Join or Die…
Summary: This is her band now. If you don't join you die. If you join and then desert, you die. Nothing less than perfect is accepted. Anything else will be eradicated. Perfect attendance, perfect technique, perfect form. All marchers shall remain undeniably loyal to Drum Major Gretchen. Because it's her band now.
Author's Note: This is a rather scary and grim story, it has been classified under horror for a reason. There are countless deaths, sadism, plenty of blood and all that good stuff. Yes, the Drum Major is a perfectionist to the limit :) Just know that you have been warned! Hehe. Now, enjoy!
The band director, Mr. Wasserman, surveyed the tall girl in front of him and inwardly shivered.
So this….this is to lead my band?
She was towering, around six feet tall, had choppy black bangs that always covered her eyes, and a huge, creepy, demented grin that literally stretched ear-to-ear.
"Gretchen…well…congratulations….I'm certain you will make a fine drum major."
Actually, he wasn't certain. Far from it. It felt letting your own child go and explore the back alleys of Hollywood. And everyone knows what that leads to.
"I'm…..glad you think so…." She mumbled, setting her bag down on the band director's desk and dropping her arms to her sides, giving him a full view of her pink shirt, decorated with a panda. It was like one of those sickening kawaii-desu anime things that all the flutists were into these days. On the very bottom of the shirt, the words, "Everyone gets my hug" were inscribed.
It was scary. She giggled absentmindedly, a high-pitched, soft, eerie noise that seemed to reverberate throughout the dimmed office.
Peeling his eyes away, Mr. Wasserman turned around and lifted a hangar off of the uniform rack, handing it to her. He silently prayed she would take care of it. It had to be very specially made to fit her skeletal form; you couldn't just buy it off in general sizing. She immediately unzipped the plastic "storage bag" that was covering the uniform and reached in, letting the material slide between her fingers.
When she looked up, her band director had gotten out a shako-with that fluffy thing, she thought, and a long, sliver mace, the end coming to a sharp point.
If anyone could see her eyes through all that hair at that time, they would have sworn that they were glowing.
Reaching out as if in awe, she took the items, and without hesitation, slid the shako over her head so that it pinned her bangs to her eyes, pulling the strap underneath her chin. Gretchen then hefted the silver mace into her hands and spun it around, presumably trying to get a feel for it.
"I'm Drum Major now."
Mr. Wasserman looked up.
"Hm-? Oh…yes, Gretchen, you are." Strange. He turned back to the massive pile of music on his desk, ungracefully knocked over by Gretchen's bag, and began attempting to sort it into piles.
Just then, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He was slammed back into the wall, his head hitting the tacks on the bulletin board. Gretchen had one, huge, spidery hand planted on his chest, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not get her off.
"I said…..I'm Drum Major now." Her flashy white grin began to widen even more, if possible. The band director began to panic.
"Gretchen! I told you that already, now let me go! You know I could have you-" However, he was silenced by a powerful blow to his head, no doubt delivered by her other fist.
"Isn't the Drum Major…kind of like…..the leader of the band?" She mused, almost eagerly, like a fascinated young child.
"Yes….." He breathed, not knowing what to say, hoping he'd get out of this unharmed.
"That's what I thought!" She beamed, nodding her head eagerly. The feathers from her plume tickled his forehead. "Because…in that case…..we don't need you anymore!"
She placed her hands on his face, one huge, bony, appendage on either side of his head.
"Gretchen, what are you do-!"
She smiled. She twisted. He snapped.
Yup. First death of tons more to come! Read and review, I love it when people give me feedback!
The next chapter will be up soon!