As the former collections manager of an Edgar Allan Poe museum, I can't resist. "Berenice," with dealer's choice of characters.
Me @ myself: damn
[Um ok this got a bit long, like 1941 words long, but it’s Scriddler and I hope you’re ok w that bc I gotta get back to writing my boys. Well. I guess you can say mentions of Scriddler, but nothing solid. Also a bit dark on the relationship part.]
Berenice: loss, fixation, memory.
[ But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. ]
1
Often when one enters a career that binds them to work until the early hours of the morning, when the sun is tentatively peering its head up from the horizon and the city lights are fading away as an indicator to the people to wake up, they know better than to get expectations. When this career further includes activities that many would deem dangerous, or immoral, these expectations are further to be limited. The only expectation a criminal can have is the expectation that they will be inevitably caught. They cannot even anticipate success; if you do, you gain a large ego, and this is how you collapse.
Jonathan knew of a man who had begun to anticipate his success. Yes, he knew of this man quite intimately; he had spoken through bars to him and had been forced to share showers. Often when you share showers with someone that’s about the time you stop trying to be shy around each-other. There is nothing sacred when you’re both inmates at the exact same institution. Even when you try to hold your tongue from others, the walls whispered for you.
His first memory of this man was their initial encounter, not in Arkham, but crossing paths at a bookstore long before they became what they were now. He had been vibrant but irritable, turning the corners without looking and practically causing Jonathan to lose the stack of important novels that he intended to take home and hunch over for the evening. He had offered no apology and nor had Jonathan. They had exchanged a mutual blank stare as Jonathan readjusted the stack and pushed his glasses up, before they moved past each other and to their intended locations. He had failed to see him coming, but what he had not failed was to note the novel the man held in his hand as he passed; ‘The Fall of the Human Intellect’ by A. Parthasarathy. Both controversial and conceptual. A unique taste.
The second memory of the man was quite a time later, long after Jonathan had grown settled into the routine of chemicals and testing versus educating and grading. Late evening hours had become his equivalent of day time, and he had found himself frequenting renown locations of Underworld dwellers to generate some sort of interest in funding what he desired to create. He had a name by then; The Scarecrow was no longer associated with the figure in the cornfield. By now, people were thinking of gaseous substances and their rooted terror when the name was uttered. This was how he had found himself located at the Iceberg Lounge. If there was one man who liked things that could benefit him, it was Oswald Cobblepot.
Oswald Cobblepot, however, was preoccupied with another client and Jonathan had been subsequently forced to sit outside on some excuse of a chair to wait. He had discarded his now typical attire for something more casual, but a briefcase was gripped in his hand. Some things never change when you move from Professor to Rogue. The sound of the door opening, followed by the chatter of two men of which one he knew, had broken away the train of thought in return for attentiveness. There had been no anticipation, however, of seeing who he saw with Cobblepot that night. In fact, the last time Jonathan had recalled seeing him, they had nearly collided with one another at a dingy bookstore on the corner of Cherry Street. The man had recognized him as well, given the sly smile that had broken upon his face mere seconds after exiting the room.
The approach had been long and tedious, and when he had finally stopped in front of Jonathan, he had extended a hand as if it were a right.
“I don’t think we ever formally said hello. I’m Edward Nygma, but you might know me as The Riddler.”
Jonathan had stared at the hand for a moment before taking it. Edward had spoken with a self-confidence that was admirable, but perhaps a bit too obvious. If anything to Jonathan – a trained psychologist – it had felt superficial.
“Jonathan Crane, but you might know me as The Scarecrow.”
That had been the instigator of what was to become one of the tensest affairs Jonathan had ever had to formally deal with. He and Edward clashed personality-wise. Edward was extroverted, excitable, egotistical, and exhausting. Jonathan felt more inclined as an introverted, impassive, indecipherable individual. They had shared similar traits, however. Both were passionate about their work, both knew intellect served above all else, both were masterful at complex plans, and both hated the bat enough that they could tolerate working with one another for more than one evening. Perhaps that was where a majority of their toxicity began to form.
Jonathan had become fixated on the way Edward Nygma’s mind worked, and he had acknowledged this to himself. He had become fixated on his thought process, on what drove him, on what set Edward Nygma off to become The Riddler. Jonathan had known for a fact he was always fated to become The Scarecorw; childhood neglect and rejection from peers created a perfect recipe for a psychotic break. Edward Nygma, on the other hand, seemed far too composed for him to become The Riddler. This had made him something of a fascination; like a regular citizen listening to a convicted killer recount in grotesque detail their crimes, Jonathan had felt himself becoming more and more interested each time Edward opening his mouth to speak. When they had worked together in close confinement, within the cells of Arkham, Edward had opened his mouth a lot.
“Jeremiah can’t properly grasp the concept of what I’m telling him. I, personally, prefer Leland; at least she made an active effort to solve my riddles rather than telling me over and over how ‘this is unhealthy behavior’.”
They had been eating lunch, in their usual spot located away from most of the inmates. Often, they were joined by a few stragglers; Hatter, on occasion Harley although she spent the most time in her cell, and once in a while Harvey when he had nowhere else to be. This time they had been alone, however.
“It is unhealthy. It’s compulsive, and most of the time it’s the reason you end up here.” Jonathan had only been half minding the conversation, deterring the rest of his attention to the two guards who had been staring them down from the entrance. Each time they had leaned close to whisper to one another, Jonathan had been sure to look directly at them.
“I’m aware of that, Jonathan, and if I could control it I would. Jeremiah Arkham will last one more session with me before he ships me off to Young, or Thompkins, and I know this.” Jonathan had drawn one slender finger across the corner of his mouth, all while staring down the two guards still.
“How do you know so confidently?” He had still only half been listening at that point.
“Because I always know. I always know the outcome of these things. These Doctors, they’re like clockwork – they like their set systems, and when you twist one bolt just out of place, they send you over to the next Doctor instead. They don’t like to feel like they’re out of control.” Now he had looked to Edward, only to be met with a stern expression and a self-assured gaze. Edward had been hunched over his plate at that point, and Jonathan had known that Edward Nygma was exactly the mind he wanted to pry at.
Those moments had felt like eons ago.
Time changed, as did life along with it, and many years had passed since Jonathan had looked at those two guards in Arkham. They hadn’t done what he thought they would that evening, something he was relieved about. Men in positions of power could be ruthless; there were experiments to prove such things.
Time had also changed his standpoint with Edward. Although he had continued to study the man, falsifying their friendship to gain insight into his workings like some lab rat under scrutiny, becoming too involved with a subject often led to things getting far too personal. Yes, he had come to know this man quite intimately, surpassing the boundaries of physical contact to something even he was uncomfortable with. Perhaps this had been what had created the rift between them, the toxicity that had begun to form those years before. The toxicity that had eventually overflowed and created burns that would likely not heal for a long time now.
Edward had left two years ago, likely to catch bigger fish than what was lurking in Gotham City.
Too many people in this city now, all stealing or creating their own gimmicks. It isn’t as it should be.
His logic was sound, his thought process clear, but Jonathan had offered no insight. He had sat quietly with his back facing Edward as he spoke, only half listening as he had in Arkham, and using the rest of his attention to focus at the task at hand. Their conversations no longer held the interest they once did.
Metropolis is pointless, and I don’t feel like getting massacred by some Demi-God. Maybe there’s some other town nearby.
Edward had always talked, even when Jonathan had wanted him not to. The Iceberg Lounge, on heists, at dinner, in the bedroom, always talking, always saying what was on his mind.
What I’m trying to say here, Jonathan, is that we should go. Everyone else is moving on and we’re practically the last ones left. Are you even listening to me?
Jonathan had offered a sound of half-acknowledgment. Recollection of what had occurred next was vague, but he recalled a few other phrases being thrown about, before the sound of Edwards boots moving up the basement steps echoed out and faded to obscurity. Then there was sound no more. Sound no more, except for what was made by the beakers and the chemicals bubbling away.
After that, he had not seen Edward. Fall faded to winter – a peaceful one without the disruption - and winter to spring, which also passed with no disruption. Spring faded to summer, and to fall once more until a full year had passed since that discussion in the basement. Still no Edward. No letters, no messages, an absolute dead-air.
Jonathan had not minded. He had been accustomed to this for many years and had decided it was for the better. Research could be accomplished more successfully without the interruption of hands on your back, or lips on your neck, or fierce yelling in your ear about the stupidity of some vigilante. Although he did find himself reminiscing perhaps a bit too longingly on his relationship with Edward, memories he promptly pulled himself out of, the one thing that couldn’t be argued was that he could finally complete his work.
The only expectation a criminal can have is the expectation that they will be inevitably caught. A criminal should not expect to be able to maintain successful relationships especially if they are in the same career as you. They should not expect joy or a feeling of completion to be gained from such relationships. They should not expect success, they should not expect fame, and above all, they should not expect for happiness to be derived from the immoral path they elected to follow.
They cannot even anticipate success. But Jonathan had known a man who had anticipated his success – and wondered if he had achieved it yet.
Oh, jeez, I wasn’t expecting anyone to actually answer this. No one has before. Well, this will be a learning experience for us both!
1. If someone, for whatever misguided reason, wanted to really understand me… well, I’ll stick with one piece of media for each or we’d be here all day. They should read The Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King, because it was the book that made me fall in love with fairy tales. As for comics, they should read Hellblazer, Saga of the Swamp Thing, Runaways, and Sandman (okay, I cheated on the one piece of media rule). They should watch The Rocky Horror Picture Show, because it was hugely influential in making me realize that I’m queer as shit and also I’m garbage. They should listen too… oh gosh, this one is hard. Uuuuum… probably Postmodern Jukebox, because it’s basically my #aesthetic.
8. Pink Floyd was the band that got me into music, and will always be my favorite artist. Floyd, and Roger Waters in particular, were hugely important to shaping my political worldview and making me the angry leftist I am today. David Bowie and Queen were both super helpful in coming to terms with my queerness, and Under Pressure is my favorite song of all time. Voltaire and The Dresden Dolls have been instrumental (hah!) in shaping my attitudes towards the way I approach my own art, and The Art of Asking is one of the most helpful things I’ve ever read.
11. The sun decides to take a day off so it’s just night. I have a mug of Earl Grey tea and four blankets to keep me warm because it’s super chilly. I can hear the wind outside, waltzing with the fall leaves. The house smells like apples and cinnamon. I’m curled up on the couch, one hand on my cat, feeling the vibration of his purr, and the other is holding a good fantasy book. I finish the book and make dinner, most likely lasagna (I’ve really been craving lasagna). I enjoy a bottle of wine and curl up on the couch with my partner while she tells me about her day at work. We stay up late and then eventually fall asleep cuddled up with our furry little son at the foot of the bed.
19. Wit beyond measure, bitches.
22. 1) Making bread (I’m a baker at Panera).
2) Vegging out because I’m exhausted from work.
3) Reading, but not enough.
4) Neglecting my writing duties.
5) Talking to @batmanisagatewaydrug about stupid superhero shit.
Since you're really into EDM, could you recommend some "chill" EDM tracks/artists that I could just kind of zone out to while I'm working on art or writing? Most of what I know is pretty high-energy and it makes me fidget rather than focus. Thank you!!
What I’d suggest is to look into psytrance. I can’t tell you exactly any psytrance producers because I don’t listen to it a lot but there’s a YouTube DJ called DJ Electric Samurai that would be a good place to start.
I follow you because you're a literal ray of sunshine and you have the best edits, baller fics, and the dankest memes. Also, Sylvester is my boi and I <3 him.
Ok so to begin we’ll talk about my housecat Bonnie. Bonnie is a domestic short hair that spends 50% of her time meowing sporadically, and 50% looking between her food dish and you as if expecting you to clap your hands and fill the said dish. I’ve had her since 2009, and she had a brother but he passed away last year, so now she’s solo queen of the house. Bonnie was named after Bonnie Parker in the infamous Bonnie and Clyde duo because when we first adopted them from the rescue shelter they were stealing food from the dish of the cat in the cage next door by reaching through the bars and pulling the bowl over. I love Bonnie, even though she wakes me up at 4 am by meowing and sitting on my stomach, and she’s just so good I weep every time she looks at me
My second cat is Osgar. Honestly nobody knows what Osgar is, but what we do know is he suffered a nose injury which makes him look like he’s a roman statue in cat form. Um Osgar is a barn cat who spends a good portion of his time in the fields hunting for mice and rabbits, which he has no qualms in delivering to us despite our gentle protests for otherwise. Often if you praise him for being a great hunter he’ll get all prideful and then leave which is a blessing bc we really don’t want mice bodies in the office. Osgar doesn’t like to move much otherwise, and he’ll often intentionally sit in front of you, preventing you from walking until you pick him up and carry him to HIS desired location. He tries to act tough, but he’s a huge suck and if he doesn’t know where everyone is always he gets really upset. He’s at his happiest when we’re all gathered together and he’s with us.
Other than that, I don’t really have any PETS – I mean we got bats that live under our shutters and we got a cardinal that wakes us up when the cat doesn’t, but they don’t count. So yeah!
If Sylvester was to get one of the Lantern power rings, which color would he get and why?
1. gIRL HOW HAVE YOU BEEN I HOPE YOU’RE DOING WELL!!!
2. Sylvester would probably be an Orange Lantern. Orange Lanterns center around the emotion Avarice, or extreme greed. I write Sylvester as being an individual who is, in his own right, highly greedy and envious. Not only does he want to establish a namesake for himself and continuously wants more and more land to make this aspiration come true, but he’s also constantly in want of more people to distil and more praise for the ‘art’ that he creates. His greed knows no bounds really - he’s a depraved individual who constantly wants and wants and wants to replace what he can’t have. From people to respect to attention. Therefore, since Orange Lantern focuses so much on this, he’d probably get that ring.
