Agent of chaos
healthy man does not torture others - generally it is the tortured
who turn into torturers.'
- Carl Jung
He brings the nightstick down hard. Oh yeah, he thinks, he's missed that sound: wood on skull. Sublime. He closes his eyes to savour it, then does it again and again until he's covered in color.
When he's finished he peeks an eye open and smiles. Oh he's missed color, especially red. It feels warm on his face and he smears it around his mouth. The tip of his tongue peeks out between his teeth and he runs it along his bottom lip. He gets that thick iron taste at the back of his throat.
He looks to the lifeless body at his feet and tilts his head to the side so he can read the guard's name badge: Mike.
"Hey Mike, you know, I told you not to call me crazy." He toes the body. "You are listening, aren't you Mike? Now freak I can handle. I rather like that one, actually, it has a nice ring to it. I'll take sociopath, of course, and depraved, unfeeling murderer. You can't fight fact, am I right? just don't call me crazy, Mike, anything but that."
Stepping over the body, he pulls the cell door open, half expecting a small army to be waiting but there's no one around. Well, no one in a uniform, there are plenty of loonies behind the locked doors along the corridor. They're getting all excited. It's probably the sound of Mike's violent death that has set them off.
And that was just the warm up, he thinks, wait 'til back-up arrives.
They guards in here all look the same to him. He can barely distinguish between them. The one they get to replace Mike will look like all the rest. They're faceless drones, speaking nothing but white noise at him. Although, the guard's who call him crazy always stand out; they get special status. They acquire little red and green targets on their backs that only he can see, and those targets don't go away until he makes them go away. The target on Mike's back is gone now.
That's two he's had since he's been in here. He'll have more before his time is done because they never learn.
There are so many ways to kill a man it makes him giddy just trying to count his favourites. He's missed the surprise death can bring to a person's features. Those subtle little jerks he gets to see right before they die are such a treat. It's just so intimate.
Mike's death was a boring one. Too blunt and over too quickly. Not even worth saving to memory. But then, he has neither the time nor the tools to get creative these days so he'll take what he can get.
When he gets out of Arkham he'll be better equipped. That might not be tonight - he's been this far before - but either way, it won't be a dull evening.
He reaches for the keys that are still in the door and locks it behind him as he leaves his cell. It's like tucking Mike in for his final sleep - all safe and sound.
As he starts along the corridor he feels naked in his bland, white jumpsuit, with its little black numbers across the chest. They're trying to give him an identity they can understand. They've found him a box and a number to make more sense out of him. The worst thing about being inside that box is that he can't be himself. There's no color in this place. He used his cell mate's blood one time - a lick of paint for the walls - but the guards didn't like that. Not one bit.
Since then they've kept him on his own down here.
There is one thing he's been getting down here in the basement. He gets all the pain he needs. He's a professional button pusher, knows exactly what to say to make the guards snap. He can make them reach for their nightsticks or their mace whenever he wants. The more he laughs, the more they bring and the better it feels.
He's not the crazy one. You can't bring order to chaos because then order wouldn't be order, it would be something else. Life is about balance and you can't have the Batman without the Joker.
He peels the hair from out of his face and giggles at the thought of his old friend. Surely Batty must be bored without him.
He slides his bloody left hand along the corridor wall. The first door he comes to he unlocks. He notices the smell before anything else. There's shit all over the walls. A fat guy with a shaved head is writing about in the middle of the floor, dribbling and shuddering. He's thinking, fella must've missed color too, but brown has never been his favorite.
He moves on. The hand is sliding again, painting colors on the wall.