2014.03.31 - Pop Goes The Riddler

This is the house that Edward Nygma built. Or rather, bought. With (hard earned) money from clients like Wayne Industries and more rich people looking for pre-nup violations than Edward can reaonably count on both hands. It's not to flash, but it's well placed: gated community, it overlooks the park, and inside it's distressingly normal. He likes it normal. It's like a sign that says 'Normal Guy, Not Crazy, Lives Here'. He likes that, too. What he doesn't like? Coming home, tired after dealing with a shrill older woman who decided that the photographs of his husband with two co-eds from Gotham U were in fact, just so tragic that she had to cry in his office for hours. Those are hours he'll never get back. So he told Mabel to handle the office and came home for lunch. A drinking lunch, because there's sandwich fixing and some good, snobby microbrews in his fridge, and by God, he deserves one. This is his singular goal, as he slides his key into the door and unlocks it. Home sweet home.

Safety. There's not many places in Gotham where such a term could possibly be used. Alert security guards. Fences. Bright daylight. Beautiful green, in a land of black and grey steel. Being mugged or assaulted wandering about, even in the dead of night, is nigh impossible. Trophy wives working for lawyers can be seen jogging carelessly at 2AM, when they might not last a mile past that iron perimeter in broad daylight.

But for some people, no cage will keep you safe. Whether they are inside it, or you.

The doorbell begins to ring. Again. And again. Barely lasting half a second between. A moment later, musical knocking raps insistently. It's completely non-sensible. Even if the former Riddler had walked at a stout pace from the fridge the moment it started, it's as if the man on the other side is crazed and impatient, trying for hours on a domicile he knows is occupied...

Peering through an ever-handy peephole would just show the bottom of a brown fedora, and two large shoulders of men in trenchcoats. Looks somewhat official. Is there a criminal emergency that required coming in person? Vital evidence at hand, easier ported than calling Edward in? But how would they know he would be home at this random hour for a delayed lunch?

Aw, hell: This is Edward's first thought as he opens his fridge, gets a beer. He sets it on the counter, churchkey in hand. A beer. And a sandwich. Is it too much to ask? Apparently so. Duty calls; or at least, his doorbell does.

Walking back, he grumbles /keep your pants on/ under his breath. He checks the peephole and his mood lifts. Is it the GCPD? Is he being called upon for a juicy case? Oh well, let's let them on in!

"Gentlemen," he begins as he opens the door. "Can I help you?" He has no idea how much he's going to regret that in a second.

Edward must have gotten slightly complacent. There were a number of warning signs, but an impatient man without a care in the world likely had his senses dulled. A feeling of security does that to a man. When the door is opened, a slender individual with a cane in both hands stands in the threshold, head still bowed forward. A hint of purple tuxedo is present inside his coat, black gloves concealing all but a ring of white about a wrist. The two people to either side are large, muscular, trained. Had Mr. Nygma been able to see their faces, scarred and stoic, from the peephole -- he'd have never opened that door.

"RIDDLER!" the Joker states, throwing his arms up and lifting his head. That terrifying grin stretches abnormally across gaunt white flesh, green eyes wild. He moves to thrust inside, and throw his harms around the other man in a surprisingly tight hug, unless he's able to be fended off. Nothing would come of it if successful, but that doesn't mean anyone sane or otherwise would wish the Joker to touch them. "It's been too LONG! How have you been?!"

Edward's first thought: Fuck. Fuck me sideways. Ever the gentlman ex-rogue, it doesn't pass his lips. But it's still there behind his eyes. A mantra of f-bombs, as some part of himself reminds him: You're still a Gothamite, Eddie. You should know better. You should /know better./

"Joker! I, ah-- I'm fine. Thank you. Passing through on your way somewhere?" /Get out of my house, get out of my house!/

"No, no. I came to visit YOU!" the Joker exclaims, as if that was supposed to somehow make the Riddler feel more at ease. The huge mooks slip within and close the door behind. It's locked, as well. They simply hover right behind the Clown Prince of Crime, silent eyes watching Edward. Although at the sudden appearance of an umbrella, the Joker lifts his hands as if in surrender, recoiling like a man who just had a shotgun leveraged in his direction. His own cane, mundane black with a diamond grip, is held wardingly. "Wh,what's this? You can't open THAT indoors. It's bad luck! Besides, now you are just copying /Penguin/..." He moves to grasp the tip of the Riddler's makeshift weapon and push it down. A hint of the good will and humor is starting to fade in his features. Wildness blooms in those green eyes, creak of teeth from his grin stretching further heard within the room. "I'm here to talk. Are you not happy to see me...?"

"Copy Oswald? Never," Edward said, ego prompting the slightest miffed tone. "I'm all original. I thought I had one of my canes, is all..."

He keeps using that name. Edward has put it to bed, he thought. Hoped, anyway. The umbrella's tip dips downward, until Edward's forced to treat it as a cane regardless, though. He leans on it lightly, affecting as casual a stance as possible. Calm breathing; think of cool black felt, uninterrupted calm... Alright. We've got this.

"Your visit was just unexpected," he explained, turning on the Riddler smarm. Work the room, Eddie, it's what you do best. "I mean, I've retired, the memory issues-- you know, been out of the loop. I don't know how I've garnered anyone's attention, after a few years down, you know?" Especially since he's been studiously trying to avoid it for the last couple of years.

Danger. Danger. Every instinct within Edward, one of the smartest men in Gotham, echoes that. There's no way to predict the Joker. No way to guess his motives. No possible way to understand his agenda. But his humors can shift to the violent with ease, and when they do, his 'jokes' tend to become fatal, quickly. Slowly resuming a normal stance himself, Joker's own cane thumps on the floor, standing opposite in much the same stance.

No reaction. The smile remains, eyes still unstable, hint of drool forming at the corner of his mouth as Riddler offers his explanation.

"That's why I came." he finally offers. No longer the happy-go-lucky man who Edward answered the door to. It's like he's transformed into something quiet, menacing, and sadistic with the ease of a chameleon changing skin. "Two years. You are waiting a long time. Come, let's have a seat." He moves to stride further within. If Riddler doesn't follow, his two mooks would be quite encouraging with their pressing bodies. Shifting off a shoulder satchel, the Joker allows something heavy and apparently square to thump on the table within, knocking the bottle of beer off to shatter on the floor. Maybe a foot by a foot. He sits, posture perfect, hands folded into his lap at the height of etiquette. If the Riddler was to settle opposite, as is clearly the intent, either of the massive thugs would hover behind.

Somewhere, a clock's ticking seems inappropriately loud, counting down like a demolition's timer to some disaster.

"Waiting?" Edward echoed as he was herded to the couch by squareshouldered mooks and their shiftless motions. He sits in the comfortable chair, laying his umbrella over his legs. The beer upsets him, but only because it may be the prelude to other things that break in his house. A promise of things to come. Maybe to his kneecaps. He's quite fond of his kneecaps. Not to mention all his other bones, and the soft organs they protect, support and shape.

"I'm not waiting, old friend," he said. If there was a rogue to ever be said to be friendly, back in the day, with the Joker, it was probably Riddler. Witty, intelligent, good for a laugh... but a pretender when the Joker wasn't as interested in playing nice. "I had a good long run, but times change."

He tries to not look at the satchel, but his curiousity demands that he ask the question, at least of himself: What do you think is in there, Eddie?

"This is me you are talking to, Riddler." Always using that name, as if it was yesterday; even if they had not spoken with him wearing that gaudy suit in... how many years has it been now? Indeed, they had a playful relationship. Amongst the rogue's gallery, Edward was one of the few who rarely felt genuine danger in speaking with the man. But that appears to not be the case today. "I know the long con. The life of an investigator doesn't suite you. Solving simple puzzles from other's petty issues. Listening to them drone on and on. Pointless creatures, so beneath your intellect they are like chittering rats. Is this what you want? A quiet, comfortable life? Of course not."

The item is perfectly square. Heavy. It thumped well, slightly muffled. Wood. And it must be a box, for the resonance suggested that there was something further inside. Lastly, there's the slighest indent on the left side, like there was something protruding slightly.

"So what is taking so long? I miss you. The glory days, when you and I would take turns hassling the Batman. Two kindred souls who wished to compete with him, and nothing more. Two of the classics. Not petty vengeance like the Mad Hatter, or common criminals like Oswald. And DEFINITELY not those psychopaths, like Scarecrow and Poison Ivy! I just want to know when your next grand riddle for the Batman is."

His hands grip the table tightly, the Joker leaning forward. "I love a good joke, Riddler. But I hate... Hate... HATE waiting this long for the punchline!!"

The punchline, he said. Like there was something coming, anything that might coax a laugh from his gaping maw. Edward felt like those yellow teeth were already in his throat, with his pulse pounding in his ears. He was doomed, he realized. He was doomed because the Joker was on his couch, looking at him like he was fresh meat.

"That's the joke, isn't it? That there's no long con. That I've conceded defeat. I'm afraid there's no game here, old friend," he replied, his eyes fixed on the Joker's. So this is what madness looks like when you're sane. Did he ever look like that, he wonders briefly. Did he look unhinged? (Yes, of course; at his worst, he was just like that?) "Besides, in that game, we all know who is going to win in the end." Stroking another man's ego feels vaguely dirty, like it's somehow perverse. "It's you. It was always going to be you."

Take that and your damned package and go, you gape-mouthed fool, go!

No response at all comes from the Joker. He's still smiling, and waiting. Patiently, almost. Simply staring towards the Riddler, head slightly tilted to the side expectantly. As if he was waiting for Edward to finish, but nothing more comes. A long silence. The two thugs behind the couch cannot be heard even breathing. Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock could drive someone mad, in circumstances as tense as this. Yet the tension in the air is dangerous. More words would cut it -- and what might bleed out is unknown. All that intelligence, a lifetime of riddles, being heralded as Batman's peer in many ways, and the Riddler wouldn't know the reaction to a single word he dared to speak.

"Tell me a riddle." finally breaks the silence. The satchel is pulled over, and carefully unzipped. What he pulls out is a Jack in the Box; handmade. Only painted on the four sides is the Joker's grinning face. And atop it is a green square, with a white question mark. "I brought you a gift. Sweet, dear Harley made it. She was always a fan of you. Loved watching you work." The handle is simple iron with a leather grip. Setting it down, he then slides it in front of Riddler.

What's inside? Nothing. Nothing comes to mind. It could be a joke, or it could be death.

There's a surge of nervousness; does he know? (Of course he knows. He told her that he was interested, years and years ago; they probably had a laugh when she fell right back into the arms of the Harlequin of Hate. Eddie Nygma has a crush on Harley Quinn; like he could compare with Mister J! /Ha ha ha!/) Humiliation curdles in his belly but he keeps his smile, tight and thin-lipped, on his face.

"You are trapped on a path you cannot leave," Edward begins slowly, though his voice gains in strength and tenor with each word; he still loves his riddles. "You come to a fork in the path: On one hand is death, the other is freedom. Two immortal guardians ward each passage. One will speak only lies, one will speak only truth. You cannot know which is which. You are only allowed one question, to one guardian to determine how to choose your path to life or death. What do you ask?"

It's an oldie but goodie. Classic. And it feels, in this moment, terribly appropriate.

For more long moments, Joker remains sitting. Straight posture. Hands across his lap, over his diamond cane. Has he blinked? Edward could genuinely not remember seeing him blink a single time since arriving. Tick. Tick. Tick. "I would ask them if life matters." the Joker states, calmly. "If they said yes, I would know them to be the liar. And then I would stroll down the path of the one who knew the real answer. Whistling, all the way." That wasn't even remotely the correct response. But to be fair, most people would likely care more about the outcome than the man sitting adjacent.

"Take the handle of the box. Give it a turn." the Joker demands, voice soft and insistent. "I don't particularly like riddles. They aren't funny. But they do have punchlines, and sometimes surprising ones. So here's one for you."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"You wear clothes of garish colors. Bells sing with every step and dance. You laugh at me. I laugh at you." The grin spreads even further, when it seemed humanly impossible.

"What am I?"

"Fair enough," Edward said; he does not confirm that is right - in the Joker's world, it is the right answer and Edward will not gainsay it and live. He wants to live. He's done some incredibly amazing, terrible things in the name of staying alive: how does one cheat death? Edward knows. But it'd be worse than worthless here...

"A fool."

The song rings out from bells, a classic model. Nothing electronic. The familiar ding; the actual words are not known to most, but to Edward, it's one of countless bits of knowledge. Yet the first three verses could mean many things. The only thing certain in the tune's lyrical melody is the punchline. Yet one that might come to mind is an American version, common in older days, yet not the Mulberry version most would be familiar with. A touch more morbid. A touch less playful. To comfort sick children, some who may be dying.

'Jimmy's got the whooping cough...'

"Yes. A fool." The figures behind the Riddler shift closer. "Keep cranking, my friend."

"So tell me." Legs cross, and the cane is given a little twirl. "What made you give up? Did you realize you couldn't win? I don't believe that. Not you. Yet it might explain how you are such a pathetic husk, sitting here in this room, working for whining wives and suspicious husbands. ...It reminds me of a dog. A poor, wounded dog who will never be at it's former greatness."

"One that needs to be put down."

"Waking up and not being able to feed myself was a real eye opener," Edward said, green eyes hardening. Green of emerald, he keeps his gaze on the Joker, his hand on the crank. It's a work of art. If it's not deadly, he could, conceivably sell it for thousands of dollars to the over-monied and under-educated fans of men like them; but you don't sell a gift from the Joker, if it doesn't kill you. Your lack of 'gratitude' will certainly put you in the ground if the object in question doesn't. "I've had someone put their boot on my neck, over and over, all my life. I wanted to see how it felt to be on the other side of the table for a change."

Right now it feels like an interrogation hotseat. Uncomfortably warm, with his hand working the crank methodically as each turn brings the song closer completion. Hands that coaxed safes into giving up their golden numbers feels each catch and shudder, knows that they're getting closer to the Pop.

"It's gratifying to watch them beg for my help," he admits. "Tell me that I'm the only one who can help them, who can put it all together." But there was little else. The real challenges--- the missing kids, juicy murders, corporate espionage and fraud! Those he loved, watching people secrets (riddles) unravel and open for him like a daffodil trumpeting for the sun. Those were great. Rare, to be treasured for certain, but? still, those moments were intensely satisfying.

"Yes. We all must fall very far, Riddler. Only from our knees in the mud, can we see what is truly before us." For a split second, so quick it would be gone in a flicker, Joker seemed sane. Almost sad. almost human. But it is gone, like a single subliminal frame in a movie reel, that you cannot ever be sure was truly there.

The second rings go out. 'And Timmy's got the measels...'

"Yes. But they are too rare, aren't they? Is money what you wanted in life? What you worked so hard to achieve? Or was it a challenge. A puzzle you can give, that someone cannot solve. You never achieved that, did you?"

Joker slowly rises. The motion is almost otherworldly. His fedora shifts, casting his lower face in shadows.

"But I did. Look at me, Riddler." He steps adjacent, lifting the brow so only his green eyes are seen. Wild. Unpredictable. There is no longer a smile.

'That's the way the story goes...' The next turn will activate the box.

"The last riddle I will ask you. The last puzzle to solve. What do you see?" Heavy hands would move to grasp Edward by the shoulders, to prevent him from getting up. Prevent any hope of escape. Slowly, a blade is drawn from his cane staff, shimmering in the ambient light...

It isn't the first time they've seen glimmers of lucidity break through the frothy waves of madness - but he hopes, fervently prays!... that this will be the last time he's ever face to face with this man in his life, and that his life extends past this moment. What would they do, what would the papers run? Headline: "Edward Nygma, found dead in his home, face lacerated!" Will dear old Dad crawl out of the Waterbury woodwork to make a statement about his moron son? Will mother dearest, out of the picture since he was in grade school, appear weeping; maybe if I'd never left, he'd still be alive! The tell alls, the tabloids, the media frenzy! Every blogger reaching to their keyboard for commentary. A thousand username, all with something to say, chimps pounding keyboards and hoping to get Shakespeare.

(The very idea is shamefully exciting, but there's no point about being excited about something you'll never see.)

"The Zero Man." The Fool, the Jester, laughing his way to the edge of the cliff. Symbol of madness's wisdom, the new beginnings, potential unending if one one would be fool enough to grasp for the impossible.

He turns the crank with new strength; that's it, if he's going to die, he's going to do it with his eyes on the prize. No one will say he was a coward.

Even if it is, ultimately, the truth.

'POP!'

The jack-in-the-box erupts open. And then a small pie erupts on a spring, aiming to smash right into Edward Nygma's face. Banana cream, not acid. When he's staring at Joker so intently, it might be hard to dodge.

'Goes the weasel.'

And then Joker is laughing, pulling out the blade the rest of the way. It immediately falls over limp; it's made of shiny rubber. "The Zero Man... That's good! That's good!! See, you can still be funny!!" He waggles around the faux sword, before tossing it aside to clatter in the distance. The actual board that the pie was on is a picture of Harley Quinn's face, winking. "You really thought I was going to kill you... hoohoo... but I came here wanting to hear about your next caper. Why would I bring a present that kills you in that case?! You should have GUESSED that one...!!"

Dammit, he liked with shirt.

Edward has his eyes on the Joker, and so does in fact take a pie on his face; glasses smeared, the thing plops into his lap. A moment later he's plucked the glasses from his face and allowed them to hang between his fingers, covered in creamy, sweet goop.

"Oh, you never know, you card," Edward drawled, keeping his tone light; some of the tension bled from him, but not all of it. A Joker that laughs is not always a safe Joker, but there were few things funnier than a Riddler with his pride pricked.

Now looking like some sort of flesh tone and cream raccoon, he arched one slim brow before it dropped down. He might yet live out the afternoon.

"Okay. That was good. But the joke's over." That's it. The glint of the serial killer. The grin a monstrous cheshire. The last thing countless people have ever seen. In a motion disturbingly silent, one of the large figures behind the half-blind Edward attempts to drop a garrotte around the hapless Riddler's neck, and yank back with intent. This is real. If his fingers don't get in the way, he'd risk blacking out in... well, he probably knows the exact number of seconds, doesn't he?

Ten to fifteen seconds.

Incomplete obstruction of the carotid arteries means he buys himself time; it hurts his fingers, cuts into them with the narrow ligature -- there'll be blood, but it's worth the moment of struggle he has--protecting his rushing pulsepoint even as his own knuckles are jammed back into the meat of his neck. It's enough to keep his brain oxygenated but it means 10 to 15 seconds just became 180, maybe 300 if he's really lucky. He's always been something of a cockroach, never quite able to grind him down...

Physics, now-- it's all physics. Knees up to chest, kick out, feet catching on the lip of the kitchen table. With his runner's legs in play, it can be a springboard for Edward slamming his chair back into his attacker; his free hand goes to the umbrella, and he thumbs the catch to reveal the hidden triger, and points it backward, behind his head. He pulls the trigger. Bang! Birdshot -- it won't kill anyone, but a thousand tiny pellets in meaty faces, soft liquidy eyes...

That's going to hurt.

There's a heavy grunt as Joker is impacted by the corner of the table, the priceless gift from Harley knocked off and thudding on it's side. Hopefully it's not broken. A good momento, if one survives. The umbrella is grasped and hefted upwards, and the CRACK of it going off causes a cry of pain, garrotte going limp... which means the Riddler is allowed to fall on his back. A moment later, the Joker is moving with manic strength, trying to leap atop him before he can get up to grasp by the lapels. "Madness isn't something you ever LOSE, Riddler. It ebbs and flows like a tide... Do you really think you are FIXED? Rehabilitated?! Maybe you just need it /jumpstarted/!!" The second thug immediately is upon Edward as well, aiming to grasp his wrists and slam him down on his back. "Like a car!! Maybe you are like a car, with the battery low!! What,what is in one piece when you are born, can bend but must never break, lest no tool of hand or word can repair it?!"

"My name - !"

It's cut off when his hands are gripped, he loses air again when it is forcibly pushed from his lungs on impact. He coughed, sucked in a breath, coughed again. He struggled-trapped under the clown's weight and unable to get purchase on the floor. Wet with beer, his patent leather shoes couldn't get a grip.

"Your will," he snarled as he writhed and bucked, trying to get away and finding no recourse. "The mind, the will, the spirit- pick an answer! Your riddle is TERRIBLE!"

"The answer is the mind. The mind! Once it breaks, it can never be fully repaired. Never." The Riddler is heavily straddled, the Joker having a strange strength to him; one thug is stumbling into things, obviously badly hurt by the birdshot, but the other's much stronger than Edward could hope to be in his present situation. "You feel it, don't you? That tickle in the back of your head? It's just dormant. Like a tumor in remission!! But chemo... chemo is POISON. Chemo makes you WEAKER! Let the tumor grow!! Turn your delightful madness into strength, like ME!!" He shakes Edward violently at that point, fedora falling off and green hair wild. He's panting then, leaning back, grip loosening. "What happened to you. You used to be so interesting. I don't like things that aren't interesting." Sadness upon his frowning features, pulling out a small vial of pink perfume; complete with a small hose and a little squeezer on the end. "Does it have to end this way? Can't it go *back* to how it was?!"

Chemo. Like this crazy son of a bitch knew what cancer was like. What you'd do to survive it. By the time Edward dropped into a Lazarus pit he had a tumor the size of a baseball behind one eye; he was half-blind, mad with pain and ready to die if it would just *end*. But he made it. He made it and he dragged himself out of the pit and-- and--

He doesn't remember. There's a gap. A hole where a fact used to be.

His eyes flick to the side, and the other. No easy weapons; just him and his ability to endure the pain.

He twisted his wrist, jamming his thumb against the mooks grip until he feels it pop out of socket. He swallows down the scream it should illict, that from any other man it would-- but slides it free before the thick-brained moron can react and swipes at the Joker's new weapon. If he could get it, one of the two of them was going to wear it, get whipped it with, anything. With his thumb still out of socket he couldn't manipulate it well, but... he wasn't about to lay down and die either.

The mook does make a grunt of surprise at the maneuver, and Edward gets his arm free. Joker makes a grunt of surprise, finding the perfume bottle grappled. In the struggle, it sprays upwards into the face of the mook; a fine, pink mist. He staggers away, shouting, before the bottle is dropped and shatters into a puddle nearby. "You are fighting awful hard, Riddler. You want to live, don't you...?! Then just say it! Say you're not broken and useless!! Tell me you've still got it in you, deep inside, to PRANK the BATMAN!!" In the midst of the struggle, Edward manages to hurl the Joker off, who rolls away and slips back to his feet. Hands smooth his hair back into a more tidy position. "It doesn't have to end this way. I'm just trying to HELP you..."

Edward grabbed his fallen chair with the left hand, holding it out before him; other hand hot with pain he held it to his chest and protected it. Voice raw after the garrotting, he spoke in a gravelly tone now, less friendly and far more fierce.

"The name's *Edward Nygma*, you lunatic, and I am not like you! I was the Crown Prince of Conundrums, but these days I'm not pranking the Batman -- I'm his competition!" He *threw* the chair then, and fumbled for one of the kitchen knives. Ego? Yes, but when did that *ever* stop Edward Nygma?

Suddenly Joker blinks, mouth going slightly agape. "Oh." A sudden shift dodges the thrown chair with a disturbing ease. The mook who got sprayed is on hands and knees, body slowly going rigid before he falls over. Skin is turning white, lips blood red, eyes bulging. Smilex. The other is in the corner, slumped down and blinded in both eyes and just cursing loudly. "OH." No move is done to arm himself, hands crossed before his lap. "Is THAT what this has all been about? Beating the Batman at his own game?! Brilliant!! Why didn't you TELL me?!" He laughs, sounding almost relieved. "But you'll never do that with affairs and spying, /Riddler./ What you need... is a big, fancy game where you both recieve the same clue... see who wins!! If you did, it'd be GRAND, wouldn't it?!"

"That was not a-- are you-- you are a lunatic! Why am I even asking that!" Edward snarled, glowering over the knife he still held in a defensive position. "This was not an invitation, you amazing-- you---" Why was he even bothering? Edward loved whimsy in his crimes in the day, but nobody took an idea and ran with it like the Joker.

He'd doomed himself to a criminal game like no other.

The Joker punches a fist into a closed hand. "So be it! I'll do a MYSTERY. Something all, all DEEP and SUSPENSEFUL..." The Joker turns and walks away now, hands miming in the air wildly as he seems utterly lost in thought. "There... there'll be RED HERRINGS. And PICKLED HERRINGS. And maybe even some sexy TWIST..." Fumbling the lock open, the Clown Prince of Crime then just... walks out, turning to the side and continuing. Now and then a word is heard loudly. "...SHACKLED... ... ...SHARKS WITH LASERS... ... ...AND THE CAKE, A BOMB!!" Edward is just left there, standing in his room, one of the two large men dead and the other blinded, with many things tussled and broken. A pretty normal day when dealing with the Joker.

Left alone with a corpse and a blind, bleeding thug, Edward stands in his kitchen, beer on his his pants and blood on his throat. He pauses, and then gripped his thumb and yanked-- keening low in his throat when it popped back into place. Then he picked up his cellphone and dialed 911.

"Yes, I'd like to report a home invasion..."