Raven the Little Rascal Page #2

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Please!

No!

Aargh!

Agh! Argh!

Aaaargh!

AAARGHH!

Consider, Carl, if you will,

the human heart.

This small chamber,

a vacancy,

where gases are wed to uids

and all the secrets and mysteries

of our species are hidden.

ls)

Write another "Tell-Tale Heart".

You think you're so clever,

don't you?

Miss Hamilton.

"The angels,

"not half so happy in heaven,

"Went envying her and me -

"Yes - that was the reason,

"as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea,

"That the wind

came out of the clouds by night

"Chilling and killing

my Annabel Lee."

Continue.

"But our love...

it was stronger by far than the love

"Of those who were older than we -

"Of many far wiser than we -

"And neither the angels

in heaven above,

"Nor the demons

down under the sea,

"Can ever dissever my soul

from the soul

"Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."

Do you like it?

I think that it is the most romantic

thing I've ever read.

So, I had to hear about your stunt

all afternoon.

I wanted to see if I could get that

vein on the side of his neck

to finally explode.

I think Father has begun to suspect.

Yes, and I consider it my duty

to wrestle you away

from that gun-toting Philistine.

And into the arms of you,

of all people?

- Who better?

- Then why antagonize him?

I can't help it.

I despise people who despise me.

Edgar, we need to talk.

- What is Carl eating?

- A heart.

- A human heart?

- Mm-hm.

- How in heaven did you come by it?

- An admirer works at the morgue.

I was searching for inspiration.

So tell me again exactly...

how much... money you made

from your self-proclaimed

world-famous poem about that bird?

Raven. $9. But did I mention

that it's world-famous?

Edgar... Edgar.

We can't go on like this.

Emily, what do you want?

I want you to get up off your knees

unless you intend to use

that position for another purpose.

The imagination reels

with possibilities.

But what did you have in mind

specifically?

A proposal.

You mean marriage?

It's not such a horrible thought.

People still do it from time to time.

- Really? When?

- When they're in love, I suppose.

If I were in love with that person,

would I think about her all the time?

Most likely.

And would I spend

every waking moment

desiring to smother the other

with affection?

It has been described as such.

Emily, you are my greatest -

and only - inspiration.

Emily Hamilton,

will you be my wife?

Yes.

I love you.

You ridiculous man.

Now, what do we do about

your dear, dear, gun-toting father'?

I've been thinking about that.

We'll tell him at my birthday ball,

in front of all of Baltimore.

If I were a better man,

I'd forbid it.

- But you're not.

- I know.

I found some possibilities

for you, Inspector.

All are gruesome, if you ask me.

"A careful search soon

brought to light the hidden spring.

"I pressed it,

and, satisfied with the discovery,

"forbore to upraise the sash."

That's it.

Edgar Allan Poe.

Find the Raven, never flitting

still is sitting, still is sitting

On that pallid bust of Pallas

just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming

of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him steaming

throws his shadow on the oor;

My soul from out that shadow

that lies oating on the oor

Shall be lifted...

nevermore.

Who's next?

It's called

"The Buttery and the Bee".

An exquisite title, Mrs. Bradley.

"The buttery to her brother bee

did sing a song of spring.

'"Come, listen to my ode of thee,

thou honey-making thing..."

Stop, please.

It's terrible. I suspected it was.

"Thou honey-making thing"?

- I attempted to rhyme the lyric.

- You've succeeded.

The juxtaposition

of the beauty of nature

with the whores

of our recently mechanized society,

reducing brother bee to nothing more

than a "honey-making thing",

a meaningless cog

bound for destruction

within the machine of nature.

It's brilliant, Mrs. Bradley!

It's terrifying, but it's brilliant.

I'm so sorry to interrupt.

- Someone's here to see you.

- Excellent. Who?

Mr. Poe?

Barbarian with a badge.

What's going on?

- Why is hair attracted to a magnet?

- What?

Soot is merely carbon residue

from coal and wood.

Am I under arrest?

I'm Detective Fields.

Please, sit down, Mr. Poe.

Yes, the infamous Detective Fields.

Am I under arrest?

No. Not as yet.

Then I'd rather stand.

It makes it easier to leave.

I am...

I'm a reader of your work.

I admit my admirers have gone

to great lengths to meet me.

I didn't say I was an admirer.

And yet you read them.

The night before last a girl

and her mother were found murdered,

the daughter lodged in a chimney,

the mother's head nearly severed

with a straight razor.

The killer ed through a window

in which a lock was feigned

with a nail sawn in half.

Does any of this

sound familiar to you, Mr. Poe?

But you're talking about my story.

A work of fiction.

I'm afraid I'm not.

According to various witnesses,

you were seen drunk two nights ago

in a tavern near the harbour.

What time did you leave?

I don't remember.

My leaving was... involuntary.

Do you actually think

that I murdered these people?

May I see your hand?

Which one?

Either will do.

Perhaps with the aid of accomplices

such a scenario

might be conceivable,

however improbable.

Yet what cannot be disputed

is the fact that your imagination

has inspired a horrendous crime.

Am I to be charged, then?

Is imagination now a felony?

Come!

Inspector, can I have a word?

This is Henry Maddux,

editor of the "Baltimore Patriot".

He was brought in

to identify the body.

His name is... I mean, was...

Gris... Griswold.

- Ludwig Griswold.

- He worked for you?

- Freelance writer.

- What things did he write?

Some poetry. Mostly criticism.

You know, the easy stuff.

Did he have a relationship

with Edgar Allan Poe'?

Of course. They hated each other.

Had a vicious feud a year ago.

Sold a lot of papers.

- How long have you known Mr. Poe?

- Edgar? Well, the past ten years.

You published his story,

"The Murders in the Rue Morgue".

He wrote that several years back

in Philadelphia.

I reprinted it

a couple of times here.

People love the gory ones.

So they do.

Edgar isn't a suspect,

is he, Inspector?

At this point everyone is a suspect,

Mr. Maddux.

Forgive me.

I know there is a darkness

to Edgar, but...

they're all up in here.

Every woman he's ever loved

has died in his arms.

I believe that God gave him a spark

of genius and quenched it in misery.

But as far as something like this...

The only thing he's ever killed

is a bottle of brandy.

Thank you for your time, sir.

This may come

as a shock to you, Mr. Poe,

but we are in dire need

of your unwholesome expertise.

I really hadn't imagined

the counterweight to be... so large.

We have reason to believe

you knew the victim.

- Really?

- If you would?

I don't believe I know him.

Then perhaps

this will jar your memory.

"Never has

the perfunctoriness of plot

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