Edna took his hand willingly. She trusted him because he was the great grandson, she believed to have paid a visit. Leading her down the way, a long corridor that opened up into an abandon warehouse if seen by the naked eye. To the elderly woman, with hair white as smoke and moles that dotted her fair skin like chips to a buttery cookie, it was a palace. A room made of prestige and honor. Christened by the highest power and decorative in all its splendor. Her place to reign to Knights of some Templar or one of the host of servants in decorative armor, stood upright. Saluting her arrival. Passing them by as if she were the true Queen of England. In this land, the one of make believe. The one where illusion casting benefitted the wicked, led the weak but actually the strong to be slaughtered.

Intentions were hidden during this crusade as he played the loving heir to a throne just in simple reach. For him it was an old office chair with a broke wheel and to her it, the seating was a throne. One carved in gold with fastened jewels deep rubies and such, sparkling big and bright like she once dreamed about. As one woman's dreams were becoming true, much could be said about the others in place. They were the brutes. The battalion of war. The forgotten by families who only cared to drop them off at a facility where visitation dwindled. The lonely and often misused.

Never to say he was misusing them in the moment when he wanted to make a few dreams this reality. It took some gusto. Find tuning of trickery and good old fashion deceit, to turn a party of ten attending Bingo to them entering a newly found fever of retaliation. She told him, as he helped her into the seat, he was her favorite of them all. Why wouldn’t he be when entertainment to the highest degree was slowly in order. He reassured, pressed his lips to the back of her hand, the bowed. Informing her the show would be underway. The royal room, one where gatherings took place. Parties were to be held. Excitement of combat would take place.

As her servants of the court lined up on either side of the room, the others, those fit to fight were arriving on the merits of their anger. She saw, with her aged eyes, warriors worthy of a charge. Wealthy in pride while wanting to give the woman a show she soon wouldn’t forget. Each contender trampled in with their respective weapon of choice. What was a mace had really been a cane. What had been a sword, was a walker lifted high in the air, shaken with might and vigor. Battle axes, spears, the weaponry blacksmiths crafted with hands made in God's order to create, were nothing but the items that loitered around the abandoned vicinity. These men and women were snarling to cause pain. Howling for blood to be spilled. And he stood by her side, hands clasped before him as a smirk happened to appear before the games begun.

Edna, the quiet of the bunch, stood up slowly and shot and arm out to initiate delivery of the real enemy for the slaughter. They were a demanding bunch, spittle flying from dry lips. Curses of displeasure for the young having to take their place and mishandling the space they called home. The elderly were a bunch to reckon with and in the eyes of Ms. Edna, who was married to the late Breck Goldstein, and had five children, all of whom lived in far away states, saw the pent of frustrations. The ones overlooked by their caregivers. The belittled way they were spoken to as if all motor skills or wits about them didn’t mean much. She shook her fist and bellowed out in a shaky but strong voice, BRING OUT THE SONS OF BITCHES!

By her order, bodies of strangers who had been tied, made to feel as hogs readied for the slaughter, arrived reluctantly by the parting of a closet. Magic at work kept them from speaking or it was really the fabric tied around their mouths. Earlier the pleading took effect and they by no one else’s fault had became the winners of a field trip. While masked as the great grandson, a future prince, he snickered internally. Waiting to die of laughter and in hysterics as the bombarding hoot of Edna's contenders ready to show the weak there was no place for them any longer. He lowered his eyes, closed when the ropes disappeared, the gags went the same, and left the involuntary to those fit for combat.

Anyone's eyes would have looked away, his did, yet he felt Edna's tack on to her fellow residents at the assisted living home, surround three who threatened to fight back before the first strike landed. Within the crappy mechanics of some older woman's great-grandson, Mephisto jigged to the sound of mobility accessories clanging against the weaponless. The shock of it all was cringe inducing. Damaging to those being attacked because they were innocent but not as innocent as all imagined. The younger punks had a way of disobeying elders, or disrespecting them because they knew of being unable to defend themselves. This time, under Edna's rule, that all changed.

Fighting back was looked down upon and they did try. Even acting the part as a spectator, he winced at the whacks connecting and scrambling of trying to get away. Doors had been sealed. Windows blocked out by darkness, if there were any. Hand claps and hooting from behalf of the respected elder, filled his ear and he could have left them to their own devices. In which he did when backing away while all those in the room of make believe, folded away instantaneously as if there was no existing. He walked the way that led forward up a street filled with hell's minions. None of his own but they were some acquaintances as long as they left him alone.