Rooms anonymous (roomsanon) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-10-01 06:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | !dc comics, *news |
[News: Gotham] (cut for violence)
[Reports start pouring in fast, in pieces, hearsay, video footage, someone's brother's girlfriend's firsthand account from like, only two blocks away. The disasters are featured on blogs, vlogs, and over GCPD scanner, detailed in emotionless code. A church in Old Gotham has been burnt to the ground. Torched, the reports say, during a funeral for the GU student killed in some accident only days ago on campus. Not just that, but the heavy doors?—A blurry photograph shows metal fused together, iron-band hinges unbending and kneeling angels the only real worship for that dear, departed soul. The Gothic architecture leaves walls thick and windows small and high. The cheery conflagration consumes the congregation whole. Screams, wails of pain, of joy, accompany the upbeat hymn blaring loudly from a CD player that must be inside the casket. The corpse inside, waxy skin, smiles as his family sings for him, as they laugh with him, faces dripping from bone.
I have seen Him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;
His day is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! His day is marching on.
With all the unholy commotion, it takes longer for the second event to be broadcast. There are no civilians reporting on this. In fact, it goes unnoticed until children begin showing up on Bowery corners in the morning hours, bloody and barefoot—not an uncommon or noteworthy sight, save for constant, unending chatter; terrified, they babble, giggle, drool. Batman, bad man, they say it like a mantra. The orphanage they stumbled out of is the site of a massacre. Children and their toys, right? Grins carved on every one of their little, happy faces, gouged in red, baseball bats in their tiny hands as they brutally beat their headmistress to death. She makes a great piñata!—It is only those children who cry, who refuse to enjoy the party being thrown for them like little ingrates, who received a second smile, this time across their throat, and with expert precision.
The police have no suspects at this time.]