Post by The Riddler on Jul 25, 2012 21:40:41 GMT -5
What does man love more than life, fear more than death or mortal strife. What the poor have, the rich require and what contended men desire. What the miser spends and the spendthrift saves, and all men carry to their graves?
The Riddler, Edward Nigma. That’s me. That’s what I am known as. And guess what? I’m smarter than you. No, I’m not insulting your intelligence, I’m sure you’re a perfectly capable person, but the fact of the matter is, is that there is no one smarter than I.
The guard walks past. Simpleton. He hears me talking to myself, and hits the bars of the cell with his baton. It’s almost insulting that I get put in this little cell, with only bars to keep me out when soooo many other of the other villains are stuck in high security prisons. What? I don’t get a cell with three feet of cement surrounding it because I’m not “super-powered?” Idiots. They even drugged me. They’ve been drugging me since I got here. Keeping me…what’s the word. Moronic. See? My intelligence is severely limited at this moment in time.
But I’m still smarter than you. Aren’t I, Smith?
The guard returns, hitting the bars and yelling at me to shut up. I really know how to get ‘em going. He walks away again, to return some time later. I honestly couldn’t tell you if it’s been a day, a week or a minute, but he’s back and shoving food into my cell. I must remember to try to keep better track of the time that passes, but these damned drugs. I know they’re in the food, but when I don’t eat I’m still drugged. What else could they be in? I look around my tiny cell a bit. Needles in my bed? No, that’s too far-fetched. Hmmm. An idea springs to mind. Maybe it isn’t in the food.
Smith. Come over here Smith.
He returns, the good little boy. His eyes are just as glazed over as I expect mine to be. That must be it then. They pipe the drugs in, in gas form. The guards are just as affected as I am. And then it hits me. This isn’t the regular holding cells. I do have a special cell to myself. They almost had me fooled, and I’m saddened to admit that I didn’t think to think of this right away. They almost had me tricked, but no puzzle is a match for The Riddler. My mind starts to clear a little. I realize that it’s going to be a while before I’m able to think fully clearly, but even at this point a plan starts forming in my head. And then a voice comes over the loudspeaker.
Ladies and Gentlemen, prisoners of Arkham Prison for the Mentally Rogue. This is Mr. Blank speaking. I have recently bought Arkham Asylum and Blackgate prison and combined them. This was for your benefit as well as mine. You see, there has been a plague on Gotham for far too long. This plague is not you, dear Arkhamites. The plague is the guards that take care of you. The plagues is the pety criminals held at Blackgate prison. The plague is one to which you, my dear friends, are the cure. And I intend to reward you for your service. For each Blackgate prisoner and guard you kill, you will receive “points.” You can use the points to buy back your weapons, your powers and your technology. You can also use these points to get your freedom. Get one million points and you will receive your freedom. This is not a joke. I am prepared to offer you this deal. Happy killings.
I turn to smile at Smith. He looks frightened. He should be. If they had just called out me to be killed by a bunch of the worst criminals in history, well, I would probably look a little frightened too. He clutches his chest. Is he having a heart attack. Well that’s not really fair, I wanted to be the one to take him out. He slumps against the bars of my cage. Well, I can’t really find a way to kill him while making it a riddle…so I’m going to have to just kill him. Shame. I already figured out the riddle of the drugs, but then a riddle comes to mind, and I whisper it into his ear as I choke the life out of him.
What does man love more than life, fear more than death or mortal strife. What the poor have, the rich require and what contended men desire. What the miser spends and the spendthrift saves, and all men carry to their graves?
He dies, in my hands. Whether from the heart attack or my strangulation, I don’t know. But I whisper the answer in his ear anyway. Perhaps he’ll go to wherever he will go with piece of mind that he couldn’t solve my riddle, and that I was without a doubt smarter than him.
Nothing.
I slip the keys from the belt around his waist, and let myself out of my cell, ready to be free from this brain-numbing gas. I walk out of the cell, prepared to face the madhouse that Arkham will soon become.
The Riddler, Edward Nigma. That’s me. That’s what I am known as. And guess what? I’m smarter than you. No, I’m not insulting your intelligence, I’m sure you’re a perfectly capable person, but the fact of the matter is, is that there is no one smarter than I.
The guard walks past. Simpleton. He hears me talking to myself, and hits the bars of the cell with his baton. It’s almost insulting that I get put in this little cell, with only bars to keep me out when soooo many other of the other villains are stuck in high security prisons. What? I don’t get a cell with three feet of cement surrounding it because I’m not “super-powered?” Idiots. They even drugged me. They’ve been drugging me since I got here. Keeping me…what’s the word. Moronic. See? My intelligence is severely limited at this moment in time.
But I’m still smarter than you. Aren’t I, Smith?
The guard returns, hitting the bars and yelling at me to shut up. I really know how to get ‘em going. He walks away again, to return some time later. I honestly couldn’t tell you if it’s been a day, a week or a minute, but he’s back and shoving food into my cell. I must remember to try to keep better track of the time that passes, but these damned drugs. I know they’re in the food, but when I don’t eat I’m still drugged. What else could they be in? I look around my tiny cell a bit. Needles in my bed? No, that’s too far-fetched. Hmmm. An idea springs to mind. Maybe it isn’t in the food.
Smith. Come over here Smith.
He returns, the good little boy. His eyes are just as glazed over as I expect mine to be. That must be it then. They pipe the drugs in, in gas form. The guards are just as affected as I am. And then it hits me. This isn’t the regular holding cells. I do have a special cell to myself. They almost had me fooled, and I’m saddened to admit that I didn’t think to think of this right away. They almost had me tricked, but no puzzle is a match for The Riddler. My mind starts to clear a little. I realize that it’s going to be a while before I’m able to think fully clearly, but even at this point a plan starts forming in my head. And then a voice comes over the loudspeaker.
Ladies and Gentlemen, prisoners of Arkham Prison for the Mentally Rogue. This is Mr. Blank speaking. I have recently bought Arkham Asylum and Blackgate prison and combined them. This was for your benefit as well as mine. You see, there has been a plague on Gotham for far too long. This plague is not you, dear Arkhamites. The plague is the guards that take care of you. The plagues is the pety criminals held at Blackgate prison. The plague is one to which you, my dear friends, are the cure. And I intend to reward you for your service. For each Blackgate prisoner and guard you kill, you will receive “points.” You can use the points to buy back your weapons, your powers and your technology. You can also use these points to get your freedom. Get one million points and you will receive your freedom. This is not a joke. I am prepared to offer you this deal. Happy killings.
I turn to smile at Smith. He looks frightened. He should be. If they had just called out me to be killed by a bunch of the worst criminals in history, well, I would probably look a little frightened too. He clutches his chest. Is he having a heart attack. Well that’s not really fair, I wanted to be the one to take him out. He slumps against the bars of my cage. Well, I can’t really find a way to kill him while making it a riddle…so I’m going to have to just kill him. Shame. I already figured out the riddle of the drugs, but then a riddle comes to mind, and I whisper it into his ear as I choke the life out of him.
What does man love more than life, fear more than death or mortal strife. What the poor have, the rich require and what contended men desire. What the miser spends and the spendthrift saves, and all men carry to their graves?
He dies, in my hands. Whether from the heart attack or my strangulation, I don’t know. But I whisper the answer in his ear anyway. Perhaps he’ll go to wherever he will go with piece of mind that he couldn’t solve my riddle, and that I was without a doubt smarter than him.
Nothing.
I slip the keys from the belt around his waist, and let myself out of my cell, ready to be free from this brain-numbing gas. I walk out of the cell, prepared to face the madhouse that Arkham will soon become.
