One Man's Crazy (prompt 57. 2 F for writers_muses)
Arkham Behavioral Unit, March 13, 1996
Clinician's Diagnosis: The patient, John Michael Martin displays characteristics consistent with classic Schizophrenia with accompanying Paranoid Delusions. He has been observed displaying severe bi-polar tendencies, and was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder at age of 9 (see accompanying report). Patient denies any responsibility in the deaths of his parents or younger siblings, blaming it instead upon his 'alter ego' named Ringer, a character based upon the fictional villains taken from the pages of a Stephen King Novel 'The Regulators' and various composite old 1950's Westerns. Attempts to remove his cowboy style hat continue to provoke a violent reaction in the patient which consistently results in having to separate him from the populace and sedating him, with the accompanying four-point to five-point restraint system involved in most cases, and a period of time in lock-down within a solitary safe room within the facility.
Scheduled Release date: Patient is slated to be released in 1990 upon reaching the age 18.
Individual Rehabilitation Program: With strict dosage and drug control with close guidance and both strictly observed individual and group therapy sessions it is hoped that this patient may be rehabilitated and returned to society at that time.
***
August 26, 2008
Ringer wiped the sweat off his forehead with one sleeve of his buttoned up black blouse before settling his cowboy hat back on his head. Fuck but Los Angeles was hot this year! Leaning casually against the light pole he stared in one direction, then the other. Hookers, pimps, junkies and hoods. Hello Hollywood! For the sixth or seventh time that day he wondered what the hell he was doing there, providing lookout for some damned exchange. Guns or drugs, who the fuck cared? But hey, at least it was a job. His cousin's friend had gotten him the job, first as a bouncer at some dead end strip club, and from there he was finally, FINALLY beginning to move up in the underbelly of the underworld. This was his chance, this was his opportunity to prove to the big boss that he could be counted on for anything, everything in fact.
Ringer felt in his vest again, petting the fake ivory handle of his six-shooter that he kept hidden behind the black leather. He could do this, no sweat. The boss gave him a chance, only man to ever trust him. Only man to ever take him aside and speak to him man to man, to Ringer, not to John Martin, not to Martini, no this guy knew him for what he was. Ringer was a lady's man and a legend, a true Western legend, baddest of the bad. Ringer, with his Oklahoma drawl and his battered beaver fur felt cattleman's hat, with the leather brim and the satin lining; the one with the outside trim of genuine turquoise set in silver, and the matching silver buckle. Boss had bought him the hat, after his last one got too fucked up, with the blood and the smoke stains, the char marks making it stink. Boss had done a lot of things for him, and if Ringer thought about it long enough, he'd realize that he loved the boss. Not in that homosexual way, not like that. But love, real love, that was different.
But Ringer didn't think about it for long, because Ringer never thought of anything very long. Looking back and forth first, staring down anyone that might even think of coming closer, Ringer reached in his back vest pocket and pulled out a flask, unscrewing the cap and taking a quick swig of the rotgut whiskey sloshing within. It burned going down, but the burn was familiar, warming his insides the way the sun and the street's heat warmed him on the outside. But more than that, it calmed him, taking the edge off the cocaine he'd snorted earlier.
Ringer twitched hard, his muscles almost spasming as he jerked against one of the street punks that stumbled close to him. Putting an arm out, he pushed the kid, sending him flying into the crowd. Wait, wasn't that? Wiping the sweat once more, Ringer blinked several times and stared at the young woman walking by. Wasn't that the boss's wife? Hooker, slut, whore... wife. Ringer had seen pictures of her before, boss kept a picture of her in his wallet, Ringer had seen it when the man flipped it open to pay him one time. She'd run away from him, she'd left him, the only guy to ever understand Ringer. Dumb slut, stupid bitch. And here she was, sassy as you please, walking down the street in those high fucking whore's heels and showing more skin than any wife had a right to.
But wait, maybe if he brought her back to the boss, boss would reward him for it! Ringer left his post, rolling his shoulder and pulling straight to follow behind the rapidly disappearing redhead. Yea, that was it. He'd bring her back and the boss would be so grateful that his hiding, sneaking bitch of a wife was back that...
Somewhere in Ringer's mind, he began to get angry. Angry at the slender young woman ahead of him, angry that she would dare to leave the boss, his boss. People were pushed aside, and then shoved hard as he continued up the avenue towards his prey. And Ringer's anger swiftly grew to rage, and reddened eyes started boring into the back of the flame-tressed head that he was slowly starting to gain on. He'd bring her back, he'd drag the slut back by her hair, only she wouldn't be so pretty then, not so eager to leave the boss again. He'd drag her back, he'd drag her head back and show the boss that he didn't need some dumb cunt, didn't need her because he had his men who were loyal, he had Ringer and Ringer was loyal and...
Hands grabbed him roughly, and he was escorted, - that is - he was pushed back into a limousine pulling out of the alleyway behind him. Fighting against his captors he struggled in the darkness until a sudden flash of flame, a lighter was lit in the interior and Ringer found himself staring his boss in the face. Ringer's blue eyes opened wide, and his mouth curved into a smile as he began to gesture, pointing up the avenue at the milling crowd of people. The boss just nodded, and the car drove on as the man listened patiently to the cowboy talk.
A while later, they drove into a secluded private lot, over-run with stacked tires and the skeletons of cars. "You know where this is?" The man asked Ringer conversationally, as he helped him out of the back of the car away from the other men who'd gotten out of the car behind them, and who stood silently, watching them leave. "This is where Tom Mix shot his first scene of the very first movie he was in. Back then this was all wild lands, and in the movie he came up right over a hill about there." A hand pointed in a direction, and Ringer turned excitedly, straining to see something, anything other than weeds and broken concrete, shattered glass fragments.
And that's when the bullet entered Ringer's brain from the back, blowing out his face and spraying blood and bone fragments all over the pavement in front of him. Lowering his pistol, Top Dollar made his way back through to the car and his men waiting for him.
"Let this be a lesson to you, boys. Don't dip your hand in the crazy. Don't touch it, don't swim in it, and for fuck's sake, don't go sticking your dick in it. And" Top stared at each of the three men in turn. "The only thing that can cure a sick fuck like that? Is a good old fashioned dose of vitamin lead."
Sliding back in the vehicle and onto the leather seats, Top ordered two of them to go dump the body into a stack of tires and burn it. The third climbed into the car and sat across from him, staring out the window. A question was raised, and the gun merchant hesitated a moment before shaking his head, one hand on the still-open car door. "Hell no. No fucking way I'm taking the body to the bakery. You never know with shit like that. His insanity might be contagious."
Top shut the door, and leaned back, slowly closing his eyes. Moments of silence passed before he opened them, and stared at Ragdoll, a close companion and one of his older associates. "Did he? Do you think he really..."
"No man" Came the firm reply. "No way. If it had been your wife, we'd have seen her too, right?" Ragdoll's voice was full of conviction. "It was just probably some poor whore with bad dyed hair, just like the last three. We're just lucky we got him before he got to her. Hell, we just saved some bitch's life tonight. We should find her, she owes you a blow job for that at least!" Ragdoll laughed aloud, then sobered up. "Honest boss, if she's alive? Some two bit, psychopathic serial-murdering nutcase who thinks he's a cowboy sure as fuck wouldn't be able to find her. Not before we do. Trust me boss, we haven't stopped looking."
The next sentence was unspoken, yet still there between the two of them. The sentence 'we'll never stop looking until you tell us to.' It was known, understood. It didn't need to be stated aloud. Ragdoll began to laugh again "Don't stick your hand in the crazy, that's a good one."
"And it's very true." Top nodded once, closing his eyes once more. "It's very, very fucking true."
Name: Top Dollar
Fandom: The Crow
Words: 1722
X-posted to: tenebrae_nostro
Clinician's Diagnosis: The patient, John Michael Martin displays characteristics consistent with classic Schizophrenia with accompanying Paranoid Delusions. He has been observed displaying severe bi-polar tendencies, and was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder at age of 9 (see accompanying report). Patient denies any responsibility in the deaths of his parents or younger siblings, blaming it instead upon his 'alter ego' named Ringer, a character based upon the fictional villains taken from the pages of a Stephen King Novel 'The Regulators' and various composite old 1950's Westerns. Attempts to remove his cowboy style hat continue to provoke a violent reaction in the patient which consistently results in having to separate him from the populace and sedating him, with the accompanying four-point to five-point restraint system involved in most cases, and a period of time in lock-down within a solitary safe room within the facility.
Scheduled Release date: Patient is slated to be released in 1990 upon reaching the age 18.
Individual Rehabilitation Program: With strict dosage and drug control with close guidance and both strictly observed individual and group therapy sessions it is hoped that this patient may be rehabilitated and returned to society at that time.
***
August 26, 2008
Ringer wiped the sweat off his forehead with one sleeve of his buttoned up black blouse before settling his cowboy hat back on his head. Fuck but Los Angeles was hot this year! Leaning casually against the light pole he stared in one direction, then the other. Hookers, pimps, junkies and hoods. Hello Hollywood! For the sixth or seventh time that day he wondered what the hell he was doing there, providing lookout for some damned exchange. Guns or drugs, who the fuck cared? But hey, at least it was a job. His cousin's friend had gotten him the job, first as a bouncer at some dead end strip club, and from there he was finally, FINALLY beginning to move up in the underbelly of the underworld. This was his chance, this was his opportunity to prove to the big boss that he could be counted on for anything, everything in fact.
Ringer felt in his vest again, petting the fake ivory handle of his six-shooter that he kept hidden behind the black leather. He could do this, no sweat. The boss gave him a chance, only man to ever trust him. Only man to ever take him aside and speak to him man to man, to Ringer, not to John Martin, not to Martini, no this guy knew him for what he was. Ringer was a lady's man and a legend, a true Western legend, baddest of the bad. Ringer, with his Oklahoma drawl and his battered beaver fur felt cattleman's hat, with the leather brim and the satin lining; the one with the outside trim of genuine turquoise set in silver, and the matching silver buckle. Boss had bought him the hat, after his last one got too fucked up, with the blood and the smoke stains, the char marks making it stink. Boss had done a lot of things for him, and if Ringer thought about it long enough, he'd realize that he loved the boss. Not in that homosexual way, not like that. But love, real love, that was different.
But Ringer didn't think about it for long, because Ringer never thought of anything very long. Looking back and forth first, staring down anyone that might even think of coming closer, Ringer reached in his back vest pocket and pulled out a flask, unscrewing the cap and taking a quick swig of the rotgut whiskey sloshing within. It burned going down, but the burn was familiar, warming his insides the way the sun and the street's heat warmed him on the outside. But more than that, it calmed him, taking the edge off the cocaine he'd snorted earlier.
Ringer twitched hard, his muscles almost spasming as he jerked against one of the street punks that stumbled close to him. Putting an arm out, he pushed the kid, sending him flying into the crowd. Wait, wasn't that? Wiping the sweat once more, Ringer blinked several times and stared at the young woman walking by. Wasn't that the boss's wife? Hooker, slut, whore... wife. Ringer had seen pictures of her before, boss kept a picture of her in his wallet, Ringer had seen it when the man flipped it open to pay him one time. She'd run away from him, she'd left him, the only guy to ever understand Ringer. Dumb slut, stupid bitch. And here she was, sassy as you please, walking down the street in those high fucking whore's heels and showing more skin than any wife had a right to.
But wait, maybe if he brought her back to the boss, boss would reward him for it! Ringer left his post, rolling his shoulder and pulling straight to follow behind the rapidly disappearing redhead. Yea, that was it. He'd bring her back and the boss would be so grateful that his hiding, sneaking bitch of a wife was back that...
Somewhere in Ringer's mind, he began to get angry. Angry at the slender young woman ahead of him, angry that she would dare to leave the boss, his boss. People were pushed aside, and then shoved hard as he continued up the avenue towards his prey. And Ringer's anger swiftly grew to rage, and reddened eyes started boring into the back of the flame-tressed head that he was slowly starting to gain on. He'd bring her back, he'd drag the slut back by her hair, only she wouldn't be so pretty then, not so eager to leave the boss again. He'd drag her back, he'd drag her head back and show the boss that he didn't need some dumb cunt, didn't need her because he had his men who were loyal, he had Ringer and Ringer was loyal and...
Hands grabbed him roughly, and he was escorted, - that is - he was pushed back into a limousine pulling out of the alleyway behind him. Fighting against his captors he struggled in the darkness until a sudden flash of flame, a lighter was lit in the interior and Ringer found himself staring his boss in the face. Ringer's blue eyes opened wide, and his mouth curved into a smile as he began to gesture, pointing up the avenue at the milling crowd of people. The boss just nodded, and the car drove on as the man listened patiently to the cowboy talk.
A while later, they drove into a secluded private lot, over-run with stacked tires and the skeletons of cars. "You know where this is?" The man asked Ringer conversationally, as he helped him out of the back of the car away from the other men who'd gotten out of the car behind them, and who stood silently, watching them leave. "This is where Tom Mix shot his first scene of the very first movie he was in. Back then this was all wild lands, and in the movie he came up right over a hill about there." A hand pointed in a direction, and Ringer turned excitedly, straining to see something, anything other than weeds and broken concrete, shattered glass fragments.
And that's when the bullet entered Ringer's brain from the back, blowing out his face and spraying blood and bone fragments all over the pavement in front of him. Lowering his pistol, Top Dollar made his way back through to the car and his men waiting for him.
"Let this be a lesson to you, boys. Don't dip your hand in the crazy. Don't touch it, don't swim in it, and for fuck's sake, don't go sticking your dick in it. And" Top stared at each of the three men in turn. "The only thing that can cure a sick fuck like that? Is a good old fashioned dose of vitamin lead."
Sliding back in the vehicle and onto the leather seats, Top ordered two of them to go dump the body into a stack of tires and burn it. The third climbed into the car and sat across from him, staring out the window. A question was raised, and the gun merchant hesitated a moment before shaking his head, one hand on the still-open car door. "Hell no. No fucking way I'm taking the body to the bakery. You never know with shit like that. His insanity might be contagious."
Top shut the door, and leaned back, slowly closing his eyes. Moments of silence passed before he opened them, and stared at Ragdoll, a close companion and one of his older associates. "Did he? Do you think he really..."
"No man" Came the firm reply. "No way. If it had been your wife, we'd have seen her too, right?" Ragdoll's voice was full of conviction. "It was just probably some poor whore with bad dyed hair, just like the last three. We're just lucky we got him before he got to her. Hell, we just saved some bitch's life tonight. We should find her, she owes you a blow job for that at least!" Ragdoll laughed aloud, then sobered up. "Honest boss, if she's alive? Some two bit, psychopathic serial-murdering nutcase who thinks he's a cowboy sure as fuck wouldn't be able to find her. Not before we do. Trust me boss, we haven't stopped looking."
The next sentence was unspoken, yet still there between the two of them. The sentence 'we'll never stop looking until you tell us to.' It was known, understood. It didn't need to be stated aloud. Ragdoll began to laugh again "Don't stick your hand in the crazy, that's a good one."
"And it's very true." Top nodded once, closing his eyes once more. "It's very, very fucking true."
Name: Top Dollar
Fandom: The Crow
Words: 1722
X-posted to: tenebrae_nostro