Chapter Text
The illustrious mayor of Gotham City cannot, of course, just show up at the nearest hospital with severe eye trauma – especially when said noble leader has been missing for several days.
As such, Oswald had declined Edward’s frantic pleas to allow him to drive them to Gotham General Hospital, and had simply called in the services of a man known throughout the higher rankings of Gotham’s underworld by the rather twee and unassuming moniker of “The Gingerbread Man”.
The Gingerbread Man, or Elliot Barnett – to his mother, at least – was a short, foul-mouthed Englishman bearing a mop of copper-coloured hair and a perpetual smirk, who was prone to interjecting a pop culture reference into nearly every conversation, regardless of whether he was engaging in polite small talk over coffee or digging a round out of someone’s mangled chest. A notoriously tight-lipped fellow, and seemingly impervious to pain – much to the chagrin of many a petty criminal who’d attempted to glean information from him – Barnett was also a former trauma surgeon, and now the owner of a modest but respectable bakery: Fabuleux Pâtisserie. Croissants and mille-feuille by day, gunshot wounds and viscera by night.
Elliot had arrived promptly and with little fanfare, bearing a large, oxblood leather physician’s bag and a box of assorted pastries, and had instructed Edward – in the politest way possible – to “Get the fuck out of my face while I’m working, mate”.
Edward had done just that.
The safe house’s bathroom was as modest and borderline dilapidated as the rest of the establishment: a faded black and white checkerboard linoleum, canary yellow-painted walls, one cracked porcelain washbasin with rusted faucets and a matching clawfoot bathtub, and a smaller-than-average toilet bearing a vivid chartreuse seat.
If none of this is real, Ed thinks, then which infernal purgatory did I pull this odious decor from? He giggles, partly from relief, partly from his own uncertainty, and the sound reverberates around the tiny room.
In a feeble attempt to make himself feel somewhat more human, Edward fills the washbasin – the faucet coughing and spluttering to life as he does so – and splashes his face with the icy water. Gripping the edges of the sink, he chances a glance at his reflection in the mirror above. He looks thoroughly wretched. His hair is a tangled mess of curls, his face is gaunt and sallow, and his eyes are puffy and bloodshot. He has the appearance of a man who hasn’t slept or eaten for days.
“That’s because you haven’t, moron.”
Ed grits his teeth. It’s no shock, of course, to find himself face to face with his leering counterpart once more, but that doesn’t make his presence any less unwelcome.
“I knew you’d come back,” his companion smirks. He looks downright pleased with himself – like a boy who’s just won the school spelling bee, and it gives him the aura of a man who has all the answers. Maybe he does.
“It’s not like I have a choice,” Ed hisses, “when you won’t fucking leave me alone.”
“Sweetheart,” the other Edward purrs, “where would be the fun in that? Anyway,” he glances from left to right and raises his hand to the side of his mouth in a mock-whisper, “I’d have thought you, of all people, would have figured it out by now.”
“That I’m completely insane. Check,” Edward growls. “I really don’t need you to inform me of such matters, but I appreciate your concern.” He runs the faucet once more and takes a sip of the frigid water. It tastes metallic.
His other-self clucks his tongue in disapproval. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. I really am going to have to spell it out for you, aren’t I?”
“If you don’t mind,” Ed spits, acerbically. What else does he have to lose? There’s a man in the next room having his eye seen to who may or may not be Oswald Cobblepot, everyone he’s ever loved is dead, and he’s arguing with himself in the mirror. Again.
“As you wish,” says the other Edward, sighing dramatically. “Buckle up, sunshine. This isn’t likely to be pleasant.”
He leans forward until the two men are practically nose to nose, their shared breath fogging up the surface of the mirror between them.
“Actually,” the mirror image muses, suddenly pulling back to ponderously stroke his chin, “there’s one thing about you that’s really been pissing me off. Well – more than one, but we can talk about what you’ve done to our hair later. What in all holy fuck, was the deal with Isabella?”
Edward glares at his reflection. “You know what she meant to me. What she represented.”
“I mean, you couldn’t have loved her. Not really,” his other-self continues, ignoring him outright. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be cavorting with her killer, am I right?”
“I could have had-”
“Right. A normal life and all that other inane bullshit. But did you honestly believe you were just going to plant your little picket fence with that woman and go to book clubs and wine tastings for the rest of your life? Boring,” he groans, drawing out the syllables and rolling his eyes with such melodrama that he may very well sprain something. “How long do you think you would have lasted until you got that itch? Needed that rush that comes with opening a man up and dancing around his insides? You think you relived all those murders because of guilt? Wrong-o, Eddie boy.”
The figure in the mirror leans in close once more and flashes a wide, ravenous grin, as if he’s about to share the punchline to the world’s filthiest joke. “They gave you a thrill,” he half-whispers. “Each and every one of them.”
“No,” Ed protests, backing away from the sink and stumbling against the toilet. He doesn’t have time for this, not now. Oswald needs him. He should really get back. Get out of this room. Except… “Kristen, Oswald, they were-”
“Accidents,” his mirror-self finishes for him, drawing exaggerated air quotes with his hands. “For being chock full of remorse, you sure seem to jack off to their untimely demises an awful lot. You forget, I see everything, because, well – I’m you.”
Edward buries his face in his hands in a vain attempt to hide away from this, the very worst part of himself. The part he’s tried to push down and forget about since he was a boy, when the scathing eyes of the adults in his life would inevitably fall upon him – judging, ridiculing – as if to say: Why the fuck can’t you just be normal? He can hear them all again now, a roiling orgy of mocking and disgust and utter contempt: You’re wrong; you’re rotten. That’s all you’ll ever be. Ed cannot discern one voice from another, but the words swell in his ears with such force and ferocity that he’s on his knees and retching into the commode before he can even begin to process it at all.
Don’t. Please don’t.
“What is that, shame?”
His other-self, no longer bound to the mirror but perched languidly on the edge of the tub, crinkles his nose and examines Edward the way one might view an unruly child pitching a tantrum in a grocery store. “Not a great look for us.”
Edward wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and glares at his counterpart. “Go away,” he glowers, though he knows better than to expect this iteration of himself to actually heed a command.
As expected, his doppelgänger takes a moment to mock-consider Ed’s request before continuing his allocution. “You’re missing the point, Eddie. And like any struggling student, you’re just going to have to stay after class until you get it right. So,” he smacks his hands together and grins, “once more with feeling. You. Need. Me. End of.”
Edward blinks up at his counterpart, waiting for the rest of his condescending spiel to unspool. “That’s it?” he asks incredulously, rising to his feet. “I need you? You have done nothing but interfere with my life for far too long. I’ve nearly lost everything because of you… Why are you laughing?”
The other Ed holds his side with one hand and dabs at his eyes with the other, as though some bit of utmost hilarity has brought him to tears. “Because – my dear, simple Eddie – you are so very stupid. How the fuck do you think you got here? I’ll give you a hint: Because I drove you to it. Your little breakdown back at the motel? The one that sent you to the docks for your heartfelt rendezvous? Courtesy of yours truly. If anything, you should be thanking me.”
Once more Edward sees flashes from the night that tormented him – Tom, Kristen and the rest; their murders played out perfectly, ad nauseam, with one key difference. “Remember that,” Ed murmurs, realisation dawning at last. “That was you.”
“Us,” his doppelgänger corrects. “All of this has been a product of our brilliance. It really is quite something. But, if you still don’t believe me, go and have a chat with ol’ cyclops out there. Now, I really must be leaving. Toodles, Eddie dear.”
And with that, he’s gone.
Edward returns to the bedroom to find Oswald alone at last, sitting up atop the faded bedspread, a cold compress strapped to his eye and his mouth smeared with chocolate. The bright pink box of baked French delicacies rests upon his lap, and there’s a half-eaten and rather sumptuous-looking éclair in his hand.
“Everything okay?” asks Edward. He perches carefully at the foot of the bed, and glumly contemplates his hands. “Is it- Did I-”
“Doctor says it’s going to be fine, once the swelling subsides,” Oswald replies, through a mouthful of cream and pastry. “Although my depth perception may suffer – for a short while, at least.”
Ed swallows hard. He doesn’t feel comforted by this notion in the slightest.
“Come sit with me,” Oswald says, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief and patting the empty space beside him. “I think you and I need to talk. Would you care for a pastry? They’re absolutely divine.”
Edward shakes his head, despite his stomach’s ravenous protests to the contrary, and makes his way around the bed to sit by Oswald. They remain there for a moment and contemplate one another in silence. Oswald’s expression is troubled.
“You really don’t remember anything, do you?” he says at last.
“I’m trying,” Ed replies, furrowing his brow, “and there’s bits and pieces here and there, but every time I try to focus on something... it’s sort of like white noise. I can’t seem to remember anything in detail... except shooting you. I remember that all too well.”
Out of the blue, Oswald laughs, and Edward half-expects his face to contort into yet another maniacal monstrosity from deep within his psyche – goading and jeering as Ed darts for the exit – but instead he has a small fit of coughing, and he thumps his chest to steady himself. “Apologies, my friend. I really shouldn’t laugh. It’s just... well, you never shot me. You shot Basil.”
“Basil Karlo?”
“The very same. Do you perchance remember a gentleman named Dan Murray?”
Edward frowns. The name sounds familiar, as if he’s vaguely reminiscing about a childhood friend. But that’s not right. Dan Murray. Who the fuck is Dan Murray? Dan... he’s... wait. He’s-
“The security guard?” Ed ventures.
Oswald nods fervently. “Yes!” he exclaims, clapping his hands together. “You sent him to cut me loose at the warehouse. Poor fellow didn’t have the slightest idea what he was getting himself into; I suspect you must have paid him well. You gave him an envelope to pass to me containing a key, and this,” he pauses, digging deep into his trouser pocket and producing a folded piece of paper, which he then hands to Edward. “I suspect this may jog your memory.”
Ed purses his lips as he reads, and as he does so, the static fogging his mind begins to disperse somewhat. The sensation is akin to stepping out of a freezing downpour and into the soothing warmth of a chamomile-scented bubble bath.
Oswald. I know this must seem rather strange, but I beg of you to hear me out. We’re playing a game. They’re watching. I need you to return to the mansion; they’ll be waiting for you.
Let them take you. Play along. Don’t give me up. Whatever you do, don’t give me up, or they’ll kill you. I need them to let me take you.
I’ve employed the services of a man with whom you’re now deeply familiar, for which I apologise – but they had to believe I wanted to bring you down. I truly am sorry.
They’ll take you to Sirens, where I’ll be waiting. I may say some hurtful things, and I hereby apologise in advance – but we need to be convincing. Basil is waiting too, in the trunk of my car. Gabe will be waiting for you, just around the corner.
They need to see me kill you; they’ll be watching.
Basil has remarkable regenerative properties – to this day I’m unsure if Professor Strange intended for him to yield such a power, but it certainly works in our favour. He’s been paid handsomely and has been coached with exactly how to react. I’ll take him to the docks, and I’ll shoot him.
I need you to take this key and go to 516 Cooper Avenue, where further instructions will await you.
Once you’re familiar with the plan and have gathered your forces, I need you to call me so we can meet up – we’ll meet at the docks – and execute the final phase. Don’t speak! I still do not know if they have me wired. Play the song. You know the one. You’ll find a tape of it at the address, amongst other things.
You’re my best friend Oswald, and I love you too.
Remember that.
Ed.
P.S. If you press the button on the key, you’ll find it’s also a small switchblade. Feel free to use it to shoot the messenger, as it were.
“I... I’d moved Tabitha’s M77,” Ed begins, eyes still fixed upon the letter in his hands. “I didn’t move it far... I didn’t want her to suspect foul play. Just far enough to buy us enough time to reach the corner of Partridge and Manx, which is where...”
He pauses, takes a deep breath and swallows. It’s as if there’s a tiny pinhole of memory in his mind, growing ever wider by the second. Soon enough the completed image will emerge and then-
“Gabe took you from my trunk, and drove away,” Edward concludes. “But it barely registered. When I began to drive again all I could focus on was what I had to do. Drive to the docks. Shoot Oswald. Shoot Oswald. Shoot Osw-”
“But you didn’t,” Oswald interjects, gently prising one of Ed’s hands from the scrap of paper and squeezing his fingers. His touch is warm, and Edward meets his gaze at last, shuddering as a tear pools in the corner of Oswald’s visible eye.
“I couldn’t focus on anything else,” says Edward. His voice is hoarse – thick and wet and choked with emotion. It sounds foreign to his own ears. “I’d coached Basil with how to react; it needed to look genuine. I... do not know what he actually said. I know what I think he said... because I’ve replayed it so many times since. It was-”
Edward clears his throat. He’s dimly aware that he’s perspiring – a cooling sensation trickling languidly against the heated skin of his forehead. He wipes his brow with his free hand.
“He’s a trained actor you know,” Ed continues, with somewhat of a strained chuckle. “But I refuse to believe he was that convincing. I think because of the situation, perhaps I heard what I wanted to hear. The things you- The things he said. He couldn’t possibly have-”
He breaks contact with Oswald and covers his face with his hands, fingers pressing deep against his eyelids. The insides effloresce into a murky crimson.
“There was so much blood, Oswald. So much. He sank until that was all I could see. My best friend – the only fucking person to ever see me, and love me for who I am – was gone forever. And it was all my fault.”
“Shush, Ed, it’s okay.” Oswald coaxes Ed’s hands from his face and gently directs Edward to look at him. It’s a steadying sensation, Oswald’s touch. He’s witnessed those hands being used to wreak pain and death dozens of times, rarely to comfort. Oswald makes it seem surprisingly effortless.
“It all went according to plan. Your plan,” he continues, his voice burbling with excitement. “My men are working on the final phase as we speak, and then we can put this unpleasantness behind us at last.”
Edward exhales softly at the notion, comforted by the idea that the hell of the past week will soon disappear like a bad dream receding from the dawn, and he and Oswald can start anew – as friends and, whatever else they may be.
“I need you to do one thing for me though,” Oswald chances, suddenly growing serious. He sounds uncertain, as though he’s rehearsed the request again and again, only to second-guess himself at the last moment. “If you would.”
Ed places a reassuring hand on his companion’s leg. Anything for you, he thinks. “Name it.”
Oswald exhales and picks at one of the remaining pastries, and Edward cannot help but find this sudden bout of jitters endearing.
“Ed,” he begins at last, “would you do me the honour of being my chief of staff once more? Unsurprisingly, you are wholly irreplaceable.” He chuckles nervously before adding, “And you did orchestrate your predecessor’s demise, so the position is yours for the taking. That is, if you-”
“Of course, Oswald. Yes,” Edward grins, and for the first time since this nightmarish ordeal began, he feels at ease. Like he could float if he had a mind to. “I’m honestly taken aback that you still want me, with everything that’s happened.”
Oswald quickly shakes his head and shifts so that he and Edward are face to face. “No, Ed, think nothing of it. You have been brilliant, my friend. After all that you have done for me – retrieving those bribes so I could win the election on my own merits, revealing Butch’s despicable treachery – I know not to question your methods. I trust you, Ed. With my life.”
Oswald looks at him like he’s gazing at a priceless work of art, and after years of being underappreciated at the GCPD – ignored and outright ridiculed by his peers – Edward hardly knows how to respond to such unadulterated admiration.
He grabs the smaller man without really thinking, drawing him into a warm embrace, and lets his eyelids drift shut. A bit of peace, at last. “I am so glad you’re alive,” Ed whispers into his shoulder.
Oswald squeezes tighter.
Tempting as it is to stay up all night to talk, they agree to try and rest. It takes longer than it should for Edward to finally fall asleep – as every factor, every detail of his comprehensive plan comes flooding back as if rendered in glorious Technicolor – though not because his mind is troubled. In fact, quite the opposite. He listens to the soft, peaceful sounds of Oswald’s slumber, feels the warmth of his slight frame nestled against his own. It’s nice and safe, in a way that Isabella never was, and never truly could be. The prick in the mirror wasn’t wrong, Ed knows. Life with Isabella would have caged him, reduced his being to a wholly unsatisfying and colourless existence. But that doesn’t mean he need be alone, either. He belongs here, with Oswald – to Oswald even. It’s a truth Edward has always known, from the moment they met, that deep down, Oswald is the same as he. Damaged and broken. Beaten, but not beat – and in need of someone to understand. Someone who will hold on in spite of the ugly things that would drive most people away – and perhaps even find something beautiful in them.
When he does finally close his eyes, it’s not with the fear that it will all vanish like a mirage in the desert; Oswald will still be here when he wakes. I am real, and I am not going anywhere.
Edward drifts to sleep with a smile on his lips.
The next morning, after a much-needed shower and assurances from Oswald that he would be perfectly fine while recuperating at the safe house, Edward returns to the Van Dahl estate to placate the city officials and reassure them that the mayor’s rumoured disappearance – no doubt leaked to the press by Barbara – was, in fact, a scheduled vacation and nothing more. They were, of course, initially obstinate, but ultimately swayed by superior wit and clever wordplay. Though he has to battle the urge to roll his eyes and berate them for their stupidity, in the end Ed thanks them for their concern with a tight-lipped smile and sends them on their way. Imbeciles.
But it’s done now, and he can return to Oswald and put his mind at ease. His empire is secure once more, ready and waiting for his triumphant return. Edward ponders dropping by Fabuleux Pâtisserie for more sweets – and perhaps a pastrami sandwich with spicy Dijon from the corner deli – when a string of thickly accented, broken English halts him in the foyer.
Oswald’s maid Olga had always viewed Edward with a disapproving eye, and had endeavoured – in the smallest and most petty of ways – to make his life at the mansion as unwelcoming as possible. Onions in his frittata, tepid tea, a mysterious shortage of towels – it was all circumstantial, of course, and not especially malicious, but enough to demonstrate that Ed was persona non grata as far as she was concerned.
From her dagger-sharp glare, it’s clear that Olga’s impression of him hasn’t thawed much – or at all.
“Mr. Penguin make me leave package,” she grumbles, jabbing a chubby finger towards the stairs, before muttering something in her native tongue and trudging off to attend to her other household chores.
“Charming as ever,” Edward sneers under his breath.
He makes a mental note to speak with Oswald about Olga’s salary, then climbs the stairs and walks the familiar path to Oswald’s bedroom. He pauses before the door, running his fingers across the heavy mahogany, before gently twisting the knob and pushing inside.
Oswald’s palatial bedchamber is just as Ed remembers, overlarge and imposing – perfectly king-like with its antique furnishings and high ceilings, and heavy brocade drapes that filter out all but a modest rectangle of daylight. He switches on a lamp and strides toward the lavishly made bed, upon which sits a sizeable grey box bound with simple black satin ribbon.
Edward hadn’t expected Oswald’s parcel to be a gift – and he’s not entirely certain that’s what it really is, until he opens the small white envelope tucked beneath the ribbon and reads the note inside:
My father once told me that a man can say so much about himself by what he wears, and I do hope that this small gift will speak volumes, my friend. After all, what we are embarking upon will undoubtedly leave quite the mark, and I truly can think of no better occasion to look one’s best.
All of my love,
Oswald.
Edward tugs at the ribbon and slides off the lid, a broad grin spreading across his face as the contents of the box are revealed. Oh, Ozzie, you’ve outdone yourself. He’s about to pull out his phone to call and tell him just that, when the device begins to vibrate in his pocket.
Speak of the devil, Ed smirks. What are the odds he’s calling with a grocery list?
“I’m just about to finish up at the mansion. Is there anything you need?”
The other end of the line explodes with a fit of high-pitched cackling; Oswald sounds positively giddy. “I am about to have everything I could ever need, my friend. We’re on. Meet me at the McCormick Street warehouse in an hour. And do not forget your gift.”
“Os-”
Too excited by this culmination of the grand scheme, he’s gone before Edward can utter a word. It’s no matter, Ed supposes, slipping the phone back into his pocket. There will be time for thanks soon enough.
He spreads the contents of Oswald’s offering on the bed with a measure of reverence normally reserved for religious relics and archaeological finds. It’s an impressive sight – not a single detail overlooked, and Edward cannot help but be awed by Oswald’s penchant for spectacle in the face of adversity.
This should be quite a show indeed.
****
Tight-lipped stoicism has continually been one of Edward Nygma’s defining traits, and occurrences that render him utterly speechless are few and far between. But upon arrival at the antechamber of his chosen establishment, seeing the fruition of his master plan laid out in full – the grandiose vicinity designed to his exact specifications – his jaw drops. A large window covers the majority of the wall before him, revealing his three honoured guests in the adjoining room, bound to chairs and gagged. Behind them stands Gabe, along with an assortment of Oswald’s finest hired goons – all armed to the teeth and bearing an expression of menacing sobriety. Upon a small table to his right, near the entrance to the main chamber, sits a broadcasting microphone and a large, open briefcase containing assorted surgical tools and various other implements of torment, and when Oswald joins him by his side, grinning from ear to ear, his breath is taken away entirely.
Oswald is wearing an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit; the vest is an ostentatious shade of deepest plum, and the suit itself is jet black – bearing delicately embroidered silver pinstripes. Upon his head rests a matching top hat – black with a deep-plum band – and adorning his bruised and bloodshot right eye, he’s sporting an elegant, silver-framed monocle. To complete the ensemble he’s wearing a full-length charcoal coat, made of velvet, with a luxurious fur trim.
“It was my father’s,” Oswald chuckles, gesturing at his eyewear. “I’ll probably need to wear it for a while. But it rather suits me, don’t you think? My father once said-”
“A man can say so much about himself by what he wears,” Edward grins. “I cannot thank you enough for my gift. It’s absolutely perfect.”
Oswald’s opulent gift to Edward had been a bespoke, shamrock green suit made of cashmere – a blend so fine it practically appears iridescent under light – complete with matching bowler hat and a glistening golden cane topped with an intricately crafted question mark.
“I was unavailable, of course. So I had Olga choose the fabric,” says Oswald, in somewhat of an awed tone as he regards Edward in full. “She may struggle with the language but she certainly has a keen eye for fine tailoring. I’d had the cane made for you some time ago – knowing your proclivity for puzzles and theatrics – but the timing never seemed quite appropriate.”
Edward grins, prying his gaze from Oswald long enough to observe their surroundings once more, and finds himself rendered speechless for the second time in as many minutes when he catches their reflection in the large window in front of them. They cut quite the dapper figure in their extravagant evening wear, and Ed is taken aback by just how well the contrasting styles of grandiose attire somehow compliment them both. As a result, he’s suddenly struck with an overwhelming concupiscence for Oswald, fuelled by the notion that this masterful scheme – his scheme – has played out exactly as intended.
He embraces Oswald without a second thought, trapping him against the cool surface of the window, and eagerly presses their lips together as their combined headwear tumbles to the floor.
“Can’t they see us?” Oswald murmurs through the kiss, his hands groping ardently at Ed’s buttocks.
“It’s a two-way mirror,” Ed replies, playfully nipping at Oswald’s lower lip. “Those duplicitous dunces can’t see a damn thing.”
“But Ed,” Oswald breathes into his mouth, “are you sure we have time for this?”
Edwards smirks, giving Oswald’s zipper a tug as he does. “This is my plan,” he growls. With all manner of haste he spins Oswald around, ungracefully yanking his coat to the side and pulling down his trousers. “And I say we have all the time in the world.”
With that, the captive audience in the adjacent room is forgotten – mostly.
While Oswald squeezes his eyes shut – bracing against the window as Ed unceremoniously spits into his palm and pushes himself inside – Edward’s eyes are fixed upon the glass, the pleasure of the occasion and the smug satisfaction of complete and utter victory fuelling every feverish roll of his hips. He’s certain not to last long; he doesn’t even care. This is his fucking moment, at last.
Oswald’s heated breath – exhaled in ragged puffs as with each jarring thrust he’s slammed roughly against the glass – briefly fogs up the two-way mirror, and as the opaque vapour dissipates, Ed catches his own reflection, lips curled into a smirk, simply watching for a beat before nodding once and giving Edward a wink of approval.
Edward grins back as the apparition vanishes – his demon embraced rather than tamed – and he reaches around to tend to his companion’s neglected cock. It takes only a few frenzied strokes before they come together – Ed cackling wildly, one hand wrapped around Oswald’s dick and the other clutching the fur trim of his coat – the small space resonating with the lewd echoes of their tryst.
While Edward was correct in his assessment that their honoured guests could wait for his and Oswald’s arrival, he’s filled with no small amount of relief that the time has finally come to deal with this trio of degenerates once and for all.
After gathering their hats and pants and smoothing their attire, Edward presses the transmit button on the microphone with somewhat of a flourish. The three captives in the adjoining room look around, wide-eyed and startled, as a piercing shriek of feedback fills their immediate vicinity.
“Ms. Kean, Ms. Galavan and Mr. Gilzean,” Edward begins, the intonation of his voice falling with unmitigated menace. “I’m so honoured you could join us for today’s activity, and I do so hope you enjoy it because it’s one of my favourites. It’s a little game I like to call ‘How much blood do I really need?’ ”
Oswald collects the briefcase of various torture implements as Ed lets loose a boyish giggle and hoists his cane aloft with a showman’s flair, unable to keep his glee over the impending carnage in check a single second longer.
“Well then,” Edward grins, draping an arm around Oswald’s shoulders. “Shall we?”