Chapter One
Plans in Motion
Those words were still there, those fucked up words I wrote on the walls. I remember them clearly, making the cold concrete warehouse seem all too familiar. East Gotham, cold as hell, and there I was, still there since new years, and the end of March had creeped its ugly head in, and no progress, nothing. I think those words were starting to mock me.
I couldn't stand it anymore, I couldn't bear to be in my own company. Sitting there mocking myself, while the half assed blue prints on the desk stared back like a piece of unfinished art. "This is why I'm not making any progress! I can't think in here!" I sat there baffled at my ability to drive myself mad. "As If I had been in a state of sanity before all of this started." I scoffed at my own words. "Sanity is overated."
The plans had been in the making for a long time. The longer I looked at them the angrier I became. Why bother with plans at all? I never worried with them before. "Because this time will to be different!" I flung the papers off the desk in anger as I yelled, trying to catch my breath. "This time, will make all the difference."
The words echoed in my head as I stood there looking at the now bare desk. I could feel the laughter building inside me. I couldn't contain myself, it belted out of me in loud, painful bursts. "This time will be different! Hahahahahahahaha!" I fell to my knees in joy and agony. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and it was then that I realized what I was doing. "No, I need to concentrate, work now, play later." I was talking to myself again, but that was okay, I enjoyed it. So it was back to my desk again to finish what I had started. I was too deep in by this point to pull back, and so I worked in silence for several more hours, before my tired eyes finally got the best of me.
When I awoke It was raining again, and the sound of raindrops pouring down on the roof of the old concrete warehouse caught my attention lifting me from my state of sleep. The ruffled papers beneath me showed some resemblance to the blue prints I had been working on the night before. With tired eyes I shifted them aside and raised my head. Long locks of green fell against my shoulders as I stretched my neck, allowing it to crack. "Well these will be of little use now, wont they?" I said to myself as I picked up the drool stained blueprints and tossed them to the opposite side of the room. "God forbid I actually get any damn work done." I was angry, no matter what I did I couldn't concentrate. I ended up drifting off, or moving to other tasks, occasionally looking down to find I had invaded my blue prints with doodles of the bat. He knew how to get to me, even in my seclusion.
The hands on the clock above me seemed to be moving too fast. Perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me, it liked to do that. Once again I found myself losing concentration. Focusing my time on how well the clock did its job, instead of doing mine. There was little time left before I had to put my plans into full swing. I had little more then a week before these plans had to be sturdy enough to put into action. Ten days exactly, ten days until construction was to begin at Blackgate prison in West Gotham. Ten days until two truck loads of my men from Blackgate were being transferred to Arkham while their sector of the prison went under construction. "Why had I not started all of this sooner."
Minutes turned to hours, and hours turned into days. Forcing myself to concentrate was really taking its toll on me. Even through the black makeup surrounding my eyes, I was certain, the bags were visible. That night was the first time in a long time I found myself making use of the bed in the other room. The weeks of sleeping on my desk were finally catching up to me. It wasn't the pain that I didn't like, it was the cramps in my muscles making them burn as I felt them growing weaker, having put them to little use in the past few months. Now that the blueprints were done, it seemed to me that regaining my strength would be the next crucial part of preparing myself for what was to come.
"You know Croc, if you are going to stay here while I'm gone I suggest you put yourself to good use, This isn't a poor house," I snarled looking at Waylon sitting on the couch, eating leftovers from the fridge. God knows how long they had been in there. "The dogs will need to be fed, my suits will need to be pressed, and if you're going to stay here and lounge on my couch, and eat my food, and watch my television during the entirety of my absence I will expect to come back to much better conditions then I left." My voice trailed off as I watched him. "Are you listening to me Waylon?" I snapped. He simply swallowed another slice of cold pizza and nodded his head. "You damn well better be, I'm not a charity."