Something Rotten

Rex Prince was standing in his office. The lights hummed in a dull baritone while the plastic blinds bounced against the white window sill, propelled by the AC vent above him. He lowered his head into his hands.
"This headache will not stop throbbing," he mumbled, "Those ridiculous pollen trees coat my car and the inside of my tender lungs."
He coughed, and then opened his office door, thinking to himself that he should get a cup of coffee to relieve the pain. He opened the door to the small kitchen in the back of the copy room. Claude was there too. He turned and smiled at Rex. He was holding two steaming coffee cups.
"I thought you looked a little ill," he said, handing him the larger of the two mugs. "Allergies and pollen have the same effect on me as you apparently."
Res brought the steaming cup to his nose and inhaled. It smelled sweet, most likely Colombian. He drank deeply, the steaming coffee sering his throat. The drink hit his system like raw adrenaline, causing his nostrils to flare and his eyes to open wide. It was delicious, but held a hint of a pungent taste Rex had no explanation for...
(Act Four, Scene One...)
"Olivia, get your butt down here so we can talk!"
Claude let go of the stage banister, and turned away, facing the audience his hands crossed against his barrel chest.
"I don't know what she is doing up there. She has been looking for her sweater for the last half an hour."
Claude turned and faced the leather couch on which Horatio and Hamilton were sitting patiently.
"Where is your dad again?" he asked slyly.
"Upstairs." replied Hamilton.
Claude grunted and looked at his watch.
"I am going to get her," he said as his ran up the stairs taking two steps at a time.
After about thirty seconds of silence in the living room, Olivia came bounding down stairs pulling a sweater over his head.
"I couldn't find it till I looked under the bed," she said, grinning at both of them. She turned to Hamilton. "I thought your dad was asleep, but his door was open?"
"Well, he's taking his five o'clock nap..." said Hamilton his voice trailing off.
He got up, and jogged up the stairs. When he got to the upstairs landing, his dad's door was indeed open. His heart froze. Muffled bumps and scraping were coming from the inside of the bedroom. Hamilton braced himself, and charged into the bedroom his fists barred, ready for a fight. Claude was already there, a dripping knife in his bloody left hand and his dads neck in the other.
"He just wouldn't die fast enough," he grimaced, turning squarely to face him. With a yell, he leapt forward at Hamilton, the knife bared. Hamilton side steeped the mad Claude, flattening himself against the bedroom wall. Claude tripped, stumbled, and then landed on his own knife with a scream. He moved no more.