Friends and Scars Ch. 7

Friends and Scars</u>
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I do not own Arnold Wesker, Scarface, Rhino, or any of the other Batman characters presented here. They belong to DC Comics (Batman, in particular). The other characters are from my imagination. This was written purely for fun.

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Chapter 7

   “You should ‘ave taken your gun.”

   Arnold Wesker watched Rhino pace back and forth in the kitchen, his stubborn eyes following him. The brute had grown extremely distraught when he had noticed his boss’s bloody sleeve. He had totally flipped his lid when he discovered the wound was from a bullet.

   They were now back in the hideout, and Rhino had started lecturing the small man. Wesker was sitting in one of the chairs and now in his undershirt. Ratso sat beside him, stitching up his wound. Mugsy stood off to the side, smoking a cigarette.

   “’e wouldn’ta used it anyway,” Scarface commented casually. He was back in his gangster attire, minus his tommy gun, and sitting on the kitchen counter.

   Wesker looked from the dummy back to the massive henchman. “He’s right, Rhi-I-INO!” He cringed when Ratso stuck the needle back in his arm.

   “Hold still,” Ratso said dully. Wesker frowned, but did as he was told.

   Rhino paused in front of the Ventriloquist. “Y’see, this wouldn’t ‘ave happened if you had taken your gun.”

   “It would have happened regardless,” Wesker replied. “Besides, we made it out, didn’t we?”

   “But you could have died!” Rhino exclaimed.

   “But I didn’t,” Wesker shot back. As Rhino continued to give him a stern look, he pressed forward. “What matters…” His jaw clenched when the needle re-entered his arm. “…is that we made it out alive.”

   The room fell silent for a few brief moments. Scarface was the one to break the quiet. “Boy, Rhino, since when ‘ave you been such a softy for Dummy?”

   All eyes immediately shot to the wooden puppet on the counter before they moved to Rhino. The brute stared at the dummy with wide eyes, slightly stunned. He gazed back at Wesker, who was staring at the ground, looking completely embarrassed and uncomfortable.

   “W-Well,” Ratso began, breaking the now awkward silence, “I’m finished.” As Wesker’s eyes lifted to the smallest of the henchmen, Ratso cut the thread. He pulled out some gauze and began to wrap his boss’s arm. “This’ll hold until ya get to a doc.”

   “The all-famous Crime Doctor, you mean?” Wesker asked, not sounding the least bit enthused.

   “Of course,” Ratso replied.

   “Of course…” Wesker sighed, his eyes falling to the ground again.

   The three henchmen were well aware of Wesker’s dislike for criminal doctors, but being in the business that they were in, they had to make do.

   The small henchman’s eyes briefly shot to the large thug across the room. Rhino was standing in the doorway, staring out into the living room with somewhat distant eyes, obviously still reflecting on Scarface’s comment. Sure, it was true that all three of them treated Wesker differently when the puppet wasn’t around, but Rhino was always the nicest to him. He was also the coldest to the Ventriloquist in Scarface’s presence. Rhino had an image to maintain, that of the brutish thug Scarface knew him to be. For that kind of wrap, Rhino had always been Scarface’s “favorite.” He had the most to lose if the dummy knew he considered Wesker to be more of a friend than a boss.

   Ratso cleared his throat and looked off at Mugsy. “Ready?” he asked, breaking another silence that had fallen over the five.

   Mugsy’s eyes dully fell on Ratso, giving him a bored look. He took a long drag on his cigarette before answering. “Yeah, we ought to go get rid of the getaway car. The cops are probably lookin’ for it.”

   “Give ‘em somethin’ to find, boys,” Scarface said from the counter.

   Rhino finally snapped from his daze and looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. “…I’ll walk youse guys out,” he said softly.

   Wesker watched the three men walk out of the room. He wanted to thank them all for their help, but they were out the door so quickly. He slouched slightly, but reluctantly rose to his feet. His eyes remained on the doorway for a few lingering moments before he began to put on a fresh white shirt. He felt bad about what Scarface had said to Rhino…

   “So,” Scarface began, making the small man jump, “what took youse mugs so long?”

   The Ventriloquist’s eyes shifted to the dummy. “W-Well…um…w-we--”

   “Oh, never mind,” the puppet scoffed, “I’ll just ask Rhino about it.”

   Wesker finished buttoning his shirt and approached the counter. “I’m sure he’ll be back in soon,” he mumbled. He carefully lifted his beloved dummy, his eyes scanning across the puppet. He repositioned the hat atop his head and studied him over.

   Finally, after his eyes had gone over the little gangster once last time, his hand slipped into his back. He took a deep breath and exhaled, all that stress that had accumulated over the past week finally lifting from his shoulders. He felt like he could breathe again.

   “But I do ‘ave a question for you, Dummy,” Scarface continued, his wooden jaw clanking.

   “What’s that?” Wesker asked, looking down at the puppet at the end of this arm.

   Scarface’s glass eyes rolled up to him. “What was it that shrink wanted with us that day, before they separated us?”

   Instantly, his eyes widened behind his thick lenses and his breath caught in his throat. He barely felt the tremble that now shook him to his very core. His mind was flooded with images of the interrogation room back in Arkham Asylum. He could hear the arguments he had been a part of over the past few days in his ears. He felt ill; his head was spinning.

   Scarface, completely oblivious to the puppet master’s reaction to his question, had continued on. “I mean, I can’t remember much of what ‘appened after we was taken to the room to talk to your shrink--”

   He was cut off when his body suddenly jerked forward as Wesker began pacing back and forth. The small man was mumbling so softly and quickly, his words sounded like nothing more than gibberish. Each time he found himself facing the doorway to the living room, he would pause before he’d turn on his heel and march deeper into the kitchen. His free, yet shaking hand laid against his temple, his eyes darting about the room.

   The puppet kept looking up at Wesker and back to the surroundings, looking confused and slightly worried. Each time the man paused in his soft ranting, Scarface was able to put in his two cents. “Woah, hold on.” “Calm down!” “What’s wrong?”

   “Arnold!” Scarface finally yelled, coming face to face with the puppet master.

   Wesker let out a squeak and jumped when he found himself staring into those harsh glass eyes. He instantly stopped pacing around and froze to the spot. He took shaky breaths.

   “I want ya to calm down,” Scarface ordered harshly, putting a sharp emphasis on those last two words. “Now, what the Hell’s goin’ on--?”

   He was interrupted again when Wesker, against his better judgment, put his finger over the dummy’s wooden mouth.

   “Shh!” the Ventriloquist silenced his other half, looking at the doorframe with panicked eyes. “H-He m-m-might hear--!”

   He let out a small shriek when the puppet tried to bite him, pulling his finger back quickly. His frantic eyes shot back to Scarface.

   The little gangster’s glass eyes gleamed sinisterly as he brought himself up until he was eye-level with the puppet master again. He pressed the small man back against the back of a chair, glaring down at him.

   “You touch me one more time,” Scarface threatened, jabbing a stubby wooden finger into Wesker’s chest, “and I’ll--”

   “Oh, this ought to be good.”

   At the sound of the English-accented voice, both Scarface and the Ventriloquist froze. In unison, their eyes wandered to the doorframe leading to the living room.
   
   “I thought Hat was still in the nuthouse…” the puppet slowly remarked, his anger toward the Ventriloquist set aside for the moment.

   Wesker swallowed the lump in his throat. “…T-That’s not Mr. Tetch, Mr. Scarface…” he quietly remarked in a quivering voice.

   Scarface’s eyes briefly shifted to Wesker. They exchanged a quick look before the puppet turned to the doorway.

   “M-Mr. Scarface, p-please don’t go in there. I don’t think it’s such a good i-DEA!” He was cut short when his body lurched forward toward the threshold to the living room. He nearly tripped over the chair before stumbling after Scarface unwillingly.

   They stopped in the doorway.  Wesker caught his footing and took a quick look up at his boss. He cringed when he saw the surprised expression on the dummy’s face. After a moment spent just sitting in an awful silence, he finally stole a peek over at the sofa where the dreaded character sat.

   There was Mr. Friend, sitting as calmly as ever. He was just as he had been since Rhino had sat him there when the Ventriloquist was busted out of Arkham. His glass eyes seemed to be locked on the puppet at the end of the small man’s arm.

   Wesker looked back up at Scarface as the puppet’s eyes hardened into a critical glare. “M-M-Mr. S-Scarface, let m-me explain--”

   “Who the Hell’s this?!” Scarface asked loudly, his arm lifting and pointing to the dummy opposite from him, not even bothering to look down at the Ventriloquist.

   “The name is Mr. Friend,” the English puppet remarked bitterly, “but you, sir, need no introduction.”

   The two criminals across the room continued to stare at Mr. Friend. Wesker’s eyes were filled with uncertainty, yet slightly narrowed in suspicion and suspense. Scarface just looked pissed.

   “I’ve heard plenty about you,” Mr. Friend went on, still sitting lifelessly. “I’ve heard about what a terrible person you are from doctors. I’ve heard about you from Arnold, here.” He paused for a moment. “And I’ve come to a conclusion.”

   “Oh?” Scarface replied, crossing his arms. “’n what’s that?”

   The English dummy kept his silence for another moment, creating tension and a heaviness in the air, and the two puppets continued their stare-down.

   “I’ve come to the conclusion,” Mr. Friend finally began in repetition, “that you must be destroyed.”

   As Wesker’s eyes widened behind the lenses that sat on his nose, Scarface let out a bark of a laugh. “Destroyed?” he repeated skeptically.

   Without warning, Wesker’s arm shot forward. A call of surprise escaped from the Ventriloquist as he flew across the room after Scarface. He lost his footing and his knees hit the ground. When he looked up, he saw Scarface was face-to-face with Mr. Friend, glaring down at him.

   “Just who the Hell d’you think you are?” the mob boss inquired in the most threatening and menacing of voices.

   Arnold Wesker’s eyes darted back and forth between the dummies. The silence Mr. Friend was intent on keeping was making him so much more nervous.

   His blood went cold when he saw Mr. Friend blink. The tremble that covered him instantly renewed as his eyes shot to the English puppet’s back. Indeed, without his acknowledgement, his hand had slipped back into the dummy’s back.

   “My name,” Mr. Friend growled, his wooden jaw clanking. He lifted from the sofa to match eye-level with Scarface. “…is Mr. Friend. And the only way for this man to be freed from your iron grip on him is to destroy you.”