Rogues should not own televisions. If they do own televisions, they should not watch the news. And if they do watch the news, they should keep their weapons safely locked away on the other side of the room. Countless innocent television sets had died violent, fiery deaths because all rogues shared one particular thought process: when the news is bad, destroy the television.
This television had just joined their ranks. A rather large book of Freudian theory was lodged firmly in its shattered screen like a toad in a hole. Sparks flew out around it, singeing the cover and threatening to set the carpet on fire.
The owner of the ex-television was stalking angrily back and forth across the floor. How dare they? How dare they even think of...of...of castrating Halloween! The usual report on how safe Halloween was going to be this year was one thing. They said that every year, and every year he made liars out of them. But when the reporter had turned a charming smile to the camera and invited all and sundry to a public Halloween party, a party that purposefully was excluding anything frightening, a party where even scary costumes weren't allowed in the door...well. It was unacceptable.
Jonathan Crane, self-styled Master of Fear, God of Terror, and High Potentate of Panic (okay, maybe not so much the last one) slammed a skinny fist down onto the back of the couch. Halloween was fear. If those...those cretins were allowed to continue with this ridiculous plan of theirs, where would he be? The world needed fear. The world needed to know that out there in the dark, something was watching you, and it was hungry.
He'd had enough of milksop worriers bubble-wrapping everything. They even censored his favorite horror movies on cable! He watched them for a reason (if you had asked him what that reason was, his response would have been 'research', but if you'd delved into his mind, the answer would come up 'guilty pleasure'), and by god, he wanted his money's worth! (Well, if he had actually paid, which he hadn't. He was 'borrowing' cable from a building down the way whose landlady broke into a cold sweat these days when she even thought the word 'television'.)
Even the mass-produced costumes this year were disturbingly devoid of anything that would strike terror into the hearts of mankind. Pirates? Jedi? Fairies? Where were the demons, the ghouls, the monsters? Even that stupid little puppet from Saw would be better than nothing...
The book resting in the wreckage of the television set quietly caught fire. With a frustrated sigh, the Scarecrow retrieved it, tossing it from hand to hand as he scurried to the sink. He took a perverse pleasure in watching Freud's bearded little face go crispy-fried before turning the water on.
They wanted a Halloween without fear, did they?
Well, they weren't going to get it. Not while he was around. And as soon as he put out the fire in the sink, and the one around the television, and the one flaring up the curtains, he'd do something about it. Yes. Right after he was certain he hadn't doomed himself to a fiery death.