BlueyCapsules | VOLUME TWO

Charlie Horse

 William was already so sick of these bloody robots.

God, what the fuck was Henry thinking with these things? Bonnie and Fredbear were enough on their own, but at least they were manageable - performing maintenance on all four of these stupid things was going to give William carpal tunnel. He huffed, glancing up as the door swung open. Oh, Great. Just fucking swell; As if his day couldn't get worse, now that stupid Irish prick was here. Boseman approached the stage lazily, cigar in hand - William was starting to believe that man had a serious smoking problem.

"Henry!" he called up to the stage. "How are things going up there? You fixed that problem with Chica's arm yet?"

Henry sat up, looking absolutely elated, and the most awake he'd been all morning.

"I'm working on it, Mr. Boseman! It's being a bit stubborn...you're here awfully early, sir - Have you come to help set out the party floor?"

William wasn't a fan of whatever this...blossoming new relationship was. He watched bitterly as Henry climbed down off the stage to meet Boseman face-to-face.

"Well, I can't, unfortunately," Boseman explained. What a surprise. "I have a meeting to attend in about half an hour. Bu-ut, I have brought some extra hands to help out."

Extra hands?

William looked up, and immediately felt sick to his stomach.

Half-silhouetted by the light shining in from the open front door, standing in the pizzeria lobby were three children. Three Irish, red-headed children, all with a nasty look on their face. Well, actually, the smallest seemed happy enough, as he was slobbering all over a lollipop, which was a whole different kind of annoying. William clambered off the stage to get a closer look, feeling completely stunned. There were now four Irish pricks in his beloved restaurant.

"I don't believe I've introduced you to my kids yet," Boseman said calmly. He gestured to the tallest of the bunch, dark-skinned with deep red curls. He was dressed in...God, William didn't know how to describe his outfit, Irish punk? If you asked him, the kid looked a bit like he'd been attacked by a werewolf, with how many rips there were in his clothes. Nothing in his outfit matched. Was he wearing a U2 shirt? Who listens to U2? "Gabriel, my oldest." Gabriel looked away when he was introduced, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"My daughter, Cassidy." The girl seemed angrier by far, scowling and crossing her arms tightly. Her hair was more orange, could've passed for a strawberry blonde if William didn't know better - it was tucked into thick braids. She was dressed appropriately for a girl her age, he figured, a knitted yellow sweater and some colorful jeans. Her most notable feature, other than her nasty expression, was the headgear fastened firmly around her jaw, and the thick chunky braces lining each of her teeth. No wonder. If he had those, William supposed he'd be pissed off, too.

"And my youngest, Jere-"

"Daaa~a," the little boy whined. "I told you already, it's Jerry!"

William already did not like Jerry.

While the other two seemed closer in age, Jerry looked much younger - six or seven, William guessed. He was...he didn't know how to describe him. He looked like he'd stepped directly out of a 1920s black-and-white cartoon. All that was missing from his stupid little outfit was a sailor's cap and he'd be perfect. Henry didn't seem to hold the same shock that William did, stepping toward the oldest boy and extending his hand.

"Hello, it's wonderful to meet you all! My name's Henry."

Gabriel looked down at Henry's hand and then back up at him blankly, his lip twitching with disgust.