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“I believe the terms of our ‘partnership’ have just been changed.” Oswald Cobblepot said to the unconscious body of the man who held him captive and tormented for the past two months.
When he awoke, strapped to a table somewhere in the bowels of Starling Correctional Facility, Oswald stood over the Pyg, triumphant and incandescent with fury.
“Good morning, piglet.” Oswald spat. He started wiping a butcher’s knife with a cloth.
“What is going on?” Pyg asked, clearly dazed from his head injury.
“Don’t you remember? ‘Promise me you’ll do your worst’ you asked,” he put down the cloth, “I would be remiss to not fulfill your request.”
Oswald raised the sharpened knife to the light, watching it reflect off the polished surface, illuminating his toothy grin.
“How kind of you to name yourself such that my final meal in this hell will by Pyg.” Oswald shoved an apple through the snout of the latex pig mask to quiet any retorts.
“Don’t worry, I know you’re an… artistic sort, so I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Oswald leaned down to Pyg’s ear, “You won’t be my first roast.”
While Oswald’s particular expertise did not include much of anything to secure him a position among the rank of a hospital, he knew his way well enough around kitchens and back alleys to commit to the revenge Pyg so deserved. He knew what to avoid to keep someone alive long enough to send a message, and he knew how to find weaknesses and sensitive spots in a man’s mind and body. Most importantly, he knew how best to use the meat tenderizer on the rolling cart next to him.
He gripped the meat tenderizer in one hand and Pyg’s secured wrist in the other. “A delicate surgeon’s hands, yes?” He asked to Pyg as he brought the implement down, crushing bone under his rage. Pyg let out a pained squeal around the apple. “I know,” Oswald swung again with each pause, “A man of your, culinary skill, understands the importance of, proper preparation.” When the first hand was reduced to a mangled mess, he limped around the table and began with the second.
“You wanted me to experience the suffering I caused the people of Gotham,” Oswald said, “It’s time you tasted some of your own.”
Compared to his stepsiblings, who had the pleasure of already being dead, carving into Pyg was significantly messier. Blood spattered on the floor and drenched the front of his jumpsuit.
At some point after selecting the best part for the roast and before Oswald had excised it from his body, Pyg breathed his last breath.
Pyg kept his kitchen well stocked, which made it easy for Oswald to season the meat and then prepare a small accompaniment while the roast cooked in the oven.
He sat at the head of a table for his meal. Oswald grimaced at the leftover taste of chemicals from Pyg’s self-experiments. “Not much one can do about bad meat.”