Raoul is pretty sure his Uncle Nancy is dead.
I mean, he's sure looking and acting like all the dead things Raoul has seen. His eyes are closed shut, his mouth's hanging open, and no matter how hard the boy pokes the old man's arm, he doesn't do that thing where he smiles, pops one shimmery white eye open, and asks if he's come to hear a story in that muddy, swampish accent all his uncles have.
Eventually, Raoul turns away from his Uncle Nancy, steeling himself for the task of delivering the bad news to his parents — he feels two quick taps on his shoulder! Uncle Nancy isn't dead! He spins back around, a bit too far around, and he has to catch himself — and!
Wait, Uncle Nancy hasn't moved? Raoul steps closer to examine him, and yep, not an inch's difference from last time. He pokes his uncle's arm again, and right on cue the old man's eyes leap open like a pair of startled frogs and he yells BOO! Raoul's ass THUMPS against the damp, greenish scum that coats the boards of Nancy's porch, while his uncle leans his cobwebbed rocking chair back and laughs for a second or two.
‘Nancy extends a calloused hand to Raoul. As the boy takes ahold of it, he can’t help but notice the gnarled hand's resemblance to the Daddy Long Legs that lives in his Uncle's beard.
Nancy helps Raoul stand and slides a stool in front of his rocking chair for him. Raoul sits down.
"That wasn't very nice."
Nancy chuckles, responding: "It’s whatcha get fer always innerupting my naps, couillion. Now, I reckon you wanna hear a story?"
Raoul nods enthusiastically, and Nancy smiles and rubs his silky beard. The smile soon tries to exit his face, but Nancy quickly keeps it from betraying his newest of many secrets, that being that he's run out of stories to tell his adopted nephew, and on the kid's tenth birthday, just to make it worse.
Nancy silently supposes it isn't terribly surprising, given he's been telling the boy at least one story every day since he was old enough to walk from his parents' house on his own, and a fair few before that. He considers retelling a story, and immediately strangles the notion.
Even if he could use one he hasn't told in long enough the boy won't remember being told it, he wouldn't do his nephew such an indignity. But! The smile soon widens, and it's genuine too, because Nancy has had an idea. He’s told the boy lots of stories, ones about just about every place there is on Earth.
Except one. He hasn’t told the boy any of the stories of La Rue Macabre. Hasn’t told anyone, actually, the thought just hadn’t crossed his mind. He supposes if it works telling Raoul these stories, he could put them in wider circulation. As such, the matter has been settled. But which story? He could tell him about how he was - no, kid’s not quite old enough for that yet. It wouldn’t do to tell him how poorly his parents were doing before he came, as it might produce some improper ideas in his young mind. So, like a man judging the fate of nations, he eventually selects a story.
He speaks, out loud now.
"Son, you wanna hear a story 'bout your uncles Joe and Scratch?" The ends of Raoul's eyebrows scrunch together, and the boy asks:
"What d’you mean? You ain’t tell many stories about anyone here, ‘cepting yourself."
Nancy responds, "Despite its truthfulness, I take offense to such a baseless accusation. And I'm tryin' something new, couillion."
"You mean you don't know what story to tell me," Raoul says. Nancy huffs a facetious sigh.
"T couillion, you must stop accusing of such untrue things!" He shakes his head in an exaggerated display of annoyance, but he does it a bit too hard, and a spider falls out of one of his blank white eyes. He immediately snaps an arm out, catches her, whispers her an apology, and allows her to climb back into the webs behind his lids.
He then picks up a half-full bottle of Gentleman Jack, waits for a second, and a shot glass emerges from his half-opened mouth, carried by a tarantula. The glass is filled, and the tarantula makes its way back into Nancy's stomach. Soon, the Jack is set back down, and Nancy gives satisfied lick of his lips.
"Good liquor, that. Thank yeh Denton."1
Nancy clears his throat. "Where was I? Oh, Joe and Scratch. Well, one day they was out fer one’s their nights, you know how it goes.
