2
At lunch time, I watch as a nurse approaches Oswald and attempts to give him his pill. She holds the pill out in front of Oswald and Oswald stares at it, looking confused.
"This pill looks a little big to swallow," he says.
"You don't swallow it," the nurse tells him. "Its a suppository."
"A what?"
"A suppository. It goes in your butt," the nurse explains dryly.
"I know what it means."'
"Alright then, pull down your pants and bend over so that I can administer your medication, Mr. Cobblepot," the nurse instructs him.
Oswald stares at her incredulously with his brows furrowed.
"No," he tells her bluntly. He sits down at one of the crowded tables and resumes eating his lunch.
"Mr. Cobblepot, I haven't got all day," the nurse says, annoyed.
"Ma'am, you should know that I am a very dangerous man," snarls Oswald frighteningly. "So think again if you want to try and humiliate me with that indignity."
The nurse walks over to a few guards standing by the entrance to the asylum mess hall. She tells them something and they nod in agreement. The next instant, a pair of large muscular guards, are seizing Oswald by the crooks of his arms and wrenching him out of his seat. Oswald screams and writhes, kicking his legs wildly, but its no use, the guards easily pin him so that he is bent over the table.
Oswald breaks into a spasm of awkward nervous chuckling and then begs to be spared.
"Oh gosh...oh gosh...the funny thing is, I was already given that pill," he sputters dishonestly. "Your records must be mixed up or something! You wouldn't want me to over dose would you?"
The nurse pulls the elastic waist band of Oswald's Asylum issued pants down exposing his pale round butt. A few of the inmates hoot and whistle.
Oswald's face gets red like a tomato and he whimpers: "Please. No. Please don't do this to me."
The nurse puts a pair of plastic gloves on and pushes the suppository between Oswald's butt cheeks with her index finger. He flinches and attempts to pull away.
"Sorry, this is for your own good, Mr. Cobblepot," the nurse says.
The guards release Oswald and he quickly pulls his pants back up.
"Ow, ow! Why does it burn?" he whimpers indignantly. Some of the other inmates are laughing at him now and he looks dejected. The blush hasn't faded from his pale cheeks.
I suppose that I should feel a little bit sorry for him but I don't. He's a cold blooded psycho gangster, who once killed a man for his tuna fish sandwich, and I have no sympathy for him what so ever. The lunatic murdered my beloved Rebecca in cold blood, and if he is ever released from Arkham Asylum, I am sure that he will kill again.
A bald cross-eyed lunatic with a plastic spoon taped to his head, points at Oswald and laughs wildly. Oswald lunges across the table at him and tries to stab him with a shank he made out of a broken piece of lunch tray, some wire and a pencil. The guards tackle him before he can do any real damage, knocking the shank out of his hand.
Oswald flails and struggles as the guards force him back into the straight jacket. The guards release him and he staggers back over to one of the lunch tables screaming:
"You'll be sorry, you'll all be sorry! Someday I'm going to own this city, and when I do-you're going to wish that you'd been nicer to me!"
This outburst only elicits a fresh barrage of laughter from the surrounding inmates.
"Yea, and I'm Abraham Lincoln!" one of the inmates laughs. Then he stops laughing abruptly and his eyes dart around in his head as though chasing an invisible fly. "No really. I am."
Oswald, sits down at one of the emptier lunch tables, and closes his eyes slumping over the table defeatedly. For a second, I almost expect him to start crying, but he doesn't. Instead he covers his greasy hair with his pale hands and puts his head down on the table, refusing to make eye contact with other inmates.
I grin sadistically, hiding this brief lapse in professionalism behind my coffee mug as I quickly drain its contents. I picture myself waggling my finger in disapproval. Making a prison shank? Naughty, naughty, Oswald. You deserve a corrective ass whooping for that, I think tauntingly. Then I scribble something down on the clip board that I'm currently holding. The nurses must think that I'm writing scientific notes about him, but really I'm drawing a picture of me stabbing him repeatedly in the face.