(no subject)
The next night when Mushnik falls asleep, Seymour slinks up the stairs.
“Okay, so, the game’s two nights away,” he tells Twoie as he walks towards the plant. “I call him over tomorrow,” he feels the urge to start pacing, which is much harder than it used to be with all the vines over the floor, “and ask him to come. Mushnik’s gone by seven at the latest. Should be enough time. You can hold on ‘til then, right?”
The plant remains in its resting position, pod facing the ceiling. Seymour glances at it, confused. “Uh, Twoie? A little input?”
The plant remains upright.
“Twoie?” Seymour says, heart stopping. It can’t be dead, oh God no no no it can’t be dead
Click.
The lights go on - Seymour whirls behind him and sees Mushnik but it’s “Dad!” that he blurts out.
Seymour saw Mushnik’s face like that once before; when he was talking about closing the store, admitting that the family name meant nothing. There’s no need to ask how long he’s been standing there.
“Hi, dad,” Seymour repeats, fidgeting under Mushnik’s look. It’s not a glare, just a long look, like he’s something Mushnik’s never seen before and he’s trying to figure out what Seymour reminds him of.
“You- you know me…me and, and my plants,” Seymour mutters and jerks his shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just-we should get some sleep, huh?”
Mushnik moves towards the counter drawer and takes out the pistol. Seymour is too far away to stop him. “I’d hate to interrupt your plans for your little slumber party,” he mutters, and for once there’s no strength to his tone.
“Like the one you gave the dentist.” He holds the gun loosely in his hand, but it doesn’t take much to raise a gun and fire.
“No.” The word comes with more air than sound. “No.”
A muscle in Mushnik’s jaw twitches, like he’s in his boxing days, bracing himself for an oncoming fist. “Oh, really? A car that’s almost half a tank gone. Hawaiian Punch,” he snorts derisively, “on the wall. A girl you’d do anything for. A bloody tarp in a dumpster - yeah, you really shouldn’t try to dispose of stuff on Skid Row, they only clean up the garbage once a month. And you haven’t bought plant food for a week.”
Seymour still keeps shaking his head, but he’s stopped verbally denying it.
“I wondered where you stashed the body, and now I think I got an answer.” Mushnik swallows hard. Gruffly: “Get your clothes. We’re going to the police.”
Seymour breathes harshly. He’s stunned by how old Mushnik looks. Mushnik stays with him as he dresses - Mushnik pulls on a jacket and puts his shoes on. Seymour looks at his bookshelf, his normal plants, at the new TV and the new furniture. He’s never going to see it again.
Unless….
“Dad,” Seymour says as Mushnik marches him up the stairs, “you…you said it yourself. Good riddance. He was a bad guy. If anyone deserved…anything like that, it was him, it was that-that asshole--”
“There’s feeling angry and killing a man in cold blood!” Mushnik barks out, shoving him through the door. Seymour glances behind him, sees tears in his father’s eyes while his face is flushed with anger.
“There’s right and there’s wrong, boychik! I thought I taught you that. I did the best that I can and still…still this. Something inside of you….I couldn’t help you. Fuck, maybe it was my fault.” Mushnik shakes his head. They’re halfway through the store. Mushnik is closest to the plant - he gives it a glance before focusing on Seymour.
The pain in Mushnik’s voice is causing Seymour to choke up. He sniffles, blinking away some of his own tears. “Please, dad. Daddy. I can leave. I’ll go, I’ll never come back, I’ll give you the plant just….Not the police, daddy, please.”
Mushnik sucks in a breath, staring at him with surprise. “Do you seriously think you can cry your way out of this, you little schmuck?”
Like when he was eleven and failed his tests. Like in every comment and every shout and every blow and every question. Always that word. Always that dislike. Always surprise at this new level of pathetic that his son reached.
Always a-
Heedless of the gun in Mushnik’s lowered hand, Seymour shoves his father to the ground. Closer to the plant. Into the reach of the vines.
They wrap around him, grab at the gun first and tilt it to the ceiling, Mushnik stares at Seymour with widening eyes and DOESN’T FIRE, then one vine creeps around his neck and torso and Twoie’s pod slides forward, gaping, and shovels Mushnik into his mouth.
CHOMP.
“I’M NOT A SCHMUCK!” Seymour screams, victorious, over Mushnik’s wail of pain.
CHOMP.
“Twoie-Twoie-stop it-Twoie-”
CHOMP. No more screams.
“Jesus Christ please Twoie I DIDN’T FUCKING MEAN IT LET HIM OUT GOD FUCKING DAMMNIT!”
The plant gives one final CHOMP. Seymour shouts at it until, slowly, it opens its mouth.
Blood eyes wide mouth open everything on the inside outside there’s no more flesh it’s melting away it moved it moved the body moved
“Close it close it close it close it close it CLOSE IT CLOSE IT!”
The plant snaps its jaws shut. Seymour screams until a vine slams into the side of his face, sending his glasses spinning onto the floor.
He doesn't pick them up for a long time.