Meat Pies! Get Yer Meat Pies! (Fanfiction)
Summary: Mrs. Nellie Lovett (for Tenebrae Nostro RP community) finds herself in LA, working as a baker for one hell of a wanker. How does she deal with it, you ask?
The sun was still fast asleep the moment that Mrs. Nellie Lovett slipped into the small bakery. A hour and some hard work later, sage, rosemary, thyme and basil wafted out with the heavy scent of rich warm savory bread that managed to stir and waken her closest neighbors for two blocks. As if enchanted, they rose like zombies from their beds. But instead of brains, they would feast on other fine fare. Now, if you were to peek into the small kitchen of the Black Forrest Bakery, you’d see that she was whipping the dough into shape with her rolling pin. Singing quietly under her breath, she pounded the dough harder almost rhythmically in time with her words. Vacant eyes spoke to the fact that Mrs. Lovett was deeply involved in her thoughts as she worked, perhaps even reliving memories that simply could not have occurred. Ah, but to have memories at all. Odd that one should want to remember them, so terrible they were that they’d make your blood run cold even by the standards of todays desensitized society. Even she wondered why, in her apparent mental maladies, she didn’t create a happier illusionary existence for herself.
Sitting next to the oven, she didn’t realise that she leaned away from it as best she could in the confined space. The heat radiated from it, sending little pearls of sweat up into her dark brow. Her skin colour matched the pasty white tiles lining the walls around her. The tile floor was yellowed with age, despite her having scrubbed it the previous evening until even the grout came off. No matter how hot it got in here, and it did get quite insufferably hot, the room always looked cold and uninviting.
I’ve been thinkin’ flowers maybe daises, to brighten up the room, don’t you think some flowers, pretty daises, might relieve the gloom?
There was a gentle tap at the back door. Smiling softly, as if expecting the knock, she opened the door and let her eyes fall to the short, petite thin frame of a young boy standing there.
“Hi, Mrs. Lovett!” Nellie Lovett smiled sympathetically into his large brown eyes as his tummy rumbled. One of the poor street children. She took the risk of making one batch of pies for them every morning.
“‘Ello, love, come for your pie, ‘ave you?” The boy nodded eagerly. “Of course you ‘ave.” It made her heartache to see him like this. Taking one of the trays of cooled meat pies off the rack, she held it out for him to take. “‘Ere, love, 'ave a nice meat pie. It’s all for you.”
Nothin’s gonna harm you, not while I’m around. Nothin’s gonna harm you, darlin’, not while I’m around.
For a moment she saw Tobias’ face on the little boy. The clatter of the plate on the ground was followed by the ‘bunt’ sound of the pies following. “Oh! Terribly sorry dearie, really, I don’ know where me ‘eads at these days. Lemmie get you a fresh one, ay?” Mrs. Lovett swallowed thickly, her eyes brimming with tears that would not dare fall. She was gonna’ ave Toby killed, she was. All for him. It was all for him. Silly woman. It was necessary, too. The boy was gonna bring the law. Poor Toby. Whatever happened to the lad?
Nothing. He ain't never existed. Stop your silly nonsense or there'll be a pill innit for ya.
“MRS. LOVETT!”
She gasped and looked passed her shoulder as she gathered the fallen pies. The little boy, so hungry that it mattered not that the errant pies fell to the ground, quickly picked them up with his grubby hands and ran back out to the alleyway.
“Mrs. Lovett! What have I told you about giving away my profits?” The manager, Mr. Shane Mattison, stormed forward and kicked the plate from her hands as she crouched down. Dark eyes peered up at him as she picked herself up.
I’ve ‘ad quite enough of this.
“So sorry, Mr. Mattison. It’s just that they ‘ave no money an’ are quite ‘ungry.”
“Well, you could pay for my lose out of your own wages this week if you care so much.” The slobbering man with two chins hardly ever came into the shop, leaving Mrs. Lovett to tend to everything by herself. She didn’t mind, really, but it begged the question of why he was here. Opening the refridgerator, she then knew.
“You brought the good meat again!” He hollered. “That can come out of your wages too!” His fat belly filled with sloth bumped against the table and sent Mrs. Lovett’s rolling pin down to the ground. Bending to pick it up, she was positively aghast when she felt the slap on her bottom and a roar of laughter from behind her. The rolling pin went running away from her, yet again. Straightening up, she swallowed her pride, turning to face him with little more than a hollow expression. “Now that was just not propa'”
“Eh,” he waved her away with a thick hand. “Bring me a pie.”
“Of course, sir.” Turning with a crooked smile, she walked over to the racks. Looking over her shoulder to see whether he was looking, she reached to the back of the bakers rack.
“'Ere we are, hawt out’ta the oven. Special ‘erbs went into that one, they did.” A new little ditty played in her head.
It's like Coriander but grander in that it leaves you deceased...
Try the spittoon pie,
does it taste like lye?
if you’d like something sharper....
“Not bad.” Mrs. Lovett looked at the fool who was eating something that might have well sat in the trenches all night. Mr. Mattison cleared his throat and kept right on wolfing the pie down. “Well, Mrs. Lovett, you’re not a complete waste.” Crossing her arms, Mrs. Lovett waited. “Would ya like some ale with that?” He nodded through a mouthful of pie as the crumbs bounced down his chin and got caught in the folds of his fat. “Learn to call it beer. It’s beer! Crazy bitch,” he mumbled lowly. Opening the fridge, she took out a glass of dark liquid. “There you are, sir.” Without so much of a whiff, he downed it. His expression changed and he winced, pinching his entire face into a tight scowl.
“Jeeezus, what is this? It tastes like piss!”
Mrs. Lovett took the glass away hastily and took a whiff of the rim. “Ew, my, fancy that. Wonder ‘ow it went bad like that!” Getting up, Mr. Mattison pushed her aside roughly and waddled toward the sink to spit out the mouthful of everything the FDA would not approve of at all. Poor Mr. Mattison, so intent on getting the fowl taste out of his mouth, did not see the rolling pin on the ground. His foot slipped upon it with such confidence that he was thrown a foot back into the air before he landed with a quite furious bang against the ground. The pots hanging around the stove waltzed with the reverberations. On the way down, he hit his head against the corner of the oven. Confused and dazed, he managed to flip himself on his stomach and get up on all fours. He had the look of an old seal, trapped and yelping in a net. “Help me up, Nellie. Fuck! My head.” Arf, arf, arf, she heard instead.
Mrs. Lovett slowly bent down to collect her rolling pin. “For fucks sake Nellie, help me!” Her eyes looked upon her rolling pin lovingly as she lightly brushed off the dirt that had collected on it when it rolled around on the ground. Looking at the poor sod on all fours like a bloated pig (and even that should bring offence to the poor animals that were much more noble then he) brought a certain satisfactory glow to Mrs. Lovett's ashen face.
The history of the world, my love --
Is those below serving those up above!
How gratifying for once to know
That those above will serve those down below!
Have charity towards the world, my pet
Yes, yes, I know, my love
“Elpin' you would be ma honour, sir.”
Several hours later, very close to closing time, one very tired Mrs. Lovett sat by the register counting the days profits. Hardly registering the sale she just made of the last batch of hearty steaming pies, she peered up at a customer who looked like he was waiting for something, like an answer to his question.
“This is delicious! What is it called?” He asked again, as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. Mrs. Lovett leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. Blowing a strand of frizzy hair off her face she breathes out tiredly, “It’s the manager’s special.”