Fear Toxin - Tumblr Posts

Greg had been a professional hench for the past ten years. He was well adept in toxins. There were scare toxins, Joker™ toxins, pain toxins, and hallucination toxins. If you could think of something, the underground toxin industry could make it.

Greg, in all his henching, had never seen an inhibitons-lower-ing toxin. He was kind of jazzed (and honored) to be one of the first henches to use it. Especially because he got to use it on the Batman.

By some luck, Greg and two other henches and a goon (Greg didn't like working with goons) had managed to snag the Batman while he had been swinging around and patrolling. They had knocked him out and tied him to a chair and tied that chair to an old fridge and chained that fridge to a support beam in the old warehouse they were in.

Technically, the four of them where not working with anyone at the moment but padding your resume is important when applying for villainous positions. This would be perfect for Greg's 'Special Intel' section and with the job market how it was, you needed all the help you could get.

Greg nodded to his fellow henches and the goon (Goons. Gross) and he picked up the syringe of inhibition-lower-ing toxin that his friend the mad scientist had given him. He injected it in the Bat's neck through the fabric (Obviously he hadn't taken off his cowl, that would be plain rude). Then, Greg punched Batman in the face.

The four of them were excited when the Bat lurched himself forward in his bounds, thankful that the rope and the rope and the chain had worked. Greg, as senior hench on scene, was given the floor to start the questioning. "So, Mr. Batman" he said because he was a professional, "we have some questions for you."

The Bat squinted at Greg (or maybe his cowl was just malfunctioning? It's hard to tell with the weird white eyes) and growled, "What do you want, Greg?"

Okay, that's pretty cool. THE Batman knows his name. Greg, keeping his excitement at bay, questioned, "Why do you do what you do, Mr. Batman?" It was a fairly easy question, something simple to ease them into the interrogation. Nothing too loaded that would bring up anything that would make the Bat hostile.

"My parents were brutally murdered in front of me as a young boy. I promised them Vengeance™." Greg was not expecting that. Everything is cool. Everything is fine.

"Okayyyy, um, why do you work with Robin?" Perfect. Everyone who had seen Batman interact with Robin knew he was fond of the boy and likely his father. This is perfect.

"His parents were brutally murdered in front of him as a young boy. He promised them Vengeance™." How was Batman putting the ™ after Vengeance within conversation? Why did he have a traumatized child working with him? Many questions that Greg was not stupid enough to ask.

He was, however, stupid enough to ask, "Okayyy! Uh, why do you have so many different Robins?" Dear God, Greg was hoping that this would end up better than his previous lines of questioning. Even the goon was looking uncomfortable and he was a goon! The worst of all of Gotham's underbelly.

Batman looked down in sadness? Thoughtfulness? When the Bat looked up, his jaw was clenched. Oh dear. "My son stopped talking to me and my new son wanted to be Robin. Then my son died!" Why did Greg ask? "Then the neighbor kid asked me to be Robin so I wouldn't 'kill myself.'"

Everyone knew there were things you didn't need to see. Like your parents kissing. Or your Uncle dressed as Santa Clause. Or the man who dressed as a Bat and beat you up crying. "Then I was stuck in time and all my kids thought I was dead and my first son was Batman" huh, who knew? "And he made my youngest son Robin and now my second youngest son is angry."

Honestly, it was on Greg. Like, he knew that a person who did what Batman did couldn't be totally stable. But like, he wasn't expecting this! Now he just kind of felt bad for the guy.

The Batman, one of the most feared people in world, was not on truth toxin, he was on inhibition-lower-ing toxin. Meaning he didn't need a question to keep talking. The normally stoic vigilante just wouldn't. stop. taking. "-wanna pinch his chubby, little assassin cheeks when he's pouting!" Seriously, all of this? Miscalculation on Greg's part. One of the henches looked sympathetic while the other two looked like they were reconsidering their lives of crime. Greg was also questioning why he decided to regularly be on the opposite side of Batdad here.

"-the dead one? Less dead! He's the Red Hood now! He thinks I'm disappointed that he kills people but honestly? I understand it. All I'm disappointed about is the fact he hasn't married a nice, Jewish girl yet. I want grandbats! In fact, I was-"

Well, at least Greg could solve this issue. He had worked for the Red Hood a week or so ago (the guy offered good dental) and he had his number.

"What," ground out a voice on the other end of the line, "I'm in the middle of some family stuff." Greg winced at Mr. Hood's tone.

Hopefully he wouldn't be too annoyed that Greg was the reason for family stuff. "Uh, I have your family stuff right here."

The Red Hood (who he had just! cut! off!) went silent before quietly saying in a deadly tone, "I will slowly decapitate every barista who has ever spelled your name right if you don't give him back right now."

Greg, who was named Greg, gulped. That was several people. "You don't understand, Mr. Hood! I don't want him. You can take him before he tells us more about..."

Greg trailed off to hear, "-used to hit me with paper towel rolls and speak only in Hamlet quotes when he was upset!"

Greg spoke back into the phone "your Shakespeare habits."

Red Hood once again went silent. "I'll be there in five." and he hung up the phone. Greg, who had learned long ago that the Red Hood could do all, didn't question how he would get there without an address. Time to listen to more kid stories.

-

"-stealing coffee from the president, if you can picture it! Superman nearly throttled the two of them! But that doesn't compare to how angry he was when he saw what they did with the Queen's Crown. It was-" Greg was actually slightly disappointed when Batman's latest story was cut off by Red Hood kicking open the warehouse. All the other henches (and the damn goon) looked a little sad too.

Greg, who had sat criss cross apple sauce in front of Batman with the other villains, stood up and dusted his pants off. "Hi, Mr. Hood! Here's your dad! Not a scratch on him and the toxin will wear off soon!" Greg said quickly, attempting to walk away.

Hood grabbed him by his collar, "What did you learn about him? What did you-"

The Hood was cut off by a happily wriggling Bat, "My baby! Look at you! I was just telling these nice men about the time you got in an argument with a zookeeper about bats and birds! You were insistent that bats were a type of bird! It was so cute and then you said that she should 'shove her false information up her -'"

Hood cut off his father with a groan. He turned to Greg, "Help me get him out of here and I won't hurt you." Greg was happy to agree.

After cutting the rope and the rope and unlocking the chains, Batman happily threw himself at one of the most prolific murderers of Gotham and picked him up like a baby and started walking out the warehouse. "You know, I wouldn't have to tell total strangers about you if you gave me grandbats to talk to. I know this nice girl, she runs that deli on 23rd street with her grandparents? Anyway, she's single and she goes to-"

Greg and the other henches (and the goon) looked at each other, all conveying a general 'What the ever loving Fuck just happened?" vibe. Greg was pretty sure at least two of them were going to quit crime after that. At least his mad scientist friend would know that the inhibition-lower-ing toxin worked wonders.

Besides, maybe supervillains would want to hear about how many times each Robin had won their schools spelling bee?

The intricacies of the mind: Fear

A story written about the mind and an experience of fear toxin

Unedited

The mind is a wonderous, extraordinary yet unexplainable thing. It is what processes our senses, holds our memories and makes us able to be who we are. However there is a dark side to the mind. The side that can manipulate us into seeing what is not real, feel what there is nothing to feel, smell what can’t be smelled, hear what shouldn’t be heard, and even taste what we have no business tasting. Sometimes it is the intricately woven words on a paper that string along the senses on a journey of metaphysical thoughts that transcend our own reality around us. 

No a beautiful sun brighter field where the soft and slight damp soil the color so rich and full of potential, surrounded by flowers with the morning dew shimmering in the, light the mix and match of a patchwork field of flowers the colors of a clear blue sky, a brightness that can only be described as being the color of sunshine, and a deep red that brings forth the deep and rich emotions of a well received love letter. The crisp sweet taste of the juices of a Strawberry sliding down the throat, and a smell of a perfect summer day on the nose. 

That is the beauty of the mind. That beauty can create moments so precious and dear can also crawl in the cracks and crevasses of the mind, the ones we choose to avoid because they slowly grey the world around us, making everything seem so drab and hazy to the mind. They are the places that can become a parasite to all that we hold dear. 

That is when the mind is no longer wondrous and jaw droppingly beautiful but haunting and eerie. 

That is the part of the mind that we often choose to ignore because while it can hold its own sense of beauty it also leads down an ever even darkening path down a slowly crumbling hall of thoughts that lose their warm glow and grow sharp edges and a bone chilling cold that never truly leaves no matter how much warmth surrounds them. The feeling of apprehension and dread builds as the once shiny and envy-inducing hard wood becomes dry and cracked with large splinters jutting up in places a boot might have scuffed the aging wood too hard. 

The now graying color starts to sap away at our own leaving a shell of what might have been a beautiful smell of a well cleaned and cared for hall now smells of mildew and a dampness that welcomes in teh mold that has taken to housing in the walls and the corners of crown molding that might have once been majestic enough for a king. The halls once colorful and seemed to sing in happiness now whisper in trepidation. The ornate wall paper that would have been hand painted which would bring forth the feeling of comfort and ease is now peeling down the walls into jagged spirals. The dried glue holding on is like the withered bones of something long past ancient. Mirrors that at one point made a person glow in life and a distincting beautiful presence now hollow out the reflection like a carving just too rough and sharp to be recognizable against the senseless cracks. The feeling and unease set and grow heavy in the body when a darkness not even the brightest fluorescent can dispel. 

The feeling of what might have been a flashlight now feels like a worn down tarnished metal as the wax of a half used candle poles in the basin providing the only warmth to a body that is an outsider to itself. The flame of the candle swaying around to what would seem to be a skin crawling hyme coming from the draft with no origin. The closest windows shut and let in the pale glow of a never quite full moon. 

The old panes covered in layers of history that will never be discovered look over the dark grounds of what might have once have been an outdoor lavish garden fit to hold posh afternoon tea and sunset strolls with a long forgotten second half now hold the knurled trees that wind has shaped as their own, the plants having become the crooked rulers of a ruined kingdom leading as the choose. The pounds once clear enough to be a mirror for all good in the world have now become dark landscaped of long overstayed guests that have made their refusal to leave. 

Was that a movement from the corner? A creak of a footstep? The huff of a breath? Was there something here? Were you not alone in this long abandoned home of the past. 

The rise of a deathly quiet pulse, the movement of a once still chest now moves as if compensating for the lack of any other breathing thing. 

The shadow catches your attention again, staying just long enough to let the living know that a corner was turned. 

Leave— the hall seems to say. Leave— as if there will be no other chance after. One more step, one more curious movement and the cliff of safety we were on before will crumble away leaving only to go forwards. 

The creak of the step is made and another. That shadow was watching you, stop it. 

The candle handle grows heavy in hand. Seemingly knowing where it may go, it wants no part in the horrors to come. 

Had the wood turned to moss covered stone? The creaks are gone now replaced with the uneasy claps of boots? Were those boots before? Has the hall grown smaller? The mirrors were gone but the stones seem to be rows and crowds of faces anyway, just out of reach and the finer features gone to the eyes. 

The candle falls out of hand and a soft splash and clang is heard, feeling like the earth shattering sound of destruction and apprehension. Had something had been alerted. The hand had reached out to grab the candle back when the feeling of a liquid came first. It was warm to the touch and stuck to the fingers like water never could, but not of tree sap. The candle light only provides the idea of a dark substance. The smell whiffs the nose; rust. A rust that doesn’t belong on a rotted out pan from a kitchen but one that cling to iron. Some drips onto your lips….. blood. Fresh warm blood. Was the shadow bleeding? 

The stone walls blur as the slaps of boots make haste down the stone hall. In apprehension the face rapinns, but in concern the whistling of the air urging teh pace along with snickers that slash through the mind, raising the heartbeat, and upping the stake. 

The blood continues growing larger in quantity. It could not have been healthy. Most certainly. There was now splashes of blood on your clothes becoming a stain as teh hall seems to continue. 

Wait, when did it become a tunnel? The dirt seemed to be well enough packed but came falling down with the thumping of the boots that continued to upset the balance of the tunnel. It felt encampulsating, enclosing, the air had grown stale and old. There weren’t any windows anymore, no ruined kingdom of forestry, and no fogged over mirrors with sea rest. 

A giggle so quiet and underbreathe that it might have been overheard but it was like a knife to a heart. 

There was a glow at the end of the tunnel. Was it the end or had it caved in? 

Pale fabric was wrapped around pale skin. The blood is now clumping dirt to the bottom of your boots and dust covering your head. 

The figure was underfoot now, your knees digging into blood pooled dirt. The skin was cold and tough, cracked like leather. The blood had dried. 

This wasn’t alive. The clutches of life and their story long over. It was not pretty in any sense of the word but morbid and terror. 

A scream— a bone shattering scream, was it yours?

No! The dirt arched overhead starts to shift and tremble. Dust falls first, a cough, and steady world ending streams of dirt start falling. The ever rising sea of dirt pooling around. The dirt was voiding everything else closing in. 

Your breath was hitching. Was the air always this heavy? Scratching at the throat wasn’t making the air move in the lunges any better. 

Now breathing in fistfuls of dirt your thoughts were turning blurry. The senses have eluded you. Was it dirt or a blanket? Was that air or soil becoming an invasive species in your lungs? 

The last thing, the last thought, the last hurrah was of fear, completely death bringing, soul shattering fear. 

That was the last thought before another was lost to the ever-errouding hallways of darkness that live within our mind. 

I like to imagine that when Jason (as Robin) gets dosed with fear gas he has a very different reaction.

He’s trained for years, including before Batman in Crime Alley, to choose fight over flight. (Unless he’s outnumbered, most guys though are drunk and can be knocked down really quick with a punch to the groin.)

So, when he gets dosed, he just stops. Sits on the ground, not moving, just breathing with his arms limp at his sides.

Many think he’s mentall freaking but he’s waiting. When anyone steps into his personal space, they don’t have to touch him, he immediately goes for the kill. He may not doing it but he’s going to try.

He won’t flail or scream or make a sound. Just calmly and collectively fight brutally. Throwing batarangs at their heads, dragging or throwing them with wire used to restrain them, beating them til they are unconscious.

He doesn’t care. His mind is blank and he becomes a killing machine. No matter the broken bones or the injuries because the adrenaline makes that go away.

He scares Scarecrow so much that he refuses to use the toxin on him.

Batman knows this, Nightwing knows this, and Scarecrow knows this. After all Scarecrow was Jason’s first victim. He was sent to the ICU to recover.