Work Text:
Night Adventures
Larry furtively looked around, head darting here and there nervously as he skittered from shadow to shadow while he made his way along the fog-shrouded, gas lamp lit street. The stress of avoiding the several police patrols had left him shaking, slightly. He pulled his heavy wool cloak tighter around his ample frame and tried not to let his boots slip on the wet cobblestones. He clutched the parcel more securely under his arm and paused for just a second as he listened to a half-imagined sound, before he hustled across the road to his destination. The building was a timber and stone structure seemingly no different from the other three story buildings that lined not only that street, but almost every other street in the small seaport. The only real difference, the only one that Larry cared about anyway, was the man who lived in the basement. Entering the building, Larry cautiously moved through the brightly lit lobby. Even though the desk seemed empty and the room deserted, Larry still attempted to make his way to the back stairs as silently as he could. He was sweating profusely. When the old lady popped out from behind a curtain, he nearly had a heart attack.
“Herr Fiddlesticks,” once again mispronouncing his name, “what do you mean coming in at this time of night?” The frumpy old woman crossed her arms across her baggy blouse where she gripped the ends of her shawl, convulsively, defensively. Larry huffed and puffed, fighting to calm his racing heart and slow his wheezing breath. It took him three tries to respond.
“Frau Heddlebock, always a pleasure. I didn’t see you there, hiding behind that curtain…I had to run an errand on the far side of town and I got a late start…although, I don’t really need to explain myself to you. Besides, it’s not that late; the sun has only been down for less than an hour…Anyway, you have a goodnight.” She sniffed and turned away in distain at his foreign accent. Larry scurried across the room to the curtain concealing the stairs to the lower levels. Larry, having finally gotten himself under control, made his escape from the suspicious landlady. Old harpy, one of these days she really will give me a heart attack…
Quickly reaching the door at the bottom of the stairs, Larry fumbled with his keys while not dropping the precious parcel he still gripped under his arm. Finally, he got the door unlocked. Yanking it open, all but jumping through the opening, he slammed it and locked it behind him with a rapidity astounding for one of his bulk and sloth. Trying not to gasp for breath, Larry hung his cloak up on a hook on the vestibule wall and entered the basement proper. As always, he paused to briefly examine the place.
The brilliantly lit naked stone walls were obscured by rough wooden racks and shelves filled with multitudes of bubbling liquids percolating through strange glassware and bizarre electrical devices. The smell of ozone, exotic chemicals, and burning metal assaulted his nose. The whine of an oil-fired generator was faint, from its ventilated closet at the far end of the room. Taking the four brick steps quickly, Larry rounded a cabinet that held samples of pickled brains floating in fluid-filled glass jars, and was confronted with the weird display at the center of the room.
To his right was an upright cast iron frame. Shackled to it, wrist and ankles, was a large chested woman wearing only a corset and her high heeled button-up shoes. The peacock feather in her hair had nearly fallen out, but still precariously perched on top of her mound of red-brown hair. The leather gag only let her gurgle as she pleaded with Larry with her eyes. He considered. She looks cold…
Larry turned his attention to his left, at the enormous tilting table, with its shroud-draped burden and the cables and hoses dangling over it from the ceiling. The figure under the sheet was breathing; Larry could see the fabric flutter, oh-so-slightly. He shuddered and turned back to his searching. Stepping around the table, he at last found the object of his quest. The tall, lean man was hunched over a workbench, intent on whatever fresh bit of hell he was concocting. Larry gently cleared his throat, to get the man’s attention. When that didn’t work, Larry very softly called out the man’s name.
“Herr Doctor-Colonel Count Von Jagger…” The man rose and spun around, cutting off Larry’s voice. He glared at the sweaty fat man through his thick, round, frameless eyeglasses, the light glistening off his bald head. Larry, hands suddenly shaking, presented the tall man with the parcel.
“Your gingersnap cookies…”