Yep, time to bang out ye olde Halloween fic! I mean, it doesn't take place on Halloween or feature ghosts or monsters, but the Scarecrow is basically Halloween incarnate. So it's a Halloween fic.
Totally, 100%.
Every time Jonathan Crane emerged from his dark den and roamed the streets, he ran the risk someone would recognize him, call 911, and ruin his day before he began to enjoy it. The reward surpassed the risk when it came to sowing fear, gathering new test subjects, or generally being a deranged maniac who terrified the city with chemical weapons and made people pee their pants.
The chances of being tasered by the cops or socked in the ribs by Batman, combined with the low reward of possibly paying for snacks if he was a lucky ducky, kept Crane from grocery-shopping very often, however.
While routine dry-cleaning, dining out, and other banal public activities of the like were out, nothing could deter Crane from Gotham's public libraries. Yes, he was forced to avoid the larger branches, with their superior selection and actual security, but even the dingier buildings had books. Sometimes the books even had all the pages. And, if the gods were truly smiling on the Scarecrow, there were no hobos or other delinquents using the one functioning computer to surf for porn!
The gods were not smiling today.
Crane tried his best to forget he was sharing a small room with a pervert who was engrossed in graphic content. He scanned the New Book shelf, which was mostly romances, celebrity memoirs, and, to Crane's immense pleasure, reissues of dystopian novels that had seen a resurgence since a certain demon mandarin orange had wormed his way into the presidency. Even the obvious mislabeling of Fahrenheit 451, We, 1984, Brave New World, It Can't Happen Here, and a DVD of The Purge as "new" (and in the case of The Purge as "books") couldn't ruin Crane's euphoria. If people were reading these novels, which were infinitely more terrifying than a good deal of the traditional horror genre, that meant the environment was ripe for Crane to-
Something sharp and hard dug into Crane's lumbar spine and his glorious vision of bringing Bradbury and Orwell to life was shattered. He pivoted around and came face-to-face with something quite unexpected.
It was a little old man holding a big old book. He didn't seem to realize he'd collided with anyone, and he was staring across the room. Crane followed the man's line of sight and quickly wished he hadn't.
The porn-surfer had gone full-screen mode and had both hands down his pants.
"How in the world would that one woman... If my wife was still alive to see this! Oh, I'm sorry, did I walk into you?" the old man asked, finally realizing his book was still jabbing at Crane.
"It's nothing," Crane replied. He took a step away so there was no more risk of being stabbed by a wayward book corner. Out of curiosity, he glanced at the book title.
Of all the thousand-plus page novels out there, The Stand was not one Crane expected to see an octogenarian reading. Apocalyptic tomes just seemed inappropriate for anyone of that age, and given the length of the novel and the average lifespan of the American male, he could drop dead before reaching the end.
"Have you ever read it?" the old man asked. He had wisely turned away from the vigorous pornography enthusiast.
"Several times."
"How long did it take you?"
"The first time, the latter times, or in totality?"
"The first time?" the old man said uncertainly.
"Two days, but I am a speed-reader. I put away The Shining in three hours, Misery in one-and-a-half, and Duma Key made an excellent afternoon beach read."
The old man whistled. "That sounds like a mighty handy ability. Speed reading."
"Honestly, in the time it may take you to master proper speed reading technique and find your comfort zone between speed and comprehension, you'd be better off enjoying perhaps the best apocalyptic plague novel ever written."
The elderly gent laughed. "Suppose you're right. I'm a bit of an old dog to learn new tricks. My eyes start hurting if I stare at anything for too long."
Knowing that, Crane dropped a few more points off the man's chances of remaining alive long enough to finish the novel.
"I tried books on tape, too, but they don't agree with the hearing aids!"
His books, Crane assumed, were literally on tape and anything as futuristic as a CD, never mind a digital book, would blow the old man's mind.
"So I guess it's the old-fashioned way for me." The old man looked down through his thick glasses at the book he needed both hands to carry. "When I finish this one, what'd you recommend next? You seem pretty knowledgeable. For a young fellow."
Crane couldn't help but smile, and not in a way that suggested imminent murder, terrorism, and human suffering. "Do you mean in the viral plague genre, the post apocalyptic genre, or, perhaps largest of all, the collected works of Stephen King?"
"It all sounds mighty tempting, but I'll have to say-"
"How many times do we have to tell you this, you can't do that here. There could be kids, and if they see it, you're going away for a long time!"
Crane had spent many years being told to drop the fear gas (poor phrasing), put his hands behind his back, and oh dear God, please stop, get them off me, so he knew what a cop sounded like. As unobtrusively as he could, Crane scooted around the elderly man and made for the stacks.
A loud crash, followed by swearing and the exclamation "put your damned pants back on!" forced Crane against his will to turn his head and rubberneck. The pervert had hopped onto a table and had apparently thrown the library's precious laptop at the pair of officers that dared interrupt him. He'd also almost skipped out of his trousers, which were down around his ankles. By some small mercy his undergarments were still affixed in their proper place.
"Hey, you bring any gloves with you?" the first cop asked.
"Yeah, I brought one pair, for me. You want your own, go get them from the cruiser," the second replied.
"Crap. Why do we always get called to the freaks?"
"I don't know. Just, go get the gloves, because I'm not touching him by myself. I'll stay here and make sure his underpants stay on."
Cop One turned away from the half-nude fiasco dancing on the table like the world's most unappetizing stripper. He took one look at Crane and the old man, kept walking, and just as Crane was about to release the breath he'd been holding, the cop took a second look.
"Hey, Grey."
"What? Hurry the hell up! He's getting really handsy!" Officer Grey said.
"Look at that guy."
"Is someone else taking their clothes off and throwing shit at us?"
"No, but... Just look at him for one second."
"Fine, but if I find underpants coming my way, I'm demanding a new partner. Oh, holy fuck, it's the Scarecrow."
Well, if his secret identity was now aired, no reason not to live up to it.
Crane thrust his hand towards the cops, triggering a burst of fear toxin from the canister hidden up his sleeve. At least a bit of the gas must have made its way to the pervert, because he stopped dancing and started slapping at his groin and shrieking.
The cops' position so near the only egress from the room now meant a quickly-spreading toxic green cloud separated Crane from escape. Luckily, unlike the officer who couldn't remember basic protective equipment, Crane was prepared. He never went anywhere without his mask. It was stuffed up the sleeve that didn't contain deadly, mind-destroying poison.
Just as Crane slipped the mask over his head, he heard a thump and a muffled cry behind him. Oh yes, the old man. Against his better judgement, the Scarecrow turned to see how he was doing.
The little old bibliophile had tried to shuffle away a little too quickly and had fallen. Now immobilized, he was trying to block the approaching gas cloud by pulling his sweater over his mouth and nose. That was like trying to stop a tsunami with an umbrella.
The man stared at Crane, his eyes round with terror. "I- I have a heart condition. Atrial fibrillation."
That was unfortunate. Given the man's age, and the effects fear toxin could have on the healthiest hearts, chances were he would have a stroke or a heart attack. Or both.
"You tell this to no one," Crane hissed.
Before the man could reply, Crane had grabbed him under the armpits. He hefted the man and dragged him and his bruised hip across the room. At the furthest corner, Crane lowered the old man to the ground. Crane couldn't guarantee he wouldn't get enough toxin to see a spider with human faces or two, but the effects would be greatly diminished.
Having performed his good deed for the millennium, Crane adjusted his mask and prepared to dash through the cloud. Just before he took off, he said, "If you live long enough to finish The Stand, you may as well tackle Under the Dome. Or, if you feel particularly optimistic, The Dark Tower series should keep you occupied into your centennial."
The End
Thanks for reading, folks. And Happy Halloween!
And if anyone was wondering, the unabridged version of The Stand clocks in at 1152 pages and the average American male gets 76 years to putz around.