Title: Hot Magenta: Crashing Gotham's Parties II
Summary: More-than-a-bit-but-not-wildly-AU. 'Or, more honestly, he knew who Batman pretended to be. This was a fact and one he patted himself on the back for; he was a clever guy and told himself as such frequently.' Part II of a series about various interruptions and the aftermath. In this part: the Joker philosophises, has actually met the Bat and can't find his gloves. Though nothing much happens. Set during 'The Dark Knight'.
This story was previously published on - by me! But with a different nom de plume- as a chaptered story, but is now being re-uploaded as one-shots, because I'm annoying like that. And have yet to finish the final part.
As stated in Part I of this series, the homosexual fantasies of the Joker become more obvious as this series goes on; in this part, they're stated pretty plainly.
PART II: 'DERANGED CRIMINAL MASTERMIND TARGETS GOTHAM'S MOST PROMINENT CITIZENS'
So- a huge fucking surprise! (I think not)- Ol' Al's plan failed.
The Joker could've won some dough if he'd had a mind to bet on it (as it was, his mind was busy); the guy was way too uptight to successfully win against a guy who had the flair to dress up in a skin-tight costume, drive around in what appeared to be a freakin' tank and beat up thugs on, what the newspapers reported to be, a nightly basis. For kicks. (Oh, a Bat like that sets my heart fluttering.I do love a man who knows how to use his, ah- fists.)
Funnily, ha, enough, around the time of poor Razmatzz's downfall, the Joker's fortunes, and profile- which was really more important, wasn't it?-, began to rise at an excitingly accelerated rate. This was also, coincidentally, during the same period that the city's monorail system was closed indefinitely- and the cops were definitely covering something up right there-; did the two events correlate?
The Joker seriously considered it and spent a number of evenings- it could've been three, it might've been eight; he survived on crackers and got thirsty a lot, so drank orange juice a lot. Incidentally, the orange juice should've been thrown in the trash two weeks previously, according to the date on the carton but, really, everyone knew those dates were really only the food corporations trying to get consumers to buy more juice; fuck the system!…He did get a headache- ruminating- ruminating in a room; Ha! See, see? Rum-in-ate; room!- over the possible connections between public transport and crime. Then he got distracted by the permanently-arguing example of domestic bliss in the apartment next door to the one he was squatting in and he went round to 'borrow some sugar.'
(He did borrow some and licked the fingers of his gloves and dipped them in the sugar bowl and then suckled the sweetness off…The owners were hardly gonna complain, were they? He'd slit their throats.)
And, the Batman? Just 'Batman'-
He was finally chasing the Joker. It had taken actual effort to get his favourite hero to notice him, the little tease.
The Joker had known exactly 'who' Batman was since his dearly departed friend- his beloved Al- had heightened his interested in the caped 'crusader'. Or, more honestly, he knew who Batman pretended to be. This was a fact and one he patted himself on the back for; he was a clever guy and told himself as such frequently.
(He half-remembered some teacher telling him that he was a 'good, clever boy', but that had to be a lie because he came from Nowhere and Nowhere didn't have schools…He may or may not have been raised by wolves and wolves weren't exactly famous for their education system, either.)
Sanity was immaterial to intelligence; if only-sigh- the general population realised this.
Another fact was that facts weren't fun unless someone else was giving you them and, also, that in the act of revealing said fact, it cost them something valuable (but rarely something material).
The Joker, revolutionary thinker that he was- Liberté, Fraternité, Equalité…Hum; Anarchie!- decided that the only fun he could have with Batman whilst he was still all restrained and morally-upright-without-fail- I mean, gosh; fighting the 'good fight'. 'Yawn' much, my dear Bat? Take some fucking drugs!- was to make him admit the facts of the matter; Batman, masked vigilante, was Bruce Wayne, orphaned billionaire and ladies' man. Bruce Wayne, pointless playboy, was Batman, Gotham's Most Wanted (Sort Of).
(He'd worked it out using lists. Lots of lists. All done in crayon; as far as writing implements went, crayons smelt the best. And came in the nicest shades. He'd narrowed it down to Bruce Wayne and several other upper class shmucks, whose names he had long since forgotten. Hmm and he might've accidentally killed one of them during his little investigative process…
And, looking at that final list- scribbled in Hot Magenta and Chartreuse- , looking into the eyes of images he'd painstakingly cut out from society pages- and who, exactly, decided that these poor excuses for humanity were 'society'?-, he'd just known it was Wayne. Just known.
Realising the fact had given him a certain sense of elation; the air-headed prodigal son of Gotham wasn't as stupid as he acted- the guy should win a Golden Globe for his stunning turn as 'Moronic Heir Of Philanthropist' in Assholes of Gotham 2: Trust Funds Strike Back! Not an Oscar; he wasn't that good-, was, as it seemed, putting on a pretty impressive act for the world and was, the Joker was sure, simply destined to be his new best friend.)
The Joker had met Batman; he couldn't wait to meet Bruce Wayne.
'Cos there was a difference, see; he was sure of that (or, more specifically, Brucieman believed there was a difference; hey there, schizophrenia!). They were the same person, but as much as they were, they weren't. For now.
He'd like to be the one to finally blur the lines. To finally get the, uh, the Bat and the Bruce to admit that they were doing something that both facets of personality felt no guilt over. To convince the Bat that his hatred and anger wasn't wrong and that, really, it was the only correct response to a world like the one they lived in- to a world that had dealt poor, orphaned, little, lonely boy Bruce Wayne the shitty hand it had- and that keeping all that violence inside and existing only within- just; he was toeing the line a little, and the Joker respected that, but toeing the line and not crossing it was almost the same as being a mile away from the line and that wouldn't do at all- the impossible context of society's so-called 'moral values'- It's just so boring and pointless, sweetheart; and have they ever thanked you for sticking to the rules, hmmm?- was going to destroy him.
And, maybe-just maybe, possibly, hopefully, where were his gloves?- if he pushed and pulled and hurt and demonstrated that he was the only one who understood, could help; the only one that wanted that sincere, trembling darkness that he had glimpsed in Batman's eyes, that he was certain existed in Batman's core (certain, 'cos, well, it existed inside him, too and, they say it takes one to know one)…If he got the Bat to understand- he couldn't work properly without his gloves; where were they?- then maybe the Bat would understand him, even a little.
That'd be nice. No one had ever understood him before. He didn't even really understand himself. Not all the time. Sometimes.
Of course, if that happened, then maybe there'd be more to it than that- he hoped so; he'd been a good little thief this year-; hitting and fucking- 'Cos, damn; Brucie was sexually repressed. Probably didn't even jerk off. All the, um,…Well, the violence showed he had a lotta, uh, urges just waiting to be let loose. And the Joker was more than willing to have Bats 'let loose' on him; any way the Bat wanted him. Wherever he wanted him. Whenever. He got so excited (oh, God, oh Bats; yesyesyesyes) sometimes, just thinking about it, that his fingers tingled and he gnawed on the inside of his mouth until he bled and he swallowed the blood and then vomited everywhere, sick that was plasma and a rainbow- and making Gotham theirs and making it better in a way that the wider world could never comprehend but it would be better and they'd know and that'd be all that mattered and some blood and maybe a nice death at the end of it all.
Al had been an idiot for wanting to destroy Gotham. It had so much potential. The Joker could see it- when he closed his eyes, he swore he could see it drawn on his eyelids in Orange Red and Outer Space -, see the future and Gotham would be the only realplace on the planet and people probably wouldn't be happy, but at least they'd know they were real. And if they couldn't find happiness in that fact, then they were fucking morons who deserved to be made into sausage meat.
They probably didn't know what happiness was in the first place; anything sold in bright packaging, bearing a catchy slogan- 'BUY OUR SHIT! IT'LL MAKE YOU DISGUSTINGLY FAT, UNREMITTINGLY DEPRESSED AND YOU'LL PROBABLY EVENTUALLY KILL YOURSELF BECAUSE OF YOUR PERCEIVED INADEQUACIES!'- at an inflated price was happiness to them.
If only the Bat-
(Where were his fucking gloves?)
He flicked open his knife.
Okay, so two guys walk into a bar. And- wha'd'ya know?- it knocks 'em unconscious.
Hohehahahahaheha!
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