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**KABOOM!**
'Ah, what a wonderful day! The flowers are wilting, the rain is pouring, our little boy is playing with his dynamite caps. What more could we ask for?' Gomez said with a grin before sipping his coffee.
'Anarchy and an end to systemic oppression?' Morticia offered over her cup of hemlock tea.
'Oh, Tish, it's only Tuesday. We'll have to wait until at least Thursday so the office workers are properly enraged.'
The velvet box on the table opened, and Thing deposited the post.
'Thank you, Thing.' Gomez said, flicking through envelopes. Bills, noise complaints, a letter from the police department likely informing him once more that he was not to leave the province, let alone the country, until the case was settled. Nothing pressing.
Moving on to the paper, he settled back into his chair and gave a wide grin as the front page boldly announced something truly entertaining.
'Why, Morticia, you were right!'
'About what, Gomez?'
Accepting the newspaper, Morticia read for a few moments before taking a sip of her tea and letting out a pleased sigh. 'At long last, the oppressed masses have realised their strength in numbers and are rising up against the one percent! Oh, Gomez, do you think they'll storm the mansion?'
'I certainly hope so! I've got a new rapier I've been dying to try out!'
'And you may yet.' Morticia said sweetly. 'Just picture it, darling! Our home surrounded by the vengeful poor, who are bearing pitchforks and torches—'
'While traditional, I feel they may opt for more modern weaponry.'
'Of course. Armed with grenade launchers and flame-throwers, they break the door down and swarm in.'
'Who do you think would die first, Tish?' Gomez asked dreamily, already imagining blood splattered across the wallpaper.
'Lurch would bar the entrance hall and defend us to the very last, and Mama would likely brew some poisonous elixir to toss at the rioters before succumbing to the fumes herself. Then you, me, and Fester would be left. They would probably torture us for weeks in the dungeon.'
'Oh, he'd love that! He's been complaining for a few days now about a bone-deep itch on his back. Perhaps removing a few of his vertebrae would do the trick!'
'Then, after they'd gotten all the account information and hidden treasure locations, they'd lead us to the guillotine.'
'Tish!' Gomez cried, springing out of his chair to kiss her hand. 'That's French!'
'Oui, mon cher. We would be led to our deaths with smiles on our faces. I do hope our guillotines would be facing each other, so that my last view may be of you.'
'I can imagine no better way to die, other than at your own hands.' Gomez murmured, kissing his way up her arm.
'Come to think of it,' Morticia said, placing a finger upon his lips as he neared her shoulder, 'don't you have Bezos' measurements on file? From some tuxedo mix-up a few years back?'
'By Jove, you're right! And getting the rest will be easy enough with a few bribes! Do you think Musk will want an emerald encrusted guillotine?'
Morticia laughed. 'That might be poor taste. Why don't we make him a—what did Wednesday call it—a string of emerald apartheid anal beads to go fuck himself with.'
'Haha! Dinner and a show! What sort of sauces and wines pair well with billionaire flesh, do you think? It would certainly be delicious, after decades of being slow-roasted on beaches and given massage after massage. And think of all the fine brandies and scotch they've been marinating in!'
'Mama has a cookbook titled One Hundred and One Ways to Eat the Rich. I'm sure it has some good suggestions. Perhaps a nice hollandaise with a Sauvignon Blanc?'
'Morticia, please, spare me.' Gomez groaned. 'Between the fires of passion and the flames of the revolution my heart just may give out!'
'That would be such a pity, because we've not even discussed how we'd want to be served ourselves.'
'I'll get the cookbook!' Gomez exclaimed, dashing off to find his mother.
Morticia smiled to herself, and closed her eyes for a moment to imagine the clash of steel. Gomez would certainly demand a sporting chance to live and fight like a cornered lion across the house and back again. Though he might even let the rebels win just to be a good sport, if they gave him a proper duel.
'Vive la révolution!' she said, toasting the newspaper with her bone-china teacup.