The Cold Hand of Death

The door jingles open, gaining Sweeney's attention. In strolls a highly dessed aristocrat who demands a quick shave before he goes to a wedding. Grumbling consent, the barber seats the gentleman in the chair, preparing the lather behind his back. Secretly stropping one of his razors until it is sharp enough to cut the leather, he mentally marks the customer's throat where he would make the wound. "When does this wedding take place, sir?"

"Jus' shut up an' do your job, barber," the aristocrat says impatiently, jumping when the keen blade nicks his skin, drawing a bead of blood. "Careful what your doing! I can't go be the man of honor looking like I put my head through a window!" The razor glides smothly over his flesh, sending shivers down his spine. "Very good, that's more like it. Keep this up and I'll give you a nice tip."

By then, you will no longer be on the earth, vermin, Sweeney thought sadistically, already picturing the spray of gore that would coat the floor and angled windows. "And what is the young lady's name whom shall be wed?" Upon hearing the name, the barber suddenly snarls, creating a thin line of red along the man's jaw. "You? My daughter Johanna will be marrying you, not Judge Turpin? What lies has he been telling you? Is this a plot to drive me out of London so he can separate us forever? Tell me!"

Yelping, the aristocrat leaps from the chair, chin covered with blood. Meeting Sweeney's murderous black gaze, he begins to fear for his life. "L-look here, Mr. T-Todd, no one is marrying your daughter, I swear it! Judge Turpin has n-never spoken to me in my l-life! You've got to beli---No, get away!" Stumbling backwards, the man narrowly misses the barber's deadly arc, banging into a chest by the door. Whirling, he desperately tries to wrench open the door, but it is locked from the outside. Feeling a pair of iron-like hands grab his shoulders, the aristocrat screams as he is hauled to the chair again, unable to fight Sweeney's wiry strength. Catching the arm with the razor, he attempts to disarm the crazed barber, yet watches the blade inching closer to his exposed throat. Abruptly loosing his grip, the man gasps as the steels slices his skin, rapidly simming vision seeing a fountain of his own blood dousing his murderer.

In a split-second, the icy cold hand of Death robs the young aristocrat's future, using Sweeney Todd as its deliever.

A/N: Plz let me know what you think.