Power in Numbers ((Clayface))

[Dr. Pamela Isley]

“Hmm,” Ivy hummed to herself as she sat in a lonely park, one that was rarely used by children. The rust and exposed edges of the park’s equipment had danger written all over it, so mothers refused to take their children here. It was an old park in the bad part of town, now just a sad memorial of what Gotham used to be. Crossing her exposed legs, she pushed her lips out as she turned the page to the next article. Ivy had learned from the other cities she had attacked that the poor hardly spoke up. It wasn’t one’s business to call the police if a stranger was looming outside because, as these areas prominently knew, that person would find and hurt you for doing so. So if anyone had bothered to look out their window this night and see a red head sitting on a bench, reading a newspaper in the dark, they would’ve closed their blinds and acted none the wiser. This was exactly what she counted on.

“Ugh!” she growled as she turned back to the front page, slapping the article that named both her and her alias (but which was which?). She was unable to continue reading as she thought the article made it completely obvious she was the culprit. “Idiot,” she growled under her breath, crumpling the paper and throwing it over her shoulder. She had originally thought, when the reporter came, that it was a good idea to let her name out. Perhaps pretending she knew nothing of this “little known” terrorist. Little known, hmph. Crossing her arms in a tantrum like manner, she glared at the ground, now both angry she participated in the interview and that she was insulted.

Just as the anger had boiled up, it seemed to vanish with a grin and she turned around to grab the newspaper. Un-crumpling it to get the name of the reporter, she had her next victim. Little known! Technically this took her off-course of pursuing those most harmful to the Earth, but this was a matter of ego and reputation! Standing up, she jumped over the bench and walked to the phone booth to check it for the address of this idiot.

[Basil Karlo]

Finally! Decent mention! In juxtaposition to Doctor Isley, Basil Karlo had managed to snag not just one, but two notorious mentions. Arrogant people never really knew to separate themselves into the two identities that came with being a celebrity and a psychopathic monster. Usually they were categorized under the same thing anyways. While this wasn’t the Gotham Times. But an WE weekly. Good as gold, according to Basil. He clutched the magazine, making a note to kiss his publicist when he got the chance. He opened the marked page and took another read, going through it for what must have been the twentieth time.

Basil Karlo and the Fountain of Youth
an Interview with actor and model, Basil Karlo by Betsy Wolfe.

Walking into the posh apartment, I never expected to connect ever that this was the resident of Basil Karlo. Karlo made his debut over twenty years ago as the protagonist, Mark, in The Terror, a film that became an instant cult classic. He has maintained a healthy career as an actor and occassional a spokesmodel from anything from cigarettes to deodorant to clothing lines. When he took an extended leave from advising on a remake of his early work, Basil came back with a gusto. Film roles soon followed as well as maintaining his place in the Tabloids as one of Gotham's favorite Bad Boys. Back to work on The Terror, tragedy struck when the entire set was slaughtered leaving Basil heavily wounded and the only survivor of the incident. After a short period of grieving, he re-emerged onto the silver screen, starring in films such as Deep Red, The Marksman, and the recent comedy Out of Line (costarring Tempest Forge). When I entered the stylish flat, Basil was there to greet me with a smile. After exchanging small talk, I was able to ask the questions that readers wanted to know.

BW: You've come a long way since The Terror but you manage to look nearly exactly the same. What's your secret?
BK: I take care of myself! I don't know (he laughs) I think I just have very fortunate genes. I can't deny how truly blessed I've been to be working and healthy for so long.

BW: Rumors are flying around that you've had work done.
BK: In this industry, everyone has a little work done. I would be lying if I said I didn't have a few grays dyed here or there (he winks impishly as he takes a quick sip of his coffee).

BW: I know you were signed not only to play the father of the character Mark in the remake of your first film but also asked to oversee a lot for the movie. How did it make you feel?
BK: It's a bit of a humbling experience really. You can't help but feel old when someone asks you to play the parent to a character you played ages ago. It was an honor to be considered though. It was just a shame that it never took off, you know? (I) Would have loved to see how it would have turned out.

BW: Is there any desire to possibly pick that project up where it left off and possibly take a main role in remaking The Terror?
BK: What happened on that (set) was awful. I feel like it's too soon to think of picking up that torch. I respectfully would decline from it. It was someone else's vision. I was just there to help. I don't really want to live in the past, you know? It would be like punch to the gut.

BW: Understandable. So what other projects are you working on?
BK: Well, since what happened on Terror, I kept myself busy. I think my favorite thing (was) Out of Line. It gave me a chance to have some fun in stead of blasting aliens and mobsters to bits. Right now I'm looking into doing a lot more for the community, giving back, you know?

We talked for a while afterwards. As I left, Basil parted with some advice on how to look a bit younger. He instructed me not to tell, but it has a lot to do with using clay masks. –-Wolfe

He shut the article as he continued on his way. The other mention was a reference to the happenings on the set of The Terror and how Basil Karlo barely survived the brutal slaughter. They called Clayface savage, heartless. He was completely okay with that. Basil pulled out his cell phone and scowled when he saw that the machine had died. He let out a noise of gruff aggravation as he turned to head to the payphones to give his parents a call. Hopefully they’d be home so he could head in. The more he was around this disgusting street, the more he thought he was going to catch derelict.

[Dr. Pamela Isley]

Upon reaching the phone booth, it was apparent that the phone book companies had long forgotten this little place along with all the children in Gotham. It was the obvious downfall to hanging out in abandoned areas and near low-income housing; you got the low level service. The book was old (an adjective that was quite kind for the actual state of the book) and written over many times. Apparently gang members hadn’t had enough walls in Gotham to practice on and put little sign of graffiti all within the pages. Others were simply ripped out when someone had either found a coupon or the name they needed. Perhaps she should’ve been lucky the book was still here at all and not in the garbage after being pulled completely. But Ivy wasn’t that optimistic.

Her green eyes strained to see past the writing, wondering what possessed these morons to write in a phonebook, other than lack of IQ points. She flipped through the pages quickly, going through the letters on the side as fast as possible. B to D to F to G and – ah! Landing on K, she started fingering through the names and leaned against the inside of the booth. When at that angle she was able to see the figure near her, Ivy’s eyes shot up and glared at the man. Confident it was some fool who hadn’t learned the rules of not talking to strangers in this area, she put her hand up on the door, grumbled, “Beat it, I’m busy.” And then slammed the glass door shut with a loud creak from the rust.

[Basil Karlo]

Basil was thrown off as this bitch seemed to just slam the door to the phonebooth. “Ooookay,” he said with an arched brow before he checked his cell phone again. Still dead. Dammit. He hadn’t paid it any mind the first few moment; even with her harsh tones. Two great mentions wouldn’t be put sour by anything. He took a moment to try and remember the phone number of his parents; curious as to why he never thought of that in the first place while he crossed his arms over his chest; trying to ignore the ginger in the phonebook. His features contorted into that of rage when a slight moment of clarity fought through his delusions…

… his parents had been dead for a while.

Confusion bent his neutral expression and then that of fury. They said when he was released from Arkham he’d be better. His mental breakdown had set a blank in the lapse of fact and his desires and while he had been starting to make some of those a reality with his recent comeback, it would appear that he started to believe some of the hallucinations that made his life seem all that much more perfect than what it really was. Beneath his clothes he felt the flesh along the line of his spine boil; bubbling with the envy that hit any person that realized that god did, in fact, hate him. His jaw clenched and his teeth grit as his muddy brown eyes fixed on the woman. His nearest target and soon to be the receiver of a crazy person’s temper tantrum.

“Hey!” he barked as a hand smashed along the side. He needed to call someone. His “stylist” was his first impulse since he felt the deconstruction of his abdomen beneath his clothes while his claylike flesh boiled. “Get the fuck out of there!” He banged on it again. This time his hand stuck there while he pulled back, extending his arm and causing a more pissed off expression to fire up his face. He somewhat concentrated to solidifying his arm and yanked back; taking the door to the phone booth with him in his madness. “I need to use the phone,” he snarled.

[Dr. Pamela Isley]

Not foolish enough to completely turn her back on a stranger, Ivy shoved her shoulder in his direction and let the corner of her eye keep tabs on him. Her finger rummaged through the names quickly though not in consideration for the man, but rather the night. She had never quite randomly selected her prey like this and her obsessive compulsiveness as it was, she didn’t like the idea of not having this entirely planned out. The corner of her lip sneered as she passed by names she didn’t care about until the tip of her nail spotted it: the author. Clear as day was the number and address, begging for her to come ruin her night. The left hand moved to grab the phone when the man’s temper seemed to explode out of no where. Jumping closer inside the booth, Ivy’s immediate reaction was to glare at him and without fear, bark something back.

But he managed to yell again, over powering her own smaller voice and pound on the glass again. Her eyebrows moved as what could be a normal (compared to what just happened, anyway) situation dramatically changed. Her face relaxed as she ignored the rage he was dispersing in her general direction, for his hand hadn’t gone back with his arm. His hand stayed – stuck on the glass. Her hand moved out to touch the glass when he pulled it back into himself and the door was gone. She blinked as her shoulders tensed for a moment then relaxed even at his demand for the booth still. Perhaps a normal human being would fear this sporadic stranger with anger issues. But her desire to know how he did that far out weighed her base emotions and she stepped out of the booth, staring at his hand slowly before moving up to his eyes.

“What are you?” she asked honestly, much more fascinated than scared.

[Basil Karlo]

It was infuriating to see that this stupid broad wasn’t scared. While Basil had originally no intention of pissing anyone off (today), he always found it exceedingly annoying when he didn’t get the reaction he wanted. He was an actor! The reaction of his audience was key in how the Basil Karlo played into his next action. With this ginger haired skank remaining perfectly calm, well, it only made the claylike flesh bubble more as his rage turned more acidic. His top lip curled into a snarl while the bottom half slacked to reveal a freshly disjointed row of white teeth. His one hand was now stuck to the severed phone booth door and he didn’t pack attention to the pressure he put on his while he focused on solidifying his arm. The glass shattered, mixing with the muddy skin. This seemed to only further his rage while the glass seemed to threaten piercing the skin should he try and repair himself.

All the man wanted to do was call his stylist!

His eyes, starting to lop into asymmetry, narrowed while his composure had clearly shattered like the glass of that door. He brought a hand up, ready to have it smash down on the woman who had triggered such a reaction. He hesitated though. This was broad daylight. His jagged rows of teeth clench in plain sight of the drooping lip while he let out an irritated growl. He had to focus and remember what he’d learned in Arkham about his temper. Clear your thoughts, count to ten, blah blah blah… he thought sarcastically to himself while his body solidified except for the glass covered arm. His facial features feigned a less violent expression and instead displayed being simply annoyed rather than about to cut a bitch. He glowered at the woman and her stupid fucking question and drew a breath to answer. “Something,” he started venomously in reference to her question of ‘what’, “that’s about to kill someone if they don’t get to a fucking phone.” He brought a solid, humanoid hand to start picking about the glass in his other arm while he pushed past and into the phonebooth.

[Dr. Pamela Isley]

One of the many few downfalls of Ivy was her obsessive compulsiveness with nature in any form. She very clearly lacked the knowledge of how to interact daily with humans on a basic level because of this, and refused to recognize the dangers of the vicious temper erupting before her. Instead, her green eyes focused on what should be skin and bones. The woman’s name she had so focused on killing had now vanished from her thoughts and as she was maneuvered around in the booth, she stepped out of the way gladly to give herself further time to inspect him. As she managed to break as concentration from this … man, she guessed, she noticed a piece of himself had smudged on her arm when the two struggled out of the small phone booth, Her index finger on the opposite hand wiped it up and rubbed the material between it and her thumb before she looked back at him.

“You’re organic!” she nearly shouted though far from angry; in fact, a small grin on the edge of her lips had appeared. Everything in those two simple words had explained her fascination and obsession in him: he was a human shape, but of an organic, natural material. “How .. how did you do this?” she asked like a starved animal craving food before her. Her mind was racing with the possibilities she could produce in labs if this single man was able to do this to himself – or if someone else had done it to him. Whoever or however this occurred, it was genius and the exact link between nature and herself she needed.

[Basil Karlo]

To be quite honest, Basil paid no attention to this common woman’s reaction. She had irritated him. That was it and now he had to think about calming down in order to make sure he stayed solid. He growled in frustration as he had a rough time finding change on his person. What self respecting movie star jingled? Finally he found the appropriate change just barely and he poised the phone in the crook of his neck between the space of his neck and shoulder and his more architecturally stable hand quickly dialed the number of his stylist. He heard a fairly exhausted greeting on the other end. “Lost my cool, you need to get here five minutes ago.” He proceeded to give the lackey directions to his location as he continued to pick the glass from his still malleable appendage. “Hurry or the next fitting you go to will be for your casket.”

He slammed the phone down after a moment of wrenching it from his flesh. He set his attention back on the woman as she murmured a word that sounded familiar and a wicked expression found his features. Now, one needed to understand something about Basil Karlo. The man was clever. When someone is clever and also given the privilege of applying that to the stupidity of the masses, that fools a great deal into assuming that one is smart. Basil managed to murder and get away with it and also could fight the perils of aging by way of a decent sculptor. He had the press and the film scene so far up his butt that they may as well have camped out in his colon. So the combination of being clever and pampered let Basil Karlo believe that he was smart as well. The majority believed that also. Basil thought he knew things and when he didn’t, he made it up on the fly. He was an actor! That was what he did. So when he heard ‘organic’ his mind when elsewhere as he assumed a different meaning.

A sly grin slid up to his lips as he leaned against the frame of the door he unhinged. “Well,” he said in a tone that wiped away the rage that had been there before, “I have that reputation.” He looked her up and down almost wolfishly, unaware of his own stupidity.