All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
"We stopped looking for monsters under our bed when we realized they were inside us." - The Joker
"Robert's got a quick hand. He'll look around the room, he wont tell you his plan"
His heart thuddered against his chest like a radical drum as he pushed through the doors of the Orphanage. Nobody to stop him, no strange looks, just deserted hallways that tensed with anticipation. The air suddenly grew a outwordly chill as the thud of his muddy boots imprinting all over the gleaming floor was the only sound that could be heard. No pacing children, no wandering souls searching to see if those open doors had invited the nasty kind that these children only ever read about. The kind of villains that the superheroes always defeated. Well, where was their precious hero now?. He was about to give this children a story to tell, one of blood and terror and the stuff of nightmares. He was these children's living nightmare, and in under a few minutes, he'd have claimed all his glory and fame for it. Palms sweaty, blood thumping was adrenaline as his fingers ran over the cold glass of the fire alarm, ready to become a master accomplice in his wicked scheme.
"Yeah! He found a six-shooter gun, in his dad's closet, with the box of fun things"
His fingers clenched over the cool metal of the trigger, tips braced and ready for action. He loved the feel of the guns shape printing a flesh carving into his hand, the pain did nothing less than give him the kick he was waiting for. He lifted the device up to his nose, inhaling and marvelling in the smell of ammo, how it burned his nostrils like a scorching fire. Dangling his precious weapon beside his hip like a little western cowboy, he grew a grin to fuel an adults nightmares for a week as he slammed the cold glass of the alarm with his elbow. As the sound penetrated the silence and footsteps boomed like a haze of hysteria, you could say his hysterical laugh was the sanest thing to be heard in that instant. Rooms were vacated, people screamed, people cried. Nobody noticed the man in the long purple coat with the loaded six-shooter gun poised for killing. He decided it was time that somebody finally knew his name.
"All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,
You better run, better run, outrun my gun.
All the other kids with the pumped up kicks,
You better run, better run, faster than my bullet.
It was majestic, to watch how the bullets would fly through any object they hit. Ripping through brains so they leaked like a colourful fountain, tearing through hearts and other vital organs like it was on a deadly mission. Oh, how he relished in the cries that could he heard, the pleas and tears gave him such a thrill he was getting goose bumps. He floated through the crowds like a king, like his victims were his people and he expected them to worship him. Oh they would, in another life they would understand him, maybe even relate. He never once loosened up on his gun, firing bullets faster than one thought could fully process. He left no mercy behind with these masses of dying children. Children who held futures, prospects, endless years to live out ahead of them, all of which they'd never get to witness. It was beautiful, to see how the religious ones would cry out for the lords help and how he understood that he was almost playing God to them. It was a delightful thought.
"I've waited for a long time. Yeah the sleight of my hand is now a quick-pull trigger"
Nobody once asked for his name, it was quite rude really. You'd think that they'd at least want to know who their saviour was? But humans are stubborn creatures, and would rather call him vicious names than understand. He was doing them all a favour, saving them from a much worse fate that was yet to come. They were only the beginning, baby steps, and he paused to wonder if he should mention that they aren't so special that they'll be his only victims. All the emotions built up inside for all those years, flying out and painting the rooms a vibrant red. Splattering the floor and littering the walls like a sadistic canvas.
"All the other kids with the pumped up kicks, you better run, better run"
There was one boy, young with chocolate eyes and a mop of jet black hair. An known force swimming in his eyes and he stood amidst the chaos, surveying. He wasn't startled, he'd seen his kind of set up before and his eyes were mentally judging. He wasn't unaccustomed to the unruly ways of the mentally unstable. No panic or outcry, just an unsettlingly calm demeanour.
"Bruce, Bruce run!"
He jumped out as more bullets rang, a new target has been located. Bruce Wayne, heir to billion dollar company before he even hit puberty. Bruce Wayne who paid no hommerage to the destruction around him but sought to protect those who could. How quaint, it made the mans lip curl in a sneer. Humans, petty people who think that can protect with nothing but a name and a mind-set. He took note of the deep, angering look Bruce bored into him. He took note of the harsh words muttered under the child's breath, promises of redemption and protection.
Oh, soon enough he'd show that kid whose boss.
Soon enough.
"You better run, better run, outrun my gun"
You see, dear reader, the story of Batman and The Joker began long before you know.
"All the other kids with the pumped up kicks"
My disclaimer is that I'm not Bob Kane or Foster the people and don't own the characters or lyrics used.