Hi all, this doesn't really tie in with my other story Grex, but it could... I guess. Any-who, this is a project for school that I was like this is... OK. So now it's on this wonderful site for y'all to read. Enjoy, and leave comments in the box below. :)


Jonathan Crane is a professional man. Always polite, saying his pleases and thank yous. Wearing ties every single day of the week. (Some of his colleagues think he probably wears them to bed.) His leather shoes were always shined to perfection, spotless.

He is the type of man almost every women dreams of acquiring. Their knight in shining armor as it were. The dark wavy hair, perfectly suited to his angular face. Cheekbones they would pet if they could. A lovely nose, no breaks or flaring of abnormally large nostrils. White teeth that they wish to see smiling at them. They imagine him in white armor as spotless as his shoes.

This is all true mind you. He would be perfect, if not for his eyes. Their calculated glower at the women admiring him, gives a new meaning to 'hell froze over'. Frozen fire, sending shivers up their spines, causing them to flee. Only the stupid keep asking... or wanting. Like tiny droplets of ice stuck to a car window, you can see past the facade of niceties and into the utter hate he has for them. When they stop to analyze you it is as if a frozen sword stabs through you freezing your insides to the sharp blade. You can't move fastened as you are to the bitter blue of his eyes.

When the sword is removed, your insides follow its path leaving you empty of all feeling except terror. The smile they wished for is polite, but cold to the point of indifference. Only after seeing your fear will it alight into something savage. His voice is as smooth as an ice covered lake, lovely to see and marvel at, but jump too hard and you'll not make it out… sane that is.

If one were to brush up against Crane in the hallways of Arkham you might be able to feel the bone pushing against the fabric of his suit. He would glare harshly and that would be the end. You wouldn't feel the deep scars from the birds or the other even more conspicuous of the marks. That's what the suit is for, is it not? To cover the trenches of the soul and body?

He walks like a tightly coiled spring. His steps are smooth and fluid, but tense as though he is always aware of his surroundings and found them to be distinctly unpleasant. Like a cat he would plead his case in court, baiting his opponents out before crushing them. (Though it never sounds like pleading.) When behind the box Crane stands tall and seems to almost lounge in the spotlight. He always manages to make eye contact with everyone of importance. On the rare occasions he allowed to roam the floor, his lanky form seemed to glide through the simple motions of walking. His words are precise, exact in what he wishes to be accomplished. Phrased as though you are a child listening to him as a teacher, but never condescending enough to offend anyone unless you knew of his dislike. (Few do.)

If you were to listen as he walks among the plebeians of the streets, you would hear off key nursery rhymes. Like him, at first the rhymes seem an innocent frivolity, a leftover of his childhood. The soft tapping of his shoes keeps time with the slow beat of the rhyme. A feeling of unease weighs down upon your mind as you continue to listen. Goosebumps raise as the low tremoring voice whispers, "And we allll fell down." The man smiles viciously as if he can feel your fear and uncomfort and revels in it. But he can't. He can't possibly see you, right?

You would pass the smiling man in his nice suit and tie as quickly as possible and brush off the incident as another of the many weirdos you accidentally stumble upon. Don't forget, lock your windows. Listen to your instincts, run.


So comments?