mayfield_rpg | Riddle 040: A Little Less Conversation...

[At some point on this seemingly ordinary Thursday afternoon, a conversation between two older men can be heard over Mayfield’s phone lines. No, it isn’t Jack Smith or the Mayor. But who could these men possibly be...?]

-- I do NOT have cobwebs--

Well, from the sound of it, you certainly don’t anymore.

I have no idea where you’re getting such horrible lies from, Nigma, if you haven’t just thought them up yourself, but they’re just that. Lies.

He actually defended you, you know. Do you mean to tell me that all those lovely things he had to say about you were lies?

And you’re just going to automatically believe-- No, of course, of course you’re going to trust the word of a textbook narcissist over mine; it’s like talking at a mirror for you two, isn’t it?

What’s the matter, Jonathan? Can’t handle it when I rustle your feathers? You had no problem rustling his.

... I am hanging up the phone, Edward. I will never be picking it up again.

I’m sure you won’t. Wait. Hang on a second. [A dramatic pause.] ...Oh dear.

... [Why is he letting his curiosity get the better of him?] What?

Well, it appears as though---in my haste to check up on you, of course---I neglected to filter the call. Must have slipped my mind.

[As good an actor as Eddie may be, there’s no hiding that shit-eating grin that’s just crept onto his face.]

... I am going to fill your veins with so much fear toxin you will never have a coherent thought ever again.

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I am going to kill you.

You'll try, old man. I'll give you that.

You'd better hope that I succeed, Eddie, because death will be a dream compared to everything else I could do.

So hostile, Jon. And yet, so tragic as well. You could have avoided this, you know, had you only swallowed that indomitable pride of yours and allowed me a chance to extend you an olive branch. But then, I suppose I've realized that you would much prefer that Dist extends you an---

[Cut him off, Crane. Cut him off.]

Shut. Your. Mouth.

This was beyond the pale, Nigma, even for you. That such filth is common knowledge... Is unforgivable.

And stop calling me "Jon." You haven't been talking to him for a while now.

So that's it, then. That's the final straw? [He laughs a humorless laugh.] Your little roll in the hay is nothing compared to what you've put me through. You've attacked me. Humiliated me. Attempted to break me and the woman I love. Time and time again, I've tried to make amends with you. For old times' sake. I've tried to be the better person.

But you know something? I don't even have to try. I am the better person. And I would have thought you'd learned this lesson from Luthor a long, long time ago, but this is exactly what happens when you play with fire, Scarecrow. You get burned.

You know nothing of humiliation, you foolish little boy. But, for all your talk, you don't know much of anything at all.

You're ill, Nigma, we all are-- and the type of illness we have isn't the kind that can be healed with friendship and love. Inside, past this illusion you've made for yourself, you're still sick, and we're going to break you open and show you just how sick you really are. Good man, bad man, all of them scream.

[Jonathan Crane is nothing more than a demented old man, too hopped up and overexposed to his witches' brew. He was always a fool. He's nothing like Edward.

Edward wore a fine suit, Crane wore a burlap sack. Edward carried a cane, Crane carried a pitchfork. Edward wore a tie, Crane tied a damned noose around his neck. Aside from their common interest in crushing the Caped Crusader and the fact that Jeremiah Arkham was so kind as to consider incarceration with the Scarecrow as suitable punishment, they had nothing in common.

And here in Mayfield, they're still dissimilar. Edward matters here. He has people who care about him. Crane? Well, he has Harley. But when has she ever been known for good life decisions? But just as he was in Gotham, Crane is nothing but talk in this suburban asylum.

Edward's not sick. Crane's wrong. Eddie was the better man back home and he's a better man now. So it's not Crane's so-called psychoanalysis of the Riddler that's given him pause so much as one thing that the Scarecrow's let slip. He never said "I'm going to break you open."]

...What do you mean, "We're going to break you open?" Who's we?

Jonathan can't do it alone.

I'm here to help him. I always have been.

[...Oh. Oh. ...Wow, he's really going off the deep end with this, isn't he? All right. He'll play along.]

"My life can be measured in hours,
I serve by being devoured.
Thin, I am quick
Fat, I am slow
Wind is my foe."

Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

Chop chop chop chop
The last man's dead.

[Scarecrow has a habit, too.]

Cute. But my head's not going anywhere. And you'll never hold a candle to my genius.

Remember that.

"Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall."

Remember that.

Trying to teach me a lesson, Crane? Don't flatter yourself. There's nothing you can teach me.

Crane teaches. Learns, researches.

I just hurt people.

Riddle 040: A Little Less Conversation...

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