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"Nothing matters...Not anymore. Just tell me who you want me to hurt."
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Post by Waylon Jones on Jul 10, 2020 2:13:03 GMT -5
Power. Such a simple concept that can shift and evolve from blessing and curse, from beloved gift or a spiteful weight that drags you down to the darkest depths. Waylon Jones portrayed such a dichotomy, possessing the raw strength to bulldoze his way through the excuse for a cell any moment he pleased, yet spent his time wallowing away against his chains, wishing for nothing more than to be stripped of the very power those around him craved so compellingly.
He smelled them far before he heard them, must be someone new. Wasn't much of a surprise, given he had nearly bitten the head off the previous trainee. He never knew when they would strike. A feral, primal urge to lash out at beings around him, seeking to consume the freshest flesh nearby. The boundless strength of his coming with a cost that outweighed the benefits tenfold. As his strength grew, his mind decayed. A parting gift from the late Black Mask, a devolving mindset in the works of reverting Croc into what he was already halfway towards becoming, a mindless animal only seeking it's next kill.
The so called experts refused to accept this however. Believing they must know of some technique or combination of medications that would miraculously transform Jones into a model person, the person he had been stripped of becoming by the lottery of life. Footsteps fast approaching, Waylon made a guttural bellowing sound in a vain attempt to frighten off his unwanted guest, as usual only eliciting a brief pause that resumed soon after.
"Crikey, sure are a big one aint'cha? Mugshots sure ain't doing you justice" came the aggravating tone of the new guard's voice, the jingling of keys being the only solace the reptilian recluse would get from the voice rattling his eardrums. He didn't care much for what they said. They were all the same. Either enjoying their free sideshow attraction, or cowering in very real fear of probable demise. Wheeling in an oversized restraint, the guard was offered little resistance as Waylon was secured into a setup reminiscent of a certain hollywood cannibal, one might consider it overkill....For those that aren't Croc. This time tuning into the squeaks of the wheels rather than his transporter's droning, if any that is, Jones took a moment to look over the employee. Their hair was noticeably red, but nothing else of them was of much note. Clad in your typical Arkham uniform, alongside a security badge clipped to their chest. To nobody's surprise, Croc was wheeled towards a therapy chamber, preparing himself to be hit with electrified batons if he so much as went to scratch his back, Waylon was instead met with the removal of his restraints.
"Got 'em boss" Sounded the guard, prompting the man that evolution forgot to examine the room in curiosity, soon spying what could best be described as the furthest thing from a mental health professional, as Croc merely took his seat, glossy eyes piercing through the silence. "You need someone hurt." Was all Waylon thought to question, as assuming a negative outlook towards this venture was likely to lead to survival...for both parties that is.
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"You're just jealous because I'm a genuine freak and you have to wear a mask!"
Overlord
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Post by Oswald Cobblepot on Jul 21, 2020 20:49:56 GMT -5
Arkham Island, off the coast of Sommerset and sandwiched between Coventry and the Burnley. Between a rock and a hard place you might say. Coventry, speckled with glittering sky rises and dim-witted socialite debutantes. Burnley, with its slumlords and a veritable sea of wretched disenfranchised homeless. Arkham island, namesake for an illustrious and occult family, forever intrinsically linked with the lore, the horror, and the sprawling metropolitan splendor of Gotham. The very soil of that decrepit offshore wasteland is rotted and mottled, cursed aeons before the first settler even step foot on the New World. That decrepit hellhole, rich with the musk of horror. Forever untouched by the advancements of modern society, forever in a wake of gothic age rot and ruin. As if forgotten by the sands of time, colonial cobble and brick mixed with few and far between industrial mortar dotted the landscape. Horrific cathedrals with spine tingling gargoyles, weeping stone angels and ransacked cobble headstones of what were once homes, houses and buildings. The only land untouched by the glint and glimmer of Lex Luthor’s new age cybernetic architecture. The land itself, it’s very soil, ripe with only mold, mildew and marshland. It would and should surely forever be forgotten by society. At the heart of this wasteland, the heart of Gotham’s infamy, it’s pain and it’s degradation: Arkham Asylum. The crown jewel of Arkham Island, the state hospital and sanatorium, once the ancestral home of the Arkham lineage. Once an imposing castle, gleaming high above an endless sea of cobble. The pitter patter of rain trickled and bellowed in a whirlwind of stormy weather. Lightning flashed across the skies, grimly outlining the shadow of a man in a fedora and briefcase. Dauntless iron gates towered above him, rusted and black bars which read simply as Arkham Asylum. The shadow grimaced up, past the gates and below the flashes of lightning and trickling downpour of rain, grimly adjudicating the foreboding presence of Arkham State Hospital. That wretched detestable hellhole in all of it’s horrific splendor. Goosebumps trickled down his spine, and with a moments hesitation the darkly figure made the long trek past the gnarled trees. Marching past shrill and horrific stone angels, wrapped and warped by an entanglement of foliage. Then finally past a cobbled courtyard, with some golden effigy of Amadeus Arkham reaching out into the heavens above. Entering the asylum, raindrops trickling off his suit and mud squinching beneath the steps of his boots. The shadow, greeted only by gaudy laughter, and shrill cries of pain and horror. The shadow of a man marched ever onwards, forwards with naught but a mission. Marching past the guards, marching past the orderlies, past the nurses and doctors, not a soul even bothered him. Worst of all, past the maniacs. Hideous men, women, and children, screaming, crying, laughing. Disheveled and monstrous creatures. Heaving, cursing, coughing monstrosities locked behind bars of glass or iron and clasped in tattered black and white striped tunics or straight jackets. An ocean of cells, each with names, monikers, and monsters. First past a tiny little room called “Doctor Destiny ~ John Dee”. A shriveled up creature. A skeletal husk. His eyes were massive and dark. A swirling hole of blackness with tiny beaty red eyes which offered naught but a vacant glare. Sunken limply and lifelessly into an old wheelchair, the red eyes danced around the shadow’s feet. The next tiny room, “Cornelius Stirk”. The creature’s eyes gleamed like a maniac. Twisted and foul, one larger than the other. It was bald, but had horrific follicles and tufts of hair bushed up in patches around it’s head. It slammed its fist against the glass, gnashing it’s teeth coursley together. It’s teeth, jagged and sharp, as if sharpened by a razor rubbing against them. It lipped it’s chapped lips, ogling at the shadow as it marched on by. After that, it was “Clayface ~ Preston Payne”. The creature inside was a mucousy mass of frail human sludge. Skin dripped and drizzled down like rain, flesh oozing and slushing about, oscillating to the floor as though it were melting off. A mix of flesh and blood, red and tan, sloshing and splashing to the floor. Finally, there was “‘Tallyman ~ Unknown”. A grinning fellow, not unlike the joker. His toothy smile twisting higher as the shadow marched by. The creature’s body was twisted and malformed. Curling and oscillating about in a springy sort of locomotion. The fedora clad shadow lurched through the halls dutifully, handed a uniform by one of the guards, he stepped into a broom closet and changed. Stepping out, now dressed in an Arkham Security uniform, and equipped with the necessary facilities required for transporting a hulking psychotic maniac. Meandering through the complex for what felt like hours, the steps and clomps his boots echoed along the hallways. That was when he heard that hiss. That guttural, demonic hiss. He was taken aback, it was like gator’s snarl, but bigger. It rumbled in his chest, and for the briefest of moments, he paused... Shock suddenly trickled down his spine, but the moment subsided, and he continued. Through the bars of a massive steel door, the figure could finally cast a gaze upon the horrific hissing monstrosity. “Killer Croc ~ Waylon Jones” in all it’s scaly grotesque glory. ”Crikey, sure are a big one aint’cha? Mugshots sure ain’t doin’ you justice” The slight jingle if clamoring keys echoed through the door, and finally it opened with a metallic squeak. He nonchalantly wheeled in the massive dolly and strapped the carnivorous carnie in. The “officer” wheeled old Jonesy down the hall, past a few orderlies and into the therapy chamber. Releasing Croc and all his restraints. ”Got ‘em boss” The thuggish mercenary gleamed with pride. "Good show, old boy!" Greeted the fowl feathered pharaoh with a jovial tinge to his voice. As Croc took a seat, he might notice a fine vintage wine beside him, as well two glasses. Or perhaps he wouldn’t, as at the moment, those reptilian eyes seemed to busy analyzing the pompous penguin parish for ulterior motives. Penguin, for his part, similarly analyzed Croc’s scaly features. Croc’s snarling reflection glinting back at him through a sharp monocle. Cobblepot’s murky grey eyes locked dauntlessly with Jones’ reptilian slits. After that brief exchange of eye contact, Croc just seemed to want to get to the point. The direct approach. Something Cobblepot wasn’t a fan of. He enjoyed beating around bush. The world play of a sharp conversation. The eloquence of pleasantries and falsehood kindness and niceties. The refined art of negotiation. Killer Croc clearly was the opposite. "Well hello to you too, Waylon." Cobblepot’s voice tinged with the slightest bit of insult, but he expected this. Killer Croc wasn’t exactly known for his table manners. Penguin took a seat on the opposite side of Jones, the black of his eyes swirling with indecipherable cruelty. The black and green of his lips twisting into a gaudy sneer. Oswald removed his top hat, placing it beside him and clasping his flippers together with a sigh. "But I suppose if you want to get right down to it, no, not necessarily." Cobblepot grabbed both glasses with left flipper, and the vintage wine with his right. He poured both glasses, one after another as he elaborated on the current situation at hand. "There is no particular ’job’, as of yet... Rather, I bequeath to you an offer of mutually beneficial employment." He offered Croc a glass of shimmering red liquid. "You see, my operations are expanding elsewhere, and the need for a... Shall we say? Refined form of riff raff grows by the hour.""I’m in need of lieutenants. Criminals of the super variety. The bijous amongst brutes you might say."Flippers delicately pinching the glasses stem, Penguin offered up a toast. Whether or not Croc reciprocated remained to be seen | Waylon Jones |
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"Nothing matters...Not anymore. Just tell me who you want me to hurt."
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Post by Waylon Jones on Jul 25, 2020 20:44:52 GMT -5
The Penguin. A fellow freak of nature, but this time parading himself as what he wasn't. A classy member of the elite. Nothing more than a Cuckoo bird attempting to imitate another chick to take over their nest. He couldn't help but find this whole showcase as nothing more than patronizing. An attempt to come off as daring and a master showman, when in reality it was a pointless showcase of an excessive pulling of strings to flaunt the felonious fowl's ill gotten gains. Still, Waylon played along. Making an uncharacteristically gentle clinking of glasses as he held the goblet in his claws. Figures it was red. As if Penguin was appealing to Croc's base instincts with the blood of their enemies. Waylon wouldn't be too surprised to find such a morbid concoction from Penguin. Looking Oswald in the eyes, Waylon cut straight to the point, as usual. "I'm not too fond of you business types Cobblepot. Y'all see people like me as nothin' more than fodder. Even if your truly in this for my interests, It's pointless. Ya see, I've got this here parting gift from the first Black Mask....Just like you he wanted me to be his little muscle, planted this here little chip in my brain with the help of our little cellmate Tetch. My mind....It ain't normal. You all called me an animal. A monster. It's truer than ever now. I'll randomly go feral, mutilate any'ne close enough. Eat them. Even if I was willin' to help you Oswald, I can't guarantee I wouldn't lose control and maul ya when your back is turned. I don't mean that as threat, but fact. I hate it. Want nothin' more than to be away from everyone, but people like you always have'ta drag me on back. I'm better off locked in here, where there is a sturdy door between me an' everyone else."He was blunt as he could be. He wanted no part of this. He couldn't take part in this. For the sake of his peace of mind, and for the bodily sake of everyone else. Knowing Penguin however, that blasted bird wouldn't listen. Copplepot always got what he wanted, even if it just came around to bite him in the ass afterwards. Waylon was prepared to exit by force if need be, tensing up his muscles at the ready. But for now he sat, content to wait and listen for the mobster's response, taking a gulp of the wine as a rare pleasantry in the life of the Killer Croc. Oswald Cobblepot
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36Likes
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"You're just jealous because I'm a genuine freak and you have to wear a mask!"
Overlord
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Post by Oswald Cobblepot on Sept 24, 2020 8:05:15 GMT -5
It didn’t matter what it was. Didn’t matter where it was. Didn’t matter who it belonged to. Penguin always got what he wanted. With a flipper in every pie in the city, plus a few international? It’s no easy task telling a guy like that no. Rarely did he ever take an answer like that well, it just never happened. For anyone who wasn’t a nine foot tall human crocodile with superhuman strength, it was suicide. Cobblepot made the trains run on time, and it is what it is. The Falcones and Moronis were dust in the wind, swept off with the sands of time. The Joker and Batman were a force of entropy, and Bruce Wayne couldn’t even be bothered to wake up before eleven a.m... So who was it who ran Gotham’s day to day? In the Underworld, it was Penguin. Buildings could crumble at a whim, factories could stall and cease, the proudest standing could be made to fall, and all Cobblepot needed to do was gesture. What he wanted was his, and right now what he wanted was Waylon Jones. Croc was an invaluable asset to any empire. Bestial strength aside, Croc came with a great deal of benefits. With rugged reptilian skin he could survive a hail of bulletproof fire practically unscathed, claws and teeth sharp as nails offered terror to his foes, years of isolation in the sewers allowed him to navigate Gotham’s watery depths like tracing the back of his hand, and he could last for hours submerged deep within the waters without air. Even still, Penguin just liked Croc more than anyone else. Sure, he was crude and blunt, but he was honest. There was no bull$#!%. No fickle sycophancy or two-faced false kindness. Croc was what he was, and that’s that. Their glasses clinked, and Oswald took a quiet sip. Murky blue eyes glazed in peaceful contemplation shimmered dully in the bitter red liquid. Croc spoke only of woe, disinterest, and decline and Penguin offered no rebuttal. No comment nor emotion, only neutrality. The world was cruel and indifferent, and scorned that which did not conform. Oswald and Waylon did not conform. There was an uncertain serenity in his features as he daydreamed into his glass. He enjoyed the tranquility of those two bitter souls lost in the silence, both abused by violence and cast aside by the world at large. Oz swallowed, saliva trickling down his throat as wine danced rhythmically around the rim of his glass. This was nice. What he considered to be two comrades enjoying a brief drink in the cold. The whole exchange left this comforting tingle in his gut, one which he did all together enjoy. There was a commotion from under the table, unintentionally appearing as though Penguin was about to pull out a firearm. This intimidating gesture was made only worse as Cobblepot’s goon motioned forwards towards Croc. Penguin had no firearm (at least none visible), and the goon meant no harm... Instead, Oswald held a log shaped object wrapped in brown paper which crinkled in the grasp of his mangled hand, and his mercenary stood between the two holding a large briefcase. The briefcase opened, revealing a bonanza of hundred dollar bills, Penguin’s nonverbal reply to Jones’ disinclinations. Oswald then unwrapped the brown paper to reveal an artisan loaf of bread. The bread was placed at the very center of the table, and Penguin never said whether Croc could of could not have a piece. Without a word, the gentleman gangster ripped and tore a small portion of bread off. He ripped that small piece once again in two, placing one half to the brown paper wrapper. The other half was dipped in his glass of wine, with a bite nibbles off almost immediately. He took a bite, oozy bits of green slathering across the mushy red of the bread and wine.
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"Nothing matters...Not anymore. Just tell me who you want me to hurt."
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Post by Waylon Jones on Sept 25, 2020 21:29:00 GMT -5
Waylon wasn't afraid in Penguin pulled a gun. What would it do in all reality? Anything it would damage would just grow back, and Croc would butcher the two then and there. His look of indifference turned to a scoff of annoyance as Penguin shoved a box of cash towards the reptilian recluse. Figures. That was Cobblepot's solution to everything. If his silver tongue didn't work, just shove money towards it. "This better be a joke. What am I goin' ta do with money Cobblepot. Waltz into the nearest Lexmart and grab myself a flatscreen? Move into a nice gated community? Get fitted for a fancy suit? Even you can't be that dumb Penguin." As Croc made his distaste audible with a reptilian snarl, similar to what Oswald's lackey had heard on his way to pick up the inmate. Knowing better than to test Penguin's supposedly gracious hospitality with the bread, waylon stuck to his glass of wine, taking a delicate sip...Well as gently as he could being more tooth than lip. Red splashing against pointed fangs, resembling one of Croc's menacing meltdowns with dripping crimson. "Don't think I didn't notice you ignored the threat of yer safety in my company. Somethin' tells me you've got something cookin' in that birdbrain of yours."Oswald Cobblepot
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36Likes
19Posts
"You're just jealous because I'm a genuine freak and you have to wear a mask!"
Overlord
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Post by Oswald Cobblepot on Oct 28, 2020 21:11:25 GMT -5
Killer Croc was an animal. So too, was Penguin. Vicious ruthless creatures who were monsters in their own way. Freaks of nature taking refuge in the underbelly of Gotham. This derives the particular interest Oswald Cobblepot had in Waylon Jones. Sure, Croc was a musclebound brute who could smash his way through a brick building, but so was the likes of Grundy and Blockbuster. No, choosing Croc was more an artistic statement then anything else. Penguin’s particular affinity for animals, or rather the animal gimmick, and just freaks of nature in general, meant that Jones needed to collected for this, repertoire of reprobates Cobblepot had an in mind. Looking at the Penguin’s lieutenants across the board was (to Penguin) like gazing deep into a painting and ascertaining the meat of Oswald Cobblepot’s values and ideals. There was only poetry in Penguin’s desires for Croc. Nothing more, nothing less. All this being said, Croc would be his. No matter the cost. The Penguin always gets what he wants, you don’t say no to the king of Gotham. But, Killer Croc has a point. A point which, (as Croc pointed out) Penguin did not acknowledge. The foul feathered fowl could not help but chuckle at such an astute observation. Folks around Gotham truly never gave reptilian reprobate enough credit. In spite of how he may seem, that scaly sultan of the sewers was actually quite intelligent. No so articulate, really, but highly intelligent. Penguin leered into his glass of wine, twirling it ever so slightly around his fingers such that the juice sashayed around the rim and danced in the crystal clear shape. A greasy grin took shape on his lips, and he took a sip. A Tarty taste trickling down his throat as he guzzled every ounce of drink down. He grabbed his vintage, and filled his glass a second time, a fountain of red pouring deep into the delicate glass, soon offering to do the same for Croc. The art of deal making dictated that now was the time for his trump card. The ace up his sleeve, or rather in his coat pocket. It was pamphlet, like the sort which advertised an all inclusive vacation spa treatment or some such. But, it wasn’t for a vacation, but rather for surgery. Neurosurgery & You was the title. You see, Penguin new quote well of the, shall we strenuous ordeal that Black Mask and the Mad Hatter had forced Croc through. "I was able to procure this procedure by pulling a few strings. Though, it’s highly experimental and I can not guarantee that it will garnish results" Penguin extended the pamphlet to his crocodilian comrade, allowing the reptile to peruse its pages. While Croc did what he did, Penguin ripped off another slice of bread. He dipped it into his wine, oozy bits of red dripping off damp and tarty bread, and took a bite. "This should cover the surgical expenses: taxes, labor, etcetera. With a little extra, of course." He gestured towards the briefcase, another slice of bread in hand as he allowed the Killer Crocodile to contemplate his offer.
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"Nothing matters...Not anymore. Just tell me who you want me to hurt."
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Post by Waylon Jones on Jan 31, 2021 21:07:01 GMT -5
Well this was certainly a surprise. Waylon gingerly grasped the pamphlet, careful not to tear it to pieces as he glanced through the summarizations and promises made by the tantalizing text spewed across the pages. A small, yet surprisingly jovial chuckle resonated it's way through the reptilian reject's throat as his gnashing teeth twisted themselves into what could potentially pass for a smile. "Well s**t Cobblepot. As always it seems you've got everyone wrapped around yer pretty little flippers huh?" As he leaned back in his chair a bit, his hulking forearms clasped behind his head as he took on a more relaxed gesture. "Tell you what Oz. I've got nothin' ta' lose here, and everything to gain. But there lies the problem. I've got everything to gain, but you've got everything to LOSE. That makes ya dangerous, no matter if I'm for ya or against ya. So I'll be setting down some ground rules 'ere." As Croc proceeded to lift up one of his monstrous fists, soon lifting up a trio of fingers to emphasize his point. "First off, for yer safety and my sanity, I'll need someplace secure I can lock myself up if I can feel myself goin' feral. Second, no cages or dungeons or any of that crap. If I'm with ya, then I'm gettin' all the same amenities and space as the others. An' lastly..."As Croc took a second to gaze at himself within the glass of wine, before shifting his gaze back towards his compatriot. "...If this surgery an' all goes all belly up and I lose myself fer good...I want ya to kill me. Not lock me in a pit to dispose of people, nor puppet my body or anythin', six feet in the ground. Can I count on ya Ozzy? At least show a shell of a man that respect."Oswald Cobblepot
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36Likes
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"You're just jealous because I'm a genuine freak and you have to wear a mask!"
Overlord
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Post by Oswald Cobblepot on Feb 23, 2021 23:34:42 GMT -5
Killer Croc’s delight was not at all mirrored by Penguin. He kept a stern composure, analyzing the situation at hand and calculating his next words before it was his turn to even speak. Cobblepot held a single half of bread in black gloved flipper. It was pretty, wasn’t it? That’s what his mother always told him. She would always caress his malformed palm and fingers and goad him on about how beautiful they were. About how beautiful he was. He ripped a small piece of bread off and dipped it into his wine, the starchy texture fading into a reddish-purple. A fruity aroma tingled in the jagged curve of his nose, and when it finally touched his tongue, he let it sit briefly for the tastebuds you absorb as much of the juicy texture as he could. Croc let his pints be spoken, and Penguin simply listened, and when all was said and done, Cobblepot cleared his throat, pinching the rim of his monocle and sliding it off the ridge of his nose. “I can provide you some safe harbor for when you swim out of the shallows and go off the deep end, as it were... But, I will not be your nanny. Housing and amenities is up to you and you alone, dear boy. There is plenty of cash in that briefcase for a downpayment, and your services shall be salaried handsomely, therefore rent or taxes or what have you should be no issue.” Oswald pulled out a handkerchief from his tuxedo, rubbing it against both sides of the monocle then inspecting its shine and glimmer. "Whatever specifications are required for such... Unique circumstances shall be surely met, per the comfort and safety of you and others under my employment.” He’d simply give Croc a budget, and leave him to decide where and what would be needed for this “feral room”. It would probably be for the best, anyway... Penguin’s henchmen weren’t as expendable as say, Joker’s or Two-Face. Cobblepot was picky about his goons, he wasn’t after the common riff raff. Only the best, trained better than the rest. He slid his monocle back in place and allowed Croc the time to make his final request, noting to himself more and more just how absolutely slimy and disgusting these asylum walls were. Waylon seemed to pause for the final request, which was understandable given the nature of it... Oswald too, was momentarily taken aback once he’d heard it. It was an unusual request, and a loaded one at that. But, Penguin could understand it, and respect it. Oswald deeply contemplated the demand, perching his pointer and thumb upon sickly green lips with a furrowed brow. Contemplation subsided, and Penguin relented upon the request with a fair bit simple "So be it.” He would honor this demand, not out of some small shred of human decency, no I can assure you that. For human decency was a trait Penguin was sorely lacking. This seemed to be a non-negotiable term and upon agreeing to it, became a woven string in the tapestry of their agreement. Oswald has done many unscrupulous things, but he always upheld his end of a bargain. Penguin perched his lips upon the wine glass, bitter juices flowing down his throat. Now it was his turn to make demands. "But... If this surgery is a success? I need some assurance that you will remain under my employ.”Penguin arose from his seat, rustling his flipper through greasy strands of black hair. Glancing at his red haired associate as well as Croc, for this monologue was for him as well. He wasn’t an ordinary goon, he was an expert mercenary from the Outback. He was a gunslinger, but his preferred weapon was a massive double pronged hook. His name was Irwin Drago, a smug bastard, and like Croc, Penguin was prospecting for him to be a Lieutenant, not just a freelancer. "Know this, my crocodilian confidant... Something grand and guttural is on the horizon. I know it. I see it coming. I don’t know what it is, but it will rip this city asunder.” Cobblepot waddled his way around the room, frazzled hair blending in with the shadows of Arkham. He went behind Croc, hands clasped behind his back, and he turned, the scales and spikes of Jones’ scalp shimmering in his monocle. ”The pieces are being set, and the board is at the ready. I have no idea whom my opponents are, but I will be a player in this most dangerous game.” Penguin leaned in, wrapping one arm around Killer Croc’s shoulder, his other signaling for Drago to step on over. Drago complied, and so Penguin held both in his embrace. “And from the ashes of Gotham, my fiefdom will stand and my empire will reign. Be prepared gentlemen, for you will stand as my apostles, my lieutenants and generals in this glorious new age.” Penguin was a tenacious mastermind, a meticulous tactician and so his grand aspirations were to meet soaring heights. Drago’s sudden change of expression made it clear that he’d come upon that realization. ”Crikey...” Drago’s eyes went wide and his lips curled into a twisted grin. ”Ye’, sign me up, boss. I’ll be prepared.” Penguin chuckled at this, it was all to easy for some people... But others? Croc may have needed to be buttered up a bit more. He grabbed his glass of wine, pinching the stem delicately between his pointer and thumb. He turned away from his co-conspirators, one hand clasped behind his back, he faced the wall. Eyes locked with his murky maroon reflection, he grinned and it grinned sleazily back at him.
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"Nothing matters...Not anymore. Just tell me who you want me to hurt."
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Post by Waylon Jones on Feb 28, 2021 22:52:58 GMT -5
Relieved that he had Oswald's word upon the terms he had thrown together, Waylon merely followed along with his eyes as Oswald began his grand gesture of a monologue, keeping quiet out of respect. He didn't have much to add to Penguin's decrees, now much input to provide on his own as he barely even felt the presence of the mafioso's flipper upon his back. His goon seemed easy enough to sway, wasn't too much of a surprise. Anyone crazy enough to help the foul fowl of Gotham spring a giant semi feral crocodile had to be an easy con. Croc didn't really care too much about Penguin's grander plans, nor his declaration of making him into a king. Practically every mook in Gotham had heard such a spiel from their employer at one point or another. Probably died soon after too. Still, if Penguin really could provide Croc the peace of mind he so badly desired, then he had no reason to refuse at this point in time. "Ya know me Cobblepot. I ain't really got any grand plans 'n stuff. So long as you hold up yer end of the deal an' don't backstab me, then I have no reason to turn on ya either. I don't care about money or power or any of that junk. At this point ah just want some peace of mind and something to do."Oswald Cobblepot
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36Likes
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"You're just jealous because I'm a genuine freak and you have to wear a mask!"
Overlord
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Post by Oswald Cobblepot on May 20, 2021 4:28:50 GMT -5
Emerald lips couldn’t help but purse into a twisted smile. The rim of his champagne glass perched itself upon the lower vermillion like a roosting canary, the glass becoming lightly viridescent as the vile oils of his mouth drooled across its edge. Dull eyes glinting wistfully into the dreary room’s corner as that twisted little smirk stretched further, lost in his own thoughts. A hazy reflection of sharply filed teeth glinted back in the murky maroon drink, tarty flavor flowing quietly down the back of his tongue like peaceful stream in the forest. Oh Croc. Sweet simple Waylon Jones. Mister “I threw a rock at ‘im”. You have no vision, no foresight nor ambition. Never the architect, Waylon you’ll always only wallow as the lowly workhorse. If only you had some semblance of a brain under those scales and within that skull. But alas, a duck will always be a duck, and you will always be Killer Croc. Killer Croc, the sewer monster. Killer Croc, the voracious brute. Killer Croc, loathsome cannibal of the abyss. That is why I shall leave a legacy which shall stand the testament of time, and you, old boy... You will leave nothing but a smearing of excrement in Slaughter Swamp. Some of it peppered with human bones. Perhaps Grundy will find a femur in your feces? Ho-ho-ho-hrrnkhenkwenk!Oswald stood silent amongst his thoughts, though occasionally one might catch short animalistic grunts. Like the quack of a duck but low and gravely. His smokers lungs heaving in grotesque and heavy breaths like a dying creature. He sloshed a bit of what remained in his glass about it, letting it playfully sashay against it’s edges before tapping the knuckle of his pointer finger against the room wall. A small tapping, but enough to be heard from the outside. Penguin took another sip just as the door timidly creaked open. An Arkham Doctor came in, a petite young woman with vibrant blonde hair and an olive vest under her uniform. Doctor Tiffany Belle, poor girl, her husband was a bit of a gambler, you see. Evidently not a very good gambler. Oswald’s bookies didn’t even need to rig any of his games, the poor chap was just that bad. But, of course Cobblepot, being the gracious humanitarian he was, offered an out... ”Congratulations, Waylon Jones. You are now, legally, sane.” She held a notarized and official document in her hands, with a congratulatory note written en masse by Warden Sharp above it, and her own signature below it, and finally below that was an empty dotted line. “Crikey! Miracle a’ modern medicine, it is!” Killer Croc was about as sane as one could be in a city like Gotham; the twisted disgusting land that it was. But, a beating from the Batman would put Waylon and Oswald back in square one, regrettably... Croc in his cage, and Penguin forced to pull strings again. So it would be preferable to use the reptilian recluse sparingly, or at least smartly. Cobblepot pulled an eloquent black rod from his coat pocket. A Montblanc Meisterstück black fountain pen with a gold-coating, a true gentleman has only the most elegant and pricey of the market. He slithered in, sliding it between Croc and document with a hideous grin. “Just sign the dotted line, old boy, and you’ll be under my employment...”| Waylon Jones |
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