Okay then, hello all. First Willard fanfic, and I'll admit I haven't seen the original. I've been doing my damnedest to get my hands on a copy of THAT since before I even knew they were making a sequel, but unless you're the type of person who can shell out around $40 a pop for that stuff, you're more than a little screwed there. Still, I loved the remake very much.

I own nothing. This is plotless, just a little vignette, a scene that never happened. Just testing the waters, after this I just might do a continuation story that picks up at the end of the remake. I hope more Willard fics start coming out here, I only saw three. One was okay but the other two... no. I consider myself fairly open minded, but no. Just... no.

Oh, by the way, if anyone on this forum actually remembers me as the creator of Edward Sporkfingers, you should know that's been started up again and moved to the Edward Scissorhands forum. And if you're expecting this fic to be like Sporkfingers, you'll be very much surprised.


It wasn't a very clean job.

The skeleton which now only vaguely resembled a cat was littered with pieces of skin and fur, red bits of flesh sticking persistently to the bone. One dim, yellow eye remained in it's socket, and it stared up accusingly at the man in front of it. A warm, red puddle spread out underneath, and tiny three-toed footprints extended out in every direction. Surprisingly, most of it's tail had remained unharmed, possibly because there was very little meat on it. Intact but smeared with ruby patches of blood, it stuck out sideways in a striking fashion, the rest was a sadistic mass of gore.

The man standing over this abomination saw it only for a moment, then staggered backwards, his already-pale face turning the color of lard. He hit the wall and allowed himself to slide down, eyes averted. His mouth trembled and twitched, and for a moment it looked as if he might be physically ill. But he just closed his eyes and grasped the bridge of his nose, warm tears sliding down the sides of his face. He allowed his perverse eyes to turn towards the carcass only to shrink back again seconds later. The tears stopped quickly, and he shivered against the cold basement wall, head turned to the concrete.

From out of the pocket of his coat, a tiny pink nose probed the basement air, twitching nervously. A white head appeared, followed by a round, furry body, which trailed behind it a pink, wormlike tail. The white rat climbed up Willard's curled arm, it's soft claws gripping the suit's dark, coarse fabric. It sniffed the salt tears on his cheeks and nudged him with it's nose. Still unsteady, Willard reached up and grabbed the rat off his shoulder, holding it protectively against his cheek in what seemed like an embrace, with concessions made for size.

"Socrates..." he whispered "What did they do?"

Socrates only responded by nipping the end of his ear affectionately. Willard closed his eyes again and grit his teeth as an unpleasant thought came to him. Gently, his placed Socrates on the floor next to the prone carcass and watched, allowing his field of vision to cover as little of the cat as possible. The rat sniffed the air around the bones, paused, then simply turned and looked questioningly at Willard. It did not further desecrate the corpse, and seemed absent of the bloodlust shown by it's fellows. Relieved, Willard snatched his companion off the stone floor and held him in his hands.

"I hate all of them, all of them except you Socrates." he whispered, as he had many times before. A drop of blood that had gathered on Socrates's whisker grew fat and fell to the ground.