Wednesday: [hooking up an electric chair] Pugsley, sit in the chair.
Wednesday: Because we're going to play a game.
Pugsley: What game?
Wednesday: [strapping him in] It's called, "Is There a God?"
Wednesday Addams was one who enjoyed the classics-in both the devices of torture as well as the finer works of literature, such as The Exorcist, Edgar Allan Poe (truly an Addams in his soul) and the assorted works of H.P. Lovecraft. The macabre was her life.
Yes, H.P. Lovecraft was her true inspiration. She wouldn't be half the Addams she was if she hadn't been read the Cthulhu Mythos as a bedtime story.
I must remember to ask mother if I can sell Pugsley's soul to Cthulhu and destroy humanity before I turn 18. Or at least locate the Necronomicon. Such a relief that mother sold our souls the day we were born, for extra durability. We can kill each other all we want.
Killing Pugsley five times would just have to do until then. Uncle Fester had promised to help her to find four more creative ways besides the stabbing for the play, following a burning at the stake. Witchcraft wasn't a good enough reason for that method of execution in her family. No, it had to be heresy. Heresy was so much more entertaining.
"On this day of darkness and despair, we burn the heretic." Wednesday Addams intoned, as she continued setting the scene for their little game, (aptly named Heresy) despite the plaintive question coming from the direction of a tied up Pugsley of, 'What's a heretic?' "Quiet," she hissed. "You're ruining the mood." After a pause, she began describing what would soon happen to him. "Your blood will boil in the flames, and many of your organs will melt. Your flesh may melt, so be ready for that, Pugsley. Squirm if you need to."
A solemn nod followed by a gulp was the only response from her brother.
From downstairs, her mother's voice called out, "Wednesday Addams! I smell smoke-are you trying to immolate your brother again?"
Wednesday paused in lowering the improvised torch (made from old rags and a broomstick) for a moment, before replying in a voice as deadly as the grave, "Yes, mother."
"Don't get any ashes on your clothing-we have family pictures in a few hours. At the stroke of midnight! Try not to make your brother unrecognizable!"
"Yes, mother...we'll be careful."
Wednesday watched as the Girl Scout stalked away from the lemonade stand in disgust. "Next time we run a stand, we're using people as the main ingredient. Remember our great great uncle Sweeney's methods of disposal?"
Pugsley grinned-obviously because he would not be on the figurative (and literal at some point in the future, when she finally finished building that guillotine) chopping block for the next few hours. "Cool."
Over the next hour, the two miniature miscreants would replace the more flammable ingredients (which were still causing Lurch to belch fire every half hour; the last time, two fire fighters arrived and sprayed him down with a hose, mere moments before he would have turned them to ash-to Wednesday and Pugsley's great disappointment) with a special blend of Grandmama's nightshade, a dash of arsenic, and something secret from a jar she had found in the attic, months before 'Uncle Fester' had them thrown out.
Lurch was soon called in to sweep away victims into a nearby ditch just out of range of the lemonade stand, where nobody could see anything amiss unless they looked very carefully. Occasionally a heartfelt moan would reach their ears, so they dragged over an old boom box to mask the sounds with the beautiful strains of Night on Bald Mountain.
It never took long to get a new customer, much to Wednesday's delight. In a rare case or two, the victim proved too wily and refused a glass.
Such had been the case of a strange boy no older than Wednesday. He guessed what they were doing, praised them for the idea, and ran off, prompting Wednesday and Pugsley to ponder on whether they had a long lost relative of some sort with a penchant for bow ties.
Shrugging to herself, Wednesday turned to Pugsley. "I think if things don't go murderously well with getting the house back, we should open a lemonade and freshly baked pie stand."
"What about adding free hair cuts?"
Wednesday looked at him from the corner of her eye (her attention was also partly drawn towards a group of disgustingly happy children skipping by them). "We'll make a maniacal serial killer out of you yet." But before his grin could finish forming, she continued with a quiet snort, "That would be too suspicious, though."
"Oh." Wednesday could practically taste his disappointment.
It was delicious.
We'll try that guillotine if we get the house back. A welcome home present to everyone...
Things were falling into place perfectly. The house was theirs again. Wednesday tossed a shovel to Pugsley, moments before two bodies were flung from the house, through the air, and straight into a previously dug hole, complete with pristine coffins which closed with an ominous thunk. Before they could cover the bodies, Pugsley had only one question.
"Are they dead?"
Wednesday used the logic of a thousand generations of Addamses when she replied. "Does it matter?"
He shrugged, knowing she was right, and went to work filling in the new grave.
As they threw down the final scoop of fresh earth, completing the burials of Tully Alford and the phony psychiatrist Abigail Craven, Wednesday glanced at Pugsley. Before the two of them began to walk back through the graveyard to the house, she thought of something dreadfully enjoyable. In the most solemn voice Wednesday had ever used, she commented, "You're next for burial, brother. Would you care for a new suit?"
"No, thanks." He hadn't even paused in his step; she had to give credit him for that. She threw her shovel over her shoulder, briefly smiling as an owl screeched.
Wednesday finally lay her head down upon her lumpy pillow, longing to dream about the clattering bones of her future victims. She crossed her arms upon her chest; her doll's severed head (Marie Antoinette, she was named) at her side, its crumpled body near her head.
Her eyes slowly closed, only to spring open as inspiration for more ways to kill Pugsley struck. A new method of torture to try. A blade slowly descending. Back and forth, to and fro. The Pit and the Pendulum style, before the blade would finally find its mark, and sink into flesh and bone.
Nobody heard Wednesday's evil chuckle in the solitary confinement of her room. Nor would they have cared if they had.
Because we're Addamses. Madness, psychosis, and the macabre are our children and our food.
And we gladly feast on those that would subdue us.