A.N.
Hey guys!
I'm new to writing fanfiction but I've always enjoyed reading it so I figured I'd give it a go :)
I love Batman comics, movies, etc. and The Joker has to be my all time favorite character so I said 'What the hell, why not give it a go writing a story about him?'
I was fascinated by the comic, 'The Killing Joke', and a glimpse of his past life as Jack Napier before becoming The Joker.
So the story starts off right before Jack gets home after his failed comedian audition.
Reviews are so definitely welcome!
Enjoy!
-Skriva
Before
God this was terrible.
Jack Napier licks his dry lips, slowly raising his eyes to the crowd.
No one was laughing, well no, they were laughing actually…at him.
Why'd I think this was a good idea?
"HEY GET ON WITH IT ALREADY!"
The shout is like the roar of a grizzly and Jack subconsciously tugs at the corner of his bowtie, sweat trickling down the back of his neck and dampening his shirt collar.
Shit.
He grips the microphone and darting the tip of his tongue once more over his chapped lips he speaks,
"D-Did ya ever hear the one a-about the f-fat clown?"
No it was all wrong! The voice coming out of him, it wasn't him, not Jack Napier.
It wasn't the confident suave masculine drawl of the famous comedian he heard when he practiced in front of the chipped mirror at home.
This was the nasally screech of the gawky awkward chemist's assistant.
The good for nothing loser without a solid plan for his life, the stuttering idiot with a pregnant wife and two weeks behind rent.
The Average Joe people passed by on the street without a second glance, the moron who forgot every joke he ever learned as soon as he stepped up on stage.
He had to get this right! He had to impress the judges, for Jeannie.
"W-Well there was this clown; y-ya see, and he's not feelin' too happy."
Am I the unhappy clown? Jack wonders, his hand gripping the microphone slick with sweat and slippery.
"WHAT'S YOUR POINT?" The voice bellows and something is hurled past his head, shattering against the wall behind him.
"Th-The clown is d-down cause see he's been gaining too much weight and he goes up to the circus m-master to turn in his resignation, o-or whatever clowns turn in to say they're through."
Jack chuckles nervously and is met by a barrage of loud BOOS.
His gaunt face flushes scarlet in humiliation but he forges onward; ducking as another glass shatters above his head,
"So he's got his b-bag all packed up and he s-says to the circus master, 'Look Mac, I'm too f-fat to ride m-my unicycle anymore so I'm quitting.'
And the circus master he, he gets a-all s-s-surprised,"
No the stuttering was getting worse!
"a-and he e-exclaims, 'T-t-t-that's okay Bub-b! Y-you can be t-the-'"
Jack's warbling voice finally cracks, snapping spectacularly midsentence.
The jeers grow deafening and Jack sees the judges rolling their eyes. If only the ground would swallow him whole on the spot, a man sized crater opening in the stage to hide him from those ugly sneering faces.
"'t-the new fat lady.'"
He finishes in a whisper, letting the microphone fall against his side as the host appears on stage; his smile brilliant and false,
"Thank you Mr. Napier for that wonderful demonstration of talent."
His words are dripping with sarcasm and Jack is drenched in cheap whiskey from a flying glass as he turns to leave the spotlight, a wavy strand of hair drooping between his green eyes.
The night is crisp, winter sealing its grip over Gotham as Jack heads for home. He keeps his head lowered; sunk deep within the collar of his threadbare tuxedo jacket, the one he wore for his wedding. The one he bought from Lucky's Pawn.
Dry skeletons of leaves skitter before him on the cracked sidewalk, crushed beneath the soles of his patched shoes. The round moon above fades from sight behind a curtain of heavy black clouds as Jack climbs the crumbling steps of the two story brick house belonging to Mrs. Burkiss.
Even out on the steps he could smell it, cat feces and the weird scent that clings to old people and their outdated furniture.
"Hey Jack, how'd it go?"
Jack turns around to see the pencil thin mustache of Frank.
"Like shit."
"Aw hell, sorry man."
"Yeah."
"You wanna go get a drink?"
Jack shakes his drooping head, "Thanks anyway Frank, but I've got to get upstairs to check on Jeanie."
Frank nods, weasels face dipping in and out of the shadow cast by his wide brimmed hat,
"Sure thing Jack."
Jack tries to smile but it takes too much effort so he just gives Frank a dismal half wave and retreats into the damp front hall.
He did his best to steer clear of Frank and his underworld connections, Jack wasn't a criminally minded man and the idea of tangling with Gotham's mobs scared him.
The door at the end of the hall creaks open and the gnarled figure of his landlady appears in the light spilling from within her room; grizzled grey hair standing wildly out from her shriveled face and reminding Jack of a wicked witch.
He hated the woman.
And the faded pink bows in her hair.
And her disgusting crusty cats.
And her house.
He sighs heavily and climbs the groaning staircase to his apartment room, tripping over the scattered throw rugs soaked with spots of cat urine.
He hated it all.