A/N: I am so, so sorry...And yes, Arkham Asylum is the name of the institution from Batman. I just couldn't really think of a better name...
Once again, I give my sincerest apologies to anyone reading this.
It almost appeared to be an interrogation room. A single bulb shone down from the ceiling, casting a bright glow directly below it. There was one table in the middle of the dark cell with no windows. Two chairs were placed opposite each other. In one chair sat an older man with a stack of papers in front of him. The slight grayish tint in his hair gave him a disciplinary look. Across from him sat a young, blonde woman no older than twenty-eight. Her long hair was tied up in a neat bun at the base of her neck. Not a hair was out of place. Her dark blue eyes were hidden by thick rimmed, square glasses. Her legs were crossed underneath her long white lab coat, the heel of her left pump nervously clicking against the leg of her chair.
"Dr. Courtney Jester, sir."
"Doctor? Do you really use that when introducing yourself? A little cocky, aren't we, now?"
"I don't think that using my formal title is considered to be cocky, sir."
The owner of Arkham Asylum, Trent Daily, stared at the applying doctor until the corners of his lips curled up a bit. "Doctor, I'm almost pleased to find that this rough exterior you're showing, if it is not a ruse, could allow you to fit quite nicely into the hall of Arkham Asylum. Our patients are not particularly of the normal sort..."
"Is anybody in a mental institution really considered to be normal?" Courtney countered, freezing her face to prevent her eyes from rolling.
The slight smile on Trent's face expanded to a full one. "Touché, madam," he said with a slight bow of the head. "Are you ready for your first test?"
"Is it multiple choice?" Courtney joked.
"Funny you should mention that..."
According to the marks on the wall, I've been here for two weeks. It feels like much longer.
I'll never forgive Matt for putting me here. I'm not crazy, I swear! A good snap or seven is good for everyone. I thought nothing could be worse than rehab, but apparently, I was wrong. This is way worse. It's like rehab, but with the added pleasure of being under a fucking microscope all day and all night. I've only been out of my straight jacket once or twice a day to use the bathroom. It's not exactly living large like I always dreamed, but hey, we can't all get what we want.
Is this justifiable punishment for my supposed crimes? All I did was do what they told me. I was supposed to hit Undertaker with a chair. I did just that. I hit him with that chair. They never told me when to stop, though. I had to take my anger out on something, and it was just convenient. I didn't know that he was going to die. I wasn't trying to kill him. But all in all, it was a very ironic and comedic death. All this jabbering on and on about being the Deadman...
I hope he has fun in hell.
The glass door of my cell opened. Nice! I'm hacking out early! Now if only I wasn't confined to this jacket...
Oh, it's just that dweeb, Trent. He's second on my list after Matt.
But who is this pretty little thing? A new toy for me? Trent has really outdone himself this time.
What story should I tell her? Should I tell her the one about my mother dying? Or how about the one where Matt left me at the arena when I was seven? Or how the only time I've ever been truly happy was when I was swinging chairs at everyone I knew?
This should be fun.
November 14th, 2008
I guess my test really was multiple choice. It turns out that my test subject is a schizophrenic. His name is Jeff Hardy. Apparently, he used to be the sweetest guy in the world until repeated failure caused him to snap. It is also known that he killed a man on live television. The weapon of choice was a steel chair. He hit his victim one too many times in the head. Severe head trauma and blood loss was the cause of death. I'm supposed to figure out if it was by accident or on purpose. He kept muttering something about a dead man, whoever that was. I think what he kept saying was, Now he is really dead, just like he always wanted. The dead man never knew what he wanted until I gave it to him. How can a nice guy like me be so crazy? I can't tell if he is remorseful for his crime or not.
He really is quite the physical specimen. He is in tip top shape, which is to be assumed since he was a professional wrestler. His other attributes are not so appealing. He has bright green hair to match his eyes. His facial hair looks as if he was attacked by a razor. Is it all a part of his crazy gimmick, if it is a gimmick at all?
I'm not quite sure on the approach I should take. I sat down with him for a few moments. He told me some story about how the only time he was ever truly happy was when he was in the wrestling ring. Is this sympathy a weapon? I've been told that he's the craziest of the crazy, so I should be on my toes at all times.
A/N: So...I'm expecting this to get ripped off sometime tomorrow...Just like how my other psycho Jeff story was ripped off the same day I posted it.