A light rain falls upon the city, the buildings already grimy and beginning to fall apart despite being barely over a decade old. The sky is a rolling sheet of gray, interrupted by flashes of lightning. In an all but forgotten alleyway, trash lays about, scattered by some long past impact. Broken glass glitters in the flash of lightning, as does a set of eyes, wide with fear. The eyes sit below a ragged mop of brown hair and above a blood spattered face.
One side of the owner's head is covered in blood, a ragged flap of flesh all that remains of what was once an ear. Pained panting can be heard below the storm's roar as the man rushes down the alley, a once fine black suit ruined by rain and blood his only defense against the elements. His shoes are long gone. From the darkness, a light, feminine voice states in a sing-song voice, "Joey's gonna getcha!"
He stumbles over a fallen can while looking over his shoulder, his hands taking the brunt of the damage as he reaches out to save himself. As he rights himself, a maniacal cackle echoes along the alley, coming from everywhere and nowhere. The man stumbles and continues his mad dash down the alley and into a deserted street. Smashed cars stand sentinel at every corner. At his screams, fearful eyes peer from the grime-windows, only to recede into the darkness. His screams go unattended.
Halfway down the street, he falls to the ground, writhing in obvious pain. As he recovers, he turns back, a nightmarish visage before him. Rain slicked green hair pulled back into a ponytail, a bone pale face with glittering green eyes. And the grin. A wide, cracked, bloody grin.
"Now, now, why are you running, Mr. Allen?" he asks, madness ringing in his voice. His clothes are soaked through, from his purple vest and white shirt to his green pants and purple shoes. Even his battered green tie is dark with rain. He laughs and looks his prey in the eyes. "I haven't made my point yet!" To emphasize said point, his hand flashes out, grasping the knife Mr. Allen had drawn from his pocket, swiftly reversing it and planting it in the man's own shoulder. He screams in pain as the blade rips into his flesh. He slumps, blacking out, only to be awakened by a massive shock.
The grinning man smiles wider, a small rivulet of blood sliding down his face in the rain, a toy gun in his hand sparking from the shot fired into Mr. Allen. "Come now, Mr. Allen. The party's not over yet." He cackles again, as a new addition approaches from behind, a massive mallet held in slight hands, lightning framing a slender form as the mallet is raised.
Settling it upon her shoulder, the mallet wielder laughs and smiles. "You got him, Joey." A red handprint can be seen faintly upon her cheek, swelling slightly obscuring a blue eye. Stray strands of bright blonde hair are caked against her forehead. "Hey, I got an idea!" She smiles and giggles, waving at the prostrated Mr. Allen. "Let's help him lose his mind." Her black and red harlequin outfit is soaked and clings to her frame, her small matching skirt slumping in the rain.
Laughing, Joey turns back to Mr. Allen. "Yes, let's help him." Replacing his gun in his purpe vest, he reaches down and sits upon Mr. Allen's chest, planting his hands around the man's throat. Gripping tight, he lifts up, slowly increasing the pressure. Mr. Allens writhes in pain, grasping futilely at Joey's hands. "This is for hurting my sister, my Jessie."
"Please," he rasps out. "J-Joker, I'm s-s-sorry." Slowly, Joey pulls harder and harder. People begin to file into the streets, surprise and confusion on every face as they watch the scene before them. "I'll n-never hurt her a-a-again," he rasps, just as Joey gives his neck one last tug, pulling Mr. Allen's head from his shoulders in a long, grinding pull. Blood pours out, staining the ground and Joey's pants.
"No, you won't," he says, his smile slowly fading into a content smirk. Behind him, Jessie laughs and comes to her brother's side. "And I told you," he says, looking out upon the assembled thugs. A lightning flash rings out, the blood glistening as it runs into the drains.
"Call me Kid J."