The Nuttress of Sow deliberated on whether to order a drink. Her predator mate, the Nutter of Sow stood patiently to her left. They had been waiting at the Inn for their prey. A fool by all contemplation. Their enameled faces reflecting the light of the wood fire burning in the hearth. Filmed as it were, it gave a sense of wellbeing, of being of upper class, society bred on good food and wealth. For three days now they had been stalking the Fool, and the time to appease the hunger had finally come.
They had come a long way for this.
The Fool and his wife, the Slave, were inn-keepers. When the Nutter had first heard of the Fool, it was because of a secret of creation. The Fool had stumbled upon this hereto unknown Law that rendered, for those that are able to use it, almost infinite power. It was not something that was to be allowed outside the rarefied air of the Community.
Word was sent to Godzone and, by accident, to the Nutter. It was the Nutter's job as the Sherrif of Sow to attend to matters such as these, especially where it concerned the citizenry of Sow. The Nutter was the pistoning jackhammer, the jack-booted stamper on the face of its people. And the Fool had been a citizen sometime in the past.
Her lacquered lips contrived a smile. In hindsight they had always known they were to feed. And now. The Fool in particular was beyond redemption. Not only with a head full of superstition and preconception, but not even aware of the Magic which permeated everything, and of which almost all were aware off. His wife was irrelevant. She would do anything asked of her. She was also like the Fool in her way, living with the belief in the power of attraction, yet aware and a user of the Magic. And they had not even the capacity to defend themselves. Their time had come, and if the Slave knew what was good for her, she would not intervene.
The Fool and his wife entered the Inn unaware. Death, settled on the rafters overhead, an Angel witness over the unfolding tragedy below.
Her magic wove a siren song, weaving its delicate melody in the weft of reality. Come to us it said. We are friends it said. And yet the Fool seemed aloof to it. Little did the Nuttress know that the Fool's heart was filled with a foreboding. Xenophobes. They hate life. But the siren song called to the Fools intellect. How can we, of such beauty and majesty, hate life. It is you that sours our love. Forgive yourself and come to us. It moved the Fool, impelling him inexorably to his end.
As the Fool approached, an arm, reached out from the Nutter's fat thorax. Contriving somehow through the enameled faux human shaped body, a spiderous and bristled limb unfolded, taloned at its tip and exuding venom. Black and ghastly, it reached out to touch the Fool's back. All the time, the Nutter, in his grandfatherly voice singing softly, "You will be alright".
But the Fool did what no other had done before. He lifted up his arm and seemed to try to push away. The Nutter lunged against the Fool, this time to insert his fang fully into the Fools back. But this had only the effect of helping the Fool further, pushing his back beyond the reach of this needle. The Fool felt it draw a shallow line. Now it was taking too long. It could not possibly consummate its vile affair. The Nutter retracted his limb, and seemed for all concerned human again.
Except for his eyes. As the Fool turned he could swear he saw them. Lidless dark orbs of malice, more than a human being should have. Each focused on him. The largest set in the middle, cruel, malign, unblinking. The Fool ran, giving the monster wide berth, knowing that it would best him, and consume him. Liquifying his insides to be sucked up into its maw.
Calmly, the Nutter and Nuttress left the Inn. No one said anything, no one saw anything. It was as it always was.
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