AND NOW IT’S YOUR TIME TO SUFFER!” Scyle charged Turpin and without hesitation placed a deep and fatal laceration across Turpin’s throat. Turpin now flooded with fear himself and Scyle standing over his bent figure with a smile more evil than that of Satan upon his face. Scyle took Turpin’s head within his hand and made him look upon his face.
“Do you know who the fuck I am? DO YOU!?” He met the exclaimed question with a fierce back handed fist across Turpin’s face, picking him back up and looking into his eyes, relishing in the fear of Turpin. “You remember this face; think you worthless piece of pig shit. THINK!” And with the words, Turpin’s mind went to work piecing the facial structure of the man. It only met one and only one, a look of shear terror combined with the worst horror mixed upon Turpin’s face as he realized just who Sweeney Todd was. Scyle laughed demonically for he knew he was recognized now.
“Yes, that’s right. Tis Scyle, the man you damned all that time ago. I’ve come back for you and now your blood is upon my hands. I hope you rot in hell for the horror that you truly are.” And with no more words, he tossed the bleeding Turpin onto the floor and kicked him in the gut. Scyle stared upon the blood of Turpin upon his hands, having not realized the cops banging and finally knocking the door from its hinges. They attempted to arrest him but Scyle flew out the window before they could come within arm’s distance. Scyle took off down the street and disappeared instantly, leaving the cops to tend for Turpin.
A few days later a procession was held for Turpin’s death, his family members, friends, and other loved ones attending. In the back, sat a small man clad within a black attire, face shrouded by the brim of a top hat. He watched with vigor as the funeral took place, an unnerving smile upon his face the entire time. He watched as the dead were wept over, he watched as he was set into the ground and buried, and watched the end of the end. He stood and clapped as all left, everyone’s eyeing him as though he were a madman. Truth be told, he indeed was and thus was the end of his madness. He raised the brim of his top hat and brought his face into view. One of the cops that was in the arresting party looked upon the man as he exited, a look of fear replacing his once curious expression. He realized just who the man was and before he could call out, the man snapped his fingers and was gone into thin air; a lone black feather taking its place within the man’s now gone presence.
Such was all anyone of London ever saw of Scyle ever again. He lived infamously within England’s history as the killer most bold, even surpassing that of Jack himself. He was fabled and never forgotten. They gave him a name most appropriate and most ironic.
Scyle aka Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street