Happiliy Ever After
The bright morning sun was bathing the room, and some of the braver sunbeams even dared to tickle the nose of the woman still sleeping in the huge, luxurious bed. When the birds around the impressive house began their song, loud and forceful, her eyelids began to flutter and she finally awoke. She sat up in her bed, stretched her arms gracefully and gave a little yawn before she leaned over to one side of her bed to pull a string dangling from the ceiling. Somewhere down in the house she could hear a bell ring. She then leaned back into her cushions and began to play around with her long, blonde hair while she looked out of the window. It was going to be another beautiful day.
After some moments, the door opened and in came the Horseman, carrying a breakfast tray, clad in a leather string. She marvelled at her brilliant idea of giving him a new head. She had been so sick of giving him orders without having a face to scowl at. Of course, his own head had been out of the question. And so she had created a new head for him. True, it was no masterpiece with its ghostly white skin, its unnaturally red lips, its narrow nose and its greasy-looking black hair, but, for hells sake, Rome had not been built in a day! As always when she looked at him, the words 'Michael Jackson' suddenly came to her mind without any apparent reason. She quickly shook her head to get rid of them. Surely there would never be anything as ugly as this head to wander the surface of the earth again! She relaxed and leaned back to enjoy breakfast while the no-longer-headless-Horseman busied himself by opening the wide windows and rearranging the stuffed heads of her latest victims.
As she sipped her fresh, self-made orange-juice, she tried to think of something to do for the day. Now that she did not have to follow the path of her great revenge every minute of the day any longer, she had recognised two things: the town of Sleepy Hollow had become pretty empty. And without a great plan to follow there was not much you could spend your time with.
Of course she could go to the graveyard and dance on the graves of her victims, but by now, she had done that so often that she could have done her 'Dance of the Dead' blindfolded with both hands tied behind the back, and she did not really feel like dancing today.
She decided that she would simply have to take revenge on someone for something. But on whom? She let her thoughts wander in the search for an adequate victim. There was old Mrs Van Sant who had recently stepped onto the hem of her dress without offering a convincing apology.
With a small but satisfied smile, she got a list of the townspeople out of her bedside table and began to write …
A/N: This is pure nonsense, and I own neither LVT (pity) nor the horseman (pity) nor Michael Jackson (yay!). A serious fic on this topic might follow.