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| 2008-10-05 09:01 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
| catverse |
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"We're full of Christmas cheer!"
"You're full of heavily rum laced eggnog." "You say potato..."
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| 2008-04-03 13:21 |
| Sugar Shock |
| Public |
| catverse |
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An hour late, but whatever.
The sound of pots and pans clanging in a cacophony of dings and bangs was one of the more common noises to be heard in the lair of the Scarecrow these days. So common, in fact, that Jonathan Crane had almost learned to sleep through the racket. Of course, ‘almost’ only counts in horseshoes, it most certainly doesn’t even bear mentioning in this particular situation. Crane lay face down on his bed, his nose pressed as deep into his mattress as the near-rock-hard surface would allow without causing suffocation, with a pillow of an impressive size covering his head. He held it to his ears, a hand clamped to each side of his face so hard one would think he was afraid his skull would fly apart at the seams if he did otherwise. If he hadn’t been so completely bone weary from almost three days on the run from the Green Lantern of all people (the result of a comedy of errors which neither deserves explanation nor recollection) he would have done something more constructive than just sticking his head in the proverbial sand. Something constructive…and most likely homicidal in nature. But, though his mind was perfectly capable of concocting a variety of horrific scenarios in which there was a veritable smorgasbord of torture devices in store for his ‘beloved’ henchgirls, his body simply wasn’t up to the task. Ooh, but if he were…the mess of tangled limbs and broken bones that would have littered the common room floor would have made Jack the Ripper a bit queasy. CRASH! BOOM! BANG! The whole rhythm section was the purple gang", his mind supplied in a voice that sounded suspiciously like the Captain at her most chirpy. He stifled the voice directly before pretending he hadn’t heard it in the first place.
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| 2007-10-19 12:59 |
| Midnight Confessional: Opening |
| Public |
| BEHIND YOU! |
| Writer's blocky |
| The sound of wind |
| catverse |
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"Edward Nygma was notoriously bad at finding good places to hide while on the run.
Techie was ever so marginally worse at it.
Granted, she had never climbed inside a washing machine (at least, not after she was ten years old), but she still had a knack for making the tight spots she found herself in into claustrophobic spots without really trying too much.
She and her cohorts had gotten separated in Gotham--with good reason, since the Batman was on their tails--in one of the worst rainstorms recorded in the last decade. The usual attack and scatter pattern that they used so often in the past wasn’t as effective when the whole world felt like it was going to be shattered in twain with every boom of thunder that rippled through the air, and finding one’s way when one’s eyes are full of water is a near impossible endeavor.
As she ran, Techie reflected on the inevitable conclusion to her current predicament. When she was on her own, Techie noticed an astronomical increase in bad decisions on her part. If she were with her friends, she tried to be the voice of reason, but alone, she just managed to get into trouble of the Kirk Degree.
Today, she was certain, would be no different.
In this instance, it was a moment of extraordinarily bad judgment that led her to scamper through a door into the most deserted looking building on the street without checking to see what said building was. After all, what difference did it make where she was, so long as she was out of sight of the Bat?
At least, that’s what she told herself as she caught her breath and leaned her forehead against the overlarge wooden door, grateful to be out of the wind and wet at last.
Once she had dashed the water from her eyes, wiped her glasses off and took an actual look at her surroundings, the feeling of hope that had been blossoming inside her withered and dropped like a stone, hitting the floor of her stomach with a nearly audible thump.
The life-sized image of Christ hanging from a crucifix that was staring down at her, looking far more menacing than any savior of humankind had a right to was her first clue that this was bound to end badly."
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| 2007-10-07 18:56 |
| Malice Domestic |
| Public |
| catverse |
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Complete and not getting posted on ff.net 'cause ff.net is a smeghead.
Disclaimer: Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gal, oh baby telephone and tell me I can play with the things that I don't own.
A/N: This is part of the CATverse. Timeline which can be found at www. freewebs. com/ catverse (delete the spaces, if you please). I...have no idea where this one goes. It was originally a scene in Playing Cupid For Dummies but after further consideration, it just doesn't fit in there all that well and stands better on its own. I suppose you could put this pretty much anywhere after Bright Nova's Catfight. I'll figure out where it goes exactly eventually and tell you so (once I banish this nasty asthma attack I'm having because the entire contents of the file for the story Hungarian Rhapsody are gone), but for now, just enjoy the fact that the muse is back with a vengeance after an extended 'mental health day'.
-
If there was one thing that Jonathan Crane had learned during the many years he'd been saddled with three women (let it be said he'd learned a great deal more than just one thing, but that none of those other things pertained to his current situation), it was that when he found one of them crouched outside a doorway doing her best impression of a ninja fly on the wall, the inescapable conclusion was ‘There's dirty work afoot‘.
This time, it was Techie that he found crouched near the ground, peering around the corner of the kitchen doorway, her lips curved upwards oddly and her head tilted to one side like a bemused dog.
It was rare that he got such an opportunity to startle her by catching her off guard, and he took it.
He snuck up behind her soundlessly and dropped his head so that he was a disconcertingly close distance from her ear.
"Eavesdropping?"
She, as expected, started rather violently, but somehow managed to keep herself from flailing in the direction of the occupants of the kitchen, thus keeping her presence and spying activities a secret.
That didn't stop her from turning her head ever so slightly after she'd recovered from her initial startle to glare at him and hiss, "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
He was glad of the half light in the hallway, since it went a long way towards covering his self satisfied smirk. "It is one of my higher ranking goals in life."
"Above or below giving Al a heart attack?" she asked, without missing a beat.
"Below," he replied somewhat condescendingly before moving to stand up straight once more and resume his journey towards the refrigerator.
Techie grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back before he took half a step. "Don't you dare."
"I happen to be hungry."
"Abstain."
He looked at her suspiciously. "I can't recall a time when you or your fiendish cohorts have ever tried to keep me from eating."
She jerked her head in the general direction of the kitchen. "Captain and Edward are in there."
"And?"
"They need time," she replied, acting as though she made perfect sense and he was the one being dense.
"To eat?"
She swatted him harmlessly on the arm, though he was sure that if he'd been anyone else she wouldn't have shown such restraint. "No you dummy, to fall in love."
His eyelids slid to half mast and he looked down at her with barely contained distaste. "Do you mean to tell me you've deemed yourself matchmaker?"
"Nobody else is doing the job." She jabbed a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. "Look at them and tell me, what do you see?"
He sighed as though he were the most put-upon man on the face of the earth and glanced at Nygma and the Captain, both of them chattering with each other and drinking tea contentedly.
Crane felt disgust rise up in him with the word he uttered as his reply: "Domestication."
She looked at him like she wasn‘t surprised in the least. "Leave it to you to find a way to equate togetherness with livestock ownership."
"I'm a closet romantic, my dear wife," he answered wryly, knowing that bringing up the fact the only way he‘d found himself married was due to a farce of a ceremony of convenience would drive his point home. "And apparently, so are you, if you've decided to aid those two idiots in matters of the heart."
"It's got nothing to do with me being romantic," she snapped irritably, annoyed that he was insinuating she was soft anywhere but in the head. "It's the thrill of the manipulation, the chase, the hunt..."
"Well I'm not about to sit here and be your faithful bloodhound, I want a sandwich." He snatched his arm from her grasp and straightened his sleeve. "Besides, I would think you'd want to observe your handy work and gloat."
She gave him a look he couldn't interpret. "The hunt is always better when the prey doesn't know it's on the menu."
He dismissed the idea that she was referring to him (because after all, that would have been a suicidal course of action on her part; besides the fact that a. he was already married to her and b. the only other person in the lair to pair him with was Al and even Techie wasn‘t stupid enough to try that). “I don’t care about your hunting strategy unless it involves an elephant gun. I’m getting a sandwich.”
Techie put her hands on her hips, staring him down with her best serious face and said sternly, "If you go in there, I'll never forgive you."
For one insane moment, Crane pictured her as a very irate housewife. The sort in a billowy dress from the fifties, an impractically pretty apron that conveniently matched her pearls and a rolling pin in hand.
The idea amused him no end. He barely contained the urge to laugh or make an offhanded remark about sending her Wham! Bam! to the moon.
"I'll find a way to get over it," he said dismissively, once he got over the urge to cackle, and started towards the kitchen again.
As he crossed the threshold, he heard her hiss at his back, "You're a horrible husband."
He turned aside and tossed over his shoulder in an unnecessarily loud voice, "You're an equally horrible wife."
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GAH.
-kicks the timeline violently-
I'm frustrated; it's too short and too long at the same time. Too short because it doesn't have enough space in one of the arcs for certain story ideas I've got that would only fit in there and too long because...it's too long! The HTML file is GINORMOUS and it keeps getting bigger!
(It's been one of those days. Don't ask, I'm just pissed at everything that moves...and everything that doesn't--you know, just to cover my bases.)
Rawr.
-deep breath-
So to cheer myself up, I give you...the beginning to "Short Circuit".
There are reasons why nobody hugs Mister Freeze, you know...
"It was funny the way these things kept happening.
Not 'ha ha' funny, but sanitarium funny.
After close to five years of a quiet but intense feud, Mister Freeze had finally granted the henchwomen known throughout Gotham as the Captain, Al and Techie an audience with him.
Five years seemed like a respectable amount of time to the ice man.
They had, after all, head-napped him. Really, he should have waited more like ten years before he considered taking them off his 'to-kill-in-the-most-painful-way-humanly-possible' list."
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| 2007-09-06 22:27 |
| Blaaaaaaaaaah. |
| Public |
| catverse |
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...I have four pages of what might be the beginning to Uncle Squishy's Sunshine Hour sitting right here.
(It also might be the beginning of something else...could go either way at this point. It's a pretty generic opening.)
Seriously. It's in my Superman notebook and it's staring at me.
I just don't feel like typing.
...the notes in the margins--the ones that aren't random doodles--are amusing.
Notes to self in the margins, and I quote:
Soupy, Boom Tubes, Darkseid,
Bake Sale, Magic Brownies!
Firefly, Blow Torch, Torch Singer?
Super-Bra!
What's the equivalant of a citronella candle for Killer Moth/Firefly?
Bug zappers! Can we have giant bug zappers? Or fly swatters?
Hug therapy? Villainess stuck in hug therapy with a horn-dog villain?
....
And there's one bit of this four page scribbling that I actually have the energy to type. Just because it amuses me.
"Techie, we have weapons. You have weapons. You didn't need to hurl footwear at him!"
"Yeah, you could've just used that nifty aluminum pipe you have lashed to your belt."
"Are you kidding? That would have taken like...logical reasoning capabilities. Romulan here, not Vulcan, remember?"
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| 2007-07-12 11:09 |
| Kitten's First Word: Hot damn it's complete! |
| Public |
| catverse |
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"Come on, Kitten. Say 'mommy'. Say 'mommy'," the Captain said from her spot on the floor in front of the toddler who was currently sucking four of her fingers into her mouth. "Say mommy, you little ingrate. I squeezed you out--"
"Captain," a warning voice came from across the room, belonging to Al, who had yet to look up from her newspaper. "Play nice or we'll take your toy away."
The Captain pouted as Kitten thumped on the floor with the fist not occupying her mouth. "She's almost one and a half. She should be talking by now."
"Don't push," Techie put in, doing her best 'wise Jedi master' face. "She'll talk when she's ready."
"But--"
"She'll talk when she's ready, not when you are," Al said, cutting the Captain off quite effectively.
"I was talking long before the age of one and a half, you know," the Captain said, looking at her child forlornly. "What if there's something the matter with her?"
"There is absolutely nothing the matter with her, she will talk when she's ready," Jonathan Crane snapped, speaking from the entrance to the common room with his arms crossed over his chest. "Despite dazzling genetic odds to the contrary, she's proven on more than one occasion that she is smarter than the average toddler." He glared around at the other occupants of the common room. "And I sometimes wonder if she's smarter than the average adult. Have you forgotten what time it is?"
The Captain's eyes got big suddenly and she scrambled up off the floor. "We didn't miss it, did we? DID WE MISS IT?"
Crane didn't even bother to glance at his watch. "You have twenty minutes to get to the theatre. Ample time to steal a car and screech into the parking lot, I'm sure."
In a flurry of sheets of newspaper, books and baby toys, all three women were dashing for their rooms, coming out with their coats (Techie was hopping up and down, trying to tie her show whilst she was in motion) and running for the door.
"Don't forget to feed her, change her, you know...like...the usual baby type stuff."
"We'll be back by ten!"
"You still have the emergency number, right? I mean--"
"Need I remind you that I am not a teenager? I am perfectly capable of taking care of the child without any complications arising that I am not equipped to handle." He muttered under his breath, "Unlike some people."
"Teenager?"
"Don't make any long distance phone calls, young man."
"Oh, and Squishums? No boys."
The door slammed shut and Crane flopped on the worn out thrift store sofa, long legs crossed at the ankles and arms crossed over his chest as he regarded the small girl on the rug in front of him who was artfully chewing on a rubber duck.
"You're almost as much trouble as they are, you know," he murmured, knowing full well he was only saying the words to try and convince himself of the truth they held...
Which he knew good and well was nonexistent.
Kitten was a more agreeable companion than the Captain, Al and Techie were, and if it got them out of the lair for any length of time, he'd agree to just about anything, including babysitting. She wasn't all that much trouble, really...she was a good baby as far as babies went, and going on what little experience he had with small children. She didn't cry often, didn't demand much--only the bare necessities and a hug here and there--so he really didn't mind. He sometimes even allowed her to sit in his lap when he worked in the lab and the glittering test tubes filled with a myriad of interestingly colored liquids always kept those little eyes utterly fascinated.
And speaking of the lab...he had some reading to do. The latest medical journals had cost him a pretty penny and they were sitting in his laboratory gathering dust when they could've been in his hands, the information contained therein being devoured by his mind and processed the way a well tuned engine processes oil.
He yawned and stretched, scratching his head as he got up off the sofa and ambled for the lab door.
A high pitched wail came from behind him the moment he turned his back to Kitten and he paused in mid-step.
"I'll be right back," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the child covered in tears and snot, screaming at the top of her lungs.
One thing he always neglected to mention whenever he was weighing the pros and cons of Kitten was that she was inexplicably attached to him. Oh, she was a wonderful, quiet creature as long as he was in sight, but she was more likely to have a fit if he were out of the room...
And if he were alone with her without the stooges to distract her while he went about his business, she wailed.
As soon as he turned back to her fully, the crying ceased, leaving her red in the face but looking hopeful.
Looking very put upon, he walked up to the tiny beast, hands on his hips as he stared down on her.
Just like her mother and her companions, she wasn't intimidated by his best 'Do not start with me, young lady' face.
To the contrary, Kitten looked up at Crane with those big watery brown eyes, reaching for him with chubby little baby fingers in silent plea for him to pick her up, and just as he was about to roll his eyes, sigh heavily and relent to her, she gurgled and giggled and uttered something that made him scowl.
It was somewhat garbled, but it was decipherable enough for him to understand what she said and frown in response. "That had to be your first word, didn't it?"
The child just giggled and bounced in place, still flexing her fingers at him, repeating her newly discovered means of communication.
"Squish! Squish, Squish, Squish!"
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| 2007-07-05 00:35 |
| Because holidays and fireworks scaring me out of my chair are inspiring. |
| Public |
| Hot Child In The City-Nick Gilder |
| catverse |
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A lit match in the hands of the Captain was a well known one way ticket to disaster. It followed, then, that when Jonathan Crane discovered this fact, he made certain that the woman wasn't allowed near any devices that could conceivably result in a fire. Lighters, matches and dry sticks--if found in her posession--were immediately confiscated just in case. Aside from his own experiences with the mistress of flamey death, both Techie and Al had many a tale to tell about her innate ability to start and sustain fires with as much skill as a gourmet chef had with a spatula.
And let's not revisit the time she tried to create something en flambe.
That was the one time that the Captain declared, should she ever want to try that again, her full permission was given to her comrades to tie her up to keep her from the attempt.
Techie heartily agreed and had the rope on standby.
Crane could hardly blame her...after all, it had taken her eyebrows close to a month to grow back in after the flaming baked Alaska debacle.
The same way that the Captain wasn't allowed near anything flammable, Al wasn't allowed in the kitchen. Many a microwave had exploded under her expert attentions and several blenders, toasters and millianeous other household items had met their doom at her hands. The Captain may have had an innate ability, but Al had a God given gift for making things--kitchen related things--explode.
Techie on the other hand, didn't seem to have any peculiar 'gifts' that could lead to disaster...
No, she was a thinker. She fired off random thoughts at random intervals whenever they struck her.
Oridinarily, this would make her a babbling idiot--an annoyance, but nothing of any consequence; but the fact of the matter is, if you put a babbling, thinking idiot in the same room with two doing idiots, the results were nothing short of spectacular.
Techie was the master planner, the others were the ones who latched onto an idea and made it happen.
He should have known better than to let the Captain and Al stay in the room when Techie suddenly stopped chewing her salami, pastrami and corned beef sandwich at the table to stare off into space. Her brows creased and her eyebrows made a valiant struggle to meet in the middle of her forehead, eyes narrowing and lips turning downwards ever so slightly.
This was the 'idea' face. This was the face that launched a thousand take-over-the-world-with-the-combined-power-of-squirrel-minions plans (that one had almost worked, too).
Techie swallowed her bite of sandwich loudly. "What day is it?"
The other two glanced at each other and Crane felt the cloud of impending doom come to rest over his head. He knew what day it was--had seen on the calendar that morning--but he'd taken no more notice of it than usual. So long as there wasn't any trace of red marker on the day in question, he didn't pay it any heed. It was the same as any other day, in his opinion...
But they would care what day it was...oh yes, they would care.
What day was it?
The fourth.
Of July.
Oh God, how did he let this sneak up on him?
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| 2007-06-30 04:08 |
| (no subject) |
| Public |
| catverse |
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"If there was one thing to be learned from living in Gotham city--one lesson to be gleaned about the pitfalls in the dark, sprawling metropolis--it was that there were certain places you just didn't go if you wanted to live long enough to see your children graduate high school. Dark alleys were one that the sharper citizens deemed unsafe--but another locale, one that didn't make the news quite as often as alleyways did, was also avoided by people with an IQ higher than that of a rutabaga.
Laboratories.
Gotham was famous for some of its labs, and even more notorious for its lab accidents.
Accidents of the 'Super Secret Government Testing Facility'/Mutant Super Power Granting variety.
Even most of the more famous faces in Gotham only dealt with labs on an as needed basis because it could be rather distracting to find yourself suddenly hybridized with a molecularly unstable variety of limestone when you were trying to plan the crime spree of the century.
Thusly, labs were about as desirable as villainous playgrounds as a field of shattered glass was for use as a dance floor. General convention in Gotham stated that these places were off limits to even the most desperate of criminals and thieves.
The Captain, Al and Techie were neither desperate, nor thieves, and while whether or not their combined intelligence was greater than that of a common garden vegetable was a matter of some debate, they still decided late one night that poking their heads inside Darck Labs new Gotham facility would be an interesting way to break up the monotonous pattern that they'd fallen into since their big city debut.
It's not that they didn't enjoy their time with Edward Nygma--quite the contrary, they adored him and doted on him in a manner that would have most likely made other villains question just how he was staying warm at night (and perhaps raise their opinion of him in the process of pondering the possibilities when three young women with adventurous streaks were involved)--whom they'd stayed with over the past two weeks; instead, it was the fact that they were the sort of characters who grew restless very easily.
Edward was a planner. The girls--with a few exceptions--were doers. Occasionally, they thought out what they were going to do, but for the most part, they just reacted in whichever way the situation called for, opting to deal with the consequences later rather than plan ahead more than a few steps.
It was that ambitious nature--some would say fool-hearty-go-get-'em attitude--that found them outside Darck that night.
Nygma had refused their offer to accompany them on their madcap caper (though they hadn't told him what they intended to do inside Darck, provided they gained entrance at all), deciding that two weeks had been a long enough recovery time for him to start slapping together some fresh riddles for his next brilliant scheme. The three had been invaluable when they rescued him, had proven very apt protectors and even the occasionally engaging chess partner, but he had work to do.
He thought he'd be glad for a bit of quiet, used to being a more solitary creature by nature, but after a little while, he was aware of the fact there wasn't anyone looking over his shoulder curiously or making offhand comments about palindromes and anagrams that could be formed to suit whatever the task at hand was.
Edward rather missed it...but he shook it off and returned to work, reveling in the opportunity to craft some choice riddles and clever puzzles to baffle the Bat when he decided to strike again.
He stayed that way for several hours, hunched over the small rickety table in his latest lair, drawing up the master plan to end all master plans (or at least, the plan to end all master plans until he came up with the next one), and finally, sometime around three o'clock in the morning, the girls returned.
The smelled like pesticide and were covered in blue goo.
He didn't ask.
He wanted to--inquisitive nature and all--but they looked like all they wanted out of life at that particular moment was a good hot bath and some quality sack time, not incessant questions about what had happened at Darck.
Besides, Edward knew from experience that there's never been a question that couldn't wait to be answered until morning...
Though his curiosity was liable to eat him alive by then.
----
The next morning, Nygma found things to be much the same as they had been since the three had leapt into his life (literally, that had been quite the daring rescue on their parts) but by afternoon, things were starting to get...strange.
Even with his extensive vocabulary, strange was the best word that he could come up with to describe it.
Lunchtime had been an interesting affair, for it was then that he first noticed the...strangeness.
The Captain was staring at her glass of water as though she were trying to intimidate it. Her eyes flicked with interested every few seconds to any other movement in the room, but she stayed primarily focused on her water glass.
She stayed that way for close to twenty minutes, just staring, before she declared she didn't want water, she wanted a glass of milk.
She wanted a glass of milk right then. She couldn't seem to get across just how much she wanted that milk.
Though the Captain's desire for dairy was odd in its vehemence, it was nothing in comparison to Techie's acrobatics. She flexed her shoulders, she twisted her neck to one side...she bent her back at angles Nygma didn't think possible before exclaiming that the chair she was in wasn't 'Damn cushy enough!' and slithering out of it into the floor to curl at his feet, still shifting her shoulder blades predatorily.
But weirdest of all ---"
Weirdest of all what?! WHY DID I STOP SCRIBBLING IN MY SEMI-SLEEP RIGHT THERE?! Does Al catch a mouse? Does she start sneezing wildly because she's allergic to herself? Does she go into heat? Does she scratch up the furniture? WHAT HAPPENS?!
And why am I asking you?
I hate that I don't know how it ends. When I woke up long enough to scribble that excerpt down, I was so pleased with the fabulous ending I had planned...
And now I don't remember it.
GAH!
I suppose I should be thankful I could make sense of my scribble at all...I used a smeary pen and when I'm half asleep I have a tendency to lay my face on the paper while I scribble, resulting in drool tracks and slimy ink trails.
It's such a glamorous life I lead, isn't it?
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"Growing accustomed to a house filled with children had been harder than Jonathan Crane ever thought possible. With the arrival of Techie's first child and Al's triplets both in the same week, their small 'family' had turned into 'brood' overnight. After the first two years of sleepless nights and restless days, the third year gave way to floorspace taken up by naked beheaded Barbie dolls and pieces of melted G.I. Joes, leaving the common room floor looking like some sort of post toystore civil war massacre.
The youngest four had a good teacher in their eldest...sister.
There was no other word for them, really. They weren't cousins---they weren't related at all---but they seemed to consider the Captain, Al and Techie to all be parts of one large Mother-Machine, rather than three separate parents, so they thought of each other as siblings, rather than 'The other kids I live with'."
I think it just might be too cruel to force five children on Squishy...I might just force Techie into having a child and leave Al's babies 'til after the Techlet (Although I'm having second thoughts about that as well right now) and the Batlet.
Yes, you heard me, Batlet. This tale would be the one in which Captain breaks the news to her friends that she's pregnant again. (Captain, you whore!)
Yeah...no Techlet or Squishlet. Just Kitten for now, I think. It'll be funnier that way. Probably. Maybe. I hope.
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"Throughout her short life, Evelyn Crane, better known to those who loved her (or at least tolerated her) as Kitten, had spent a great deal of time in emergency rooms.
You could say the girl was accident prone, but the words 'accident prone' suggested that she was on the receiving end of the numerous accidents that accompany that particular label.
Her caretakers preferred to call her disaster prone, a term coined by Techie on her first visit to the emergency room with child in tow. The fact of the matter was, cute though she may have been, Kitten seemed to have inherited her mother's (and stand-in aunts...or Godmothers...or whatever the hell they were, the Captain hadn't been very picky about their ranks at the time of Kitten's birth) propensity for causing trouble.
She was a firebug, for a start...if it was orange and flamey, she was drawn to it. Her second birthday party, for example, had resulted in singed eyebrows all around...ironically all but her own.
The Captain spent the entire day grinning stupidly about the fact that yet another family trait (the ability to cause fires without accidentally setting oneself aflame) had been passed on.
The Scarecrow, whose eyebrows took the longest to grow back, was not amused.
He banned birthday candles from then on.
He banned fireworks shortly thereafter, with Kitten's first sparkler 'o doom....a sparkler 'o doom which resulted in one of his sack cloth costumes being reduced to a pile of ashes.
While he was still in it."
I love setting Jonathan Crane on fire...he makes such an amusing target for wayward sparks.
I mean honestly...who wears a costume made out of one of the world's most flammable materials when he lives in a city known for explosions and fire themed villains? How stupid can you get?
The man is begging to be set ablaze. I defend that to the grave.
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