A strange twist of circumstance.
This is not much of a world for gentlemen anymore. The criminal element even less so.
Which is why "Gentleman Jim" Craddock has spent considerbly less of his time recently engaging in such exploits. Simple thievery is still fun, but the thrill is gone after one hundred twenty years or so. Brutal butchery was an interesting experiment in amorality, but it seems beneath him. Dabbling as one of Hell's chosen agents was surprisingly rote, as being assigned to inspire heart attacks in rich old men ripe for damnation sounds somewhat appealing, it became redundant relatively quickly.
And so it's gone for the Gentleman Ghost, a spirit cursed to roam the Earth, as the man who murdered him is just as cursed as Craddock himself. Thus, an undead man of leisure has pursued his flights of fancy with little consequence. He's stopped to help elderly women across the street, and he has shot men on every continent just to watch them die. Antarctica was eventful. He spared the penguin.
This latest development, though... it's captured his wandering attention completely. It should prove a VERY entertaining diversion.
He's in the kitchen of his newly adopted and rather isolated Wyoming home, blissfully able to ignore the stench of the prior residents and their new location in the hall closet. He hovers in the kitchen, preparing a rather ghastly meal of the outdated food on hand - honestly, he doesn't care to think WHAT a can of 'Manwich' could possibly be made from - as well as some rather compelling and certainly illegal chemical additives gleaned from some of his more scientifically interesting connections in Gotham City.
As he takes the plate and opens the basement doorway, he's greeted with an inhuman growl of anger and the cacophonous rattle of heavy chains, clashing against the cage bars.
"Oh, come now, my friend," the Ghost says to his housemate, descending the stairs in one gentle, flowing movement. "Surely you can save such a vociferous greeting for those who would appreciate it? I remain entirely unimpressed by your theatrics."
The growl fades to a dull constant, and a hand reaches out aggressively to grab the food from the Ghost's hands. "There you are, eat up like the growing youngster you are. We'll be traveling soon, so save your strength. I believe you'll need it."
This time, he simply floats up and through the ceiling. Listening to the unrefined and ravenous devouring of the food, his hat bobs into a nod.
"Yes, we must avoid further isolation together, lest I begin to let my own manners erode. Somewhere much more interesting."
He closes the basement door tightly to cut off the noise from below.
"It's been quite some time since I've seen St. Roch. I do believe I'm overdue."
Which is why "Gentleman Jim" Craddock has spent considerbly less of his time recently engaging in such exploits. Simple thievery is still fun, but the thrill is gone after one hundred twenty years or so. Brutal butchery was an interesting experiment in amorality, but it seems beneath him. Dabbling as one of Hell's chosen agents was surprisingly rote, as being assigned to inspire heart attacks in rich old men ripe for damnation sounds somewhat appealing, it became redundant relatively quickly.
And so it's gone for the Gentleman Ghost, a spirit cursed to roam the Earth, as the man who murdered him is just as cursed as Craddock himself. Thus, an undead man of leisure has pursued his flights of fancy with little consequence. He's stopped to help elderly women across the street, and he has shot men on every continent just to watch them die. Antarctica was eventful. He spared the penguin.
This latest development, though... it's captured his wandering attention completely. It should prove a VERY entertaining diversion.
He's in the kitchen of his newly adopted and rather isolated Wyoming home, blissfully able to ignore the stench of the prior residents and their new location in the hall closet. He hovers in the kitchen, preparing a rather ghastly meal of the outdated food on hand - honestly, he doesn't care to think WHAT a can of 'Manwich' could possibly be made from - as well as some rather compelling and certainly illegal chemical additives gleaned from some of his more scientifically interesting connections in Gotham City.
As he takes the plate and opens the basement doorway, he's greeted with an inhuman growl of anger and the cacophonous rattle of heavy chains, clashing against the cage bars.
"Oh, come now, my friend," the Ghost says to his housemate, descending the stairs in one gentle, flowing movement. "Surely you can save such a vociferous greeting for those who would appreciate it? I remain entirely unimpressed by your theatrics."
The growl fades to a dull constant, and a hand reaches out aggressively to grab the food from the Ghost's hands. "There you are, eat up like the growing youngster you are. We'll be traveling soon, so save your strength. I believe you'll need it."
This time, he simply floats up and through the ceiling. Listening to the unrefined and ravenous devouring of the food, his hat bobs into a nod.
"Yes, we must avoid further isolation together, lest I begin to let my own manners erode. Somewhere much more interesting."
He closes the basement door tightly to cut off the noise from below.
"It's been quite some time since I've seen St. Roch. I do believe I'm overdue."