I’ve been so many things over the years that it’s tough to keep track. It’s not uncommon for me to forget who I’m supposed to be, but that’s the challenge of being an actor.
I was Karl Beckschlack, the son of German immigrants raised in Gotham City, getting work as a hired hand for Cesario Maroni. Caesar was an okay boss; never gave me much notice, but never gave me any crap either. The pay was good and I actually knew how to get my hands dirty; still do, in fact. But Caesar got sloppy, and the cops found him out. We all knew he was going to drag some of us down with him, so a lot of us split. I took all I had and went as far away from Gotham as possible and wound up on the other side of the country.
I was Basil Karlo, a young man struggling to make ends meet in Los Angeles. I made friends with an amateur filmmaker named Daniel N. Stone Jr. Danny wanted me to star in his films, and we made a name for ourselves with our first outing, “The Terror”. After that Danny and I only made three more pictures: “Beast of the Atomic Age”, “The Man from Mars”, and “Death from the Future”. Everyone laughed at our movies. Our work was mocked and derided, and to this day are considered some of the worst films ever made. There still theaters that do screenings of “The Terror”, for the amusement of slack-jawed idiots who wouldn’t know talented film making if it killed them.
I was Robbie Bones, a tired old man who had no choice but to go back to his old job. I still knew how to get my hands dirty, and the new boss, Giovanni Maroni, had work for me. East Jon was a good boss; he treated me good, gave me steady jobs, and he even liked my movies, showed ‘em to his kid Luigi. Life was decent. Then I got the news; Paul Torino, some guy who made crappy horror flicks, wanted to remake “The Terror”. It was awful; it was like the world had already stabbed me and now some new asshole was twisting the knife. Danny drank himself to death and now they were taking his work and spitting on it. I was the only one who cared; I had to do something.
I was Clayface, the identity used by the killer in “The Terror”. It seemed poetic. During my time in Hollywood, I picked up a thing or two about makeup and prosthetics; I wasn’t a professional, but I could disguise myself pretty good. I started taking out the key people involved, until the only ones left were Torino and the main actor of the flick, Matt Hagen. I was stopped by Batman before I could kill either of them, but my work was done. Production was shut down and I was able to escape before anyone ID’d me.
I was so many other people between then and when I got my powers. I was even more afterwards. I’ve played heroes, villains, leading men, side characters, men, women, black, white, everything.
Now I’m Coleman Clay, a detective trying to catch the killer of one of the few good people I knew in this world, and conscripted a stranger to help me get it done.
I have been so many people in my life that I worry I’m going to forget how to be me. And I think that scares me most of all.--
He woke up in a daze. The room he was in was blurry, and the overhanging light was blinding. He tasted vomit. He smelled something awful that he couldn’t identify. He coughed when he inhaled. He rocked back and forth, uselessly. His head hurt. He tried to move, but couldn’t.
Eventually, the room came into focus. It was dank and dingy, with a fogged up window and a single door. The room was empty save for him and the chair he was duct taped to, which was apparently bolted to the floor. The only source of light was a bright bulb hanging overhead. Every time it blinked, his heart seemed to skip a beat.
“Hello?” he yelled, a thin strand of spit hanging between the lips of his open mouth. “Anyone? Please? Where am I?”
His answer was silence. He rocked his chair more, hoping for some freedom, when he stopped suddenly. He heard something. It was a noise coming from the next room; floorboards were creaking. The door swung open, and he heard a woman scream. A man walked inside and closed the door.
The stranger was tall, thin, gaunt, and pale. His eyes were wide and sunken, his chin unshaven with brown stubble. His clothes were dirty and loose over his wiry frame. The stranger’s unsettling eyes landed on the man in the chair, and his thin chapped lips parted to speak. “Did you hear that?” he asked through yellowed teeth.
He nodded his head. He was confused, but kept quiet. The stranger curled his lip. “The iniquities of a low budget. Ambient noise could change the results of the experiments. Let’s hope not.”
“Where am I?” he blurted. “What’s going on? What happened to me?”
The stranger sighed. “My name is Jonathan Crane, and I’ve selected you to take part in my experiment. After a few simple tests, your actions could contribute greatly to the scientific field–”
“What are you talking about?” he asked. “What’s going to happen to me? What are you going to do?”
“You’re very inquisitive,” Jonathan Crane commented. “I will simply administer a harmless drug, measure your reactions, and then you’ll be free to go.”
Faster than the man would’ve believed, Jonathan Crane was on him, a kitchen knife suddenly in his hand and pressing it against his throat. “Or you can refuse,” Crane rasped. “And I’ll measure how much blood it takes to repaint this goddamn room!”
Crane's hand trembled as a red line formed on the knife, and his eyes almost bulged out of his sockets.
Beads of sweat formed on the man’s head. “Okay,” he squeaked. “Yes, okay.”
Jonathan Crane stared at him, his eyes still wide, but his knife starting to stabilize, until he finally pulled away the blade and stepped back. “Good. Very…very good,” he seemed to be out of breath. “We’ll begin the tests immediately.”
He turned towards the door and started to leave. “W-Wait! What am I supposed to do?” But by then the door had already closed, and the man was alone again.
The light continued to blink as the man sweated anxiously. He tried to move his hands again. There was more freedom! Grasping at the chance, he continued to wriggle his hands, until he heard the floorboards creaked again and froze. The door opened and Jonathan Crane walked in again, a tripod with a camera attached in one hand, and an oxygen tank and mask in the other.
Without a word, Crane set up the tripod and line up the camera on top. He clicked a button, then wheeled the oxygen tank forward and held the mask up to the man, who recoiled instinctively.
Jonathan Crane cocked his head. “I thought we had an understanding. I certainly hope you’re not going back on your word.” His free hand crept towards his back pocket, where the kitchen knife’s handle stuck out.
The man’s eyes went wide. “No no, I’m
not!”
Jonathan Crane nodded and the man allowed himself to be masked. Without taking his eyes off the man, Crane turned the knob of the tank, slowly and methodically. “Just breathe deep,” he said, and the man obeyed. For a few tense seconds, Crane stood nearly perfectly still, intently watching his subject inhale and exhale. Suddenly, Crane stopped the tank and tore the mask off the man’s face. He dragged the tank back and stood behind the camera.
“Now…” Jonathan Crane said slowly as he adjusted the camera. “How do you feel?”
“I…I feel…”
His voiced stopped. His mouth felt dry. His eyes watered. He blinked. The room was blurry. He breathed heavily. He shook. He squealed. He screamed. He shrieked. He convulsed. He tried to stand but he couldn’t.
He screamed in pure terror!--
In a derelict house was a pristine laboratory, and in that laboratory were four people. Coleman Clay was leaning against a wall, regularly taking heavy gulps from his flask. The Crime Doctor stood upright, carefully regarding his guests. Emily Reese lay dead on a table in the middle of the room. On the far side was Edward Nigma, known to these people as Hugo Cress, pacing the room, his brow furrowed under his black bowler hat.
“Allow me, if I may,” he said, “To go over what we know of this case.”
Before Clay or the Crime Doctor could answer, he continued. “A woman was found dead, by me, and then you.” He nodded at Clay. “We brought her to an unlicensed surgeon, who pronounced her dead by a…how did you describe it? Ah, yes, a ‘weaponized hallucinogen’. She was killed by said hallucinogen, created by a disgraced psychiatrist turned serial killer. He designed it to create fear in the victim, and based on those facts, we can presume he’s conducting experiments on random people, killing them, and making it all look like a simple mugging. Is that everything?”
Nobody responded, but the general silence seemed to indicate agreement. Edward snorted and muttered, “This goddamn city.”
“So what’s the next step, genius?” Clay asked.
“Figure out where Crane is hiding and catch him, or kill him, or whatever you plan on doing,” he answered. “I couldn’t give much of a damn either way. Tell me, does he have any regular hiding places? Anywhere we should check first?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Clay answered. He looked to the Crime Doctor. “You?”
He shrugged. “Dunno, never met the guy. People who come in with fear poisoning come from all over; there’s really no pattern to it.”
Edward snapped his fingers, getting their attention immediately. “You said he’s conducting experiments with his fear gas, right?”
“That’s his M.O.,” Clay answered.
“So he must have a ready supply of the stuff and the capacity to make more if need be,” Edward said.
Clay shrugged. “Yeah, so?”
Edward looked at him incredulously. “So, where is a known criminal getting a steady supply of materials with which to make his trademark weapon!?” he almost shouted. “I sincerely doubt they sell fear gas ingredients at 7-11.”
There was a moment of silence as they all tried to think of an answer to Edward’s question. Clay was the first to speak. “Ace Chemicals,” he said. “It has to be; they’re the biggest distributor in the city, they’d be unlikely to notice a handful of their stuff’s gone missing. He’s getting his stuff from Ace.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Clay, you’re not absolutely useless,” Edward said. “So, he’s getting his supplies from Ace…how? How is he getting them?”
“They do deliveries all over the city; he’s probably bribing one of the drivers,” Clay answered.
“Yes, the escaped criminal has the monetary capabilities to not only keep himself in health and home, but also to regularly bribe someone…” Edward trailed off. “Unless he’s taking the valuables off his victims, of course! Mystery solved. Now we have to figure out who he’s bribing, what their route is, where he is, and how to stop him. Fantastic, we might as well be at square one.”
“I know a place you can start.”
They both turned to look at Crime Doctor. He was cleaning his unique, pink, star-shaped glasses. “I know a guy who works at Ace. Thing is, he used to run with our sort of crowd. If anybody’s on the take there, either it’s him or he knows them.”
“How terribly convenient,” Edward remarked. “Right, who is this well-connected rogue?”
“That part will cost you,” The Crime Doctor answered. He put his sunglasses back on and looked expectantly at Clay. That worthy sighed, pulled a few bills from his jacket pocket and resentfully gave them to the Crime Doctor. “Cress, get the info. I need to use the facilities.”
Edward gave no answer, but looked at the Crime Doctor expectantly. For once, he didn’t have any questions, and for that, Clay was thankful. He walked into the nearby bathroom, flicked the light on, closed the door behind him, made sure to lock it, stood in front of the mirror, and let out a breath.
At once, Clay’s features changed. His entire body seemed to melt; his clothes blended with his skin, his hair vanished, and his head became a featureless blob, containing only two yellow orbs for eyes and a toothless mouth below them. Then his entire body turned the same brown color until he was nothing but a man made out of mud.
The clay thing stared at the freakish face in the mirror and sighed. By this time, he had gotten used to the monster that stared back. Keeping up his façade was a challenge; it was like trying to keep a muscle flexed for hours. He had to take an opportunity to relax or he would have broken down in front of both of them. He couldn’t let that happen. After a few much needed moments of reprieve, he steeled himself, shut his eyes and concentrated. When he opened them, Coleman Clay was looking back at him again. As he smiled, he had to admit that this was one of his better disguises.
“Don’t worry, Em,” he whispered in a different voice. “I’ll find your killer.”
--
It was a short time later when the pair was at an apartment building in the West End. The Crime Doctor’s contact lived in a dismal old building; the hallway was enough to make Edward want to vomit, while Clay seemed oddly unfazed by it. The unlikely duo stood in front of apartment 19 and Clay knocked four times on the door.
“
What!?” an irritated voice shouted past the door.
“Sonny Rios?” the inspector asked. “My name is Mr. Clay, this is my associate Mr. Cress; we’re investigating a murder. Can we ask you some questions?”
There was no response; not until Clay reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills held together with a rubber band and displayed it in front of the peephole. The voice on the other side responded, “You guys cops?”
“No, we’re not cops,” Clay answered.
There was a pause, then Edward asked, “Why do you have so much money?”
“I don’t eat,” he said simply. Before Edward could press any further, the two heard the door click and open, and saw an extremely suspicious man standing in the doorway.
The pair entered the apartment and found that it was dingier and filthier than the hallway outside, if that was even possible. The floor was littered with empty food containers, beer cans, and dirty clothes. Used paper plates sat in a pile on a counter. Three garbage bins were overflowing. Edward had to breathe through his sleeve to stomach the experience; Clay, however, didn’t seem to notice. It was then that Edward realized; he had never actually seen Clay do anything resembling breathing.
Clay handed the money over to Rios, who quickly counted it, pocketed it, and asked, “So what’s this about?”
“Mr. Rios,” Clay began. Edward withheld a sly remark; he had the feeling nobody had ever called Sonny Rios ‘Mister’. “We know you work for Ace Chemicals, and we think one of the delivery drivers is selling extra materials, off the record. We need to know who he is and who the buyer is.”
Rios looked at Clay, inspecting the investigator. He licked his lips; a disgusting gesture. Then he said, “Alright, look; I know the guy you’re talking about. I can give you his information, but you didn’t get it from me, got it? Cause the buyer…he’s a real scary guy.”
Clay nodded. Rios left the room and went into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. As soon as the latch clicked, Edward quickly rushed to one of the trash bins and began to rummage through it.
“What the hell are you doing?” Clay asked incredulously.
“That was way too easy,” Edward said, not looking up from his work. “And we may have wandered into something dangerous.”
“And that makes it okay to dig through this guy’s trash?” Clay said.
“A wise man once said, ‘You can tell a lot about a person by the contents of their trash,’” Edward responded.
Clay snorted. “Let me guess; it was you.”
“Guilty as charged.” He stood up suddenly, turned around, and slammed a crumpled piece of paper on the table. Clay picked it up and inspected it. “What is this?” he asked.
“A receipt,” Edward answered. “From Flanagan’s Tavern. We passed it on the way here. Rios paid for nine different kinds of liquor and a pitcher of beer. Now, who on a delivery man’s salary is going to spend money like that? And look at this.” Edward crossed over to a small table, which could have had more trash on it than the garbage bin. “One, two…fifteen lottery tickets! And the box for a new phone! This guy may not know how to spend money, but he definitely has it!”
“He’s on the take,” Clay realized.
“Smart.” Rios was behind them with a revolver in his hand. “I don’t know who tipped you off, and frankly, I don’t give a damn. I’m gonna bury you two.”
“Try it, asshole,” Clay growled. “And I’ll show you all kinds of hell.”
The gun barked twice; two rounds flew into Clay’s chest. Shocked, he stumbled, dropped to his knees, and fell face-first onto the ground, motionless. Edward yelped and cowered, shivering as he backed away from Rios.
“L-L-Look, man,” he stammered. “We don’t need to do this. Just let me go, I won’t tell anyone . Hell, I didn’t even want to be here; he forced me to go along! He’s crazy, or was crazy! I-I can repay you for this! I got tons of cash, loads of it! Just let me–”
“Shut up!” Rios barked; Edward stopped babbling instantly. “Just shut up and die.”
A hand grabbed Rios’s arm and pulled it down; a round went off into the floor that caused Edward to yelp again. Rios turned his head and saw Clay standing behind him, a grim expression on his grizzled face. His hand became a vice, squeezing on Rios’s arm until he let out a cry of pain and let his revolver drop to the floor. With his other hand, Clay struck the now disarmed captive once, twice, three times, and released him to fall in a heap on the floor.
Clay knelt down, grabbed Rios by the jaw, and forced him to meet his gaze. “Who’s the buyer?”
“I don’t know!” Rios shrieked. Another blow struck him, this time leaving a trail of mud on his forehead. “He contacts me, I swear! I don’t know who he is!” This time he was hit in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
“Tell me what I need to know,” Clay stood up. “Or I’ll break your skull open and pull the information out of it.” Rios didn’t responded at first, then Clay raised his fist, which seemed to be larger than it was before.
“Alright! Alright!” he blurted. “I have an address; the guy’s at 516 West Avenue. He’ll probably be there right now!”
Clay regarded him sternly. Then he gave Rios a sharp kick to the stomach. The victim groaned and clutched at his gut. “If you’re lying to me,” Clay said, his voice almost empty. “I’ll come back here, and I won’t be nearly as kind.”
With that, Clay took the gun Rios was holding and pocketed it, before turning and leaving, a still shocked Edward Nigma following.
When they were in the hallway, Edward asked incredulously, “What the hell was that?”
“An interrogation,” Clay answered.
“You were shot! Twice!” Edward shrieked.
“You noticed,” the investigator answered. He was relishing this. “I guess you’re as smart as you think you are.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Edward growled. “You’ve got powers. What are you? What can you do?”
“I can break you in half, that’s what I can do,” Clay answered. “Now stop asking so many questions; we got the perp’s location. We can find him, take him down, and never have to see each other again.”
Edward was quiet for the rest of their journey to 516 West Avenue, but his curiosity was stirred, and soon enough, he knew he’d sort out exactly who, or what, Coleman Clay was.
--
When the wind returned to Sonny Rios’s lungs, he got to his feet uneasily, feeling his head spin as he did. He quickly grabbed at a coffee table to steady himself, and stumbled across the room until he found his phone. He tore it off the ringer and shakily pressed ten digits before putting the phone to his ear.
“Hey doc,” he said when the ringing on the other end stopped. “This is Rios. Two guys are coming your way. One’s skinny, might be smart but real scared. The other…I don’t know what he is. Took two shots to the chest like they were nothing. Mean bastard, too. I’m sure you can handle him.”
“Thank you, Rios,” Jonathan Crane said. “Is there anything else?”
“Yeah,” Rios growled. “Make them suffer.”
To be continued!Let us know what you think
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