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ROGUES | S01E09: Strained
🕑 Added 2018-04-17 04:17:10 +0000 UTC ROGUES | S01E09: Strained(interior of car; music playing - “Hoy Hoy” by Cab Calloway)
(EDWARD singing along)
JON: (wakes, groans)
EDWARD: (turns off the music) The beast awakes.
JON: (grunting wince)
EDWARD: Yes, that’ll be the almighty mother of all hangovers you so richly deserve; I imagine you have questions.
JON: …
EDWARD: And imagine them is what I shall have to do. What time is it? Close to 4am; though actually, since we’ve crossed time zones, it’s almost 3am. Where are you? In my car. Where specifically? Tennessee. What happened? You passed out about six hours ago; if it weren’t for the drool I’d have thought you were dead. Why is it six hours later and we’re still only driving through Tennessee? I stopped for a nap like a sensible adult, since you refused to keep me awake with any kind of conversation. So that’s you all caught up.
JON: …
EDWARD: You’ve remembered that you’re not speaking to me, so at least your brain hasn’t completely burned out.
JON: ...
EDWARD: (frustrated) Come on, you know I need stimuli - you might enjoy having a brain like tapioca pudding, but I don’t.
JON: ...
EDWARD: Ooh, here’s an idea. Waylon would read me one of my questions to help pass the time. (grunt as he reaches) Here’s my phone - you only need to read it.
JON: …
EDWARD: Just the one off the top. You can still read, can’t you? Juust read it.
JON: ...
EDWARD: (angry exhale) Fine then, I’ll read it. “Blah blah blah… favourite villain in Gotham… why not team up with someone who can provide extra muscle…” Whoop!
(they almost drive off the road; Edward rights the car with a screech)
(pause)
EDWARD: Heh heh - oopsie.
JON: You fuckin’ idiot! Why weren’t you watchin’ the damn road?
EDWARD: Finally! It speaks! If I’d known all I had to do was endanger our lives, I would have done it sooner!
JON: Of all the fuckin’ dickheads to be stuck in a car with, I get you.
EDWARD: (thrilled) Now how about that question, Great Unwashed?
JON: Just shut the fuck up, would you? Drag me back to Gotham if ya must, but leave me in peace.
EDWARD: My car, my rules. Who asked me the question?
JON: Fuck off.
EDWARD: Come ooon. Help out your old pal Eddie.
JON: You know what you can do with that fuckin’ phone, old pal?
EDWARD: Read it, or I’ll be forced to do it myself again.
JON: Do it then.
EDWARD: What?
JON: Do it. Read it. Crash the damn car and put us both out of our pathetic misery.
EDWARD: (patience lost) Oh for fuck’s sake - you’ve given up then, that it?
JON: Fuck is it to ya?
EDWARD: Alright then. Alright. Let’s play your game. Let’s make sure you get everything you want. (speeding up) This is the way you want to die?
JON: What the hell’re you doin’?
EDWARD: Driving in a reckless manner, what does it look like?
JON: You havin’ some kinda fit?
EDWARD: I’m sick of your shit. You want to be driven off the road in a classic case of distracted driving like some nobody? Let’s do it. (annoyed) I mean really, what will people say?
JON: Who the fuck cares?
EDWARD: Nothing. Nothing is what they’d say!
JON: You ain’t makin’ a lick of se--
EDWARD: Your good - (scoff) bad - name, and all that follows it... everything you’ve worked for, your whole miserable existence... lost in a splash of red on the motorway.
JON: I could kill you more creatively, if that’s what you’re lookin’ for. Get this jacket off me, and we’ll talk.
EDWARD: (dramatic) No defeated enemies slain at your feet, no hosannas sung in your name that transcend your very existence as you go supernova in a blaze of glory? Is that not how people like you and I are supposed to go out?
JON: Is my half of this conversation even necessary?
EDWARD: Oh, no no no, no beauty in dishonour, no glory, no - you’d rather go out like this. (screech)
JON: Goddamn motherfuckin’ dramatic little shit…
EDWARD: You’d rather die here, now, like this? And why - because what, you’ve lost hope? Or are you afraid?
JON: Hah! You wish. I fear nothing. And, I hope for nothing.
EDWARD: That epitaph is already taken - you’ll have to do better than that.
JON: Alright then. Since there’s no reasonin’ with your hysterical ass - if I survive this dumb fuckin’ stunt and you don’t, I’ll see that you’re buried under the good name of Nashton, with a pretty little epitaph, to boot.
EDWARD: You wouldn’t.
JON: You think I don’t know about that fancy burial plot ya’ bought yerself?
EDWARD: It’s called a mausoleum. Must you be so invasive?
JON: How about I get you buried under the inscription of Daddy’s L’il Punchin’ Bag Who Wasn’t Nearly as Clever as He Thought He Was?
EDWARD: It hardly rolls off the tongue.
JON: I got it. I got it. Edward Nashton, Daddy’s Little Angel.
EDWARD: Ohhhhhh. You wouldn’t dare.
JON: That’s the one.
EDWARD: You see this finger? This middle one right here? That’s for you.
JON: Aw, jus’ fer me? I’m touched.
EDWARD: Touched in the fucking head. And! Also for shooting at me, you cross-eyed, keg-swilling drunk.
JON: I missed, didn’t I? You’re still here to tell the tale, more’s the pity.
EDWARD: Only because I dodged to the side!
JON: ‘Cos you knew I’d shoot out the door, right?
EDWARD: Yes!
JON: So what’s the problem?
EDWARD: Well! I - oh, shut up!
JON: Best get your drivin’ under control. You’ll get a ding on your precious li’l baby.
EDWARD: Would you just tell me who asked the damn question?
JON: Will it get yeh to stop drivin’ like the beggar’s Jimmy Dean?
EDWARD: (offended squawk) Fine. (slows down the car) There. Under control. Well?
(pause)
JON: Says anonymous.
EDWARD: Now was that so hard?
JON: Like pullin’ teeth, ya fruitcake.
EDWARD: Takes one to know one, nutcase. Now what was that question - I’m someone’s favourite again? How delightful to be the favourite of a faceless block of text. This is why people insist upon calling me self-absorbed. I could very well have sent this to myself. I didn’t, by the way - what was it they wanted to ask? Right, strong people to team up with. Surely people realise that this is precisely what I employ Query and Echo to do? And at no lean expense, I might add - and it certainly beats scouring the Gotham classifieds for hired help. You can get some real fruitcakes in Gotham Jon, believe you me.
JON: Shouldn’t you be payin’ me to hear this shit?
EDWARD: (laughs) The insane, counselling the merely mad. I only team up under necessity. I prefer to direct proceedings and drag beautiful music out of the masses. It’s just a shame that people don’t like to be played. I do it when I can get away with it, but I have to make damn sure they don’t realise the deception. Victory is slightly marred by two broken legs, I find. I see no reason to team up with stronger Rogues. Waylon is the only exception, but I don’t like to corrupt him too often. Despite themselves, Query and Echo are more or less indispensable at what they do. But don’t tell them I said that - they’re paid enough as it is.
JON: (muttering) Abandon every hope, who enter here...
EDWARD: What’s that?
JON: (scoff) Talkin’ to you is like walkin’ through molasses.
EDWARD: Aw, don’t be boring. It’s more fun when you play, too. You’ve no idea how I’ve suffered lately, with no one to tell me how precisely I can fuck off.
JON: (nope noise)
(pause)
EDWARD: Come on, what do you think? Should people like you and I find big friends with whom to play rough, or is that too much human interaction for you?
(pause)
EDWARD: No? Hm. How about this, then... I could hack into your questions. I’ll answer for you, since I’m the one who does all the work around here. I can even do it one handed! Watch.
JON: Don’t.
EDWARD: Too late! Let’s see what we’ve got here. Boring, boring, boring… psychology, blah blah, boring… fear toxin, boring, boring… oh. Oh, that is disgusting. Eugh. That’s enough of that. My phone will need a virus scan after that one. Ick.
JON: Shut up. Like you don’t get questions like that.
EDWARD: I most certainly do. But they’re not usually so… graphic. What is it with people and your voice? I don’t understand it at all.
JON: No one said you had to. Oh, my head…
EDWARD: Sounds like you’re finally drying out. I’d give you some water, but I have this mental image of you trying to bite my fingers off.
JON: Sounds like you got some latent psychic ability. (small dry heave) But keep your hands to yourself, ‘cos… ‘m not feelin’ so good.
EDWARD: (cheerful) Just stare out the window and try not to imagine all the violence I will subject you to should you vomit on my seats.
JON: I think I’m done talkin’ to ya now.
EDWARD: Hah! We’ll see about that.
(pause)
EDWARD: Did you know that you can hit a golf ball two and a half miles on the moon? You just hit it at a 45 degree angle, and then just… watch it fly.
(pause)
EDWARD: It would also take more than a minute for the ball to come back down.
(pause)
(JON starts banging his head against the window)
EDWARD: Hey! … Try to bleed just on yourself, would you? Blood is a devil to get out of upholstery. A little consideration for my needs wouldn’t go astray - you’re not the only one in this car, you know.
(final thump as JON rests his head on the window with a sigh)
EDWARD: Hm. Won’t be long, and we’ll be getting into corn country. You don’t perk up, I’ll have to stick you in a field to glare at people - though you may wither the crops with your breath.
(pause)
EDWARD: Hey - (chuckles) I just remembered, I’ve got a story to tell you about that paranoid dingbat Vic Sage. He worked for the GCN for about ten minutes before running his fool mouth off on live television. (sound of JON choking up) It was hilarious; we watched the whole debacle from the mayoral motorcade. Oswald just rolled down the window, stuck his head out and shouted - (pause) Jon?
(pause)
EDWARD: Oh. Oh, my God.
(pulls over, kills the engine)
EDWARD: (softly) Hey. Hey, hey. What’s the matter?
JON: (crying) He killed my bird, Ed.
(pause)
JON: My poor baby. My Ikky - she’s dead. Because of me.
(pause)
JON: I loved her.
(pause)
JON: I loved her so damn much, and now she’s gone. She was the only one who made me feel like I was… someone. Like I was worth a goddamn.
(pause)
JON: I can’t even remember what I did, or who I killed.
(pause)
JON: I fucked it up.
(pause)
JON: I could. I could do it. I’d be fine if. If she was alive.
(pause)
JON: But she’s gone. It’s just. It’s just fuckin’... me, now.
(pause)
JON: I don’t know my life without her.
(pause)
JON: What do I do?
(pause)
EDWARD: A temporary solution has presented itself.
JON: What?
EDWARD: There’s a Waffle House up ahead. The first thing we’re going to do is get you some coffee, and something to eat - your stomach must be burning you alive, by now. How about I get you out of that straitjacket, old man.
(opens the door; crunching of gravel to the other side of the car; door opens; EDWARD opens the seatbelt, undoes JON’s buckles)
EDWARD: (thump as JON’s head lands on one of EDWARD’s shoulders; JON’s hands grab at EDWARD’s sleeves) H-hey! What are you -
JON: (cries on his shoulder)
EDWARD: Oh. (nervous laugh) I - I thought you were going to try and strangle me, just now.
JON: (muffled) I should. You dumb motherfucker.
EDWARD: (tries to awkwardly pat his shoulder) It’s… it’s alright, Jon. Everything will be fine.
JON: (cracked; muffled) It can’t be. She’s dead.
EDWARD: Yes. I - I saw.
JON: (muffled) And it’s my fault.
EDWARD: Not - not really.
JON: (muffled) I just had to keep poking the big, dumb, ugly, stupid, fuckin’ bear.
EDWARD: We are hubristic men.
(pause)
JON: (sniffles; muffled) This shirt feels expensive.
EDWARD: Of course it is; it’s one of mine.
JON: (muffled) I don’t hear you fussin’ about it yet.
EDWARD: As much as it displeases me that this laboriously tailored piece of menswear is now marinated in your stench, I know a guy. It can be salvaged.
JON: (muffled) Well, whoop-de-shit.
EDWARD: Besides - where my mood swings are concerned, you could give less fucks than a Bride of Christ.
JON: (muffled chuckle) Damn right.
EDWARD: So I’ll just send you the dry-cleaning bill, instead.
JON: (muffled) Good luck collecting on that.
EDWARD: You can reimburse me with free therapy, then.
JON: (muffled) My time is worth more than one of your damn shirts.
EDWARD: (chuckles) We can debate that at the first one.
(pause)
JON: (muffled) ‘m so tired.
EDWARD: Yeah. I know you are.
(pause)
JON: (muffled) Hey.
EDWARD: Hm?
JON: (muffled) You tell anybody about any of this…
EDWARD: (scoffs) Please. Give me some credit.
JON: (muffled) I’d tear your damn heart out with my bare hands. You know I would.
EDWARD: (chuckles) I know. This never happened, and I’ll never speak of it again. You have my word on that.
JON: (muffled) Based on what?
EDWARD: Professional pride. I wouldn’t be much of a blackmailer if I couldn’t keep a secret.
JON: (muffled) True enough. (sniffles)
EDWARD: (displeased noise) I have a handkerchief you can use.
JON: (rustling) Thanks. (blows his nose)
EDWARD: You - you keep it. … Feel better?
JON: (thinks about it) … Yeah.
EDWARD: Good.
(crunching gravel as EDWARD stands up)
EDWARD: I’m going to change my shirt. While I’m at it, you should get that straitjacket off. I doubt I could convince the wait staff in there that it’s the latest fashion. (rustling)
JON: (rustling) That’s disappointing. Given up on the ol’ silver tongue, have we?
EDWARD: (murmuring) Blue? Purple? Sage. (louder) The visual evidence would contradict my claim that you’re entirely sane. People tend to keep eating utensils away from people with unkempt beards in straitjackets, no matter how wildly in vogue they may be.
JON: I could eat with my hands. Or my face.
EDWARD: I know you would; it’s what I’m trying to prevent.
JON: (pained) You got any sunglasses?
EDWARD: Oh right, your head. Should be some in that compartment, there.
JON: (relief) Thanks. (gets the jacket off) Fuckin’ finally. (slams the door shut; cracks his joints) Ow. Was the jacket really necessary?
EDWARD: I’m going to record you when you’re drunk one of these days and play it back so you can see what an ungodly nightmare you are. The straitjacket was utterly essential.
JON: I’m gettin’ too old for that shit.
EDWARD: Never too old for a straitjacket. Your trouble is, you never bothered to learn how to get out.
JON: Can’t say I’m too fond of dislocating my shoulder at any time, let alone on purpose.
EDWARD: And that’s why you fail, Jon. You could have been Scary Houdini.
JON: The road not taken. But I ain’t that much of a masochist; the last break in my leg knocked me sideways. Still don’t relish taking the stairs.
EDWARD: Well, you will insist on resetting it yourself.
JON: I’m good at it. I did the honours for you once, if you remember.
EDWARD: How could I forget, when you didn’t use anaesthetic?
JON: Anaesthetic is a privilege, not a right.
EDWARD: (amused) You’re just a butcher at heart, aren’t you?
JON: Pff. With these surgeon’s hands? Besides, that’s Dr. Butcher, to you.
EDWARD: Dr. Butcher, what long, spidery, claw-like hands you have.
JON: All the better to tear your heart out with.
EDWARD: (chuckles)
(crunching gravel as they walk)
JON: Get us a table, will ya? I need to use the facilities, first.
EDWARD: Can I trust you around other people unsupervised?
JON: One way to find out.
EDWARD: (amused) Try not to kill anyone.
JON: I guess I’ll try.
(EDWARD chuckles; door opens with a jingling)
Comments
It should be… two posts down, I believe? The Long Road Home?
Actually, where's epsiode 8?
Ellis Nygma
...I totally thought he was using it as a fakeout and was going to steal the car. I'm too cynical.
