Everything had been going perfectly, atleast, that's how Mrs Lovett would have described it, but not Sweeney.

Sweeney would've said that thighs were nearly adequate. That his plan to get Judge Turpin into his barbers, get that man dead and dealt with, had nearly came into fruition. But tonight, tonight was a night like no other, tonight was anything but adequate.

The streets of eighteen-twenty-four London was dark. Pitch black, only illuminated by the gas lamps positioned along the sidewalks.

It was the complete opposite of how things were at midday: bustling, loud, the roads filled with many people. Orphans from the workhouse, women stuck to the arms of their horrible husbands.

It had started off normal. The evening was busy, Mrs Lovett had many people coming into her pie shop. Sweeney had been busy with clients, struggling to keep the mess of blood to a minimum, until he arrived.

Judge Turpin. The Judge Turpin who had sent him away, and had ruined his life. He couldn't waste such an opportunity — the very moment Judge Turpin sat upon the barber chair, he entered a frenzy mode. He slashed, the room became a reflection of the violence he had just inflicted, the life he had just sniffed out.

Sweeney sent the judges limp body down the chute, which would've dumped the judge down into the bakehouse, for Mrs Lovett to place into her world-famous pies. He was revelling in the monnet. Dopamine rushed through his veins, adrenaline was nonstop—

And then he heard a blood-curdling scream from the bakehouse. Sweeney Todd was covered in blood, it stained his white sleeves, his face, his palns. He quickly went down the stairs, descending into Mrs Lovett's shop, and then down another flight of stairs into the bakehouse.

She was looking down at Judge Turpins body, he had been clutching at her dress, just hanging on to life. "What's the matter? What was the scream for?" he said, coldy, observing the scene infront of him. He shoved her out of the way.