#criminalconundrums

[dielaughiing-blog]

criminalconundrums

"Riddle me THIS, riddle me THAT

                   - don't you ever get bored saying the same thing OVER AND OVER?"

[offbrandbatman-blog]

; criminalconundrums​ ​liked for a one-liner starter

“I will not apologize for art.”

[fatehaschosen]

I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry knowing that Harvey would be tickled pink to get to debate ethics and philosophy with just about anyone knowledgeable, but he deliberately doesn’t with Edward just for spite, and because he really just does not want to hear him talk any longer than totally necessary.

[aintyourpuddin-old]

criminalconundrums replied to your photo: YO HAPPY MUNDAY I ALMOST FORGOT

WOW CUTIE GOSH!

SO ARE U BB :*

[aintyourpuddin-old]

criminalconundrums:

           Plastic clatters against a wall – raised voices and one stands out among them, all but screaming. The Arkham staff are hustling through the hall of cell block 42, carrying with them syringes packed with sedatives and straight jackets clad in buckles to restrain violence. Down the hall, other inmates hoot and howl to egg him on: they always do. Edward’s temper tantrums are legendary, after all, and to witness one is a vastly entertaining thing, indeed, if one is so inclined towards the concept of schadenfreude as most of the residents of the asylum happen to be. It began with Joker, two cells down. It almost always does when it comes to one of the other rogues breaking down in a display of violent emotion.

           Sitting in the cafeteria commons, Edward had just tongued his medication and thrown them out with the leftovers of his meal, ground up with his knuckles and a tabletop and sprinkled over the remains to leave as little tangible evidence as possible.

           “If you’re so smart, Eddie-baby, who’s the Batman? Hmm?” posed the Joker, sitting beside him and allowing absolutely no personal space in the gap between them. He put his arm around Edward’s shoulders in a palsy bit of condescension and when Edward refused to acknowledge him, the barbs began.

           “Ooh-hoo-hoo!” Cackled the clown, standing up and assuming a ringleader’s pose most befitting of his current role in circumstance. “Ladies and gentlemen – and Waylon! – our resident Riddler, the smartest man in all the world!” He strode around him like Vana White, even popping a hip with a bit of flamboyance. “We’ll be giving you Gotham trivia for two-thousand today, old Ed. Let’s see the master at work, hm?”

           Attention had been gathered. The entire commons was watching them, holding their breaths for Joker to do something entirely out of context like slam Nygma’s face into a coconut cream pie he happened to smuggle in in his boxer shorts.

           “Solve it for us, then! Who is the Batman? Why, I reckon you’re the only one of us who hasn’tfigured it out! You must make Daddy real proud!”

           And that was when he snapped, abruptly standing and swinging his plastic chair around to clock the clown square in the jaw with the hard angle between the seat and back rest.

           “I’ll kill you!” he shrieks presently. Familiar faces of his criminal peers are all laughing at him. He’s not enough: inadequacy floods him and turns his face bright red and with tears in his eyes he’s wailing that he does know! That he did figure it out! Fair and square! He just can’t – he can’t –give the answer to the riddle. Searching for some kind of relief among the humiliation surrounding him, he sees one face that isn’t smiling. The orderlies are readying their needles, and his anger turns to panic.

           “N-No! Please, no! I’ll behave!” he’s begging like a child for them not to strap him down, for them not to sedate him and turn him into a drooling and brain dead zombie on a cot. The physician accompanying the orderlies relents momentarily, glancing around the room awkwardly. He’s not used to hearing men with tears streaming down their faces beg. Gruff voices in the rowdy crowd mock him for his lack of masculine dignity. He’s pathetic, and everyone in the room knows it.

           “Harley – “ Edward chokes, appealing to the one face that didn’t laugh, “Tell them – I’m-I’m fine! I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine, please, I’ll be fine — !“

Now, see-- normally, Harley would be right there with everyone else, causing as much havoc and mayhem as physically possible, hoping to escalate things into a full-blown riot where she could sneak off somewhere and escape the island. She knows Arkham like the back of her hand-- all those years ago, back when Jerry Arkham was still running things, she was the one to help him draw up the remodeling plans before the Asylum’s grand reopening. And while the place has gone through a number of renovations since then, the basic structure remains intact: thus, so does her knowledge of every nook and cranny available to slip off into without being seen.

But this isn’t normally.

This is bad.

She’s small, and she doesn’t like to make a spectacle of things like this, so she stays towards the back of the crowd. She knows who’s up there. If she gets involved, it won’t be pretty. So she just nurses the tiny ice cream cup she earned for good behavior a few rows back, not wanting to watch, but not wanting to miss out on it, either. And then he sees her.

And then he says her name.

And dammit, she hates it when they sedate him.

“-- HEY!” It’s not enough to command control of the situation, but it’s enough to garner everyone’s attention. She pushes her way past a couple patients and a couple orderlies, keeping a tight grip on that orange cream cup, plastic spoon held tight between clenched teeth. “Outta my way. I said outta my way, I’m a doctor, move it or lose it--”

Once she’s in the clear, she takes the spoon out of her mouth and sticks it into the ice cream. Then she plops herself down right next to Eddie and all the guards trying to restrain him. She flaps her hand at them until they loosen up, and then she offers him the ice cream.

“Yer gonna be fine, Eddie.” She smiles, mostly at him, but for a moment her eyes flash to the doctor and her lips tighten (make a move y’ old geezer I dare you). “Yer fine.”

[drwxst-archived-blog]

    ❝ things tend to get messy. ❞

[catisms--archived]

♢♢ ;; criminalconundrums based off this post 

“Well someone is pretty self-assured. That’s a lot of confidence for one man,”