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Jun 29, 2007 15:29



When Seymour opens the door to the shop, the bell rings and something clatters to the ground near his feet. He yelps and jumps back. When his heart stops going a mile a minute he slowly steps back in and turns on the light.

The broom is nearby. Mushnik must’ve leaned it up against the door to remind him to finish sweeping up. It seems a lifetime ago.

Twoie turns towards him. Seymour’s grateful for the fact that Mushnik pulls the blinds down at night so as not to tempt burglars with the sight of a famous plant.

“No,” he tells the plant as he heads for the basement stairs. He has to tell Mushnik (doesn’t he?). Or maybe he’ll call the cops (not that he knows what he’ll tell them because he has no idea where the dentist went).

“Feed me.”

Seymour stops at the top of the stairs. Slowly, he turns around.

“Beg pardon?”

Twoie is looking at him. “Feed me,” it rumbles, its voice inhumanly deep. Its pod opens, the edges moving like lips - the inside of the pod has thorns…teeth. When did it get teeth?

“I’m drunk.” He’s not sure whether he’s reminding himself of the situation or explaining to Twoie why he can’t feed it.

“And I’m starvin’,” it whines, beating a vine against the floor.

“I…I just fed you last night,” Seymour says. He wants his bed like never before. He takes a longing step towards the stairs. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Oh, so because you’re a pussy, I’m gonna die. That how it is?”

The accusation of pussyhood stings a lot right now. He cleans his glasses. “Jesus Christ. How are you even doing this?”

“Just part of the package, baby.”

“Package? You were a package? Did someone send you from somewhere?”

“Metaphorical package, Einstein.”

Seymour fights past a surge of embarrassment. “I’ve-it’s just I’ve always been curious ‘bout where you came from.” And how you can move and talk.

The plant waves a vine. “You remember being born? We gonna play twenty questions or are we gonna bring on the blood?”

Seymour puts his glasses back on. “I can…um, uuuuummm…okay! Some ground round and a bit of mine. But that’s, that’s really all I can-”

“You ‘spect me to eat that shit? Boy, you got another thing coming!”

“Well, how’m I s’poseda keep on feeding you?” Seymour searches for the most outrageous example. “Kill people?”

The plant tilts its pod - its head - on its stem. “Why not? I’ll make it worth your while.”

“…What?”

“Done good so far, ain’t I? And I’ll only get bigger and better - and so will your success, pal. And the Benjamins - mmm-mmm! They will keep rolling in. Enough to get you anything your greasy little heart desires. The Lexus, the Beverley Hills mansion, parties with the stars, all the women you could shake your stick at.”

When Seymour doesn’t move, Twoie adds, “Why don’tcha think on that while you get me my snack.”

Seymour goes down and gets the snack, but doesn’t think about it. His mind has stalled. He stands at the foot of the stairs with a tray of meat in his hands, staring at Mushnik’s bed, wanting to say something.

Then he goes upstairs. He slips the meat into Twoie’s mouth; he slices his left hand again. Twoie sighs heavily when drops of blood spatter on his tongue.

The plant whines when he pulls his hand away.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, wrapping up the gauze.

“You could make this a lot easier on yourself,” the plant suggests.

“No,” Seymour hisses. “That is-I can’t-I’m not- I’m not that kind of person.”

“You gonna be a putz living in a shit hole all your life? That your idea of a meaningful existence? I’m the best thing that’s happened to you since the original Audrey and you know it.”

Seymour winces. Twoie perks up.

“Something happen clubbing tonight?” it guesses.

He wants to tell the story to someone - but telling it to a blood-thirsty plant strikes him as a bad idea. “N-no, nothing, not really….”

“Real convincing.”

“I met her boyfriend,” Seymour mutters, feeling a flush of shame at the memory. “Look, Twoie-”

“Didn’t go well,” the plant states.

“No,” Seymour admits. “And,” he speaks over the plant, “I’ll figure out some other way to feed you.”

“There ain’t any. Gotta be blood, gotta be fresh, gotta be human.”

“Oh, Christ,” Seymour murmurs, rubbing at his temples. “I’m going to bed.”

“Hey, you--!” But Seymour closes the basement door before the plant can finish.
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