Bringing Out The Scarecrow
"See, ah, doctor? We're exac-ta-lee the same," giggled Joker, leaning back in his chair. Crane placed his hands on the table, pressing them down so hard his knuckles turned white, in an attempt to stop himself from snapping open his briefcase. "We're both ahead of the curve." The clown's insane laughter made Jonathan wince, ever so slightly, but enough for Joker to notice. "Scared-uh?" Joker's voice had lowered to a growl.
"I assure you, we are nothing alike." Deciding that his current technique wasn't working, Crane clasped his hands and let his elbows rest on the table, but the usually collected doctor fidgeted, eyes flicking back and forth between his briefcase and his patient.
"Tell me, doc. What do you see when you, uh, look at me?" Jonathan lifted a hand to his glasses, then stopped. Slowly he lowered it back to the table, surprised to see it shaking. From anger? From fatigue? From fear? He looked up at Joker, who was staring at Crane's trembling fingers.
"I see..." Crane paused, thinking. "I see a man with a sociopathic, manipulative personality. You are unable to remain still, indicating, perhaps, a hyperactive disorder." He nodded at the Joker's rapidly bouncing knee, and in turn Joker nodded at Crane's hands. Jonathan realised his fingers were drumming a steady rhythm on the table. Angrily, he slammed his hand down, then, embarrassed, slid both his hands back onto his lap. Faint spots of colour appeared on his cheeks. "You hide behind your scars, and use the makeup to intimidate. You change your past to one that will play on your victim's insecurities and fears, and also to hide you true origin." Joker's tongue flicked out, like a snake's, to lick the scars on either side of his mouth, and Jonathan swallowed.
Circled by the black greasepaint the Asylum had so foolishly – in Crane's opinion – allowed him to continue wearing, the whites of the Joker's eyes seemed to add to the manic aura surrounding the clown. He seemed both amused and interested by Jonathan's profiling of him. "You don't really believe in their rules," he sneered the word, "do ya?" He cleared his throat, as if to further emphasise his disgust at the very prospect of rules. "It's all a bad joke." Joker saw the insane gleam flare up in Crane's eyes, and then die away, and it spurred him on. "And you know it, don't you, Scarecrow?" Jonathan didn't answer, and neither did Scarecrow. Did it really make a difference? Deep down, Jonathan Crane was just as insane as his alter ego. Joker knew it. And Jonathan Crane knew it.
"You act on whim, giving in to every spontaneous idea," continued Crane. His voice was calm, but cold as ice. "Yet, at the same time you have a plan."
"Ya know me so well, don't ya, Scarecrow?" Joker laughed, bouncing up and down in his seat.
"You act on these whims, throwing them in at random moments in your plan, to put people off. You want people to think it's impossible to predict your next move." Jonathan pursed his lips for a second; his hands itched for the feel of burlap as the mask was pulled over his head.
"What makes you, ah, think you fit in with them here, Scarecrow?" Joker's continuous use of the name made Jonathan scowl. He wasn't Scarecrow, not yet, but the cornfield being lurked in his subconscious. "You know it, and I know it – you don't belong here." At Arkham? Of course he did. Crane enjoyed the terrified screams that followed him after every meeting with a patient, and so did Scarecrow. Both of them revelled in the blank stares left behind on the faces of victims after every concentrated dose, loved seeing the remaining shell of a man, once a genius, now a vegetable unable to control his own bladder. All after a meeting with the Scarecrow.
Despite one hand twitching in the direction of his briefcase under the table, Jonathan stared the Joker in the eye – a feat, which some would have called brave, and others insane – and didn't flinch. Once more, the clown's tongue darted out and licked the scars. "But while you have a plan, you think people who try to control things pathetic and foolish." Joker nodded, grinning. "You consider yourself ahead of everyone else in mentality, though no one knows who you actually are, behind the makeup."
"Ooh, you're good at this, Scarecrow. Ya got me all figured out, haven't ya? But, ah, you enjoy games just as much me, don't ya? Hmmm, Scarecrow?" Joker laughed again, a high pitched, wheezy giggle which, if you weren't familiar with him, could be mistaken for choking. Crane looked at his briefcase. The locks on it seemed to shine enticingly, begging to be opened. Joker followed his line of sight and giggled again, leaning forward to stare into Crane's eyes. 'Come on out and play, Scarecrow?" he growled, flashing his yellowing teeth in a quick smile.
Jonathan let a smirk cross his lips, and Joker sat back, watching eagerly as the doctor, unknowingly, played right into his hands. Though, could anyone blame Crane? The Joker had driven him to the end of his tether, as with Harvey Dent and so many others.
The burlap sack grinned up at the both of them, as Crane popped the lock on his briefcase. He activated the respirator and pulled the mask down over his face, feeling the weight of the containers at his wrist. Joker watched with great amusement, triumph playing across his features.
Scarecrow's hand shot out and released a cloud of mist in the Joker's face. Nothing happened. Joker laughed, long and loud and mocking, watching Scarecrow's eyes widen in disbelief that anyone could withstand his fear toxin.
"You know," said the clown, "The thing about, ah, living with no rules, is, uh, there's no limits. Nothing to, ah, be afraid of." He let loose another round of mocking giggles. The he stood, gripping the back of his chair and raising it high above his head. "Nighty-night, doc," he laughed, bringing it down hard on Scarecrow's head.
The End.