A year ago….. Coast to Coast Diner, on the route to Gotham.
A nice quaint little diner, years of history as a family establishment on the route to lovely beacon of light that was Coast City. Lights still even reflecting on Peters dimly lit booth on the very back of the diner, slowly indulging and savouring each bite of his bacon topped, sugar soaked pancakes. Front page of the Gotham times open as his eyes perched down to read with every fork full.
Around him a small group of denizens scattered around, enjoying a morning coffee and the pointless chit-chat among regulars. One in particular, Peter had eyed for awhile. A tall, muscular kind of fellow. Middle aged, rough scraggy dark black beard and clean cut short hair barely visible beneath his military cap. Peter had eyed the pistol underneath his jacket. The endless fear the nation has to arm themselves in defence of a fictional villain lurking over there shoulder. He kept a service hound by his feet, the fear of losing himself to his past too much too bare alone. He kept his head down out of fear of someone recognising his service and treating him with difference. He ordered the Chicken Salad, no dressing out of fear of his wife scolding him over his dietary habits. He sipped a cold glass of water, fearing his drinking habits would return after a year of rehab.
This was the perfect subject.
Picking up his newspaper and turning the pages Peter whistled to a member of his flock that had emerged from the diner bathroom, the indoctrinated goon more then ready to carry out Peters sick game. Walking over to the Veteran, he patted his shoulder lightly.
"Thank you for your service" The indoctrinated goon of Scarecrow called out, smiling as his hand rested on his shoulder. The pat released a musk of powdered toxin into the small breathing space around the man, and as he turned to answer he screamed. Scarecrows goon and everyone around rhe diner had a distorted zombie look, like something from hell. The diners patron's were none the wiser, a local cop springing to calm what he assumed was a PTSD episode.
Oh, how he was so wrong. The former soldier began firing from the firearm he carried in his jacket pocket. Shot's screams ringing, they tried to flee but the doors had been locked from the outside. Blood plastering a new coat of Scarlett paint on the cracked tiles as bodies dropped like flies to sugar. The screaming stopped, just as Peter turned to the obituary's page. Closing it, he looked at the once lively atmosphere around him. Bodies lay in various positions, like some form of sick modern art. The cop lay slumped against the door, riddled with holes. The diners patrons lay in there seats, breakfast soaked in more then just ketchup, The waitress lay slumped over the counter, along with her co-workers.
Peter slowly stepped around the scene, Peter tossed a 20 dollar note in the hand of dead waitress muttering keep the change as his Soles scrapped against the tiles of the ground as he crept towards the fear induced victim. He lay, whimpering in the corner, service dog lay in a pool of blood on his lap. He screamed and attempted to fire at Peter, but the clip had dried out. To the man, Peter appeared not as a hell-beast, but as the Scarecrow, the diner's scene jumping back and fourth between his hellish imagery and real life as the does of the toxin wore away.
"Thank you for your service" Peter smiled, before he opened the door and left the scene. Goons waiting around the corner in his RV. Approaching a payphone he rang the local police department, a young women answering on the other end of the line.
"Yes, I'd like to report a shooting at the Coast to Coast Diner. Why yes, everyone inside is dead. Bloody mess, I was lucky to be alive. I must say miss, I am in quite the state of…Fear" Pater hung up, walking to his RV and driving away. Smiling as his test proved more fun then he had imagined.