The followers lament on the escape of their sworn enemy.
A little characterization exercise for my upcoming Happy Appy adaptation. I wanted to illustrate their dynamic in relation to Forenzik in a quick wee one shot.
Willy Batts paced in mad circles, tearing at his hair with shaking fingers. His face was red and sweaty with pent up viciousness reverberating through a broad, barrel-shaped frame draped in a biker jacket too spry-looking for a man with grey hairs in his skullet. The follower reeled his fist back and swung it into a tree. A younger man, Mervyn Payton, leant against a fence and watched the display with a wicked smirk.
“How didn’t we see him??”
“He took the other route.” Rumbled Dudley Frankin, a grave-faced, scarred man with pursed lips and knitted brows. “Must have seen us.”
“How? How, you fuck?” A cloud of spittle painted Willy’s goatee, “I was right behind the building! He hasn’t got fuckin’ laser vision, he wears glasses!”
Mervyn snickered at the taller man’s distress, eliciting a murderous glare from Batts. “It’s probably ‘cause of the baby mask you wore, dude.”
“The fucking mask I wore had nothing to do with it, Mervyn! It’s part of my act!” Batts pointed towards his chest, advancing upon the shorter man with bared teeth. “You wouldn’t get it!!”
“It’s the values, Willy.” Dudley started, “You’ve gotta wear dark shades–”
“I’ll shade your ass dark! The Slav was mine!”
“As bait. ‘Cause that’s what your bald eggheaded ass looks like!” Batts jabbed an accusatory finger into the man’s face. “A fucking Nick Jr. employee!”
“C’mon.” Dudley sighed, “There’s no need to be hurtful.”
As Batts opened his mouth to retort, the gravel crackled with the arrival of a weatherbeaten white van. The vehicle looked like it had seen better days, its rusted license plate just faintly spelling out ‘HPY APY’.
Batts, despite his brutish build, backed up like an abused dog to where Dudley stood.
The door to the SUV slid open, and out unfurled a pale, lanky man whose height seemed utterly surreal. He wore a pair of sunglasses, and hunched over as he stood up, reminiscent of some sort of prehistoric vulture. From out behind him clambered the stark opposite; a short, sweaty man, portly and balding. The tall figure, the three knew, was a man only referred to as ‘Mr. F’. To those of varying other standings, he had other names but to them, he was nothing but an ominous ‘F’, faceless and inhuman, a dark vapor piloting the form of some spindly, predatory vessel.
Mr. F surveyed the scene, his scraggly brown beard drooping with a faint frown - the only indication of an expression behind the black lenses of his glasses. The shorter man, John Wilkinson, stood at his side like an obedient little purse dog.
From the tall man came a low, deadpan voice with a Maine accent. “Where is he?”
Dudley cowed his head. Mervyn spoke up, unbothered as anything. “Gone with the wind.”
Mr. F’s expression was unchanging, but something shifted. “I told you to give me the body. I hate digging things up.”
Mervyn suppressed a smile as Dudley shifted and Batts cringed. “He’s not dead.”
“Oh, gave him the ole’ whack and string up, didja?” John Wilkinson chirped. “It’s just what Happy would want us to do!” He gazed up at the tall man with adoration. “Well, it’s a good thing we brought the van, idn’it?”
Mr. F tilted his head, his lips moving slightly with the ghost of a smile. A few teeth poked out. “Well, don’t surprise me. Where’ve you put him, boys?”
Dudley refused to meet his gaze.
Batts broke the silence, raking his fingers through his hair. “That fucker got away! Gerasim got away! We didn’t see him until it was too late!”
Mr. F paused, digesting the information for a moment. Something in the air darkened, and Batts let out an exasperated breath, like the pure indignity of it all throttled him. His eyes were like mad dinnerplates. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
“He went down the other route.” Dudley pointed over yonder behind a copse of trees. “There’s a vantage point. Must’ve seen us.”
Mervyn pursed his lips to hide his sneer. “Must’ve seen Batts.”
“Fuck. Fuck!” The long-haired man wailed, digging his heel into the gravel and hissing through gritted teeth like he’d been struck. He loped over to where Mr. F stood, throwing his hands out in a pleading gesture. “Oh god, oh god, I’m sorry. I fucking failed you, man. I failed you!”
Mr. F quietly tilted his head to regard the man’s dramatics, rhythmically stroking his own wrist with his long, bony fingers. He looked at Batts like he was a particularly irritating mosquito. “I’m not very impressed with you boys. I was counting on you, you know that.”
“I know– Fuck! Fucking tricky piece of Russian shit…” Batts smacked himself, “I-I swear we woulda got him. We got it all lined up, he was right there!” The man whined, stamping the ground.
“Ahuh.” Mr. F’s gaze snapped up to the bald man, his eyes burning through his sunglasses. “Mervyn, is he telling the truth?”
Mervyn’s lips curled upwards, a gust of wind escaping his nose as his tongue pressed into the flesh of his cheek. “Well, it’s hard to say, sir. I only came this morning to find Willy here empty-handed.” The younger man stuck his lower lip out, shaking his head disapprovingly. “I was expecting a better turnout for old-time followers like these folks.”
Mr. F snapped his head to Frankin, peering at him from under a bony brow. “Dudley?”
The bald man, who had been quiet until then, wore a grim expression. He drove his meaty hands into his pockets and avoided meeting his line of sight. “…Batts is right. We woulda got him, but we failed.”
“Well then.” Mr. F hummed, sucking his teeth and looking down at his pudgy compatriot. “That’s just no good, is it?”
“Nooo good at all.” John Wilkinson shook his head vigorously, jowls flapping, pouting mockingly down at Batts. “You’ve been a very naughty boy, Willy. Naughty children get punished.”
Mr. F’s head slowly turned to the grovelling man in the biker jacket, his lip curling.
Willy Batts whimpered like a dog, shaking his head. John Wilkinson smiled down at him, his eyes squinting until they were slits of beady sadism. “Listen to the director or we’ll do it for you.”
Twitching as he unsheathed a blade from his belt, Batts sliced through the flesh of his left palm. The pain of his master’s disappointment seemed to torment him more than the cut itself, as Mr. F watched the blood spatter on the gravel.
Batts yelped as he sliced his other palm, a vein jumping in his temple.
Mr. F hummed, taking a deep breath as he let the man’s pained grunts and the scent of copper fill the air. He exhaled slowly. “That’s good, Batts.”
The long-haired man let out a sigh of relief, slumping his back and clutching his hands against his chest. Mr. F snapped his gaze back to Dudley. “Alright, you too.”
Dudley obeyed, screwing his face up with unwanted concentration. John Wilkinson watched eagerly, biting his lip and smoothing his gloved palms together. Mr. F watched with mild interest, like he was stopping by a television to catch a few minutes of something eye-catching. And as soon as that program ended, so did Mr. F’s interest, as he turned to survey the tracks.
He scratched his beard, and folded his bony hands behind his back. “Let’s give Gerasim a breather.”
Mervyn’s smirk fell. Batts jerked up, clenching his half-bloodied pair of fists together at the terrible news. Even the little plump man was alarmed. “But– But he insulted you! We have to–”
“Well, we gave him a good scare. Let’s see how he feels about it.” Mr. F walked forward, following the trail of Gerasim’s footprints. “The fruit is ripe, so we wait for it to drop. We don’t need to strain our backs, right?”
“Right…” The gears turned in Willy’s brain, and a smile spread across his face, “Right! Fuck, that’s a good idea! You’re a ge–”
“Shut up, Batts.” Mervyn smacked the back of his head, making the man snarl. “You’re in the doghouse.”
Mr. F knelt down, tracing the imprinted line of Gerasim’s shoe with two bony fingers. “He’ll come to me. He wants my work.”
“Oh, yes.” Wilkinson nodded, “Oh, yes, he sure does. Your work is truly sublime.”
“I know it is, damn it.” Mr. F raised his voice slightly, craning his head to glare at his lackey. John frowned, meekly backing away. “We let him cool down. Digest. Then we feed him again, right?”
“Oh, yes.” John breathed, grinning. Mervyn glanced back at the two bleeding followers, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Batts bounced, giggling with excitement.
Mr. F smiled back, rising to his feet. “And when his belly is full, we…” He dragged his finger up from his navel to his collarbone, letting his jaw part slightly. “Cut it open.”
