The Addams Mansion stood atop a hill on the outskirts of town, its silhouette irregular and decrepit.
The house looked like an ancient, sleeping beast, bathed in the constant rain. Water cascaded down its exterior gutters, carrying debris and rotten remains that fell onto the reddish clay soil surrounding the mansion, forming bloody streams that flowed down toward the driveway. Without a doubt, this was the center and heart of the country's oldest organized crime family.
And also the weirdest. Creepy and kooky.
In the last few hours, the storm had calmed down, with the lightning and thunder ceasing, but the rain was still falling heavily, driven by a furious wind that battered the windows, making the glass rattle and filling the rooms with a high-pitched whistling sound, like the hissing of an old dragon.
Inside his own room, a former guest suite he had adopted for himself in an attempt to expand the space of his old storage quarters, Thing T. Thing, known in some circles as Thing Addams, found such weather comforting.
Grey skies, incessant rain, and furious wind. It was a wonderful day for an Addams.
Thing was taking advantage of the pleasant day to pamper himself with a manicure session to satisfy his ever-present vanity. How on Earth an amputated hand animated by unnatural forces and with a mind of its own could give itself a manicure was a logistical nightmare that usually drove anyone who tried to think about it too much to madness.
But Thing managed, and with excellent results.
It was well known that it was damn hard to maintain hygiene with the blood, scratched skin, and scalp remnants of his... well, not victims. That sounded unprofessional.
Temporary associates, yes. That sounded better.
Thing T. Thing was one of the most effective assassins and enforcers in the Addams crime syndicate, specializing in infiltration and strangulation. It was dirty work, but in his opinion, it was necessary. And hey, it's not like his victims... sorry, his “temporary associates” were innocent angels either. Most of the people he had to send to the other side were thugs and hitmen from rival gangs, or the occasional maniac who threatened the delicate balance of the urban criminal microcosm.
As said, it was dirty work. But it was rewarding (literally and figuratively) and he always felt satisfied doing it. Now, if only he could smooth out the rough edges on his thumbnail a little better without dislocating another finger...
“It's more laborious work than many people want to admit, isn't it?” said an unfamiliar voice suddenly in the room.
Thing turned around on the cushion where he was resting on top of the old desk.
In front of him, in the center of the room, it was as if something or someone had cut through the air itself as if it were a piece of fabric. A human figure emerged from the cut, materializing out of nowhere, wrapped in a crimson hooded cloak and holding what appeared to be an exquisitely crafted silver pistol in one of its hands.
Once he had made his physical presence complete, the newcomer lowered his hood, revealing the face of a middle-aged man with a sharp nose and a stern expression, his eyes shining with the madness of lunacy and his head crowned with a mop of unkempt white hair that had seen better days.
“Looks like you're going to need a good exfoliating lotion,” continued the stranger, “Always best for maintaining the luster of a perfect hand, right?”
Thing made a slight movement that could well be the equivalent of a slight tilt of the head, before gesturing, “Friend, I have no idea who you are, and believe me when I tell you that you don't want to be in this house without permission.”
“Ah, I'm being rude. Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Harry Palmer. Yes, THE Harry Palmer!”
Thing stared at him.
“Buddy, I have no idea who you are,” gestured the living hand, “And seriously, the warning was…”
“I'd like to say this isn't personal, but I'd be lying!”
“...aaaand you don't understand a word I'm gesturing. Of course.”
“Look, my mission is clear, I have to kill Wednesday Addams...”
Thing went very still, “Excuse me?”
“But whenever I can, I try to pay a visit to my good friend... Thing! To you and all your variants, to make you pay for what you've done to me!” Palmer shouted, his voice shifting from its initial faux affability to one more appropriate for someone who should be in a straitjacket inside of a padded room.
“Oookay...” Thing muttered, still unsure what was going on, except that, according to the newcomer, young Wednesday seemed to have gained another homicidal fan?
“My Prime told me not to do it, that it's risky, a waste of time... but I know that he and my other selves have done it, the hypocrites.”
“Really? They've got some nerve.”
“Well, I'm not going to be outdone by them!”
“You bet!”
“I'm no less than anyone else,” Palmer said, his voice now taking on a oozing, acidic tone of rage. A trickle of saliva ran down his chin as he pointed the weapon at Thing and raised his other hand. “Look at it, observe it... look at these cuticles, these nails, the perfection of these phalanges...”
“Er... are you trying to seduce me? I'm more into feet, despite what it may seem...” Thing gestured.
“These were the most perfect hands in my world, in all worlds, until you ruined it.”
“Seriously, buddy, you need help. And for many reasons.”
Harry Palmer stretched out his arm, placing the silver pistol practically right in front of the living hand. “I want my perfect hands to be the last thing you see before you die.”
“Sigh... well, I warned you.”
At that moment, a sound behind Palmer caught his attention. It was like a purr, but unusually deep and cavernous. Palmer made the mistake of turning his head to try to locate the source of the sound, freezing when he saw the silhouette crossing the threshold of the open door.
And at that moment, Thing moved.
§§§
The rest of the journey to the mansion had been a strange mixture of inconsequential conversations and introspective silences. Well, the silences had mostly been Shark's thing.
The youngest of the original Wednesday Six couldn't deny that the questions raised by detectives Addams and Sinclair had merit and painted a worrying picture for the future. Shark wanted to believe that The Bright One was dead and gone, but as an Addams she had to remember that for some people death was only a pause, not an ending. Especially when it came to obsessive individuals with experience in the use of magic.
Once we resolve the situation here and our devices stabilize, we need to meet up with the others, she thought, We might even take a trip to that maniac's old Citadel to make sure her remains are still there.
Her reverie was broken when the car slammed on the brakes. Through the fogged-up window, she could see that they had arrived at the gates of the Addams Mansion. From the front passenger seat, Pugsley turned around to address the group.
“Well, Lurch and I will be leaving now; we have other matters to attend to in town,” he said, addressing Detective Addams specifically. “Mother and Father are at the house. Pubert has been sent to stay with Cousin Cackle and Aunt Singe. Uncle Fester and Cousin Itt have been informed and should arrive in the next few hours. And of course, there's also Thing.”
Detective Wednesday crossed her arms. “I don't need an army of bodyguards, Pug. I can take care of myself. And in any case, Sinclair can tear throats out with ease. And our guests seem capable of doing so as well.”
“Well, I'd rather not have to tear anyone's throat out,” said Eamon, “Although if there's no other choice...”
“Uh, I think she meant me?” said Detective Sinclair.
“I think she meant both of you,” said Parker, smiling, “What's the point of having two werewolves if you're not going to use them?”
“Let's just get out of the car,” said Shark, opening the door on her side and letting in the cold air and dampness from the rain, “It's not a good idea to stay out in the open.”
They got out of the car and watched it be driven away by Lurch, with Pugsley waving goodbye from the window, flashing sparks with a snap of his fingers. Wind and rain swirled around the group as they climbed the last few steps leading up to the front door.
“I know a day like this is ideal for the Addams, and I am one by marriage,” said Eamon, “But as a werewolf, I’ve never felt comfortable in the rain.”
“I know what you mean,” replied Detective Sinclair, “It’s the smell of wet dog that stays with you, you never get used to it.”
They didn't have to ring the bell or knock on the door. It opened with a loud squeak, revealing the warmth of the light from the fire inside and the silhouettes of Gomez and Morticia coming out to greet them. The Addams patriarch in particular ran to embrace his daughter effusively.
“My little rusty nail!” he exclaimed, bursting with paternal pride, “My police bastard!”
“Father?”
“Isn't that the appropriate term? I heard it from one of the boys, that all cops are bast...”
“That's a completely different social issue, Father,” replied Detective Wednesday, freeing herself from the embrace to offer a slight nod to Morticia. “Mother,” she greeted her softly.
“Daughter,” Morticia replied, a satisfied smile on her lips. She always enjoyed having her firstborn back in the nest, no matter how much Wednesday tried to fly away.
“Loba!” exclaimed Gomez, directing his effusive embrace this time to Detective Sinclair. “You have to come visit more often. Pubert's psychiatrist still suffers from panic attacks when he remembers the things the boy told him about after catching you two in the act!”
“Oh dear,” murmured Detective Sinclair, her pale skin reddening up to her ears.
“Do I dare ask what happened, or do I live happily in my ignorance?” asked Eamon.
“Intercourse during the full moon, poorly closed doors, and a nosy little brother,” replied Detective Addams, stepping ahead into the mansion.
The rest followed her to the main living room, with Gomez catching up with Detective Sinclair.
“Gomez, for the last time, you can't tell me about your criminal operations because then I have to report it to my superiors so they can stop them!”
“But the boys need a challenge! Smuggling at the port has become very routine, and I think a good old police raid would do them good.”
“Just ignore him, he'll eventually get tired of it,” Detective Addams muttered.
Meanwhile, Shark was trailing behind the rest of the party, still mulling over what her local counterpart had said.
“Tribulations, dear?” said a voice beside her, almost startling her. It was to be expected that this Morticia, even though she was a variant and not her real mother, would have noticed the cloud of worry that seemed to have formed over the young Addams and decided to intervene with genuine maternal concern.
“Just thinking about something your daughter mentioned that puts some details of this whole situation in a different perspective,” Shark replied, “A worrying perspective.”
“Oh, how wonderful.”
“Under other circumstances I would agree, but...” Shark said.
Morticia's gaze softened as she looked at this variation of her daughter. The look of delight on her face gave way to one of somber but kind affection, “The situation is truly dire, isn't it?”
“Yes, and not in a festive way,” Shark replied.
Before they could continue their conversation just after entering the living room, a loud “Absolutely not!” echoed through the chamber. Detective Addams stood with her arms crossed and a look of barely contained fury directed at her father. For his part, Gomez showed remarkable fortitude by not backing down or cowering before his daughter's withering glare, but his expression did seem somewhat troubled and alarmed.
“It was just a suggestion, mija!” replied the Addams patriarch. “There's no need to bite your poor old father's head off...”
“What's the problem?” Morticia interjected.
“As if you didn't know,” replied Detective Addams, “It's insulting that you would even suggest locking me up in the family bunker for protection!”
“I don't know, Weds,” said Detective Sinclair, “You can never be too careful, and we know that you are the main target.”
“And that's precisely why it's a bad idea,” said Shark, “Isolate her and keep her separate? No, we can't allow that.”
“These individuals... we don't know exactly what methods they use, but they are capable of tearing the very fabric of reality and space,” Parker explained, “Putting Wednesday in a sealed bunker would be like caging her and leaving her at the mercy of the killer, who could get in there and finish her off without us knowing.”
“As unnerving as it is for my limited patience, the best option is to make normal use of my time in the house,” said Detective Addams, “And to always have at least one or two people with me at all times. When Uncle Fester and Cousin Itt arrive, we can...”
An animalistic roar and a bloodcurdling scream escaped from a human throat echoed through the old walls of the house.
“What the hell...?” Eamon muttered.
“The upper floor!” exclaimed Gomez, running toward the entrance hall. The others followed him, arriving just in time to see a human figure wrapped in a red cloak stumbling across the upper floor platform leading to the double staircase. The stranger's face was pale and frozen in a grimace of horror. In one hand, he clutched what was left of the other arm: a bloody stump that was gushing blood like a fountain.
The man was trying to go down the stairs while repeatedly banging his head against the wall. Enid and Eamon were the first to see Thing grabbing the intruder by the hair and shaking his head violently, causing him to crash into the walls.
And behind them, a huge, ancient-looking lion followed, holding in its jaws a severed arm, in whose hand rested a metal pistol whose shape seemed to be becoming more maleable by the second.
The lion let out a quiet sound, not even a roar. Barely a growl. But it caused the intruder to scream again in panic, tripping over his own feet as Thing jumped from his head to the handrail, giving him one last push.
And so Harry Palmer fell forward, tumbling down the stairs like a mannequin with broken joints. His panicked scream was cut short when, on the penultimate step, a loud crack of bones signaled the breaking of his neck, leaving his dead and shattered body at the feet of the Addams family members present.
“My, that was an enlightening spectacle,” muttered Gomez, greeting Thing, “Thing, old man, I see you’ve been busy!”
Detectives Addams and Sinclair approached the body while Morticia delicately removed the severed arm from the lion’s jaws.
“No, Kitty, you know it’s not good for you to eat garbage food at your age.”
Detective Addams, kneeling at the foot of the corpse, turned to Shark, Eamon, and Parker, who had also come over to look at it. “Was this the killer?”
The trio exchanged glances, with Shark nodding instantly, “It had to be him... we don't know him personally, but from his clothes and that peculiar weapon... Yes, this has to be one of the Normalcy Nine.”
“So, it's solved, then?” asked Detective Sinclair hopefully, “I mean, the guy's dead and gone, and he didn't even get close to Wednesday.”
“Thing says he attacked him first,” said Gomez, the living hand now resting on his shoulder, “Our visitor mentioned something about killing my daughter, but apparently he had some kind of personal grudge against our favorite dismembered hand.”
“That's because he was an incompetent imbecile,” said a female voice, echoing from the void.
In a matter of seconds, with an unnatural sound that made everyone's teeth grind, the air was torn apart and right in front of Detective Addams, who was still kneeling, another figure appeared, this time female, also dressed in the same red clothes as the deceased intruder, with one hand holding a silver weapon similar to a taser pointed directly at the Addams' head.
“I, on the other hand, know how to do things the right way!” shouted the newly appeared Margaux Needler, “IN THE NAME OF NORMALCY!”
But before she could fire her weapon, Parker stepped in front of Detective Addams, acting as a human shield. Her presence paralyzed Margaux for a moment, the hooded woman's eyes widening in disbelief, marked by barely concealed pain.
“Parker...?” she whispered.
“Hi, Mom,” replied Parker Needler-Addams.
And that mere moment of hesitation, that momentary paralysis of Margaux upon seeing a variant of her daughter, was all it took for her head to be immediately struck by a shovel that appeared out of nowhere.
NOTES
Art in the mosaic by Karen Acobs (@thatwomanlovingpotatofromtwitter in Tumblr). The Addams Family Mafia AU this universe is set in is also her creation.
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