@jokezillaโ gets whatever this is-
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 โacquiredโ 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, donโt 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.
A pause. Gaze locks on the weapon.
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?
' ๐ป๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ข ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐! '
Gloved hands retrieve the object, gently, like the fine china you werenโt allowed to touch, kept away for some hypothetical โcompanyโ that never seemed to find the time to drop by that crumbing house.
โ...Jack?โ Voice is soft in a way rarely allowed. Questioning, shifts to an order before mad dog scents blood. โCome here, youโre needed.โ Although he isnโt, 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.
โI think...youโll find this interesting.โ