#jokezilla

It’s spoken with a white-knuckle grip on the clown’s shoulder, talons dig into flesh, the shadow-cloaked specter behind him leaning close to whisper a threat in Jack’s ear, a sharp-worded reminder of a slammed door and a suffocating dark.

Give Jon a nickname! || No longer accepting 

Crane stiffens, exhaling quietly between his teeth in an irritated hiss. The look he gives the clown is familiar in its severity, as is the sharpness of his tongue, quicker to snap then is typical.

Does Jon find you attractive?  || Still accepting

He laughs, low and long, the quiet, sinister sound lasting for far longer then is comfortable, before he takes a syringe from the table and tosses it at Jacks feet in disgust.

“No. And for the record, Jack, I will never be close to you, I will never care for you, I will never be your friend. Whatever delusions you might have to the contrary, I will never anything more to you then a glorified drug dealer, and you never anything to me but a pest. Take that, and get out. Go indulge in your pathetic little habit somewhere else.”

                                 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙤 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙚

This night is unusually peaceful, mad dog has been sated (although the satisfaction never lasts) by the doctors liquid terror, and Crane has left him to his own devices while he looks for a book that he was sure he had ‘acquired’ only a week before...where was the damn thing...?

(Hideout is a dizzying maze of volumes, stacked in towering columns next to shelves that strain under the weight of their contents, don’t touch them, lest you draw his ire.)

Needed tome is not found, but- A pistol clatters to the floor as the shifting of a box knocks loose several novels.

“Dammit-”

A pause. Gaze locks on the weapon.

Oh.

Do you remember the last time you held this? Do you remember the sound of the shot? The one that ended your career, birthed the monster spawned under southern sun? Do you remember the sound of a shattering vase, Jonathan Crane? Your last words?

' 𝙻𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚗! '

Gloved hands retrieve the object, gently, like the fine china you weren’t allowed to touch, kept away for some hypothetical ‘company’ that never seemed to find the time to drop by that crumbing house.

“...Jack?” Voice is soft in a way rarely allowed. Questioning, shifts to an order before mad dog scents blood. “Come here, you’re needed.” Although he isn’t, really. In reality there is merely a story to tell (an axe to grind), and a monologue that is only such if performer has an audience.