WARNING: This work of fanfiction contains strong sexual content, including forced oral sex between two men and a bestiality scene that'd make PETA burst a collective forehead vein, as well as physical violence and all-around general sadism. If you're not physically, emotionally, and/or legally old enough to handle these concepts, do us both a big favor and press the Back button NOW. No kidding around, folks. This one slips into some pretty damned dark territory, and coming from me, that should tell you something.

Continuity-wise, this story is set near the start of the second season, when the Gotham villains began to show an awareness of each others' existences (as seen in episodes like "Almost Got 'Em"). As the Clock King only appeared in two episodes to begin with, it can be assumed this fic happens between those two.

I don't own Batman: the Animated Series. Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. and its license-holding subsidiaries do. Characters and concepts are being used without permission. No profit is being made from this file. Happy Fun Ball takes a licking and keeps on ticking, or so it claims.

-----

Through the Hourglass

by Apricot the Gerbil

It was a dark and foggy night.

Clichéd, perhaps, but Temple Fugate couldn't have asked for more perfect surroundings. Even before he reached the warehouses lining the city wharf's harbor, there was no sign of another soul for miles. Wrapped within this cloak of hazy gray mist, his worries of being seen among the living were put to rest. He felt comfortable enough to swap his civilian glasses for the three-o'-clock frames of the Clock King soon after leaving the train station. Likewise, his left hand now held his hour-hand cane; its dagger-pointed tip clacked freely against the dock as Temple neared his destination.

The rustle from the cardboard box he carried alerted him that his passenger was awake once more. He heard the scrabble of tiny paws scraping at the corner box edges. "Now, now... Patience, little fellow," Temple said. "We're almost there."

Indeed, the warehouse he was instructed to meet at was within sight-- or would have been, if the evening air was as clear as the directions of his pocketwatch's built-in compass. His steady, measured footsteps slowed to a halt, distracted by the sound of birds calling to each other. That was odd, Temple thought... He figured seagulls were a common enough sight on the harbor, but these cries were nothing like a gull's.

One bird surprised him as it glided into view through the fog. It swooped oily wings to land nearby without a sound, then dipped its head and cawed at him. Temple frowned at it, raising a befuddled eyebrow. When a volley of caws stuttered sharply from the mists in reply, he squinted, trying to spot where the birds were perched. Why would crows be nesting by the bay?

Another crow landed to join the first in staring at him. Their beady eyes were fixed so intently on Temple that he found himself sputtering an exasperated "What...?" to them before shaking his head and continuing on his way, ignoring the sudden scuffling commotion from inside the box. He walked a little faster than before, calculating the speed of his pace to the last second to recover the time wasted on the crows. The Clock King never showed up to an appointment earlier than he was scheduled, but blood would run in the streets before he ever, ever arrived late.

As though the warehouse had been watching his approach, its front door opened. Temple snapped his pocketwatch shut, returned it to his suit's jacket pocket, and stepped through the doorway, smiling. Right on time... Its choice of location notwithstanding, perhaps there was something to be said for this establishment after all.

"King?" the young-looking lady inside asked, her eyelids staying at a skeptical half-mast.

"Yes, that's me," he said, after a moment's stumbling hesitation. He was careful not to stare at the negligee and garters that clung to the woman's island-dark skin; a business suit was a business suit, he figured, no matter what business a person might be in. "I called earlier, to make arrangements. Two-fourteen this afternoon, to be precise."

She nodded. "You've got the money?"

"That I do," he replied. Holding up the shivering box, he added, "And this. You did say bringing a live animal would trim fifty dollars from the fee, correct?"

"It's not a cat, is it?" Her eyes narrowed.

"A common wild rabbit, I assure you. Fresh from the outskirts of the city. You can even look, if you don't believe me," he said flatly, thrusting the box towards her.

"Nah, rabbits are fine," she said, waving the offer away. "Just so long as I don't get any cats. That one crazy lady with the whip found out people were bringing 'em to me, a couple months back. Had to be careful where I set up shop for a while, or the psycho'd still be on my tail."

"Understood." Temple inched out of the way as she shut the door behind them. He looked around at the crate-cluttered room they stood in, frowning at the naked light bulb glaring from the center of the ceiling. A florescent brand would be much more efficient for a place like this, he thought. And that broken window on the far wall... clearly a safety hazard. Pushing his glasses higher on his nose in hopes it might mask his disapproval, the Clock King resorted to small talk. "Seems to be rather a lot of us costumed types here in Gotham as of late, aren't there?" he remarked. "I happened to hear of this place while sitting in on one of the Arkham gang's recent roving poker-night sessions, as a matter of fact. Mr. Cobblepot spoke with nothing but the highest praise for your services."

"Ugh... Penguin?" the lady said. Her nose crinkled in disgust. "Good thing he's helping my P.R., 'cause you wouldn't believe what all that bird's into," she grumbled. "Hey, wait a minute... How'd you find out about Game Night? I never forget a face, and I've sure never seen yours hanging around in those kind of circles before."

Temple grit his teeth. "The Clock King?" he asked with a patronizing lilt, raising the distinctive cane that hung from his arm.

His host's expression remained blank.

"Kidnapped Mayor Hill this past May the twelfth...?"

She raised an eyebrow, shaking her head.

The Clock King sighed. "Come now, you must have at least heard--"

"Oh, wait! I remember you now," the lady said. "Didn't you use to wear all brown? What happened?"

Temple glanced down at his black suit and tie, scoffing. "I just liked it better this way! Can't a man be entitled to a change of wardrobe once in a--"

The woman interrupted him once again. "Calm down, big shot. It was only a question," she said with a smirk.

His lip quivered. "Well I'm sorry for my outburst, Madam, but it's getting so tiring-- always having to point out my existence to every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a padded cell ready for them at Gotham's precious nuthouse!"

"Whoa. Easy, tiger," she said lightly, and walked closer, bringing her hands to rest on the Clock King's bony shoulders. "Folks don't come here to tell me their worries, y'know. They come to forget about 'em." Her leg curled to lock against the inside seam of his pants.

"I, er... Well. Yes. Of course," Temple stammered. 

The young lady grinned, feeling his body shiver at the touch. "I'm gonna go upstairs and get ready. Let me see the money first," she whispered to his ear, her voice low and husky.

"Right..." he said faintly, digging his hand around for the proper pocket. 

Once the bills were in his grasp, however, the Clock King's mind snapped back to its usual clarity. "...And while we're on the subject, I was hoping to discuss that with you at some point. Now, I'm not taking issue with the quality of your service, mind you, but even with the discount, nine hundred and fifty dollars isn't what I would consider a paltry sum. I'll have you know that not everybody's lucky enough to have the security of an above-poverty income nowadays, and if your accommodations are as below par for this city's standard health codes as this room is, I can't see how--"

His host finally broke her dumbstruck stare to plant a strong, sucking kiss over his lips... only to have him jerk his head away and sputter. "Madam! Will you kindly stop trying to distract me when we're in the middle of negotiations, please!"

She let go of him and stepped back, hands perched on her hips, with a frown to match. "So what did you want to negotiate about?"

"I'd simply like to have some sort of guarantee that my payment won't wander away before it's my turn to go upstairs. If you'll forgive my suspicions," he said, tipping his black bowler hat to her in apology. "I'm afraid it's not easy to tell upstanding citizens from dishonest ones by looks alone."

The lady shrugged. "Fair enough. Tell you what-- you hold onto it until you're up there. If you like what you see, there's a table by the doorway you can leave it on before the fun starts. If you don't, you're free to leave." She smirked proudly, crossing her arms against the swell of her chest. "But I don't mind saying it: I've never had a dissatisfied customer." Her smile faded slightly. "Well, except for that Freeze guy... but once I was too frosted over to move anymore, he just got up and left like he was expecting it not to work from the start. Poor guy. But still, he's the only one!"

"Very well then," said the Clock King. "We'll see where this goes."

"You can bring your friend there up with you, too. Just set him down somewhere. I doubt he'll cause any trouble," she said, flashing the box a grin. She headed towards the stairs, then paused, running one hand along the base of the paint-flaked wooden railing. "I need to get some things ready first, though. Wait a couple minutes before you follow me, okay?"

Temple nodded. As she watched, his fingers toyed with the unbearably complicated-looking buttons and dials on his wristwatch, setting a countdown with a series of small beeps. "There. One hundred and twenty seconds."

"No, I mean... you know, like, in just a couple of minutes?" She paused upon seeing the baffled look he gave her, as if she were suddenly speaking in Latin.

"...Never mind. Five minutes. That ought to do it." she said, and headed up the staircase. Her ponytail braid wagged lazily from side to side with her every step, looking like an oil-black eel gliding along the small of her back... though Temple found himself more distracted by why the stairs would be creaking so horribly from the weight of a petite young woman like her. 

She cast the Clock King a glance from over her shoulder, telling him, "Oh, and you can do whatever you want to him. I mean it. Just as long as you don't kill him, okay?" With a smile, a wink, and a few more deafening squawks from the staircase, she was gone.

Temple was left puzzled by her words. He'd never had any patience for riddles... and now that he thought of it, their conversation on the phone had been rather odd. She spent most of it asking frivolously open-ended questions, like what he would choose "if you could be with anybody you wanted." The idea of being able to take his revenge upon Mayor Hill at last was intriguing beyond words, yes, but Temple was doubtful this lady could match that level of pleasure herself.

Still, he'd find out in another four minutes and six seconds, he thought. His attention stayed fixed upon the wristwatch dial.

---

Upon entering, Temple's first thought was that, indeed, he'd been had. The room was large, but bare, save for the table, an empty bed, and a chair set in the center of...

And then he saw him.

HIM, sitting there, bound to the chair with thick, filth-speckled ropes. Blindfolded. A ball gag crammed in his mouth. Sweating bullets. 

Temple had to step closer, then closer still, just to be certain. Either he was hallucinating, or that brilliant, wonderful-- genius of a girl had somehow managed to deliver Mayor Hamilton Hill himself right into the Clock King's hands!

He tossed his payment onto the table with giddy abandon, and was about to bound over to the chair... But no. Think, now, think! Temple chided himself. He couldn't simply rip Hill's blindfold off and have at it without any sort of a plan... He paced around his quarry in a tight, orderly square, mentally mulling through hundreds of positions and trajectories at supercomputer speed. His cane-point ticked upon the wooden slats underfoot as he moved; his limbs twitched with sudden adrenaline.

After reaching the median between plotting his actions and simply being unable to wait any longer, the Clock King strolled up to face his nemesis. His smirk mirrored the near-strutting arrogance in his walk. "Fat lot of good that restraining order ended up doing, eh, Mr. Mayor?" he asked, then tore the blindfold away.

Mayor Hill winced at the warehouse lighting's first sting. Once the being standing in front of him was blinked into focus, his eyes widened; all that could be heard through the gag was a terror-stricken "Nnh! HLLLLFH--!!"

"I see your conversational skills are as impeccable as always," Temple said, frowning. "I suppose you may be wondering why I've had you brought here... though if you are, you're even dafter than I thought." He raised his cane to grasp it around the base with both hands, wielding it like a bronze-lacquered bludgeon. "As you're already well aware, the two of us have some unfinished business to settle, don't we?"

The cane came down, bashing Hill square in the stomach.

Once he was certain he would be heard through the Mayor's own beautiful noise, Temple continued. "Yes, that's right. Scream. Cry for help. By all means, Mr. Mayor, play the innocent victim again! You're so very good at that... Might I remind you, I lost everything in that court case you masterminded. Everything. Do you have the slightest idea what that feels like? To have worked your way to happiness at last, and then be forced to watch some scheming jackass dash the fruits of your hard-earned labor into ruins?" 

Grabbing a fistful of the politician's mousse-stiffened hair, Temple leaned towards him, close enough for the Mayor to feel the heat puffing from the Clock King's every breath. His words were clipped and quiet, each of them bristling as they left his lips. "There were timepieces I spent my entire life collecting, Hill. One-of-a-kind treasures. And I had to sell every single one of them, just to stay one step ahead of all the debt collectors out for my blood. Have you ever had to pawn off your own children so you could eat for another day? I've been reduced to serving as an old man's butler, out near the sodding mountains, because he was the only one in Gotham who wouldn't know I'm 'missing, presumed dead!'" 

The Clock King let go of Hill's head, but only after using his grip on the Mayor's hair-helmet for one last slam against the back of the chair. "And that's only the beginning. Believe me, I'm no stranger to how vital numbers are to a well-functioning society, but you've made a mockery of the entire concept! My company was flushed down the drain because of that advice you set me up with, and while you pocketed the spoils your law firm took from my disaster, you insist on laughing it off as 'only making me fifteen minutes late!'" he said, hefting his cane by the hilt once more. 

Another blow struck the Mayor's face, this time with a sickening crack upon impact. A burst of bloody freckles sprayed out around the smear that now blotted the bridge of his nose and drizzled bright red streams into his mustache, but neither this nor the first tears of agony sliding down his face gave the Clock King any pause. "It pains me to say this, but my vendetta against you is no longer simply due to how you've shamed the importance of time. Oh, no..." Temple said, gritting his teeth. The rage rattling against his ribcage was finally beginning to smolder its way through to his outer features, twisting his voice's calm, diplomatic drone with the prickly spite of a one-man judge and jury. 

He went on, punctuating each of his demands with fresh swipes from his cane's razored arrow. The slices came higher and higher: nicking his belt, then his tie... grazing across his chin... "Tell me, if you would, Mr. Mayor-- how many orphans in this city died because they were fifteen cents too expensive to feed? How often did you figure fifteen tenant blocks full of asbestos siding wasn't an amount large enough to bother fixing?" He paused, his entire frame trembling with righteous indignation. "From what I've found in my own private research, the city records don't have much evidence against you-- but just like a certain law firm you're fond of claiming you never headed, you've never had any qualms covering your tracks to keep your good name before, have you?!"

Hill wasn't listening. The flinching and muffled blubbering made that much clear. The Clock King found this fact did not bother him whatsoever. 

"And even if you do have the rest of Gotham City, even the Batman, bought and paid for, I won't stand for it, you-- you despicable, loathsome..." His voice broke away, sputtering. No other words seemed to fit the foulness of the crime. Temple gripped the chair and bent forward, inches from the Mayor's eyes, shouting hard enough to shake in his spats where he stood. "NUMBER ABUSER!!"

He could only stand there and pant after his outburst. That had felt good, he thought. Very good. And more importantly, the rush from feeling justified made it all the easier for Temple to unbuckle his belt and shed what modesty was needed to gain greater power still. "It really is a pity. This is the least I can demand from you, but it'll have to do," the Clock King said. Cradling his cock in one hand, he ripped the gag from Hill's mouth with the other and pushed the Mayor's head down as far as the ropes would let him budge. "Now, use that tongue of yours for something other than lying, for once!"

The Mayor was too busy coughing up flecks of blood to form any response at first, but even after his breath was well and truly caught, he did nothing. Temple's eyes narrowed behind the three-o'-clock markings on his glasses. "It's not a difficult concept to grasp, Hill. Suck it," he ordered.

Hill strained to look up at him, his own eyes bulging incredulously through the pain. "Please, I--"

His plea ended there, as he received another faceful of cane for his hesitation. "Let's try this again, Mr. Mayor," Temple scolded. "You can pretend I'm one of your fat-pocketed lobbyist friends, if it'll make it easier for you. Now, suck!"

The Mayor finally relented, leaning in shakily to take the Clock King's penis into his mouth. 

"That's it. There's a good politician," Temple said. He patted Hill's rumple-haired head, his grin oozing smugness. "Just remember, if you're considering something foolish... If I feel any teeth, your face can still make a lovely sundial, my dear Mayor Hill."

Between the fear in his prisoner's eyes, the whimpers half-sobbed against his cock with every slurp from wet, bloody lips, and the slamming motions he seemed powerless to control once the sucking began, the Clock King was emptying his balls down the Mayor's gullet after only thirty-eight seconds.

It was the best thirty-eight seconds of Temple Fugate's entire life.

His hands clamped over the Mayor's mouth and throat, his face flushed with heady triumph. "Swallow," he commanded through his panting. "I want to feel... every last drop sliding into you!"

Hill obeyed without pause, making his Adam's apple bob against the pale skin-mesh between Temple's thumb and forefinger. As soon as his captor's hands moved away, the Mayor gasped for breath, then coughed; another trickle of blood spilled from the side of his mouth, melding with the rest of his grisly new beard. "I've... done what you wanted, have mercy... Please, I promise-- I won't call the police, just please let me go...!" he wheezed.

The Clock King's eyes lit up in mock surprise. "Oh, no, Mr. Mayor. I couldn't very well do that! Not when I'm not done yet," he said, shaking his head. His mouth sharpened to a sinister grin. "You've only begun to pay me back..."

The despair clouding the Mayor's face quickened to shock, then to pupil-darting panic, as Temple's hands returned to his neck, clenching tight with icy determination. "For your information, it only takes between four to six minutes for the average man's brain to shut down from lack of oxygen," Temple said, keeping his disturbingly calm smile. "It'll be interesting to see if the buildup of pressure has the added effect of exploding your heart... if you actually have one, that is. It's certainly the most efficient way for a person to die, in any case. Take it from an expert, Hill. My own little bit of advice!"

He knew he would have to stop before any organ failure could set in, of course, but seeing the Mayor strangled to a deep purple under his fists, with his tongue straining out and hacking bitter froth as he gagged... The tiny clutches of Hill's fingers against the rope binding him in place, his eyes rolling back to dull-veined whites... The way he thrashed away the last of his swallowed gasps with frantic, useless khk!-kckkrck!!-kkgh!s-- ahh, it was music to the Clock King's ears! Temple only wished there was a way he could slow down time, to cherish the sights and sounds that much longer. "Be grateful I'm a man of my word, Hill," he hissed. He gave the bureaucrat's windpipe one last satisfying squeeze, then let go. 

When Temple finally stepped back to fetch his hat from where it had fallen during the festivities and zip up, he moved with great care; he could feel his groin already starting to twitch anew at the sight of this masterpiece, his handiwork. His hand stilled at his fly... and reached into his briefs to give his penis an absent tugging instead. He wondered, would Hill's throat feel any more relaxed after he'd given his muscles such a workout? Enough for a second round, perhaps? Temple had paid well for his time here, hadn't he? Oh, yes.

To say the Clock King was surprised, then, when the Mayor shriveled and melted into a vaguely human-shaped bog of brown before his eyes, would be a vast understatement-- especially after the muck blinked back. 

"Sorry. It's all the blood. Hard to keep up that kind of detail for long," Clayface said through the broken teeth of a hole that grew to become his mouth. "You looked like you were done by now, anyhow."

The first moments of Temple's impotent, stuttering fear gave way to a spark of recognition. "I know you!" he blurted. His hand darted out from his drawers to point at the no-longer-the-Mayor... thing. "You were on the front page of every newspaper in Gotham six months ago... but it said you had died!"

Clayface chuckled, seeping out through the chair's restraints to land on the floor in a dense pile. "Yeah, well... they weren't going to find a pulse on what I left behind."

"I see!" Temple said, not daring to blink. Suppressing the urge to shriek like a grade-schooler and flee from the room at the sight, he grounded himself by glancing at his wristwatch, almost idly noting as he did that the slick red tinge on his fingers had suddenly become nothing more than a muddy brown crust. Any lingering hope of arousal he had vanished at the thought of the bloody spit he'd been thrilled to see slobbered all over his cock a mere seven minutes and fifty-two seconds ago. 

He wasn't going to think about that. So help him, he wasn't. What had the clay thing just said? "Er. Yes. So... presumed dead as well, are you? I'm-- I presently happen to be in quite a similar situation."

"Really," the clay man muttered. He seemed irritated by the comparison. "You've got a body still sitting in the city morgue too, huh?"

He took Temple's silence to be enough of an answer. "Didn't think so," he said. As his eyes slurped shut in concentration, a flurry of brown clumps spiraled out from the formless soup, twisting and curling together until two arms reached skyward from a freshly-sculpted upper torso. Clayface stretched his fingers against each other, remarking, "Been a while since I met another dead guy, though. Gets lonely, doesn't it?"

"I suppose..." the Clock King replied, finally shifting his gaze to the floor. Silently, he wondered if staring was still considered improper when the target lacked even a basic skeletal system. Still, conversation had been initiated, and whether it was with a sentient mudpile or not, it would be uncouth to bolt out into the night... comforting as the idea might seem to him at the moment.

Clayface broke through Temple's politeness like a dog catching a whiff of fear. "You don't have to act like you're not looking, y'know. Believe me, it's not like you're gonna hurt my feelings or anything." He grinned knowingly. "Let me guess. 'I can't believe I just stuck my dick in that thing,' right?"

"Well, I woul-- No, I mean! No!" Temple shot back. He quieted just as fast, backpedaling within the sudden gulf between his thoughts and his tongue. "It's... not what I would have expected, I'll admit, but... you were very good. Uncannily so."

"You're too kind," Clayface said. The edges of his maw quirked upwards.

The Clock King managed a smile in return. So far, so good, it seemed. He wasn't sure whether one was supposed to leave right after the sex in this sort of transaction, but as long as his host apparently wanted to talk... After all, Temple wasn't expected back at work for another four hours, eleven minutes, and seventeen seconds... eight minutes more, if the trains were running late again. Might as well make the most of his near-thousand dollars, he thought. "In all honesty, it would be foolish for me to think of your... er, condition as all that terribly unusual. We are in a place where a man in a bat costume is considered a normal tourist attraction."

"You're damn right. I hate that guy," muttered Clayface with a grimace, sinking deeper into his puddled lower half. He formed legs as he continued to speak, taking practice steps once each foot congealed itself solid from the muck. "He's the best reason I had for setting up a joint like this. If I need a bunch of quick cash, I might as well get it doing something nobody's gonna want to admit they paid me for." 

He paused, then squinted, as though troubled by some invisible rash. With a grunt, a slit in Clayface's left leg shivered open, dumped the gummed-together tangles of the Clock King's semen out onto the floorboards, and winked shut, leaving nothing but smooth putty in its place. "For a place full of guys running around in spandex, people here can sure be uptight when it comes to saying how they get off," he added.

The unexpected cleansing made any words past "paid me for" become a mosquito's buzz to Temple's ears. "Money, you say...?" he asked, taking the opportunity to look at the room's walls instead. Hopefully, his discomfort wasn't too terribly obvious. "I hope you're not expected to pay much rent for a place like this."

"Nah. Whoever owns this place did a lousy job locking it," Clayface said. "Now that the guy who made me this way's stuck in good old federal pound-your-ass prison, I'm finally over the whole 'revenge' kick... no offense. Only thing I need money for anymore is getting myself back to normal. I sure don't know how to do it, but money's the one thing that makes everybody talk, even to a guy like me. I'm not going to risk getting in over my head with blackmail, here, so I'm pretty much guaranteed a way to get rich and stay off the front page while I'm doing it. Sweet deal, I'd say!" 

"...Well, if you don't mind having prostitution be your full-time job," Temple said, looking less than convinced.

Clayface's lips peeled back in a scowl. "You're kidding, right? What kind of work do you think I can find, like this?" He scooped out a chunk of his own chest, holding it in front of the Clock King indignantly as he squished it in his fist. "Beauty pageants? Flipping burgers? Puttin' stars on top of Christmas trees?"

Temple picked at his shirt collar and stared at the lump oozing through the clay man's fingers. "Ah, yes, I... I suppose I hadn't thought of that!" he stammered.

"Yeah, I suppose you didn't," grumbled Clayface, smushing the hunk of himself back into the hole it was torn from. "See, it's like summer blockbusters: what gets people in the seats? Sex and explosions, every time. I figure I used up all the explosions I could get away with the night I gave my old life the slip, so this here's the next best thing."

"How much does it cost to treat an illness like yours?" Temple asked, overcome by a helpless sense of curiosity. He watched as the chest wound knitted itself together with a soft squelching sound, but said nothing of it.

"Don't know," Clayface said sorrowfully, his frown streaking wider across his face. "I don't even know anyone who'd know what to do just yet. It's not something you find people doing science fair projects on."

Temple considered the problem for a moment, then spoke up. "Well, I'm not one to trust 'life-changing advice,' myself, but you must know someone. Or your clients might, for that matter. It only makes sense-- when you need medical help, you should look for a doctor."

The mere mention of the last word sent Clayface into a rage. "Never!" he shouted. "I clawed my way to the top with my own bare hands, nothing else. If some screwball doctor thinks he can barge in and fix everything that's gone wrong with a magic pill or whatever, he's got another thing comin'!" His lip curled as he began smacking his fist into his other hand, back and again, boiling in his own thoughts. "I was stupid enough to fall for that bullshit once. It's what got me this way. Never again. Happy endings don't work like that, not in real life!"

The Clock King watched Clayface warily, speaking up only after those two putty-colored mitts stopped pounding against each other. "So..." he began, hoping to ease the mood. "Do they know it's you? The others who come here, I mean."

"Some of them do, some don't. Most of 'em don't care either way, so long as they leave happy," Clayface said, shrugging. He trudged on stumpy legs to the cardboard box still waiting near the doorway and picked it up, tugging open the side with airholes punched in. "Hell, the only one who knows what happens to the animals people bring me is that Scarecrow guy, and he's my best customer. Great fella, that one... Wouldn't think it to look at him, but he's a big fan of B-movies! You know, those sci-fi-horror flicks they made tons of in the Fifties. There's a few movie stars we both like, and he likes acting out some of their old scenes the way he wanted 'em to go. Showed up with a whole cage of lab rats for me, last time he was here..."

"If you don't mind my asking, what is it you do with them all?" Temple asked. His frown deepened. "Surely you don't eat them... do you?"

Clayface snorted-- which was quite a feat, considering he had no nose. "Nah. That'd make a great picture, though, don't you think? Like Frankenstein. Chowing down on people's pets before he's gotta go run from pitchforks and torches again." He lifted the rabbit out from the box, spreading a toothy gash of a grin at the creature as it struggled in his grip. "You know, King... I wasn't always a freak," he said. "Started out kind of like you. Had it all. Except I was big in the movie biz. Used to get dozens of love letters every goddamned day, can you believe it? Girls went nuts for me. Guys too, even. Could walk past any newsstand and point at the celeb rags: Done her, done her, done that one too..."

He dangled the bunny in one hand and smoothed his other palm down its downy brown back. "But that's something I found out pretty quick, after Matt-Hagen-the-big-shot-actor got killed. Monsters don't have great sex lives," he said, looking the Clock King's body up and down with something approaching envy. "You ever try jerking off a bowl of pudding? There's no nerve endings on this stuff. And it's not like I don't get horny anymore, either, it's just-- only thing I can feel is if something's moving around or not!" 

Temple was hesitant to respond. He settled for saying, "That's very... tragic."

"You don't have any idea," Clayface snarled. His voice softened as he went back to petting the rabbit. "I didn't like having to do what I did. Still don't. I tried keeping it small at first. Crickets, roaches. Pigeons, when I could grab one from down in the sewers without anyone seeing me. Nobody's gonna miss those in this city, right?" He shuddered, making his sides ripple like a storm-drain puddle. "But it's like a drug, I swear. You keep doing it, and pretty soon it doesn't work anymore-- you need something bigger. Had someone bring me a stray dog last week. Big ol' police-squad type... Sucker kept biting out little holes to get a second wind. Only went down after wrestlin' me like a champion for a whole half hour. That's the biggest I've ever got, so far. Probably makes me even worse of a bastard for saying this, but it was the best sex I've had in years." 

He reached down to rub the bloated ridge of his stomach, sighing longingly. "I keep wondering what it'd be like to have a person inside here, for once. Feeling 'em kick and thrash around, until those last couple'a twitches... damn, it's gettin' me hot just thinking about it. But I don't need the police on my ass when I'm trying to lie low, y'know? Maybe someday, like if I knew I was gonna die soon anyway or something..."

It finally dawned on his client. "You-- you can't possibly mean...?" Temple stammered.

"Says the guy who just tried choking me to death!" Clayface said. The bitterness all but dripped from his voice. "Why the hell not?" His body stretched taller and reared back, his shoulders slumping like a steroid-addled linebacker's. He glared down at Temple through sunken eyeslits. "Yeah, I get off havin' stuff die in me! Sounds weird, doesn't it, Mister Perfect Little Angel? What kind of a MONSTER would ever do that, HUH?!"

The Clock King took a step back and raised his hands, waving them in what he hoped looked like a truce. "No, no! Believe me, I didn't say anything! It's a free country, right?" He tittered nervously.

There was an uneasy silence. "Yeah... free," Clayface mumbled, sounding as though his thoughts were somewhere far away. He sank to his normal height, then squinted at the Clock King, his voice taking on a new lewdness. "Hey, you wanna watch me with Flopsy here? I'll pay. Here, I'll give you back, like, fifty bucks, if you want. Just watch. Please." He hugged the bunny close to his chest, begging with his milky, pupil-less eyes. "Always did like having people watch me. On the big screen, quickies at wrap parties, didn't matter-- but nobody'll come near me, now that I look like this!"

The "no" at the tip of his tongue became much harder for Temple to force out, once the offer of payment was factored in. He wouldn't have been quite so painfully frugal this evening, had he not 'borrowed' a few bills from his new employer to afford the time spent here. Dr. Wakati barely touched his own cash stocks, anti-capitalist that he was, but Temple was still anxious to return the difference. Even ignoring the respect he had for Wakati's work in temporal theory, something about stealing from the old man to pay for a whore seemed to make the act twice as morally dubious.

In any case, time was money, and Temple Fugate took great care to avoid wasting any of both. There could be no great legal risk in merely watching a crime be committed, was there? Especially considering how both parties in this room were legally registered as dead... His cliff-pointed chin straightened with new determination. "All right, I'll do it. For one hundred."

Clayface growled. "Oh, for-- screw you, King! I need the money, too!" he shouted. "Sixty!"

"Fine! That's fine... Sixty's just fine," Temple said hurriedly. Best not to anger a beast harboring a snuff fetish, he scolded himself.

His host calmed down, giving Temple a sneering "hnph." before hoisting the rabbit in his hands up and holding it at arm's length. "Buckle up, Bun-bun. You and I're gonna play a little game called 'Curtain Call,'" Clayface said, smiling at it once more. The rabbit kept sniffing its nose at him. 

Clayface let go. 

It fell into his chest with a thick-sounding splutt. 

The Clock King could only stare as the bunny tried springing its way out from the mush it was slowly being absorbed into. Memories of old cowboy serials on television, where quicksand was often the most dangerous villain of the day, were proving difficult to shake from his mind. After seeing the clay close itself over the animal's head, however, Temple decided it was much easier to watch what was playing out before him when he did think of it as only some harmless scene from a film. 

...Especially once the rabbit burst out from the clay man's shoulder like it just did.

"Tricky little bastard, aren't ya!" laughed Clayface. The bunny scraped dotted lines across his neck with its front paws, digging away uselessly as it was hauled back in by the edges of the escape hole itself. Clayface moaned at the feeling of four feet skittering blindly down the length of his arm; his legs melted to puddled knees in his distraction. 

When his prey zigzagged its way close enough for an escape through his fingers, Clayface jammed his fist deep into his chest and yanked his arm away at the wrist, leaving the hand fused to his torso. The arm stump drooled thin at the tip, then swelled like a bubble of molten wax, puffing a new hand into shape. Three fingers formed themselves in time for Clayface to shake one at his stomach. "No you don't!" he told the bunny trapped inside, bobbing his words in a sing-song tease. 

From then on, the rabbit could only be seen as a series of lumps and bulges twisting this way and that upon Clayface's gut, punching tiny claws out from inside the thick putty sea. Clayface arched in place, urging his prisoner on by massaging both hands against his heaving belly. "Yeah... Unhh, c'mon-- that's right, lil' fella, keep hoppin', you can do it!" he managed, his voice growing raspy and tense. He jerked his head up to gaze at the Clock King through squinted, pleasure-dazed eyeslits. "Dammit it feels so good, he's trying to scream...!" 

Just a movie. A furry hind foot broke through Clayface's skin, then wobbled, sending the creature deeper inside from its own paw's weak, fluttering kick. Temple's eyebrows reached new heights. Only a movie, he repeated silently.

Clayface gave a final shoulder-bucking shudder, then moaned again-- louder, near-bellowing, exhausted... and there was silence. He lay half-draped across the floor in a gooey heap, motionless, save for an occasional twitch or shiver that tweaked the clay's smooth canvas. 

As disturbed as he felt, Temple found the wait somehow more maddening to sit through than the act itself. "Well?" he demanded, snapping the question out past the lump gathering in his throat. "Is it...?"

"It's over," Clayface murmured. He licked his chops with a paste-colored tongue, his mouth a spiraling curl of satisfaction. "Wow. Just... wow!"

My sentiments exactly, Temple thought, though he was doubtful the phrase carried the same meaning for both of them. He nodded to Clayface, and left it at that, too busy trying to purge the past few minutes from his mind to acknowledge him any further.

It took all the denial he could muster not to snap, then, when his host held one massive hand towards the floor. The bunny's corpse surfaced head-first from Clayface's palm, swaying limp as it was squeezed from his body like a glassy-eyed blackhead. 

A chuckle forced itself through Temple's teeth, dying to a nasal whinnying noise as soon as he realized the sound was coming from him. He was dimly aware of the delirium hazing over his thoughts; it was already enough of a strain to have witnessed a six-foot-tall talking mud puddle kill an animal by using it as a vibrator, but seeing proof of this scenario was more than Temple's brain could handle. 

It wouldn't be long now, he assured himself. He only had to cooperate with this version of reality a short while more, and then he could leave this entire wretched den behind him. Collect his cash, walk to the train station, go home to his room in Dr. Wakati's estate, and scrub every last trace of this clay beast Temple couldn't possibly have anything in common with from his skin. With boiling water. He would have stopped before killing Mayor Hill, even if given the option, right? Wouldn't he? Of course he would.

In fact, Temple's mental state was so incredibly well-scabbed at this point, he didn't flinch when Clayface's hand dripped off with the half-exhumed dead rabbit and landed near his shoes with a slap. The Clock King merely stared at the glob on the floor, then wrenched his eyes away to look at the... whatever the hell the thing standing in front of him was, noting with dazed amusement how the pile of clay seemed more shocked by the fallen hand than he was.

Clayface shrank away from Temple, his mouth gaping wide in surprise. "Damn! Sorry about that. Something-- there's something wrong goin' on lately, I don't know why I can't..." He furrowed his forehead and grunted, straining, already too concerned with commanding the mush of him off the corpse to properly finish the thought. The bits still matted into the fur jumped in the air a few inches, arching tiny tentacles in the direction of the rest of his body... but the effort seemed for naught.

...And then, just as Clayface looked too exhausted to keep trying, Temple was introduced to the sound skulls make when they crack. The top half of the rabbit's face splintered off with the retreating hand, making a soft, slithering wet sound as the clumps of clay and flesh dragged a blotchy red slug's trail across the floor.

It took one-tenth of a second for Temple to recognize the taste of bile washing up his throat. Four-fifths of that same second later, he was heaving the remains of his three-minute-egg supper from his mouth to the floorboards below.

Clayface let his body's remnants slide back in, then shook out the muddy chunk of bunny as other people would remove a burr caught on their socks. He watched the Clock King drop his cane with a wobbly clank and sink to claw-stiffened hands and knees, still doubled over in mid-retch. "Sorry," Clayface rumbled. "Like I said, think I might be coming down with something. I can't always keep everything together as good as I used to, all of a sudden."

Temple craned his neck to look up at Clayface and shivered, swallowing weakly. "P-please forgive me... I didn't mean, to-- that is, I...!" He struggled to brace himself upright; his eyes darted from his own vomit to the mass of ooze staring at him, unsure which of the two he should be backing away from first. "I can clean it up, if..."

"Don't bother. I'll do it," Clayface said. His head sulked deeper into his shoulders, making any trace he had of a neck vanish. "Thanks for watching, anyhow."

The spindly man paused to tug at his necktie. "...Of course," he said.

"Now take your sixty bucks and get out of here. You had your fun, right? Party's over."

The Clock King staggered to his feet, then grabbed his cane, clutching it tight in his hands. He counted out two twenties and tens from the bills piled on the table as quickly as triple-checking for the correct amount would allow. "Right... G-- good day to you, sir," he managed, tipping his hat and bowing curtly to the heap as he left. His eyes never left the floor.

Mr. Fugate was not a quick-moving man by any means, but Clayface could tell by the sound of his footfalls that his client went down the staircase much faster than he had walked up. Scowling, Clayface shouted out to him, "And watch who you go cryin' to when you're handing out sob stories that could've been a hell of a lot worse, you hear me, ya little punk?!"

There was no answer.

Just as well, thought Clayface, sliming his way towards the safe built into the corner wall. He kept its door open a sliver if he knew he'd soon be adding to his savings. Maybe not the brightest move, seeing as how his clients were no Boy Scouts themselves, but these days, Clayface was usually in too much pain to care. He lashed out a tendril to reach for the table, swiping the roll of bills resting there into the grasp of what morphed to become a hand. Sucking the arm back into his hip, he dumped the money in with all the rest, then shut the safe door. 

And then, only then, he allowed himself a smile. Another role played, another job done... Now he could relax. For a while, anyhow. Clayface's body melted out from under him, spreading itself into a mushy throw rug for the room. So tired lately, even when he didn't try holding any form but his own... 

That's right, he reminded himself, he would have to get rid of the rabbit before it started to stink. At least that chore was easy, here on the docks. Gotham Bay's waters were a convenient smashed window's throw away. It felt strange at first, knowing the crows clustered around the building had only begun gathering there because of him-- or, rather, for the smorgasbord he was guaranteed to keep bobbing upon the waves. Clayface held no illusions of the birds being his "friends," however. Business was slow sometimes, and a fair number of the slower crows had already been flung into the bay to join the rest of their food.

He glared at the furry lump on the floor nearby, shutting his eyes with a growl. Damn it, it just wasn't fair. He could make the city's most powerful criminals cream their tights with little more than a flick of his fingers and a well-timed curse word, but only if he sculpted himself to look like someone else first. Words like "ugly" or "hideous" didn't begin to fit his true form-- it was the stuff of nightmares, and he knew it. Clayface had long resigned himself to the idea that having his insides stirred by the occasional unlucky stray was the closest he could get to feeling another person's body clench against his own anymore, but it was enough to make his temper boil into crazy, wall-punching rage if he thought about it too much.

It occurred to Clayface that the Clock King could be spreading his deepest, darkest secrets to Gotham's underground by sunrise, and yet the idea didn't seem to be worrying him. It had been nice to just talk to somebody for once, even if he ended up scaring the guy off like everyone else... Had he fallen that far, that the life of a monster was all he had left? Hell, he'd made a small fortune, and still had no one to try buying information from. It was just him, lying here in his lair, alone, surrounded by animal guts and stale cum...

The Clock King's advice drifted through his mind from out of nowhere. When you need medical help, you should look for a doctor.

Clayface's eyes opened to stare at the ceiling. He did know a doctor, didn't he? Or at least Matt Hagen did... That one lady the writers worked with on some of his films, what was her name? She was always hanging around him like a lost puppy as soon as the day's takes were done. Until she found out he went home with his stunt double Teddy most nights, that is. But Teddy was history, now. Only a memory, buried along with Hagen's life itself. Maybe it might be worth looking up that motel of hers, the one she once kept offering to show him, even ignoring the way she would grin shyly and wink as she'd say it. Anything was better than how he was living now.

He let his eyes close and drift where they may. Later. He could look for her tomorrow... Too tired to try right away.

If there was one thing a monster had plenty of, it was time.

-fin-