Fireworks
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” Jonathan Crane muttered in his cell, “Gunpowder, treason and plot.” He turned a letter over and over in his hands.
“Keep it down in there, freak,” shouted a passing guard. Crane paid him no mind. Instead, he went over to the combination sink/toilet (a disgusting arrangement, in his opinion - Crane had lodged several fruitless complaints concerning the sanitation issues) and began filling a small Styrofoam cup with tepid water. Stuffing the letter inside, he waited. “I know of no reason that gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.”
It was almost pleasant, the waiting. He hummed a few more bars of the song, then pulled a cigarette out of his jumpsuit pocket. A disgusting habit, really, but on occasion, quite useful. He’d been able to request a ration of one cigarette and one match per day. The guards were instructed to collect the used matches, but there was no reason to see to the cigarettes - and if he wanted to flush them after lighting them, nobody noticed or cared. “Mind if I get a light?” he called out to the guard.
By this time, it was routine; the guard, bored and annoyed, passed the match through to Crane, who smiled as he lit the cigarette. “Many thanks.” Crane turned back to the cup and the sink, with a singsong mumbling, “Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, ‘twas his intent to blow up king and Parliament,” as the guard began heading away.
All that remained of the ink and paper was a thickish sludge at the bottom of the cup. Holding up to the light, the doctor grinned at his handiwork, “Threescore barrels of powder below to prove old England’s overthrow.” He shrugged. “This will have to do.”
He placed the cup next to the bars, stepped back, and flipped the cigarette into it. Ducking behind his cot, he fairly shouted his next words, although, of course, no one heard him over the explosion. “By God’s providence he was catch’d, with a dark lantern and burning match - holloa boys, holloa, let the bells ring!”
By then, of course, the fireworks had started.
In the chaos after the explosion, it was hard to determine how many were among the injured and the escaped. The police, once alerted, began trying to assert some form of control. Meanwhile, the Scarecrow had slipped back into the Gotham night, smiling at the skyline, and humming an old snippet of song. “Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the king. And what shall we do with him? Burn him, burn him.” The fireworks were far from over.
“Keep it down in there, freak,” shouted a passing guard. Crane paid him no mind. Instead, he went over to the combination sink/toilet (a disgusting arrangement, in his opinion - Crane had lodged several fruitless complaints concerning the sanitation issues) and began filling a small Styrofoam cup with tepid water. Stuffing the letter inside, he waited. “I know of no reason that gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.”
It was almost pleasant, the waiting. He hummed a few more bars of the song, then pulled a cigarette out of his jumpsuit pocket. A disgusting habit, really, but on occasion, quite useful. He’d been able to request a ration of one cigarette and one match per day. The guards were instructed to collect the used matches, but there was no reason to see to the cigarettes - and if he wanted to flush them after lighting them, nobody noticed or cared. “Mind if I get a light?” he called out to the guard.
By this time, it was routine; the guard, bored and annoyed, passed the match through to Crane, who smiled as he lit the cigarette. “Many thanks.” Crane turned back to the cup and the sink, with a singsong mumbling, “Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, ‘twas his intent to blow up king and Parliament,” as the guard began heading away.
All that remained of the ink and paper was a thickish sludge at the bottom of the cup. Holding up to the light, the doctor grinned at his handiwork, “Threescore barrels of powder below to prove old England’s overthrow.” He shrugged. “This will have to do.”
He placed the cup next to the bars, stepped back, and flipped the cigarette into it. Ducking behind his cot, he fairly shouted his next words, although, of course, no one heard him over the explosion. “By God’s providence he was catch’d, with a dark lantern and burning match - holloa boys, holloa, let the bells ring!”
By then, of course, the fireworks had started.
In the chaos after the explosion, it was hard to determine how many were among the injured and the escaped. The police, once alerted, began trying to assert some form of control. Meanwhile, the Scarecrow had slipped back into the Gotham night, smiling at the skyline, and humming an old snippet of song. “Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the king. And what shall we do with him? Burn him, burn him.” The fireworks were far from over.