Boarding Party • 20. "The Show Must Go Wrong" Part V (Patreon)

(Trigger Warning: Lotta vomit in this one.) 

Limelights illuminated the exterior of Her Majesty’s Theatre, shining a plaque advertising the grand premiere of their newest production, Is There Beauty in No Truth?

In front of faded text that clearly said “Starring Angus Shimoda and Andrea Filmore” was a hasty tagline: “Making Their Theatrical Debut … Amelia Marchmain and Lenore DeLancie!” 

Majel’s ears twitched from all the noise: the noise of the murmuring crowd waiting for the show to start, the noise of the orchestra tuning their instruments, and the noise of Reginald Stewart’s fascistic, nagging demands towards his already overworked crew. 

However, the rest of her body was twitching, too. 

For the first time in decades, she was stone-cold sober. 

Wanting a performance devoid of any belches and half-slurred mutterings, Reginald Stewart had ordered a guard to follow Majel at all times. Any bottle would be snatched before it could meet her lips, even things like perfume and aftershave were off-limits. 

Meanwhile, D’anna had turned to her own liquid vice to calm her nerves. She toiled away in her dressing room, repeating her lines to herself and chugging back glass after glass of milk to calm her down.

“Oh! Lady Helena…” gulp, “I implore you to tell me…” gulp, “what hath got thou so preoccupied…” gulp, “that thou hath cast me no attention…” gulp. 

The elf dropped her script onto the table and sighed. She felt lightheaded yet still quite nervous… and bloated. She held her hand up to her mouth and released some pressure from her middle. 

She popped open the jug of milk and raised it over her empty glass once more. But, after a moment’s hesitation, she decided to just skip the middleman and empty the jug itself.

Gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp…

Reginald Stewart peeked from behind the curtain — a quick glance that would’ve gone unnoticed, had he not been wearing a large, poofy wig that was as tall as a toddler. His eyes widened with panic as he noticed Queen Horatio’s box seat (in fact, all of her boxes) was empty.

“Where on Stashwick is the queen?!” Stewart hissed to his assistant. 

“Apologies, sir…” his assistant began. “I was unable to find you for these past few minutes.” (NOTE: This was a lie. He just didn’t want to see him.) “You received a letter informing you that Queen Horatio IV will be unable to attend due to the recent conquering of Malargo, where she will be watching the hanging of its natives before her new palace and twenty-five-thousand-acre croquet course could be built by her new slaves.” 

“She’s not coming?!” Stewart screamed, ripping off a clump of hair. This was a regular occurrence — after ripping out his natural hair, a large collection of periwigs were always ready on standby in the event that he tears the one he’s currently wearing apart. 

“Unfortunately not, sir. Again, due to the recent conquering—” 

“I heard you the first time!” Stewart screamed, snatching his hairpiece and shoving it towards his assistant’s chest. “Damn it, I would’ve called the whole thing off if I knew the Queen wouldn’t even be here!”

“I believe it is far too late to reconsider, sir.” 

“Obviously!” Stewart huffed. He took another look at the audience again — two thousand of Hardlan Isle’s finest citizens were waiting in their seats, eagerly waiting for the curtain to finally rise so they could witness the Stewart Drama Company’s usual magic once more. 

From a now-empty box seat, The Spectre of the Theatre scanned the audience packed into the aisles and rows below. It was a sea of rosy cheeks and powdered wigs, like an orgy of poodles taking place atop a giant tarp of different-colored doilies: The crème de la crème of the Horatio Arts Scene, wined, dined, and ready for the show to begin. 

He smiled and rubbed his hands together. How much pocket change had they brought with them? he wondered. 

Deputy Chief Constable Burridge squinted at Box #6, where the oddest thing had just occurred. Before sat a portly gentleman with a mustache and horseshoe hair. After he fell backwards in his chair, he seemed to have disappeared and was replaced thirty minutes later by someone who wore a wide-brimmed black fedora and had a tan, almost yellowish complexion — and who was also really skinny.

His mind flashed back to the rumors he had heard back at the station the day before, that there was a so-called “Spectre of the Theatre” haunting Her Majesty’s. Supposedly, this individual — in a random act of violence — had cut down the theatre’s chandelier and swung it at the stage, taking the lives of twenty-seven performers, eight stagehands, and some guy nobody recognized who just happened to be at the miraculously wrong place at the miraculously wrong time.

Stewart had spent a deal of money — a great deal of money, actually — to keep the whole thing under wraps, delaying the news of the deaths until after the Grand Opening. (The sudden casting of Miss Marchmain and Miss DeLancie were explained as the theatre taking “a new direction.” Tomorrow’s blameless newspapers were already printed: TORNADO ONLY RAVAGES INSIDE OF BELOVED THEATRE, KILLS SHIMODA AND FILMORE! and others) 

He looked at the chandelier hanging above the audience. It must’ve been installed earlier that day. It was swinging from left to right in a suspicious manner, but he was sure the rope keeping it up was secure…

“PLACES, EVERYONE!” Stewart yelled, only to realize that his two actors were not actually there. 

He turned to his assistant. “Where’s my Ubaldo and Helena?!” 

The assistant raised an eyebrow. “Your Ubaldo having some help putting on her costume, and your Helena is having one more quick vomit before the show begins.” 

The crowd became silent as the lanterns were extinguished and the lights of the theatre dimmed — that is, all but the grand, brand-new chandelier that hung above them all. 

The curtain raised, revealing a grassy field that resembled the rural hills of Veridia. The curtain quickly fell again and, after a minute, raised with the correct backdrop of a princess’ bedroom. 

Majel sat on a couch, staring wide-eyed at the audience. She shook like she was experiencing her own private earthquake, darting her head around left to right as if she was a lizard. Her head was throbbing, and without the numbing effects that alcohol gave her, so was her enlarged toe. 

D’anna, squinting from the intense spotlight shining down on the stage, pranced to the couch and leaned towards her. “Oh! Lady Helena, I implore you to tell me what hath got thou so preoccupied that thou hath cast me no — ugh — attention…” she said before a sudden lurching in her stomach made itself clear. Almost instantly, she felt a bubble of air rise from her gut and escape through her mouth, which she tried her best to shield with hand. It left a stinging trail through her throat, telling her that it would soon be followed by something much more solid and acidic. 

Without looking at D’anna, the cat rattled off, “S-Sir Ubaldo, I w-wish for… for nothing… nothing more t-than to unburden myself from these chains of secrecy which hath been so cruelly latched betweenst my lips!” After a couple dead seconds between the two of them, Majel remembered her stage directions and took D’anna’s hands in her own, just to break one free to rest on her forehead. 

The shakiness made the elf dizzy, sloshing around all the milk she had drank before the show. She flopped down to the ground (the directions specified “on one knee,” but that wasn’t going to happen) and clutched onto Majel’s frilly skirt. However, it was all too much for her — the belly full of milk, the blinding, hot-as-hell spotlights, the cat’s shakiness sloshing her all around — and after she recited “... ulp, Tell me at once: who f-forced these shackles ughunto YOUUUGH,” she bolted towards the backstage to vomit. 

D’anna’s gagging made the already-naseous Majel’s ears flatten and lose the war against her own body. She leaned over the couch and threw up on the ground, the sound echoing around the cavern-like theatre. 

One of the audience members leaned towards his wife. “I’m afraid that I don’t much understand the symbolism of this scene.”

“I believe they are trying to illustrate the theme of a ‘mutually detrimental relationship,’ but in my opinion, they’re going far too ham-fisted with the whole deal…” 

Can’t those bloated, blasted bastards do anythin’ right fer once in their lives? 

Realizing that now was the time to act, Cain tossed his binoculars on the ground and, shielding his face with his cloak, rushed out of Box #6. However, Burridge could’ve sworn that he’d seen one flash of a skull —  perhaps the accident wasn’t an accident after all…

He patted his jacket’s pocket, feeling the reassuring solidness of his flintlock. 

Stewart showed no emotion at what was happening on the stage. That was because he actually had a silent heart attack over watching his entire career crumble before his eyes and died. He now sat motionless in his chair, staring at his vomiting leads with eyes that had no life behind them anymore. 

After a minute or two of expelling the contents of her stomach, D’anna shuffled back onto the stage with the demeanor of a sopping wet kitten straight from a bath. She wiped off one of her chins, flopped back onto the ground like before, and asked the still-hunched-over Majel, “T-tell me at once… who forced these shackles… unto you…? I shall have them paid… dearly for how they… they restricted y—”

“YAARGH!” a disembodied voice bellowed from the top of the stage. Cain swung down onto the stage by rope, landing smack-dab in the middle facing the audience before manically laughing to himself. 

Burridge’s eyes widened with horror. The Spectre — He'd come to strike again! 

He looked down at the rest of the audience. All those fools below had no idea he existed, let alone the horrors he had committed! He must be stopped at once!

He bolted up from his chair, knocking it to the ground as he sprinted out of his box. 

“Honey…?” his wife asked with delayed timing. 

The Skeleton gripped his sword and strutted around the stage, content in knowing that all exits would be locked. He looked around the crowd, disgusted with the sight of just how so many people could look so sickeningly pale. 

One of the audience members leaned towards his wife again. “And what do you make of this?”

“Obviously the skeleton is supposed to represent a death of some sort, most likely the end of Ubaldo and Helena’s relationship. But perhaps it could also foreshadow their actual deaths, too — they are vomiting a lot…” 

Cain began to say something to his audience, but a pistol shot lodged itself into his ribcage. Confused screams broke out while he buckled forward with pain before looking up at his aggressor. “Sir, I be askin’ ye ta remain in yer seat…” 

Deputy Chief Constable Burridge lowered his smoking pistol as he stormed down the aisle. “If one shot won’t be enough to kill The Spectre of the Theatre…” 

He unsheathed his rapier. “...then I guess I’ll just see to it that the job is finished myself!” 

Cain pointed his cutlass at him. “Ye can’t kill a spectre what’s already dead, but I invite ye to try!”

With that, The Spectre jumped from the stage and landed in front of Burridge. Cain struck Burridge's blade with his own — SCHWING! — and continued to spar as they made their way up and down the aisles. An excited murmuring began to grow from the audience, thinking that it was all a part of the show. 

The skeleton and the constable eventually found their way back towards the stage, the audience members shifting in their seats to never miss a moment of the fight. However, it all came to an end when Cain successfully juked Burridge and caught him off-guard with a stab to the chest, sending down to his knees. A streak of crimson drizzled from his mouth, of which gasped his dying words, “We’ll pick this back up… when we meet again in Hell…” 

He reached out to the audience before falling over dead. Everybody in the theatre raised for a standing ovation, with the exception of Burridge’s wife. Cain smiled and gave a bow to his adoring fans, having successfully gotten the heist back on track. All that was left to do now was the fun part.

Hearing applause and thinking that the show was finally over now, D’anna and Majel shifted up to take their bows. However, the cheering immediately died down whenever they did so, and only resumed when they stepped aside for the real star of the show. 

Having had enough ego stroking, Cain reached for his pistol and held it up in the air. “I thank ye all, but I regret to inform ye that this production of Be Beautiful With No Truth or whatever the hell it be called be a robbery now! All of ye — empty out yer purses an’ pockets!” 

He cocked the gun, hoping the click would echo throughout the theatre and make his message be known. Unfortunately, there were two clicks: a cock, and an accidental pulling of the trigger.

A shot flew from his flintlock, ricocheting off the theatre’s roof with a PAWTAING! and flying into the rope keeping the theatre’s chandelier up — the only, hastily-added rope keeping the theatre’s chandelier up.

It fell onto the audience members below, crushing those unfortunate enough to be directly underneath to death. The embers that flew out immediately caught onto powdered wigs, fluffy clothes, and cushioned theatre chairs, growing into flames and —  eventually — full-on blaze. 

Burning theatregoers rushed out of their seats and banged on the exit doors, not realizing that they were bolted shut, the attendant had since mysteriously gone missing from his post, and that the only person who had the keys was the ghoul who started that whole mess in the first place. 

The fires quickly spread from the theatregoers to the theatre itself, scorching carpets, traveling up wooden walls, and even igniting the stage. D’anna watched as the backdrop she labored over for days was eaten up by the flames, which stung all the more considering it was the one that looked just like her home on Veridia. 

Cain attempted to loot some of the corpses, but the smoke made it hard to see and he couldn’t reach into their pockets without getting set on fire himself. He ran backstage again, accidentally knocking over the limp Reginald Stewart out of his chair as he made his way to D’anna. “Elf! We be leavin’ now — where’s Majel?” 

D’anna looked around. “I-I don’t know! I just lost her in all the chaos!”

The elf’s ears shot up as she heard a loud BANG! from nearby. She thought it was just another piece of the theatre caving in on itself until Majel ran out from one of the dressing rooms, her dress streaked with red. She held a bottle of sherry and a still-smoking pistol with one paw and a crate of champagne with the other. She looked noticeably healthier as she took another swig from the bottle. “Sawyer! You that now you can now never, ever, ever criticize D’anna nor I again!”

“Ah, save it fer the ship, ye stray! Now, stick with me an’ don’t fall behind, lest ye end up like those barbequed bluebloods back there!”