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Storm De Hirsch, Experimental films, 1960s
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Marbled book cover. 1885.
Source
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this is the guy who would show up to that craigslist ad, btw
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the-arkham-librarian
Stretching out with her fingers splayed over the keys, a terrible grin comes across Lindsay’s features, crinkling her eyes with devious delight.
“You know his address and phone number, I assume?”
On cue, the clicking and clacking of a keyboard drowns out the sound of wine filling her glass. She reads aloud as her fingers race across the keyboard.
“Hot & eccentric twink seeking roomie for high-security Gotham loft. Rent negotiable, selfies mandatory. Looking for a lifelong friend. Interests must include: anime, manga, swords, wolf shirts, 90s sunglasses, and Reddit dot com. Must dislike riddles. Don’t call. Just show up.”
Leaning back in her chair, finally, Lindsay can regard the wine with a greedy gulp.
“That oughta do it. Any suggestions?”
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@ladyofthespade
“A virus that hunts viruses is an antihero. You’ve just described Batman.”
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the-arkham-librarian
“I’m more of a vodka person, but I guess I can take one for the team.”
Plopping down at Eliza’s kitchen table, Lindsay puts her bag on the tabletop and pulls out a laptop, already on. Opening it reveals the form for a new posting on Craigslist.
“How about some revenge?”
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@celerem
“No offense, dude, but you’re, like, a hero.”
“Villains who have computer-centric shticks hack heroes. That’s like their whole deal. Maybe install Norton Antivirus, broh.”
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“Count this under moments I’m happy I’m not a big enough name in the Rogues Gallery for people like good ol’ Ed to go rifling through my PC.”
“I, uh... I’m not a big enough name for that... am I?”
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“So, like, is there some kind of evil version of the Teen Titans I should be submitting my resume to? What’s their P.O. box? Do they accept bribes? Not technically a teen anymore, but I’d think I’m close enough, right?”
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old-sun-god
Blinking in quick succession, stunned by the mention of Jonathan by name -- by a familiar nickname, no less -- Lindsay has to collect herself for a moment before she can go trotting after the old man towards his workshop. The smell of wood shavings and leather welcomes her before she even approaches the entrance, and once they pass through it, her fingertips instantly start to search for any strange surface she can feel, such as metal clamps and pieces of scrap wood with rough edges.
“Actually, he got his tubes tied a few years before I was born. Is that the right term for men? Or is it dick-snipped? Either way. He adopted me about three years ago. Said he needed someone to carry on his work for him.”
Despite her anxiety earlier, the knowledge that he knows Jonathan enough to refer to him as Jon gives her a sick little bit of bravery. She decides to test the waters.
“He helped me kill my classmates my senior year of high school. Told me how to do it, helped deal with the bodies, took the fall for it so I wouldn’t be thrown in jail. He’s a good dad. How, uh... how do you know him?”
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the-arkham-librarian
The waiting is agonizing, what with those wilted flowers staring at her from under the fume hood. With their already drooping features, they now droop even further without any water to stiffen their stalks. The sight of them is repulsive, if only because it reminds her of the impending doom of Jonathan’s discovery, and so she has to find something else to occupy her mind and hands.
When Eliza arrives, Lindsay is back hard at work trying to find that strange spider-like creature she saw inside the fume hood. Where could it have gone? If her general state of unrest wasn’t clear enough already, the dark circles under her eyes combined with the lack of color in her face denotes a lack of sleep and a deep, profound stress that’s settled in her tissues.
Stepping up behind Eliza, still glancing here and there, Lindsay reaches out to touch one of the flowers to test the fullness of the petals, only for the plant to lose those petals instantly.
“I... don’t really know. I fell asleep at some point last night with the hood open and it let all the moisture out, I think? Maybe it’s the pollution in the air here?” A pause. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Ma. I was not listening for most of Jon’s lectures about how to grow flowers. He says I need an outlet that doesn’t involve mass chaos and death. Now look where I am. About to be murdered over some fuckin’ flowers. That’s irony, baby.”
At least the decorative moss in the hood seems fine. She gives it a solid pat-pat-pat for good measure.
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some gems from Linds’ tiktok and reasons why ur muse should follow her on social media:
snippets of arguments jonathan has about halloween decor
family outings heists
pumpkin shopping in july (harder than it sounds)
photos of people who do not know they are being photographed
clips of birds doing dumb shit like playing in the snow
cute little chemistry experiments (red fluid plus green fluid equals rainbow smoke cloud. happy pride fellow queers)
rants abt pretty girls and how unattainable they are (also sometimes boys)
bonding w the lab rats and setting them all free
catching moths at 4am
snippets of jon canoodling w his s/o in relevant verses
and photography and film editing tips
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the-arkham-librarian
As Eliza goes on and makes her intentions for the meeting clear, Jonathan’s stoicism begins to melt into an expression of displeasure that he is, evidently, less concerned with hiding. Perhaps now it isn’t shame as much as frustration. He, too, removes his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, leaving them on the table so he can go on to massage his temples. All things considered, though, he knows that if he protests, he’ll be met with more objection than he can reasonably deal with.
Lindsay, watching Jonathan, swallows a mouthful of hot, dry air. She assumes he’s still upset about whatever it was that set him off on her in the first place and shrinks under the shame of it.
Slouching into her chair, Lindsay folds her arms over her chest defensively.
“I’m...” She glances at Jonathan, “Not sure that’s a good idea. I’ve been trying to be better lately and I think --”
“Stop.” Jonathan’s voice is gruff, but clear. Lindsay bites down on her tongue and flinches. He resumes: “You didn’t do anything wrong. You have to know the chemical you’re going to use. You need to understand what it can do to a person. You need to be able to experiment on yourself to escape from Arkham when the time comes, and you need to be able to handle it when the Bat turns the toxin against you, because he will. He always does.”
Lindsay hesitates for a moment, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. She hides the action of composing herself behind the gesture of straightening her glasses -- something she learned from him. For a while, she remains silent, gestating what had been said.
Finally, she regards Eliza again.
“So... what did you see? What happened?”
Maybe if it’s worse than what she saw, she can take some comfort. Maybe if it isn’t as bad, she’ll know there's something inside of her that’s intrinsically broken.
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old-sun-god
When a tall, older man opens the door with an unwelcoming disposition, Lindsay fights back a sensation of deja vu. One would think she’d be accustomed to grumpy old men at this point, but the anxiety of a lackluster social performance impending takes her down a few notches and causes her to slouch back from him sheepishly.
“I, uh. I’m house-sitting for your neighbor while she’s out of town with my dad.” She pauses, chewing on the inside of her cheek nervously. This guy definitely has a gun somewhere in that house. “And I accidentally locked myself out. I was, um, hoping you’d have a spare key?”
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@the-arkham-librarian
She’d been doing so well, too.
For two whole weeks, that stupid thing thrived while she cared for it under Jonathan’s supervision. A dumb, stupid orchid -- pure white in a little clay pot shaped like a jack-o-lantern. Of course, it was very pretty sitting in the corner of the fume hood in Jonathan’s lab, drinking up the UV lights hanging over it and enjoying the humidity maintained therein.
Passing it by one afternoon after class, she spotted what appeared to be a spider the size of a human head resting inert on the inside of the plastic closure to the fume hood. Blinking, stunned by what she was seeing, she slowly inched forward, hand shakily reaching out to take hold of the handle and thrust the thing upward to reveal the grotesque shape against it.
But just as she pulled it up, the shape was nowhere to be found. Just orchids and warm, moist air.
So she looked for the thing she’d seen resting against the plastic for hours, fruitlessly. In the morning, she awoke in the lab, curled up on the shabby sofa kept for just such occasions, and realized something dreadful.
All of Jonathan’s orchids -- and her own -- had wilted in the toxic, dry air of the lab.
Fumbling to her phone, she types out a hurried set of messages, her phone making the customary bloops as she goes.
SMS [💕MOM✨]: ELIZA I FUCKED UP.
SMS [💕MOM✨]: I FUCKEN KILLED EM ALL
SMS [💕MOM✨]: RIP JON’S FLOWERS. RIP TO ME. FUCK!!
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@old-sun-god
Eliza is going to kill her. That’s all she knows at this point. And that Cerberus is probably getting extremely hungry because she’s already two and a half hours late to come feed him and water the plants. Maybe she can just call Eliza up on the phone and have her open the locks remotely? There’s no way this old cottage is a smart home.
Sitting on the front porch, resigned to her fate of being the worst house-sitter ever, Lindsay notices smoke rising from the neighbor’s chimney. Somebody is home. Well, a new avenue of progress is unlocked, but it will require her to socialize with a stranger.
With a defeated sigh, Lindsay gets to her feet, brushes off her backside of any debris, and makes her way to the neighbor’s door.
The devil knocks three times. Jonathan told her that. So she does too.
Knock, knock, knock.
Here’s hoping whoever lives here happens to have a spare key.
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