[The canister empties out in gouts, fluid splashing the men’s gasping, coughing faces and the concrete under them. Oswald watches like a caged animal watches its keepers, unblinking, his mouth drawn tight. Fingers clenching and unclenching the grip pf his crutch. Then a matchbox is slipped into his palm, and it’s time.]
‘Penguin, Penguin, listen, I swear to god,’ [Joel’s voice cracks as Oswald lurches for him, slowly, painfully, the matches rattling on every step.] ‘I swear, it was all Frankie. I’ll, I’ll do anything—’
[He strikes the match against his suit. Once, twice. It ignites with a soft sizzling, flickering in his trembling, sticky fingers. Its light shines in the glassiness of his eye.]
Oh, I know. [Oswald says.
Joel stares into his face, paralyzed.
And for a few seconds, it’s like life itself is holding its breath.]
Give my regards to Nyssa.
[An easy flick of the wrist sends the match arcing for a puddle of gasoline at Joel’s feet. The fire takes with a whoosh, engulfing his legs and Bobby’s prone form. Screams rise into the air, high and jagged, crazed with pain. A sick-sweet, greasy stench fills the air. But the smell of hair as it burns away with layers of scalp is worse, so much worse. Oswald’s stomach turns. He fights the urge to gag, clenching his jaw against it. And he stays. He stays until the chair gives out and Joel’s corpse collapses through it, skin crackling as it peels away from the metal welded to it. Tongues of flame lick out the body's hollowed sockets, its gaping, lipless mouth.
Oswald tightens his grip around the crutch. When he finally turns away, he doesn’t feel triumphant.
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‘Penguin, Penguin, listen, I swear to god,’ [Joel’s voice cracks as Oswald lurches for him, slowly, painfully, the matches rattling on every step.] ‘I swear, it was all Frankie. I’ll, I’ll do anything—’
[He strikes the match against his suit. Once, twice. It ignites with a soft sizzling, flickering in his trembling, sticky fingers. Its light shines in the glassiness of his eye.]
Oh, I know. [Oswald says.
Joel stares into his face, paralyzed.
And for a few seconds, it’s like life itself is holding its breath.]
Give my regards to Nyssa.
[An easy flick of the wrist sends the match arcing for a puddle of gasoline at Joel’s feet. The fire takes with a whoosh, engulfing his legs and Bobby’s prone form. Screams rise into the air, high and jagged, crazed with pain. A sick-sweet, greasy stench fills the air. But the smell of hair as it burns away with layers of scalp is worse, so much worse. Oswald’s stomach turns. He fights the urge to gag, clenching his jaw against it. And he stays. He stays until the chair gives out and Joel’s corpse collapses through it, skin crackling as it peels away from the metal welded to it. Tongues of flame lick out the body's hollowed sockets, its gaping, lipless mouth.
Oswald tightens his grip around the crutch. When he finally turns away, he doesn’t feel triumphant.
He doesn’t feel anything at all.]