‹ Prequel: Just Paint Your Face
Sequel: Half Jack ›
Terra Firma
The Riddler Remembers, Cosette Fights
Riddler
I am a mastermind.
I would find her. I would find Ivy.
I just needed to think.
I counted the tiles on the ceiling of the tiny cafe in the bookstore. Again. Again.
84.
84.
It took me less than ten seconds. No surprise, for a guy like me.
"Tall Latte, double shot?"
The lady must've seen me blinking oddly up at the ceiling, for her voice sounded puzzled. I tuned halfway into the news playing over the serving station. Here in Gotham, news was always on, always hanging over your head. The biggest, hungriest question mark of all.
Mike Engel was on. He'd taken the morning shift, I suppose since he was so scared from his traumatizing experience on the night not too long ago.
"Police are still on the lookout for the cause of an explosion in Gotham Memorial Park just a few nights ago... Prime suspect appears to be the founder of the carnival-- Oswald Penguin, and possible accomplice--a man police only know so far as 'The Riddler', also suspect of leaving baffling clues to a series of murders."
Baffling? They were kidding. I was hitting them with the easy ones. Simple code, some of them were even simply backwards, that's all they were. They were probably using all the latest technology and decoders, which would fail to see the obvious. That's the thing with modern times. People rely so much on machines that they fail to see very simple things with their own eyes.
Like now. No one saw me. They were buried in some book, talking about some author they'd nicknamed "C.J.", and eyes were glued to their macs.
"Hey. Hey mister, you gonna take your coffee or ain't you?"
"No, no, I do not. Not. And the word is Are Not."
I hated that word. AIN'T.
I smirked a little, waving the confused-looking waitress away with a gloved hand. No one thought anything of it. Early mornings in Gotham City were rather chilly, just like the heart of its criminals. My cane was hidden under the table. Besides, no one notices anyone other than their little circle around here anyway.
I looked around slyly, up at the books and posters on display.
COMING SOON!
Modern Kali
the 3rd book of poetry by
I quickly returned my eyes to my coffee after that word, refusing to look at the sign anymore. I hated the number three. HATED IT.
because 3 times that's how many times that dumb bitch said it, 3 times... that's how many times I hit her 3 times...
Every carnival had a bearded lady. Ours was Pandora Kline. She had this crush on me, that first year--that year I'd found penguin, shortly after what they now called the night of "The Ferries" : starving, my leg lame, my body dirty from not showering in days. Oh, I felt dirty. A rat. Upon finding a shower I'd scrubbed myself red and raw, feeling like a creature on the way to the slaughterhouse. Oswald Penguin had given me change of clothes, letting me work behind the scenes, where I began entertaining the workers with my trivial knowledge.
"Kid. Kid. Tell us somethin' new." The drunken clowns and jugglers would howl as the freaks smiled shyly.
It started out with the daily fact, the occassional tidbit of rare information I had stored up in my head from my old life, before I got addicted to the herion and left my father's home in a stiff state of anger and regret--just as the real Marius had done to his grandfather in our favorite novel. Then it developed. I would turn the fact into a question, turn that question into a riddle. I started thinking in code, thinking of words as shape-shifters, foxes that would slink on the page, taunting whoever dared catch a glimpse.
Penguin would watch, eventually seeing my strange talent and hearing ka-chings in his head. He began to lavish me with expensive clothes and food, more books and puzzles to feed the monster of knowledge growing deep within my core. It was only a few days before Pandora Kline
3 times I hit her 3 times because she
was sitting in the makeup tent, brushing her fake red beard and staring at me from across the room hungrily.
"It's real titanium, kid. Strong. That leg'll seem light as a feather with this at your side..."
I'd taken the glittering thing from him, staring in fascination at the top, which ended in a large, gnarled question mark.
"It's real valuable," Penguin told me in his gruffened mafia dialect, "So use it for special occassions."
I wouldn't let go of it that night. And when I went in the back tent to show the guys--my first fans, if you will--Pandora Kline was there. Only Pandora Kline, brushing her made up beard and piling her true red hair in a bun atop her head. She stared at me with cold blue eyes. She couldn't have been much older than me. Which is probably why she was always trying to talk to me. All the rest of the men in the circus were old or drunkards or connected to the mob somehow.
That's where all The Miserables go, don't they? The bottom of bottles, the archways of alleys, the stink of dumpsters or underneath the neon lights of motels. The comforts of a strange, 21st century carnival. In those places we cluster, knowing we are all strange and shattered, like a strange brotherhood. You didn't call the cops when something strange happened, you ignored the twisting scars on each other's faces, knowing something not-so-innocent made them. You stuck together.
But I'm getting off track. My mind does this. Winding, in circles.
Pandora Kline. Always wanted to talk to me. Always wanted to touch me.
But I didn't want to talk. Or touch. I was too frightened of dirt and germs after feeling them crawl on my skin before hiding away, and I was searching for someone else, pledged myself to someone else.
I'd been searching for the girl without a voice...
I knew I wouldn't find her. I'd bummed a few newspapers from travelers and tourists hailing from Gotham. And all of them said the same things: Jeannie Gimble was dead, a victim to the ruthless criminal minds of The Joker and Poison Ivy.
It was then that I'd given up hope.
"Sweet cane, Riddler." Pandora said enthusiastically, ruffling her hair.
"Thank you."
"You're such a nice guy, Riddle. No one's ever so nice to me."
I remember gulping, feeling rather awkard as she danced over flirtatiously, batting her eyelashes and petting my hair.
"Don't..." I remember saying, twitching, as her hands moved.
It felt dirty. Like a rat in a rusty trap.
"What's wrong? All you boys want the same thing... don't pretend."
"I'm not pretending. I have... I'm.. waiting for someone." I backed away, scowling, suddenly very aware of the heavy cane in my hand.
"Who? That Daisy you're always going on about?" Her voice lingered in jealousy and her face was filled with repulsion at the thought of me rejecting her, "She's dead. She probably never loved you anyway, with your twisted leg."
"DON'T YOU SAY THAT!" I heard my voice raise, dripping with blackness. It shocked me. Still, I clutched the top of my new cane tighter, tighter, until my hands felt numb.
Pandora smiled and laughed tauntingly, her red hair and fake beard waving wickedly in her face:
"SHE'S DEAD. You stupid cripple! She never loved you! She never loved you! SHE NEVER LOVED YOU--"
1. 2. 3.
I remember a very animal sound emitting from my lungs, and my brain going from simmering to white hot with rage I'd never felt. I vaguely remember the cane feeling very light as I swung it over my shoulder, hearing the whooshing sound as her high scream resounded through the tent. It silenced at the first blow, and she fell at the second. The third sent a flood of blood splattering on my face and dripping darkly to the floor.
I blinked quickly, staring up at the ceiling tiles again, aware that my hand was clasped around my old "day cane", a plain brown thing I just used to get myself around. The base was still hard metal. Just in case...
My good one was under my bed.
It was then I remembered my new little prize.. my prey, and sipped my coffee quickly, leaving the bookstore without looking back.
Cosette
I was very thirsty. The tea stood warm upon the nightstand, taunting me, for the dull pain in my bruised legs and the sickness in my body did not allow me to get it so easily.
I knew the bastard hadn't brought it. He was too slick to be thinking of such things. It must've been the angry fellow with the booming voice. Hm. Ironic. I reached a feeble hand, coughing, moaning, because the pain in my legs blared silently in my sore muscles.
The pile of blankets caused me to roll forward in a clumsy fashion, cursing loudly as I hit hard floor, my legs screaming in reply. The teacup took a fall and I felt lukewarm, fragrant water spill unto my face and neck, sputtering and coughing in surprise.
I winced, hissing a breath and turning, noticing something glint in the dim light of the lamp above.
with a cane that he twirled round his diamond ringed finger
and she never done nothing to william zanzinger
Something in my mind voiced itself, manifested itself in me. I recognized it immeadiately as the voice of someone crazy yet honest, cruel but good-humored, awkard and fumbling, but undeniably strong-willed and genius.
what are you doing on the ground, who cares about your legs kid, get the fuck up and get him back hit him back for what he's done nobody and I mean nobody has the right to take away your dignity. they can spit, they can kick, they can call you a goon but what's a goon to a goblin? NOTHING NOTHING you shouldn't be scared of anything. take the plan. take the plan and twist it !!
Ivy's voice, mother's voice, now. Graceful and sensible through chaos, unwavering and set--in spite of its conflicting feelings.
legs and nails, honey. legs and nails. every man's got his weakness, Daisy, and if you can find it do what you have to do to shove it up his nose. don't be his little doll his little plaything show him how you play back.
I smiled, ignoring the pain in my legs, sighing as the cool kiss of metal touched my hand, closing my weak and shaking fingers around it. I gathered the pure willpower I'd taken from The Joker--the red, flirtatious anger of Poison Ivy's--getting up and dragging the cane with me, getting up just as I heard the door open.
A pheonix rising from the ashes.
Riddler
Holy shit.
She was weak. There was no doubt. Her body was trembling like a skinny branch in a high blizzard wind, her hands clasped around the head of my prized possession so tightly I swore the bones of her knuckles would rip through her soft skin, dripping now with a liquid I quickly calculated was tea.
And yet, she managed to raise it over her head.
Her body was like that of a ghost.
But her eyes held something feirce and determined.
I was so shocked, standing across from her position on the other side of my large bed, that I could only stare on silently.
there's no way that cane is too heavy and her legs are probably unstable!
She smiled too widely and too strangely, and all I could spit out was:
"How?"
"Boy, oh boy, you obviously don't know who I was raised by."
I stared, not comprehending. One of the few times in my life I didn't understand.
It wouldn't be the last, with this female.
She brought the glittering cane down over her head, charging at me with the fury of a dog gone mad and the grace of a Goddess.
I am a mastermind.
I would find her. I would find Ivy.
I just needed to think.
I counted the tiles on the ceiling of the tiny cafe in the bookstore. Again. Again.
84.
84.
It took me less than ten seconds. No surprise, for a guy like me.
"Tall Latte, double shot?"
The lady must've seen me blinking oddly up at the ceiling, for her voice sounded puzzled. I tuned halfway into the news playing over the serving station. Here in Gotham, news was always on, always hanging over your head. The biggest, hungriest question mark of all.
Mike Engel was on. He'd taken the morning shift, I suppose since he was so scared from his traumatizing experience on the night not too long ago.
"Police are still on the lookout for the cause of an explosion in Gotham Memorial Park just a few nights ago... Prime suspect appears to be the founder of the carnival-- Oswald Penguin, and possible accomplice--a man police only know so far as 'The Riddler', also suspect of leaving baffling clues to a series of murders."
Baffling? They were kidding. I was hitting them with the easy ones. Simple code, some of them were even simply backwards, that's all they were. They were probably using all the latest technology and decoders, which would fail to see the obvious. That's the thing with modern times. People rely so much on machines that they fail to see very simple things with their own eyes.
Like now. No one saw me. They were buried in some book, talking about some author they'd nicknamed "C.J.", and eyes were glued to their macs.
"Hey. Hey mister, you gonna take your coffee or ain't you?"
"No, no, I do not. Not. And the word is Are Not."
I hated that word. AIN'T.
I smirked a little, waving the confused-looking waitress away with a gloved hand. No one thought anything of it. Early mornings in Gotham City were rather chilly, just like the heart of its criminals. My cane was hidden under the table. Besides, no one notices anyone other than their little circle around here anyway.
I looked around slyly, up at the books and posters on display.
COMING SOON!
Modern Kali
the 3rd book of poetry by
I quickly returned my eyes to my coffee after that word, refusing to look at the sign anymore. I hated the number three. HATED IT.
because 3 times that's how many times that dumb bitch said it, 3 times... that's how many times I hit her 3 times...
Every carnival had a bearded lady. Ours was Pandora Kline. She had this crush on me, that first year--that year I'd found penguin, shortly after what they now called the night of "The Ferries" : starving, my leg lame, my body dirty from not showering in days. Oh, I felt dirty. A rat. Upon finding a shower I'd scrubbed myself red and raw, feeling like a creature on the way to the slaughterhouse. Oswald Penguin had given me change of clothes, letting me work behind the scenes, where I began entertaining the workers with my trivial knowledge.
"Kid. Kid. Tell us somethin' new." The drunken clowns and jugglers would howl as the freaks smiled shyly.
It started out with the daily fact, the occassional tidbit of rare information I had stored up in my head from my old life, before I got addicted to the herion and left my father's home in a stiff state of anger and regret--just as the real Marius had done to his grandfather in our favorite novel. Then it developed. I would turn the fact into a question, turn that question into a riddle. I started thinking in code, thinking of words as shape-shifters, foxes that would slink on the page, taunting whoever dared catch a glimpse.
Penguin would watch, eventually seeing my strange talent and hearing ka-chings in his head. He began to lavish me with expensive clothes and food, more books and puzzles to feed the monster of knowledge growing deep within my core. It was only a few days before Pandora Kline
3 times I hit her 3 times because she
was sitting in the makeup tent, brushing her fake red beard and staring at me from across the room hungrily.
"It's real titanium, kid. Strong. That leg'll seem light as a feather with this at your side..."
I'd taken the glittering thing from him, staring in fascination at the top, which ended in a large, gnarled question mark.
"It's real valuable," Penguin told me in his gruffened mafia dialect, "So use it for special occassions."
I wouldn't let go of it that night. And when I went in the back tent to show the guys--my first fans, if you will--Pandora Kline was there. Only Pandora Kline, brushing her made up beard and piling her true red hair in a bun atop her head. She stared at me with cold blue eyes. She couldn't have been much older than me. Which is probably why she was always trying to talk to me. All the rest of the men in the circus were old or drunkards or connected to the mob somehow.
That's where all The Miserables go, don't they? The bottom of bottles, the archways of alleys, the stink of dumpsters or underneath the neon lights of motels. The comforts of a strange, 21st century carnival. In those places we cluster, knowing we are all strange and shattered, like a strange brotherhood. You didn't call the cops when something strange happened, you ignored the twisting scars on each other's faces, knowing something not-so-innocent made them. You stuck together.
But I'm getting off track. My mind does this. Winding, in circles.
Pandora Kline. Always wanted to talk to me. Always wanted to touch me.
But I didn't want to talk. Or touch. I was too frightened of dirt and germs after feeling them crawl on my skin before hiding away, and I was searching for someone else, pledged myself to someone else.
I'd been searching for the girl without a voice...
I knew I wouldn't find her. I'd bummed a few newspapers from travelers and tourists hailing from Gotham. And all of them said the same things: Jeannie Gimble was dead, a victim to the ruthless criminal minds of The Joker and Poison Ivy.
It was then that I'd given up hope.
"Sweet cane, Riddler." Pandora said enthusiastically, ruffling her hair.
"Thank you."
"You're such a nice guy, Riddle. No one's ever so nice to me."
I remember gulping, feeling rather awkard as she danced over flirtatiously, batting her eyelashes and petting my hair.
"Don't..." I remember saying, twitching, as her hands moved.
It felt dirty. Like a rat in a rusty trap.
"What's wrong? All you boys want the same thing... don't pretend."
"I'm not pretending. I have... I'm.. waiting for someone." I backed away, scowling, suddenly very aware of the heavy cane in my hand.
"Who? That Daisy you're always going on about?" Her voice lingered in jealousy and her face was filled with repulsion at the thought of me rejecting her, "She's dead. She probably never loved you anyway, with your twisted leg."
"DON'T YOU SAY THAT!" I heard my voice raise, dripping with blackness. It shocked me. Still, I clutched the top of my new cane tighter, tighter, until my hands felt numb.
Pandora smiled and laughed tauntingly, her red hair and fake beard waving wickedly in her face:
"SHE'S DEAD. You stupid cripple! She never loved you! She never loved you! SHE NEVER LOVED YOU--"
1. 2. 3.
I remember a very animal sound emitting from my lungs, and my brain going from simmering to white hot with rage I'd never felt. I vaguely remember the cane feeling very light as I swung it over my shoulder, hearing the whooshing sound as her high scream resounded through the tent. It silenced at the first blow, and she fell at the second. The third sent a flood of blood splattering on my face and dripping darkly to the floor.
I blinked quickly, staring up at the ceiling tiles again, aware that my hand was clasped around my old "day cane", a plain brown thing I just used to get myself around. The base was still hard metal. Just in case...
My good one was under my bed.
It was then I remembered my new little prize.. my prey, and sipped my coffee quickly, leaving the bookstore without looking back.
Cosette
I was very thirsty. The tea stood warm upon the nightstand, taunting me, for the dull pain in my bruised legs and the sickness in my body did not allow me to get it so easily.
I knew the bastard hadn't brought it. He was too slick to be thinking of such things. It must've been the angry fellow with the booming voice. Hm. Ironic. I reached a feeble hand, coughing, moaning, because the pain in my legs blared silently in my sore muscles.
The pile of blankets caused me to roll forward in a clumsy fashion, cursing loudly as I hit hard floor, my legs screaming in reply. The teacup took a fall and I felt lukewarm, fragrant water spill unto my face and neck, sputtering and coughing in surprise.
I winced, hissing a breath and turning, noticing something glint in the dim light of the lamp above.
with a cane that he twirled round his diamond ringed finger
and she never done nothing to william zanzinger
Something in my mind voiced itself, manifested itself in me. I recognized it immeadiately as the voice of someone crazy yet honest, cruel but good-humored, awkard and fumbling, but undeniably strong-willed and genius.
what are you doing on the ground, who cares about your legs kid, get the fuck up and get him back hit him back for what he's done nobody and I mean nobody has the right to take away your dignity. they can spit, they can kick, they can call you a goon but what's a goon to a goblin? NOTHING NOTHING you shouldn't be scared of anything. take the plan. take the plan and twist it !!
Ivy's voice, mother's voice, now. Graceful and sensible through chaos, unwavering and set--in spite of its conflicting feelings.
legs and nails, honey. legs and nails. every man's got his weakness, Daisy, and if you can find it do what you have to do to shove it up his nose. don't be his little doll his little plaything show him how you play back.
I smiled, ignoring the pain in my legs, sighing as the cool kiss of metal touched my hand, closing my weak and shaking fingers around it. I gathered the pure willpower I'd taken from The Joker--the red, flirtatious anger of Poison Ivy's--getting up and dragging the cane with me, getting up just as I heard the door open.
A pheonix rising from the ashes.
Riddler
Holy shit.
She was weak. There was no doubt. Her body was trembling like a skinny branch in a high blizzard wind, her hands clasped around the head of my prized possession so tightly I swore the bones of her knuckles would rip through her soft skin, dripping now with a liquid I quickly calculated was tea.
And yet, she managed to raise it over her head.
Her body was like that of a ghost.
But her eyes held something feirce and determined.
I was so shocked, standing across from her position on the other side of my large bed, that I could only stare on silently.
there's no way that cane is too heavy and her legs are probably unstable!
She smiled too widely and too strangely, and all I could spit out was:
"How?"
"Boy, oh boy, you obviously don't know who I was raised by."
I stared, not comprehending. One of the few times in my life I didn't understand.
It wouldn't be the last, with this female.
She brought the glittering cane down over her head, charging at me with the fury of a dog gone mad and the grace of a Goddess.