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Wow I sure love this incredibly dark & violent character. *DRAWS THIS*
Haha oops I drew this a year and a half ago and never posted it. Perhaps out of shame.
Painful Memories by Normand Corbeil 12 plays |
Victor Zsasz’s stuff from Arkham Asylum. I’m not sure how I never saw this before. Knives, poker chips, pictures of a few of his victims…
…an old photo of his late parents. Creased and worn from keeping it folded in his pocket.
I think I have to go cry somewhere.
releasetheatmosphere replied to your post:
i was driving around this evening listening to sad…
Can’t wait to read it! We need more Zsasz fanfiction up in hea.
we really really do. ;A;
i was driving around this evening listening to sad cello music (lol i know) and i came up with a zsasz fic idea so heartbreaking it made me cry in the car and now i can’t wait to start writing it except i think about writing it and i get all misty
this is gon’ be fun
"Our bodies are prisons for our souls. Our skin and blood, the iron bars of confinement. But fear not. All flesh decays. Death turns all to ash. And thus, death frees every soul."
— The Fountain (2006)
someone stabbed zsasz in the tummy but he doesn’t seem all that bothered by it.
Hesitation
The crime scene investigators knew it was the work of the Gotham Butcher- Victor Zsasz. They knew from the signatures he left behind. Knife across throat, just under the ears. Like a sick smile drawn under the jaw. Death by shock, blood loss, and in some instances, the victim choked to death as blood filled their lungs. His other signature was that he “posed” the bodies- setting them like limp marionettes into positions perverting mundane activities. A family at a breakfast table. A young couple in bed together. Children… There were children…
Some of the investigators with weaker stomachs wondered if he ever hesitated when he came across a child. There was no discernible modus operendi to Zsasz’s murders- man, woman, child. Age, race, socioeconomic status. Nothing seemed to matter in his fucked up head.
The more seasoned, the more cynical knew better. Of course he never hesitated. Not even when slaughtering kids.
Batman Issue #334
I’m trying to make a Stone Cold Steve Austin joke but I’m too tired.
Who made this outfit for him. Why was this allowed to happen.
I mean there’s even a belt. ZSASZ IN A BELT. THIS IS MADNESS.
The doorway offers meager protection from the cold. He flexes his bare toes against the concrete and stares out into the night-drenched depths of the city. There is so little for him here, and yet he can go no place else.
He is a lost spirit of Gotham, a wandering figment, the lingering substance of a man faded from the winter.
Finding his back pocket takes more strength than he remembers. His side aches. The cut was too deep this time. His breath curls from chapped lips as he unfolds the photograph. He takes care not to bloody it. It is very old, nearly as old as himself.
Lifting it up against the far-off streetlamp, he can barely discern the faces staring back at him, but he knows they are there.
His parents. The catalysts for all he became. The empty spaces he has tried to fill with scars.
And there are so many scars.
Unwanted warmth spills down his cheeks, but he smears it away with the back of a grimy hand. The photo blurs into an unrecognizable shape. He folds it along well-creased lines and returns it to his pocket, flinching again from the pain in his ribs.
The wind picks up. He shudders inside his skin and hopes he can hold out until morning. His head is so heavy.