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John clutched my arm, forcing me to trot along with his stretcher.
If the odds were in his favor, John would’ve died on the operating table. The paramedics asked me whether I wished to accompany him, for “emotional support.”
I refused, telling them I wanted to head home instead.
They nodded and pried John from my arm with some effort; the leftover bruises stuck to my skin for an entire week afterwards. My regained freedom only sent me into a state of perplexion; I briefly wandered the parking lot until the cops shooed me home.
“You don’t want to end up like him,” the man eyed the ambulance, “…messing with the wrong people.”
“Yeah.” I replied, then hurled my guts onto his shoe.
A short while after, Arkham called me back. I complied, like the idiot I was.
Admittedly, part of the reason I gave in was that they told me they were assigning me a “low-maintenance” charge. Not a screamer, won’t defecate on the floor, and most crucially, won’t cause an “incident” like John.
“His brain is completely fried.” Tom unlocks the ward.
“Won’t bite or scream, see,” he moves the stand to the middle of the room, “he’s basically a lamp.”
I had to agree with Tom momentarily, I rarely did. Jonathan Crane, aka the Scarecrow, like his namesake, is pinned to a stand by his straitjacket, eyes muddied blue.
“Jesus, how much did he take?”
“The bat injected everything into me,” Crane mutters, his voice like fine sand, “till the very last drop.”
I turn to Tom.
“A talking lamp.” I say, hopefully sounding as acrimonious as I intended.
“He’s not to blame,” Crane continues his rambling, “I’ve built up tolerance…their assigned dosage wasn’t enough to keep me down.” He smiles, “You’d have to blame the Bat-Man, hmm? He made me—“
“Save it.” I interrupt.
Tom starts to unfasten Crane’s restraints. No longer bound, Crane's unsupported body slumps to the ground, writhing restlessly. His thin undergarments rode up his body, exposing skin, pale due to lack of sun exposure. Sensing my gaze, Crane blinks at me, an almost nonexistent smile rising to his lips. “You can fuck me if you want,” he spoke, “everyone here does it.”
“No, thanks.” I respond.
“Relax, I’m nothing like my ‘neighbors’…you won’t end up like John.” Crane states. I’m tempted to ask how he knew of John, but stopped myself in time. The wheels in my head start turning, connecting the dots.
God, I want to throw up again.
Knowing that I’ve arrived at a conclusion, Crane stares me down, eyes no longer cloudy, his gaze piercing like an ice pick, penetrating my calm facade. He knows. My limbs feel stiff as I back away, nearly tripping over myself. Low-maintenance? Crane’s every bit as deadly as the rest of the lunatics. Tom should’ve tied him to a bed, I thought. Yet Tom merely stood there, both he and Crane looking towards my direction.
“So, do you want to fuck him?” He asks.
“You’re mad,” I take notice of his bulging erection, “are you serious? Didn’t you learn anything from John?”
Tom shrugs, stating: “He’s safe.”
“Exactly. I’m safe.” Crane echoes.
“You have got to be kidding,” I retort, “we’re talking about the scarecrow. Jesus, tell me you’re joking.”
Hand snaking towards his own crotch, Tom orders me to stand guard.
“Since you’re already by the door.”
If I was wise enough then, I would’ve turned away and left him locked inside with Crane.
But as I’ve previously said, I’m an idiot.
Tom tears off Crane’s bottoms, revealing pale pubic hair and his limp penis. Crane spreads his scrawny, pale legs; his inner thighs are covered in marks. He wasn’t lying, Arkhamites did enjoy using him. Tom spits into his own palm a few times, grips his half-erect cock, and starts stroking it.
“You’re missing out,” he says to me, “he’s a great fuck, better than some whores. Granted, even better when he still held on to his pride, but beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’m not interested in rummaging through trash.”
I must have said it out loud because the smile on Crane’s face widened. Bucking his hips forward, Crane let Tom penetrate him, the revolting sounds of their act echoing in my ears, like someone pounding on a piece of spoiled meat.
John’s face.
Cold sweat soaked through my shirt.
Tom and Crane are also sweating profusely, sweltering and sticky, due to their fucking. Crane’s lips are puffy red, not unlike a blowup doll, parting and closing along with Tom’s thrusts. Crane’s relishing in my fear and abhorrence, that I’m sure of. He’s been contemplating me the entire time, the bastard, making sure I take in every detail—making sure I see him pinned to the ground, being held by the neck, with Tom’s dick ramming his insides. Crane knows exactly what’s going through my mind: that relentless hammer. Thump, thump, thump. He knows, and is getting off to the thought. Poor Tom, thinking it was all due to the work of his own cock, grows more frantic, even starts to yank at Crane’s soft, brown locks, making the villain refer to him as a god. The god of absolute nothing, I suppose. Crane obeys his commands, in a most wanton voice, a twisted hybrid between gentleman and whore, every note gradually stroking Tom’s ego towards his climax. The villain deserves a fucking award: For his performance, for being a top-notch whore, a master of manipulation.
Fear turns into fury. I crave nothing more than to bash his face in. Thump, thump, thump. Until nothing remains.
“Just like John?” Crane remarks.
“…John?” Tom, still head deep in post-orgasmic bliss, sounds as if he just heard someone else’s name drop from his own wife’s mouth.
“You murdered him, did you not?” Crane continues, “you killed him, then framed the deed on someone else. Did you truly believe no one would find out? Arkhamites could smell their own kind, darling. Nothing goes unnoticed.”
With that, I snapped Tom’s neck.
Crane chuckles.
“Would you consider working together?”