(This arc is in honour of the one person that voted on my chapter poll. Stay strong dude or dudette.)
If you’d have seen Marjorie Wilkins as she walked back home from the gas station you probably wouldn’t have thought twice about her. In your defence she was quite honestly unremarkable in basically all aspects. She stood at a diminutive five feet and was looked over by most she came across. She had no supermodel body, just some leftover fat on her stomach and hips from an unflattering period back in n high school. Her hair was truly her only distinguishable feature, bright purple and styled into heavy bangs that hung over her wire-thin glasses. Even if you had noticed her you probably would’ve labelled her as either your run of the mill art student or an outed lesbian. Both may have been true but the former was now just a remnant of a dream that had long been forgotten—it had been years since Marjorie had wanted to create something to better the world and she no longer held any love for humanity in all its forms anymore.
Her shoes kicked up some dust on the old dirt trail as she stepped up to the rickety old door. She pushed it open with ease. No lock was required. The dilapidated shack was miles away from the rest of civilisation, a disused prospector’s home hidden away in the middle of a destitute desert. Cobwebs attached to the doorframe withered away in the fresh sunlight as she stepped inside. She coughed solemnly as she pulled on the frayed strands of the outdated light fixture, watching as the light crept through the dust-smothered room, illuminating the aged brown furniture placed by the walls and scaring away a few insects that had been slumbering in the dark crevices of the room. Her conditions provided little comfort in terms of feeling welcoming but it was the best she could do on a freelance art graduate’s salary. The seclusion was also perfect for practicing her little ‘experiments’ without the fear of exposure.
“Frederick!” she yelled. No response but the eerie whisper of the breeze blowing through the back window in the kitchen. Marjorie called out once more, a threatening purr laced underneath her stern tone. A few moments later and she heard the familiar clack of tall stilettos increase in volume as she heard their owner march towards her. With them came an attractive feminine form, long and slender but not preposterously tall with flaxen blonde hair wrapped into an elegant bun and eyes of glowing sapphire. Their lips were of a pinkish salmon, drawn tight across their face into a solemn line. A pair of minute golden hoops were looped through the lower lobe of their ear but judging by the discomfort shown when they unconsciously fiddled with them they had not worn them for their own convenience. All in all they were looking quite dapper, wearing an ornate navy-blue blazer with a pristine white bow-tie and pressed black slacks. Their dainty hands were tucked into stainless white gloves with one holding out a platter of finger food whilst the other was tucked deftly behind their back.
“You called for me, Madam?” the figure said. Though their voice was soft and succulent in its intonations, there was an overwhelmingly distinct hint of the Queen’s English that contrasted with the Americanised accent they spoke with. The figure held out the platter to Marjorie but the purple-haired girl adamantly refused. She batted the plate to the side and rubbed her temples in frustration.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Frederick?! I don’t want any of your stinking hors d’oeuvres! You know well enough that when I tried to eat that first batch you cooked for me, I got violently sick and threw up all over the place! Goddamn, it’s like you’re trying to poison me!”
Frederick’s lip quivered into a sly sneer for a millisecond before he resumed his monotonous expression. “Why would one suggest something so underhanded and deceitful,” he asked, “if one were rendered dead, whether through poisoning or some other inexplicable means, how would I be able to perform the duties of my eternity of servitude to you?”
Frederick’s stoic expression melted for a moment as he chuckled to himself. Ungrateful motherf*cker, Marjorie thought. It’d been a few years since Marjorie had met the Butler and enlisted him into her service. Frederick had been the loyal subject of one of Marjorie’s first ‘clients’, an opulent husband-wife duo that’d migrated over to the States for the sun, sand and the endless opportunities to launder money through the more lenient American banks. However, the money laundering scheme wound up soon after a tense period of the IRS sniffing around and the couple had no use for an ancient, yet loyal, servant with ailing health and a spotty mind. After she’d properly found a way for them to leave undetected, she’d taken Frederick into her own employ, making sure to gift him a new form to effectively perform his tasks in the future.
“Whatever,” Marjorie retorted, chucking her beaten windbreaker onto the moth bitten sofa and taking an ironed white coat that was clutched behind Frederick’s back. “I don’t really care if you choose to be sarcastic or not because sarcasm’s not really necessary at this moment. Is the Coven convening today?” Frederick spun round in his heels and went back the way he came from and strode his way into the desolate garage, still grimy like the rest of the interior but not cluttered, with Marjorie following close behind him. He turned the dial of the thermostat on the wall, cranking it first from 21, to 6, and finally to 17 before pressing the on button three times in quick succession. The sounds of pistons firing exploded in the room as the cracked paint of the wall broke in the centre and opened up, the chasm widening like a toddler stretching their mouth to swallow a gobstopper whole. Inside was an elevator, spotless and grey, with only one button on the side panel pointing downwards. Marjorie and Frederick stepped in together. A white glove pushed the button and zoom the pair were barrelling downwards.
“Yes they are, Madam,” Frederick replied though little could be heard over the incessant whir of the elevator as it descended rapidly. “In fact they’re waiting for you in the atrium as we speak.” The elevator stopped abruptly as it reached the ground floor. You would think that the sheer amount of G-force would’ve sent both master and butler lurching forwards but the intricate mechanisms of the elevator shaft prevented that. Instead both felt relatively unscathed as they stepped out of the metallic doors and into the immense cavern outside. It was much like Marjorie’s own Batcave with menacing stalactites jutting out of the roof, dark shadows cast across the rocks creating a generally somber atmosphere plus a high tech setup of monitors and control panels set up in the midst of everything. Not to mention the literal swathes of bats that scurried around the place from time to time (Marjorie has actually imported those in herself. What Batcave would be complete without them?)
Marjorie pulled her hair into a messy bun and straightened her clothes as her associates came into sight. She had to, these people were some of the most influential...
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
