Chapter Text
Anacrusis/ˌanəˈkro͞osəs/ (Noun)
One or more unstressed notes preceding the first downbeat of a musical phrase. Commonly referred to as a “Pick-up” note.
Music has never just been a song. It’s a concept. An indefinable idea that falls apart the moment you think about it too much. It’s a feeling. The suspense before the orchestra begins is akin to the moment when a train starts moving. The sound of a call and response between instruments rings like an argument that will never end. The rising roar of a standing ovation is felt in the moment someone finally wins in the losing game of life.
The sound of a man's horrified screams are like the final showstopping moments of a euphoric performance.
At least, they did to Dennis Collins, The Butcher, as he slit the man’s throat with a coil of piano wire, turning the man’s screams into pained gurgles, spraying blood onto himself, The Butcher, and the hard basement floor. The Butcher let the man drop to the floor and moved across the room to sit in a nearby chair to watch him crawl around, singing softly.
“Oh Peggy Gordon, you are my darling…”
The man foolishly continued to try and cry out for help. At this point, he should have known nobody was coming; he’s screamed plenty enough so far to figure that out. Besides, all that would come out of his screams is those wet, drowning gurgles as the man choked on his own blood. The Butcher simply watched him as he thrashed around, crawling his way around the room, clutching a hand over his open throat.
“...Come sit down upon my knee tell me the very reason…”
The fool’s latch on life lasted an impressive amount longer than the usual victim. He was too stubborn to let go. Yet eventually, on the now soaked floor, the man finally went still. His life left him at last as all the bleeding and pain took him to beyond.
“Why I am slighted by thee…”
Collins stopped singing after another moment, getting up and walking over to the man’s body. A puddle of blood had formed around the man, which made a gentle squish as the Butcher stepped through it and crouched over the man.
“You were a fighter,” The Butcher said quietly, looking over the body of his victim, “Strong, stubborn, but…lacking in intelligence.”
He gets up, putting the bloody piano coil in his hands into the pocket of his pants. He looks down at the body again. There were far more injuries than just the opening at his throat; this song had been going on for hours. Other bloodstains lingered around the room. The Butcher smiled to himself and then walked over to the stairs. This was a satisfying ending; the music in his head felt just a little bit quieter.
Lately, he’d started seeking out trouble more. The kills he got paid for weren’t quite as satisfying as it used to be. It felt better to take more victims, hear more beautiful music, even if it sometimes involved a little more risk and attention than killing as a mercenary.
The Butcher reached the top of the stairs. This house was small and simple. The dead man hadn’t been anyone of true note in society. Just somebody who had bumped into him on the street. A nervous and bumbling fellow, yet he had been stronger and more cautious than he initially seemed. The man had been quick to catch on when The Butcher started following him, he’d made it obvious, wanting to see the fear in the man’s eyes, to start the dance. However, the man had simply still gone home, likely hoping to get to a gun, but he wasn’t fast enough.
In the kitchen, The Butcher cleaned the blood off his hands at the sink. The blood mixed with the water and poured down the sink drain. He wondered how long it would take the cops to find the body of this man. He figured this was the type of victim that didn’t have many who cared about him, so it would probably be a good few days before anyone even realized that the man was gone at all. Collins smiled at the thought and turned off
That was when the telephone rang.
The Butcher glanced at the table where the phone sat, ringing away in a particularly harsh melody. He considered ignoring it..yet. He was curious. He knew he wouldn’t have to say anything, he just wanted to listen to the person on the other side, see who would call the man that seemed so lonely. Perhaps the voice he heard would be the next person who struck the chords of his transcendent song.
He stepped up to the phone, picked it up, and held the speaker to his ear, not saying anything, just listening.
There was a moment where it was nothing, before a voice rang out. An arrogant southern accent.
“Dennis Collins.”
The Butcher froze at the sound of his name. Interesting. He let out a slight huff of a laugh before speaking, “This is a nice little trick. Guess I wasn’t focused on my surroundings today.”
The man on the other end of the line chuckled, “I suppose it is, isn’t it? I take it you know why I’m calling so I’ll just tell you what you need to know…”
The call didn’t go on for long; the man’s name was Mr. Larson. The Butcher didn’t love the arrogance of him, but he had a really good offer. A simple request. Once he knew his mission, The Butcher began to put the phone down.
“Mr. Collins,” Larson said, “Is it true what they say about you? What they used to call you?”
“Certainly," Collins responded with a slight smile.
“Well then, ‘Butcher…’ There was a pause, the speaker crackling slightly, before the man spoke one final time. “Make it painful.” There was a tone as the line hung up.
The Butcher set the phone back down and began humming as he walked over to the door of the house. He’d been hearing a lot of Peggy Gordon lately. Collins opened the door and stepped out, the name of his new dance partner spinning in his mind. The Butcher didn’t care why this man must be killed, only the fact that he would be paid for it, and he got to make his death nice and slow. The orchestra was waiting; all Collins had to do was catch up to him.
Oscar Adams.
The Butcher started singing.
“Oh Peggy Gordon…”