#fearismybusiness

fear-is-my-business

thehighertheyrise

xoxoladyloki

It was dark — the sun head dropped from the sky hours ago and the moon was nothing more than a sliver in the sky, providing no real light. The only thing that did light the streets were the dim yellow streetlights. Perhaps it was due the crime rate spike, but their were very few people out. The ones that did pass looked rather shady. Doctor Jonathan Crane was among them, the only difference was, he didn’t look as dark as the rest of the crowd.

The doctor’s appearance by no means affected his plans for the night though. Only a few weeks ago, he received an anonymous note that someone was interested in purchasing a capsule of his toxin. Although he should have been a touch uneasy to go to a location at night from an anonymous letter, but Crane didn’t seem to mind the idea. This was probably because he inhaled his own fear toxins.. That stole every shard of sanity he had left.

Crane took a right down through an alleyway into a part of town with less money. While going through the dark passage way, the man yanked his rag-like mask from his pocket and pulled it over head before he stepped out and scanned the buildings. Apparently someone was going to wave him into the correct apartment where their business would take place.

The pale, lanky doctor sat at an outdoor restaurant that was dimly lighted by the streetlights and the small candle in the center of his table. It was late — nearly midnight now — so Crane was alone at the restaurant, well, at least in the outdoor section. He wasn’t interested in being served a meal though. He was merely waiting.

Crane had a meeting planned with another fairly powerful gang in Gotham. What was suppose to happen was Crane and a few of his men and the other gang would meet and exchange two suitcases of his fear toxin for ten thousand dollars. That wasn’t going to happen though, the doctor knew that very well. These were ordinary, cheap criminals and they were clearly uneasy about the price to begin with. What they were going to try to do was try to point a gun at his head and demand he hand over the toxin. That would just mean Crane would have to make his men blow their heads off.

Crane’s hand tapped restlessly against the table of the outdoor diner he sat in. It was late — it had to be nearly midnight, by now — luckily these were the kind of restaurants that seemed to be open 24/7 (although it appeared even the single waitress and cook were half asleep). What was even better about it though, was that, given the time, both the streets and diner were empty so their was no chatter to interrupt him from his work. That’s just what he needed: a quiet environment and some black coffee.

Covering Crane’s crooked table were papers, each one regarding a different patient at the institution. The one his attention was forced on currently was one of a man name Howard Marshall, formally a man who worked with the power company, but got mixed up with the wrong people and soon was found working in organized crime. Crane stated in court that he was insane and unable to care for himself before the doctor (off the records, of course) gassed him. Since then, he fit right in with the rest of the crazies in the institution.

It was dark — the sun head dropped from the sky hours ago and the moon was nothing more than a sliver in the sky, providing no real light. The only thing that did light the streets were the dim yellow streetlights. Perhaps it was due the crime rate spike, but their were very few people out. The ones that did pass looked rather shady. Doctor Jonathan Crane was among them, the only difference was, he didn’t look as dark as the rest of the crowd.

The doctor’s appearance by no means affected his plans for the night though. Only a few weeks ago, he received an anonymous note that someone was interested in purchasing a capsule of his toxin. Although he should have been a touch uneasy to go to a location at night from an anonymous letter, but Crane didn’t seem to mind the idea. This was probably because he inhaled his own fear toxins.. That stole every shard of sanity he had left.

Crane knew he probably didn't look entirely un-suspicious. It was dark by now -- nearly midnight -- with only the waning moon to dim light the musty streets of Gotham. The majority of the streets though, were bare. That was understandable, rarely did people come to this part of town in the dead of night, especially considering the sharp spike in crime over the past years. The few people that were on the streets were either homeless or very shady looking. The doctor looked far from either though. He was dressed in one of his usual, fine suits with his locked brief case resting very close to him on the bench in which he sat.

Clearly, the lanky doctor was wait for something though for he was continuously glancing down at his watch before uttering an exasperated sigh and folding his hands again. What he had was a sale tonight and his men, the ones that were suppose to be picking him up, were late. And, even though it was hidden behind his strained pokerface, he was pissed. These sales didn't happen often and, since he was fired as a doctor in Arkham for obvious reason, the sale of his toxin was his only source of money. It was his living and he couldn't afford to loose any buyer.

Crane took a sharp turn in his van down the otherwise empty street, his foot pressing down on the pedal, pushing ninety miles per hour. With the hand that wasn’t steering down the barren street, he was pulling his crooked glasses from his face and shoving them in his breast pocket. He reached over to the passenger seat, snatching his mask from the seat and pulling it over head. It was a dangerous move considering the high speed and bad lighting of the street, but his head hadn’t exactly been in the right place since he sucked up his own fear toxin.

With a screech of the wheels, the jeep pulled over to the side of the street and the side door was thrown open. Crane soon came toppling out, head turning to face the parking garage to his right. This was the address on the note he receive a week ago.. There was suppose to be a heist of some kind. There looked to be no one in the building though.

The pale, lanky doctor sat at an outdoor restaurant that was dimly lighted by the streetlights and the small candle in the center of his table. It was late -- nearly midnight now -- so Crane was alone at the restaurant, well, at least in the outdoor section. He wasn't interested in being served a meal though. He was merely waiting.

Crane had a meeting planned with another fairly powerful gang in Gotham. What was suppose to happen was Crane and a few of his men and the other gang would meet and exchange two suitcases of his fear toxin for ten thousand dollars. That wasn't going to happen though, the doctor knew that very well. These were ordinary, cheap criminals and they were clearly uneasy about the price to begin with. What they were going to try to do was try to point a gun at his head and demand he hand over the toxin. That would just mean Crane would have to make his men blow their heads off.