Tuesday, October 30, 2007

296. Media communique

Men and women of Gotham City:

Tomorrow is Halloween, a day long associated with horror. And horror you shall experience in a form more intense than any mere motion picture or amusement park ride.

You have already begun to feel the iron grip of the Honest Men. Tomorrow that grip shall tighten.

Events will unfold in front of Gotham City Hall after dark.

You have been warned. Sleep well, my darlings.


Monday, October 22, 2007

295. Jonathan Crane

The recent demonstration impressed my employers, as I knew it would. But now is not the time for self-congratulation; my work must intensify.

To that end, I have devised a new experiment involving the subject who called himself the Batman.

First, I must recapitulate an overview of my strategy. With each of the four subjects, beginning many months ago, long periods of total isolation were coupled with increasing dosages of the fear toxin. This had the effect of destabilizing the men's psyches; they learned, first, that they were vulnerable in ways that they had previously worked hard to overcome. Once their denial of their mortality was removed, I began to make clear to them the utter helplessness of their situation. Their familiar costumes were removed, and they spent a transitional period completely naked (but for their masks). In time, they were assigned the new uniforms they now wear, accompanied by certain privileges, like the ability to see--but not speak to--each other for a few moments at seemingly unpredictalbe intervals. Before each such visit, they were administered a strain of the fear toxin that rendered them terrified of their former colleagues, thus feeling even more alone—and ever closer to me.

In my next experiment with the Batman, I shall begin to take fuller advantage of the intimacy he feels with me. This should prove quite ... interesting.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

294. The omniscient narrator

Their command performance ended, the four prisoners were placed in leg irons and shackles and marched back to the brig. "Time to clean you pigs up," one of the officers said. At his cue, another two men turned on a huge hose and sprayed down the captives. Great blasts of water soaked their hoods and clothes, nearly pushing them to the ground.

Batman and the others made no attempt to resist, but their passivity did not stop the guards from delivering a beating. Batons raised, the guards attacked the heroes, laughing as their victims doubled over.

"Remember how tough these fuckers used to be, when they first came here?" asked one uniformed man. "Just look at 'em now."

"Yeah, it's amazing what a steady diet of fear gas, torture, and mental conditioning can do," replied another.

"You can say that again," said the first man. "OK, time to lock 'em down for the night." Turning to Green Arrow, who was lying in a heap at his feet, he barked, "Get UP, asswipe!" When the Arrow failed to respond, the guard kicked him three more times. "Am I gonna have to DRAG you in there? All right, then--you got it."

The guard leaned down and hooked his arms under Green Arrow's armpits, then hoisted him up a bit. Other men did the same with the other three barely conscious prisoners and slowly dragged them to their respective cells. These were tiny spaces outfitted with filthy portable toilets, a couple of wool sheets stretched out on the bare floor, and a pair of dogbowls apiece. The wall of each cell was bare but for a large poster of HateMonger himself, bearing his photo and the words YOU ARE NOTHING. WE ARE EVERYTHING. A high-wattage incandescent lightbulb hung well out of reach overhead.

When the captives were locked into their cells, the lights all went out at once.

"What're you doin' after your shift ends?" one of the guards said to another in the darkness as they headed for the door, their path lit by flashlights.

"Dunno," said his companion. "Work out, watch some tube, have a beer, get some sleep. Same old same old."

"I hear ya," said the first man. "Same old, same old."

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

293. The omniscient narrator

"Impressive," said HateMonger as he observed the spectacle onstage. His head was cocked ever so slightly to one side, and he was aware that the companions next to him were growing aroused by what they saw. "Faggots," he sneered to himself, apparently oblivious to the fact that his own hand was in his lap, grazing against an ever-growing mound there.

The Honest Men on the stage had begun to lower their jockstraps, revealing fully erect shafts that they now began to stroke. The hooded prisoners continued to kneel; it was impossible to know what, if anything, they thought about what was happening to them.

Scarecrow had his own mask on now, and he walked behind the captives, teasing them with his bony fingers. They did not flinch.

One by one the solders shot their loads onto the hoods of the heroes. "Yeah," grunted one of the men in the audience, temporarily lost in his own excitement. The others chuckled quietly, then turned to HateMonger for their cue. His face completely neutral, he clapped his hands together slowly. They, too, began to applaud, and the nearly empty room began to echo with the sound.

Batman, Robin, Green Arrow, and the Magus kept kneeling onstage, their black hoods soaked with cum. The men who had just done the soaking pulled up their jockstraps and breeches, tidied their uniforms, and then walked behind the heroes. The contrast was striking: four men standing tall, looking magnificent, while four more squatted at their feet, spattered with milky splooge.

"We should shoot those filthy pathetic fuckers right here and now," said one of the men in the audience.

"No," said HateMonger. "Their role in our adventure has only just begun."