✩Will & Griff✮

| neither of us are guilty of several counts of arson | Gothamite | Asks are open |

[got-ham]

Pinned post time

Will:

- ORIGINAL Tumblr user got-ham

- gay

-they/fae

-tailor, stage actor

-do not ask me what happened during 2021 I don't know either

Griffin:

- local blog parasite

- unlabeled

-he/they

- unwilling medium, bookshop employee

- 2021 didn't happen

[kingofcondiments]

D: awww no, I'd be happy to watch the movie!! With you!!

It's a comfort movie to me anyways

-🐁

Whuh.? I mean, you don't have to! But. well I guess it would be nice to have company for once eheh. Ahem. The king won't be home until late though I'm afraid as he is feeding his many loyal subjects at the diner and also ice man (???) is here tonight which is CRAZY.

[got-ham]

when did you start using eheh. oh im typing this out now and its clicking that its a cough

[footlongdingledong]

dip shit you are not turning into the joker. you are barely even turning into the penguin or th e ice guy

[kingofcondiments]

Condiment King Gets Sold To One Direction The Secret Six

It wasn't a bad day out, Mitch thought. They were about two hours out of Gotham city—which direction, he couldn't remember—and the orange sun hung lazily against the horizon like a ripe fruit. He was bleeding from somewhere. Maybe it was someone else's blood.

Right now, Mitch was in the backseat of a station wagon, wedged between Bane and Deadshot like a sardine that had, through some strange circumstance, found himself crammed in a tin with a bluefin tuna and a sturgeon.

The Secret Six (exact headcount currently unknown) were doing something or other—whatever big cheese like them did, he guessed. Go here, kill guy, get paid, so on and so forth.

Somehow, he had also gotten involved. At the Iceberg Lounge, if he recalled correctly. He had been running his mouth to Catman—ah, right, Catman—and then there were shots fired, and the rest was a blur. He distinctly remembered, in the cacophony, stepping in something squishy and wet. He had looked down to see his foot in someone's disemboweled abdominal cavity. That foot was still encrusted up to the ankle with dried viscera.

At some point, he had ended up joining the fight, though he was entirely unsure who was on what side and why.

"You know how much bleach it's gonna take to get this shit off me?" Deadshot groaned, motioning to the half-dried yellow stain across the front of his suit.

In the moment, nobody had been particularly concerned about receiving friendly fire from Condiment King. Now, however? Deadshot had definitely killed people over lesser slights.

Hugging the canisters in his lap, Mitch replied, "Oh, I wouldn't use... er- well... Unless chlorine gas is your bread and butter? Warm water and baking soda might do you better."

Even with the windows down, the smell of sweat and ripening gore permeated the hot car. Admittedly, the condiment residue wasn't helping the situation. The thought arose to Mitch that he should've been punctuating his sentences with "please don't kill me" but with the heat, the nausea, and squished between two sweat-slicked men built like marble statues, his focus had begun to slip.

"That aside, bleach would lighten the material, Mr. Lawton," Bane added. "Surely, I do not have to explain the result of lightening a red suit."

Up in the passenger seat, Mitch heard Catman scoff.

"As if the hotshot back there even knows how to do his fuckin' laundry."

"Can your marital dispute wait until we make it to a motel?" the driver, a butchy woman Mitch wasn't familiar with, chimed in.

Deadshot said, "Much obliged, sis. Ain't that right, Blake? Not in front of the children."

Catman let out an exasperated sigh, but didn't respond. The man's cowl was off, and wind was blowing through his long, wavy blond hair.

In Mitchell's experience, skin-tight cowls didn't typically result in good hair days, but it seemed the laws of the universe bent to accommodate the whims of the truly badass; people like Deadshot and Bane. They were the sort of A-list criminals to which logic needn't apply. A few years ago, the idea of Catman's presence among their ranks would've been as ludicrous as his gimmick.

People could say what they would about Condiment King, but at least he wasn't a pale beige bootleg of the Batman. Mitch had told him as much, back at the Iceberg; that just because people respected him, now, didn't mean he was any better than the other lowlifes Mitch had slummed it with.

Maybe it was envy. Maybe it was a horribly misguided sense of pride. There was camaraderie between Gotham's most laughable villains in knowing that they would suck forever, that they'd never win, and that they'd all die trying regardless.

The stretch of highway they'd been speeding down got rougher, jostling Mitch against his companions. He leaned forward, resting his chin on the cool metal of the canisters in his lap. They were part of the rig of pressurized tubes that fed into his arsenal, which he'd taken off his back while being shoved in the car. The condiment guns themselves were barrel down, propped between his knee and the center console. He hoped the tubing had survived thus far without getting any kinks or tears.

He briefly considered what he'd do if they were damaged. The condiments he was slinging weren't exactly food-grade. In fact, it was an acidic solution of potent allergens and biochemical irritants, all of which he'd arbitrarily combined with a large helping of culinary flare. Frustratingly enough, Batman never seemed particularly affected by it, but it was enough to induce anaphylaxis in the average person.

Deadshot scratched his chest, absent-mindedly, then lit a cigarette and took a puff. No good. Residue on the marksman's fingertips, now transferred to his lips. He'd be fine, Mitch thought. Probably.

They hit another pothole, and his thoughts scattered, again. The heat, the proximity, the skin against skin. He grit his teeth and tried not to think about it. He didn't belong in that car. He had no idea what he was doing there, at all. Mitchell Mayo was a pathetic little man with few friends, no surviving family, and several personality disorders. Never went to college. Never really did anything with his life, besides once landing himself a brief stay in Arkham.

People only touched him as an act of self-sabotage, and usually woke up hungover and feeling a bit disgusted with themselves. He'd make breakfast, coffee, offer to pay for the cab home as a consolation prize for briefly sinking to his level of indignity, and then they'd pretend it never happened. He only had to refer to Exhibit A, currently in the passenger seat, to know that much was true.

Some song by Sublime poured quietly out of the car’s half-busted radio.

Mitch nervously chewed the dry skin clinging to his lips. Finally, he cleared his throat, “Not to imply I don't relish our time together, but I was wondering when I might… Make like a banana and split?”

“You may not,” Bane answered, curtly.

“... What?”

The driver explained, “You’ve been conscripted, Mr. Mayo. Courtesy of Killer Moth.”

“Huh?”

“Back at the lounge. He bet you in poker,” Catman said.

“Can he do that? I don't think he can do that. Wh- what do you even want with me?”

“Substitute freak. Ragdoll’s been on leave, and it's damaging morale,” Deadshot shrugged, ashing his cigarette out the window.

Mitch blinked in disbelief, “But… What about my cat?”

Bane gave his head a pat, “You may bring it to the House of Secrets with the rest of your belongings.”

He took a moment to digest that. Killer Moth had sold him out to the Secret Six, so he could be… Their new team member?

So much for camaraderie.

“There is one condition,” Bane continued, gesturing to the driver, “That is Scandal Savage. If you touch a hair on her head, I will show you a new frontier of agony that is so complete in its decimation that you will no longer recall your own name. Understood?”

Crickets sang as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. An old station wagon flew down the still-warm highway, the music skipping and jumping with the tires across sections of shattered concrete.

They said every dog had its day. In Gotham City, every dog had an ill-fated team up that ended with their brains splattered and baking on the concrete; Lunkhead, Magpie, Blockbuster, Mr. Combustible, the reaper had even gotten goddamn Polka-Dot Man, the poor boy, and those losses were all in the last 5 years.

Condiment King was a dead man walking.

[got-ham]

i come to a house on request for a poltergeist. ghost is just some guy who says hes not doing shit. look around. black mold again. can we get like a fund for dehumidifiers in this city im begging.

[kingofcondiments]

I had a curious thought, a reeeaally curious one, what's your favorite pokemon??

or favoritesss since people can have more than one :3

- 🐁

@got-ham I don't know pokéd men you have to help your old man

[got-ham]

outsourcing really quick with more pokemon fluent people but we're banking on the bread dog right now. dachsbun..

[kingofcondiments]

I DO LIKE RHUS THING;!! Aruff aruff ‼️

[got-ham]

other responses have been smeargle, tatsugiri, and swirlix but it seems the savory list of pokemon is short. hence the painter pokemon.

[kingofcondiments]

I had a curious thought, a reeeaally curious one, what's your favorite pokemon??

or favoritesss since people can have more than one :3

- 🐁

@got-ham I don't know pokéd men you have to help your old man

[got-ham]

outsourcing really quick with more pokemon fluent people but we're banking on the bread dog right now. dachsbun..

[kingofcondiments]

Hey you want a spare liver

My mother (god rest her soul) always told me never to accept livers fromstrangers

[got-ham]

who sent this

edgelord

pyg

secret third answer

Voting ended onJun 19

[got-ham]

you people cant just say secret third answer and not say what you think it was wtf

[kingofcondiments]

I wasn't scared before but now I am

[got-ham]

dont worry king ill protect you from this mysterious third option and by ill i mean griffin we'll make mr roll tide do it

[kingofcondiments]

Hey you want a spare liver

My mother (god rest her soul) always told me never to accept livers fromstrangers

[got-ham]

who sent this

edgelord

pyg

secret third answer

Voting ended onJun 19

[got-ham]

you people cant just say secret third answer and not say what you think it was wtf

[kingofcondiments]

Hey you want a spare liver

My mother (god rest her soul) always told me never to accept livers fromstrangers

[got-ham]

who sent this

edgelord

pyg

secret third answer

Voting ended onJun 19

[got-ham]

feeling sympathy for matt hagen rn #lame

[got-ham]

feeling really fucking dumb about the whole thing and trying to remember that it happens sometimes but like. idk man

[got-ham]

"what got you kicked?" shaped shifted into penguins mom and then lowkey highkey threw up at the table in my defense i have not drank in a while so i forgot my limit was a lot lower also like did not know that guys mom lore dont put a photo of your mom over the bar next time sorry man

[got-ham]

got too bad and kicked out sorry city of gotham -will

[got-ham]

bottle of melon soju down griffin ordering the uber to iceberg will update with a review if i remember <3

[kingofcondiments]

Order fried pickle spear 👍

[got-ham]

griffin will be doing that for now im not a pickle guy tbh ill update you in a minute

[got-ham]

what are ur fave drinks

creme de violette and soda which will not get you drunk but its so so good -will

Japanese whiskey and sour. if you just get a whiskey sour they give you the cheap shit and it taste like licking a newly varnished table - griffin

[got-ham]

pregamed too hard goddamn