Work Text:
A small while post-canon
Marshall swept his flashlight over the wall, revealing a stuffed jackalope head, some certificates from the Chamber of Commerce, a few photos of the mayor with local celebrities, and—
"That's weird."
He was aware he'd spoken aloud when Simon whispered back, "What's weird?" Then, when Marshall indicated with his flashlight, "Oh."
One of the the framed pictures above the mayor's desk—hanging between one of Chisel shaking hands with Elvis and one of him posing with a smiling blond woman and two equally blond children that Marshall might suspect were Chisel's family except that he'd never seen them anywhere around town in real life—was a portrait of the mayor's desk. Only the being sitting behind it was—
"That's not Mayor Chisel," Simon whispered, interrupting Marshall's train of thought again. He cocked his head and studied the portrait a bit longer. "Is it?"
"Good question." Dash's voice nearly made Marshall jump out of his skin.
He'd almost forgotten his grey-haired nemesis was even here. He glared, regretting letting Simon talk him into allowing Dash to tag along on their mission to sneak into city hall. Not even his superior breaking and entering skills made his presence worth it.
Still, the little weasel was right. It was a good question. The being sitting behind the desk in the portrait seemed to be wearing one of Mayor Chisel's not-quite-expertly tailored suits. What remained of its hair sort of resembled the mayor's slick 'do. But its flesh was green and rotting. Its mouth, instead of being curved upward into Chisel's usual smarmy smile was snarling, open to reveal rows of pointed rotting teeth. Its eye sockets were hollow, the left spilling over with maggots that writhed their way down its decaying cheek. Its hands ended, not in fingers, but in short, wiggly tentacles that the artist had rendered as leaving little trails of slime over the desk's mahogany surface.
"It's like someone made a perfect painting of Chisel's soul," Marshall whispered. "Like they wanted to capture on canvas the outward manifestation of all his inner weirdness and corruption."
"Yeah," Simon agreed. Then, "That's a lot of corruption."
"Hmm." Dash looked contemplative, which in Marshall's experience was never a good sign. "Wonder what would happen if we torched the sucker?" He reached into one of his many pockets, pulled out a lighter, and flicked it open, because Dash with a source of flame was just exactly what the investigation needed right now.
"Maybe it would rob him of his power," Simon suggested, as Marshall tried in vain to get Dash to put the lighter away. They were playing with enough fire as it was just being here. "Maybe it would hurt him. Maybe he'd die."
Marshall was about to agree that at least one of those seemed likely when he realized something here didn't make sense. He paused in the middle of another failed grab at Dash's hand. "Wait, Simon, think about it. If this thing has any power over Chisel, why is it hanging out here in the open like this? Why isn't it locked up and not where anybody who comes in here can see and destroy it? I think this might be a—"
But it was too late. Dash tore himself from Marshall's grip and before anybody could stop him, vaulted onto the Mayor's desk and ripped the portrait from the wall.
As the alarm klaxons sounded and as Marshall heard an all-too-familiar sleazy politician's laughter behind him, he resolved that if they made it out of this alive, he and Simon were never taking their un-trusted non-associate on any mission anywhere ever again.