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Belle has been changing. After an outburst at Granny's, Rumpelstiltskin, her devoted husband, decides to investigate. What he discovers will change his life forever. Read on!
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4.
Fighting Depression
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Meta-magic.
If his theory was
correct, and that not only Belle, but he and everyone else in Storybrooke had
been cursed with a meta-magical curse, then what could he do about it?
More importantly,
was there anything he wanted to do
about it?
A man or woman who
could use meta-magic was well beyond even his abilities. He would be helpless
against him or her. The difference would be as great as that between an
entirely magicless person and someone like him—the Dark One.
Did Zeus do it? Did
he have another rotten brother like Hades? There were almost certainly many
other demi-gods “out there.” Many were certain to be less than charitable,
decent sorts.
Doctor Hopper
walked him to the door of his office. “What now?”
Rumpel shook his
head. “I don’t know.”
“I’ve got an idea. I’m
the most trusted member of this community, even more than the Charmings.”
Rumpel was way
ahead of him. “You’re offering to use that trust to do a little digging?”
“I could pay a
visit to the Fairies. I go there all the time.”
Rumpel’s brow
furrowed. “Whatever for?”
“House calls. Blue
won’t let them come into town to see me. It’s apparently part of their monastic
code. Being a Fairy isn’t a ticket to psychological health, as it turns out. Lately
I’ve just been going and helping around the place since no one wants to visit
with me formally. They all believe they’re happy too.”
“Just so I’m
clear,” said Rumpel, “right now I am too damn depressed to do anything more
than simply consider my alternatives and draw up a loose plan. But that won’t
last forever. When I finally decide to do something, and in the interim have
discovered the fleas are at least partially to blame by way of your digging
around, are you prepared for the consequences that I will surely visit upon
them? Because if you’re not, you need to re-think your desire to join me on
whatever quest your digging and my anger lead to.”
Hopper stared at
him for a time before responding. “As I said, you have changed, Dark One. If
the Fairies have earned consequences for meddling in your marriage, with or
without Belle’s permission, then I am confident that what you provide to that
end they richly deserve.”
“Don’t overestimate
this goodness you feel I have inculcated, Doctor.”
“I have learned in
this life that if you want to be truly good, you’ve gotta be a little bad,”
responded Hopper to Rumpel’s surprise. “I’ve been around a long time too. I’m
confident in my feelings towards you.”
He gave a considered
and sober nod. “As for your depression, I must thank it. I was depressed too.
Your depression knocked mine out of me.
So let me return the favor. Let yourself be the Dark One. Go spin gold. Torment a few people. Not too cruelly,
but do allow yourself to have some fun. Go to the bar. Go dancing. Get off your
ass. Capiche?”
Rumpel grinned. “If
we are indeed living under a meta-curse, then I must say, Doctor, I like the
way it fits you.”
With that he turned
and descended the stairs for the ground floor and the door. Once outside, he
thought of magicking himself home, but walked the distance to his shop instead.
There he considered what the good doctor had to say.
He watched from behind a tree as Regina walked through the park with Henry.
Grinning, he snapped his fingers.
She stopped
suddenly and lifted up her heel and grimaced down at it. The dog poo was fresh
and plentiful, sticking thickly as she wrinkled her nose and as Henry smirked.
She angrily magicked it off, muttering something he couldn’t hear but surely
had to do with making sure dog owners understood park rules.
Violet sat on a
bench fifty yards on, and Henry and Regina
started again towards her. He snapped his fingers again and disappeared. Henry wouldn’t
notice till too late that his fly was down and that his boxer shorts had turned
a hot florescent pink, and were lace to boot.
Hook and the Savior
were next. They had recently purchased a thirty-foot skiff, and frequently went
out into the bay to picnic, listen to music, and presumably have intimate
relations. From behind a tall stack of pallets he watched as the pirate hoisted
the sails and as the Savior manned the rudder, happy, vacant smiles on their
faces. When they were a good half-mile or more out, he snapped his fingers.
He had discovered
the dead skunk at the edge of the road leading out of town just the day before.
It was quite ripe. Now it was in their forward hold, jammed way up into the bow. Very difficult to extract. The odor wouldn’t
get to them until they were a couple miles or more out to sea, making the trip
back ... unpleasant.
He chortled. “Definitely
no ‘find the hidden treasure’ today.”
He turned from the
pallets and walked off the docks.
Belle’s bastard of
a father was next.
It was very
difficult not snapping his fingers and burning the flower shop to the ground
with his fat ass in it. It was very difficult not magicking a swarm of killer
bees to sting him to death slowly and agonizingly.
He reminded himself
to have fun. Shits and giggles. That kind of thing.
He snapped his
fingers and walked away. For the next two weeks, the roses in that asshole’s
shop would smell, increasingly, like the dog shit the esteemed mayor had to
wipe off her heel. Eventually it would become unbearable—just like that
dickhead had always been. The effects would vanish a week after that.
He subscribed the
Charmings to a porn channel, making sure Snow White really enjoyed it, and for
the good Prince to find himself particularly turned on by threesomes involving
two guys and a girl. Both would of course hide their secret lust from the other,
which would increase daily for a good month and provide all sorts of wan
suburban drama. He wondered how long they could handle the strain. Literally.
He cursed Zelena
with a new skin color each day for a week, and the Dwarves with erections any
time one of their brethren hefted a pick-axe. Still mindful that the Fairies probably
had to answer to him much more seriously, he gave them a scorching case of jock
itch whenever they flashed and flew around.
And by Zeus and by
that bastard Hades, it worked! He started feeling better. He magicked Belle’s
entire wardrobe into dust, magicked his vacuums to clean it all up, and then,
without magic, thoroughly scrubbed the house down of any trace of her. When all
that hard labor was concluded, he felt even better.
He loved her. He
really did. And she broke his heart. But, simply put, they were no good for
each other, and he knew it. Perhaps he had always known it. She had too much of
her father in her: controlling, berating, underhanded, passive-aggressive. And
he loved his Dark One power too much, and always would. Though still hurting, he
hoped for her happiness with Mulan.
He found himself,
more and more, though very gradually, wanting to investigate the curse with
some real seriousness, who was responsible, and finding a way, if possible, to
hold them to the kind of account that had long since made people even fear
speaking his name.
He still had some
time yet, so he spun gold at night and walked the city by day. Three weeks after
his appointment with Doctor Hopper, he closed up his shop for the final time.
But not before sending every single item he had gathered over the centuries
back to their owners, even those he hated, and gifting those ones whose owners
had since perished (far too many by his hand) to the local museum.
The local news was
quick to pick up on the story, trumpeting the headline:
GOLD CLOSES UP SHOP
Multiple interviews
were requested; he gave only one, with only one sentence: “Because I wanted
to.” With that he magicked the cameraman and the reporter to the edge of town.
He walked outside and glanced up at the sign one last time. With a swirl of his
hand it turned into a cloud of gold-colored butterflies. Should one land on a
Storybrooke citizen, that citizen would find themselves with a nice windfall
the next day. Should one be captured by a citizen, said citizen would find
themselves facing all sorts of unlucky circumstances until they released it—including
those who were fortunate enough to be landed on.
“If you really want
to fuck with people,” he muttered with a chuckle, “curse them with money.”
Had the theorized
meta-curse led him to take all these actions? It was entirely possible. It was
entirely possible that he wasn’t in his right mind, and that if he found a way
to break the curse, he’d go crazy with what he’d done. He’d get all his
possessions back. He’d reopen the shop. He’d be far less charitable, which to
him used to be one of the worst cursewords.
With another swirl
of his wrist, he magicked back home, where he hopped into the shower.
He was going out
tonight—to the local nightclub.
Would he find Belle—Lacey—there? That seemed likely. He
didn’t care. He put on a nice suit, scarlet pocket square to compliment the
dark coat, adjusted his tie, took a deep breath, and ...
No. He’d drive
there.
He pulled the Cadillac up to the entrance, where one of the
doormen greeted him as he stepped out. “Mr. Gold,” said the man, surprised.
Rumpel underhanded
him the keys. “See that it doesn’t get scratched.”
“Of—Of course,
sir,” stammered the man, who had a better than good idea of what would likely
happen to him should one appear. “Of course.”
The entrance had a
queue of maybe fifteen, mostly girls and women from the Land of Untold Stories.
They gawked as the doorman said over the steady thump of music emanating from
inside, “Evening, Mr. Gold,” opening the red-velvet line allowing him
immediately in.
The nightclub’s
name was Pandora’s Box, which at least four citizens’ petitions had failed to
change. The owner was the former pirate Morgan Adams, who spied him from across
the circular dance floor to the front and left. The doormen must have radioed
her that he had come in, because she didn’t hesitate to walk directly to him.
“Rumpelstiltskin,”
she called as she drew close. “What a pleasure. What brings you to my little
establishment tonight?”
Morgan Adams was a
beautiful woman, mid-to-late 30s (though everyone here was pretty much older
than a century, some, like him, much older), with dark brown, wavy hair pulled
back behind her ears, and devilish blue eyes. She had given up pirating, rumor
was, when she heard of Storybrooke and thought it might be a nice place to
settle down. With some of her bounty, she opened this club. It was clear she
relished the battles that she had with Mayor Mills and the more uptight members
of the community over its name, especially Captain Hook, who had taken a
particular dislike of her. She had met Rumpel twice at Granny’s, both times
with Belle, who spat under her breath both times after she left: “Tart.”
“Because she owns a
bar?”
Belle looked at him
as though he’d lost his mind. “It’s the name!
It’s perverted! That’s not who we
are!”
“ ‘We’ meaning
Storybrooke ...”
“Yes ... of course
...”
“Who exactly are we, then?” he pressed.
Belle’s gazed
morphed into anger. “We’re not perverts, that’s who!”
Looking at Morgan
Adams now, he said, “I thought I’d see what all the hubbub is about.”
Morgan grinned.
“Liquor in the front, poker in the rear.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She patted his arm.
“Don’t believe everything you hear. We’re a first-class operation. Would you
like a private table, a little out of the way? What’s your pleasure, Dark One?”
He watched those on
the dance floor. They all appeared to be having a good time. They had thrown
off the shackles of the day and now moved and jumped and writhed freely to the
music.
“I think I’d just
like a spot at the bar, if you don’t mind.”
Morgan had noticed
what he’d been watching, and smiled. “There’s nothing like watching beautiful
people dance, is there? Come with me.”
She led him to the
bar, near its left end, where the view of the dance floor was the best. There
were two seats open there; she barked at the bartender, “Keep number two open,
Lily. I’d like Rumpel not to be bothered.”
The bartender wheeled
about, her eyes growing wide. Rumpel, for his part, was surprised as well.
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