[open] Oh Pretty Please
Well, here we are again: cell I-44, the home of Arkham Asylum's most charming and cooperative (except when he doesn't feel like it) (being much of the time, barring sedatives) patient.
Where else would he be? Certainly not roaming the hallways with a fussy little man slung over his shoulder. No, it has been several weeks since those shenanigans occurred; his reward for that was the ol' straitjacket and a strict diet of Haldol and Nutraloaf. The Haldol he could deal with, but lord almighty, the freaking Nutraloaf. He would have whined about it, literally, had he not known that this would only extend the life of this unholiest of tortures. Grumble, mutter, razzmfrazzm and soforth.
For the past few days, however, meals have been blissfully loaf-free. The dosing has been lessened, too. And today, they said, if he's a very good boy, the jacket might come off. Granted, given some time alone, he could have wriggled out of it eventually. He could. He's practiced for this very inevitability. That stuff about having to dislocate your shoulder? Bullshit rumour, spread by Houdini himself to make the act less appealing to other escape artists.
No, really.
But then, you know, the staff would probably do something petty to retaliate, like connect this strap to that strap with a pair of shackles or something, which would pretty much ruin his day. And besides, like Roger Rabbit, he would prefer to slip loose only when it's funny.
So here he sits, oh so quietly, oh so politely, oh so delightfully lucid, waiting for the stiffs to make their usual rounds.
Where else would he be? Certainly not roaming the hallways with a fussy little man slung over his shoulder. No, it has been several weeks since those shenanigans occurred; his reward for that was the ol' straitjacket and a strict diet of Haldol and Nutraloaf. The Haldol he could deal with, but lord almighty, the freaking Nutraloaf. He would have whined about it, literally, had he not known that this would only extend the life of this unholiest of tortures. Grumble, mutter, razzmfrazzm and soforth.
For the past few days, however, meals have been blissfully loaf-free. The dosing has been lessened, too. And today, they said, if he's a very good boy, the jacket might come off. Granted, given some time alone, he could have wriggled out of it eventually. He could. He's practiced for this very inevitability. That stuff about having to dislocate your shoulder? Bullshit rumour, spread by Houdini himself to make the act less appealing to other escape artists.
No, really.
But then, you know, the staff would probably do something petty to retaliate, like connect this strap to that strap with a pair of shackles or something, which would pretty much ruin his day. And besides, like Roger Rabbit, he would prefer to slip loose only when it's funny.
So here he sits, oh so quietly, oh so politely, oh so delightfully lucid, waiting for the stiffs to make their usual rounds.