Post by azina on Jul 21, 2005 20:26:31 GMT -5
This is just the very, very beginning so tell me what you think so far. Some really dark stuff is beginning to turn in my brain ... kind of a frightening place to go once you start bumping around inside Dr. Crane's pretty head.
The wind blew bitter cold that February afternoon through the Shackborough Street. As long as Jonathan Crane had remembered he had hated that street. Jonathan was a lank, frail boy in his early teens, but had been crossing this street ever since he was a young lad because it was the most direct way from school to home.
It was not an uncommon sight seeing drug dealers peddling their wares or several of Carmine Falcone’s thugs coming by to teach someone a lesson. The first time that had happened Jonathan in his curiosity was careful enough to keep out of sight, but followed as a thug grabbed a man – who seemed to be an honest shopkeeper.
“Didn’t pay yer dues and he’s sick of waiting – no more,” the thug grunted.
He grabbed the shopkeeper and, completely oblivious to the shopkeeper’s begging and pleading, dragged him into a filthy back alley and shot him several times until he crumpled to the dank ground. Jonathan didn’t know whether or not what the shopkeeper said was true about his wife and his many children depending on him – he figured if it was true they would soon enough hear of his death.
This afternoon, however, there were none of Falcone’s thugs coming to pay someone a visit and just a few drug addicts gazed bleary-eyed from their hovels of flimsy cardboard boxes. Though it seemed less threatening than when the street was humming, an icy chill ran through Jonathan and he pulled his thin sweater closer to him. He lived alone with his mother in an apartment on the west end, about twenty blocks from the Narrows. It was not a good neighborhood, but it was cheap and his mother worked long hard hours to pay the rent and what little food they could afford. Luxuries such as a coat Jonathan had to do without.
“Hey you, Stick-man!”
Jonathan quickly raised his eyes from the ground to the voice. A stout, muscular teenage boy stood before him with his arms crossed. It was Stan Wekson, who not only was very popular, but relished tormenting the nerds. Stan was accompanied by his cronies who took more delight in holding and pinning victims rather than beating them. They were all grinning smugly.
“Hey, Stick-man! Answer me!”
“My name is Jon-”
Stan slapped him hard across the cheek. Jonathan felt both cheeks burning brightly and he fought to keep angry tears welling up within his depthless blue eyes.
“I slapped you, Stick-man, like my girlfriend, because you look more like a girl, right boys?”
His cronies laughed loudly and Jonathan could hear his heart thundering in his chest.
“If you were a man I would have punched you, but you’re just a girl, worthy of just being slapped. If I punched you, I’d probably break you, you’re so thin and weak!”
“You know you’ve contradicted yourself,” said Jonathan, desperately trying to keep his emotions in check. “You call me a girl, yet you call me a Stick-man – you’ve admitted I’m a man.”
Stan’s cronies stopped laughing and Stan menacingly came close to Jonathan, roughly grabbing his sweater and tearing a hole in it.
“You think you’re smart with me, eh? Well, maybe if I knock the brains out a bit you’ll be less smart.”
“Yeah, Stan! Knock the stuffing out of him,” screamed one of the cronies.
Stan stopped, his arm half-poised for the blow, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
“Stuffing, I like that! You will be Stick-man no more – you’ll be – you’ll be Scarecrow! Fitting, eh fellas, for someone so skinny and weak?”
“Perfect, Stan,” whooped one of his cronies.
Jonathan couldn’t hear what anyone said next because a blinding pain exploded in his jaw as Stan delivered the promised punch.
Dr. Jonathan Crane gazed at himself in the mirror and straightened his tie. Not a hair was out of place and he didn’t even break a sweat once during the psychology symposium. Stage fright was not a problem with him. Speaking was nothing to be afraid of – there were many things to fear and speaking was hardly one of them. As he left the men’s washroom, briefcase securely in hand, Dr. Steven Westmeyer approached him. He was slightly older than Dr. Crane with blondish hair and hazel eyes. His path was very similar in many ways to Crane, working through school, studying late nights and working weekends to become one of the brightest young minds in the field.
“Dr. Crane, very well done! However I had a question about what your key address was about – on Fear. It was more on controlling Fear and using it to your advantage rather than discovering what that Fear is and helping patients overcome Fear.”
“Precisely, Dr. Westmeyer. You must agree that we are all slaves to Fear to some degree, but when we master that Fear, subjugate it and then use it – yes, make Fear our slave rather than our master – then we shall be a potent force. It is a fascinating concept, do you not agree?”
“Fascinating, yes, but just what good is coming of this, if I may ask, Dr. Crane? How will this help your patients?”
“Oh, trust me, it shall help them plenty.” Dr. Crane indulged him with a cool, controlled grin. “My patients shall get the full benefits of my research.”
The wind blew bitter cold that February afternoon through the Shackborough Street. As long as Jonathan Crane had remembered he had hated that street. Jonathan was a lank, frail boy in his early teens, but had been crossing this street ever since he was a young lad because it was the most direct way from school to home.
It was not an uncommon sight seeing drug dealers peddling their wares or several of Carmine Falcone’s thugs coming by to teach someone a lesson. The first time that had happened Jonathan in his curiosity was careful enough to keep out of sight, but followed as a thug grabbed a man – who seemed to be an honest shopkeeper.
“Didn’t pay yer dues and he’s sick of waiting – no more,” the thug grunted.
He grabbed the shopkeeper and, completely oblivious to the shopkeeper’s begging and pleading, dragged him into a filthy back alley and shot him several times until he crumpled to the dank ground. Jonathan didn’t know whether or not what the shopkeeper said was true about his wife and his many children depending on him – he figured if it was true they would soon enough hear of his death.
This afternoon, however, there were none of Falcone’s thugs coming to pay someone a visit and just a few drug addicts gazed bleary-eyed from their hovels of flimsy cardboard boxes. Though it seemed less threatening than when the street was humming, an icy chill ran through Jonathan and he pulled his thin sweater closer to him. He lived alone with his mother in an apartment on the west end, about twenty blocks from the Narrows. It was not a good neighborhood, but it was cheap and his mother worked long hard hours to pay the rent and what little food they could afford. Luxuries such as a coat Jonathan had to do without.
“Hey you, Stick-man!”
Jonathan quickly raised his eyes from the ground to the voice. A stout, muscular teenage boy stood before him with his arms crossed. It was Stan Wekson, who not only was very popular, but relished tormenting the nerds. Stan was accompanied by his cronies who took more delight in holding and pinning victims rather than beating them. They were all grinning smugly.
“Hey, Stick-man! Answer me!”
“My name is Jon-”
Stan slapped him hard across the cheek. Jonathan felt both cheeks burning brightly and he fought to keep angry tears welling up within his depthless blue eyes.
“I slapped you, Stick-man, like my girlfriend, because you look more like a girl, right boys?”
His cronies laughed loudly and Jonathan could hear his heart thundering in his chest.
“If you were a man I would have punched you, but you’re just a girl, worthy of just being slapped. If I punched you, I’d probably break you, you’re so thin and weak!”
“You know you’ve contradicted yourself,” said Jonathan, desperately trying to keep his emotions in check. “You call me a girl, yet you call me a Stick-man – you’ve admitted I’m a man.”
Stan’s cronies stopped laughing and Stan menacingly came close to Jonathan, roughly grabbing his sweater and tearing a hole in it.
“You think you’re smart with me, eh? Well, maybe if I knock the brains out a bit you’ll be less smart.”
“Yeah, Stan! Knock the stuffing out of him,” screamed one of the cronies.
Stan stopped, his arm half-poised for the blow, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
“Stuffing, I like that! You will be Stick-man no more – you’ll be – you’ll be Scarecrow! Fitting, eh fellas, for someone so skinny and weak?”
“Perfect, Stan,” whooped one of his cronies.
Jonathan couldn’t hear what anyone said next because a blinding pain exploded in his jaw as Stan delivered the promised punch.
Dr. Jonathan Crane gazed at himself in the mirror and straightened his tie. Not a hair was out of place and he didn’t even break a sweat once during the psychology symposium. Stage fright was not a problem with him. Speaking was nothing to be afraid of – there were many things to fear and speaking was hardly one of them. As he left the men’s washroom, briefcase securely in hand, Dr. Steven Westmeyer approached him. He was slightly older than Dr. Crane with blondish hair and hazel eyes. His path was very similar in many ways to Crane, working through school, studying late nights and working weekends to become one of the brightest young minds in the field.
“Dr. Crane, very well done! However I had a question about what your key address was about – on Fear. It was more on controlling Fear and using it to your advantage rather than discovering what that Fear is and helping patients overcome Fear.”
“Precisely, Dr. Westmeyer. You must agree that we are all slaves to Fear to some degree, but when we master that Fear, subjugate it and then use it – yes, make Fear our slave rather than our master – then we shall be a potent force. It is a fascinating concept, do you not agree?”
“Fascinating, yes, but just what good is coming of this, if I may ask, Dr. Crane? How will this help your patients?”
“Oh, trust me, it shall help them plenty.” Dr. Crane indulged him with a cool, controlled grin. “My patients shall get the full benefits of my research.”