Work Text:
You know the stakes are high
Two wrongs don't make a right
Seymour looked at the body before him—or rather, what remained of it. Orin Scrivello, D.D.S., a forty-something dentist who was once the darkness shrouding the streets of New York, now bleeding from every possible wound as Seymour's axe hacked away at his cold body. Every chop sent blood flying through the air, splattering on the damp pavement of the Skid Row alleyway. He scrunched his eyes shut everytime his axe went down.
And though it may not feel so good
Nobody ever said it would
He blinked, and all of a sudden, there was a loud crack, a chomp, a gun dropped to the ground as the plant laughed and the body of Mr. Mushnik sunk into its grand maw. Seymour's stomach dropped. The sight was so sickening—the sound of bones crunching accompanied by blood and drool pooling on the floor. The sickening laughter of the flytrap. Mr. Mushnik's clothes being spat out, half digested. It was all too much—Seymour felt bile rise into his throat—he heard a wretching sound—tears rolled down his face as comprehending the sight became too much—he closed his eyes as he began to hurl—
This bell won't chime again
This lightning won't strike twice...
And then Seymour was in the shop again, broad daylight burning itself into his eyes. He was surrounded by investors—and reporters and journalists and customers and—
"Mr. Krelborn? Mr. Krelborn!"
That's all they said.
"Krelborn!" The rest of their words hardly sounded real.
And then there's Audrey's lovely voice, snapping him out of his trance—or making it worse, he can't tell-
"The world's not black-and-white, it's gray..."