Spoiler! :
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Mr. Floss was feeling happy. Euphoric would be the best word to describe his state of mind. He stepped lively on the browning grass, his polished black shoes making small thumps on impact. Mr. Floss wore his bowler hat at a jaunty angle and was currently whistling a tune somewhat resembling ”Spring” from Vivaldi's Four Seasons. His step seemed to bob up and down, but that was due to the slightly too short cane he insisted on carrying around. There is an actual reason for this peculiar mannerism, but that isn't relevant at the moment, so we'll get back to it another time.
The reason for his unnatural happiness was the feeling of the newly tailored tuxedo caressing his plump body. The only thing Mr. Floss liked more than work was tuxedos. This one was a metallic gray and he believed it accentuated the steeliness of his eyes. In reality, that wasn't the case, as there was nothing steely about Mr. Floss' eyes, but he didn't know that. He thought he cut quite a flattering figure with his considerable height of 5 feet and half an inch (and I wouldn't forget that half-inch, mind you). Mr. Floss chose to wear his eyes half-way in his skull, so that they seemed tiny and beady, but they of course weren't tiny nor beady at all, he would tell you with a conspiratol wink.
Mr. Floss made a very content sound in his throat as he reached the side-walk and the soles of his shoes clacked on the granite. He liked how everyone could hear him walking and how they would turn their heads to admire his gait. He would always be extremely gracious and tip his hat at everyone, wishing them a ”most excellent sun-turn”, which he found most witty. He would then flash them a beguiling smile of tombstone teeth and stroll on.
It was currently extremely late at night, so there was no-one to watch him walk. Mr. Floss shrugged it off as a neccesity; his working hours were better conducted in the cloak of night. For he was indeed currently in the state of working.
Mr. Floss accompanied the clear notes of ”Spring” with waves of his finger. Now, one might be confused as to why they were clear notes, if one looks back and sees them referred to as ”somewhat resembling” the actual tune before. The reason to this is a simple fact. This fact happens to be that it was actually Mr. Floss who composed the song, and he gave the idea to Vivaldi. Vivaldi changed a few notes here and there, but Mr. Floss would have none of that in his own whistlings.
As it was now the 21st century, it becomes quite clear to one how old Mr. Floss in truth is. Or so one would think. It is with great relish that Mr. Floss would confide to you that he was most probably planted long before your family tree. This too, he would find extremely witty and would then grin at your disbelieving stare. Mr. Floss loves his dramatics.
But yes, Mr. Floss was working at this very moment. Believe it or not, he was actually getting paid by the minute, which is why he took his time admiring the bushy trees and the blocky houses with their blocky windows. He very much enjoyed watching the progress of humans. He admired the little critters with their candle-lives and how much they could illuminate in that short span they called life. Mr. Floss flashed his white, white teeth in a humangous smile. Yes, he enjoyed doing business with them. They made him feel all giddy inside. Fuzzy, too, never forget fuzzy.
”Ah, here we are.”
Mr. Floss clicked his heels together as he turned to face the door of a gritty, one-storey motel. Howls of laughter and the clinks of glass on table leaked out from underneath the doorframe. Someone was playing an improvised tune on a piano; Mr. Floss speculated that the player had to be standing on his head and playing with his buttocks. The address bar on the door had at some point in time read 'Toadstool 3' and if he remembered correctly, which he always did, that was the address he was supposed to go knocking on. So, he proceeded to do just that; he knocked on the door, a rythmical ra-ta-ta-tat-tat. The merry sounds dimmed in a flash and Mr. Floss sighed – they always seemed to do that.
”Who's thaar?” The rough voice was none too pleasant and the buzz of alcohol rounded the edges of the words.
”Well, I am me. And me is I. But I can't be two things at once, so you may call me Mr. Nobody, please.” Mr. Floss chuckled.
A bloodshot eye looked through the peephole at Mr. Floss.
”You look like one o'dem cops, ya do. Are you one o'dem coppers?” the yellowish eye drawled drunkenly.
Mr. Floss gave him a dazzling smile ”I am by no means an agent of the law. One might even say I work above the law – or under it really. Depends on the perspective I guess.” He stroked his bald chin in thought. ” Depends on where you would expect the law to be in the first place. Hmm... Well, let's just say I move around the law like one would move around a worn pair of trousers. With a wide girth and a long stick to make sure it stays where it is. But do let me introduce myself. I shall stick with the name 'Mr. Nobody', as I've grown attached to it during these last few minutes. And who might you be, good sir?”
The eye regarded him critically for a few moments. Then the wielder of the eye gave out a great guaff of laughter. ”With words so pretty, ya can't be with the law. Yer looks speak of profitable business, so why are you pounding on m'door at this here hour?”
”It's a funny coincidence that you mention business, as I have been assigned a contract regarding this address – this is Toadstool 3, correct?” At the affirmative grunt, Mr. Floss continued. ”I've been hired by a person who sympathises with the rotten conditions of this household. He has told me to clean this shack up and clean it I will. Would you be as kind as to let me in so I may begin immediately?”
Silence loomed. Mr. Floss heard a whispered conversation. Well, he was in no real hurry. He picked up the tune of ”Spring” again and hummed it under his breath, rocking on his heels, while shifting his cane to his left hand. Heavy footsteps stomped on the old floor of the motel and the sound of a lock being unlocked snapped Mr. Floss out of his reverie. The old hinges groaned in protest as the door swung open.
In the doorway stood the biggest goblin Mr. Floss had ever seen. Its huge, yellow eyes regarded him warily as fists the size of tires stood at the ready. If you know nothing about goblins, you most probably missed the pun there. You see, goblins are built oddly. They have big arms and tiny feet, so they walk on their hands and use their feet as stubby equivalents of hands. Everything seems topsy-turvey with them. They come in a variety of colors, and Mr. Floss was quite sure it depended on the type of metal they ate. This one was a mix of indian red and dark purple, not very charming to the eye. The tip of the hollow horn on its head had broken away in some brawl, and the paralyzing venom in it was dripping out freely.
”Don't we look just lovely this fine evening. Please, feel no need to escort me in.”
Mr. Floss stepped past the burly creature that stood two heads taller than him and into the dimly lit entry hall.
”I really am enjoying the whole haunted mansion look you've going on in here, don't get me wrong. But I do believe it could use a little color. Don't you think so too? Oh, splendid. You've already gotten to the core of the problem. I do always appreciate a lad who takes the initiative. Ah, good old blood-red, one has to respect the classics.”
As Mr. Floss was happily rambling on, the goblin was busy staring down at his abdomen, dumbstruck. He was pretty sure that all the things spilling out of it were supposed to stay on the inside, but there they were, snaking out of his stomach and splattering onto the dusty planks. He looked up at the stubby little man and realized he had collapsed onto the floor. The little thing was pattering on about the best contrasts with the color red and was coming to the conclusion that black was just fine, while wiping blood off a cane-sword. Tommy, the notorious goblin leader, poked his spilled guts for the last time and left this world behind.
The pyre was blazing wildly. The flames jumped and leaped and twirled in a dance of ecstacy, a dance of graceful courtship. They peeked into the shiny metal just at it snapped away from sight, once more concealed in the polymer cane. Mr. Floss shifted his weight luxuriously onto the cane and breathed in the fresh night air. The fire crackled and spat behind him, warming his back oh-so-lovingly. All good things have to come to an end though, so even the roaring fire calmed down to a shiver and Mr. Floss was forced to continue on his way. A fat paycheck was awaiting him at the rendezvous point and he knew just what he'd get with it. Mr. Floss smiled in a very glee manner; who said a hired killer had no feelings? His shoes clacked on the sidewalk as he strolled away from the bones of Toadstool 3.
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