Worship
At first glance, religion was a very difficult thing to find in Gotham.
People moved through the streets, blind and helpless to any sort of immortal force that watched over them. The death and rancor that constantly surrounded their every living moment on Earth had choked the faith out of the lot of them. What kind of God would allow such suffering to happen in a city as damned as this? No, the Devil only lurked here, and the Devil alone owned them all, simply lying in wait to claim their souls as they hurried home. Which poor unfortunate passerby would meet his maker tonight? Only their murderers knew – and not even them, for fear of when the shadowed Angel would swoop in to stop them. It seemed that the city was indeed lost, for a darkened demonic saint of a creature to have taken the place of many people's personal gods. Instead of praying to God the Father or Allah or Jesus Christ or what have you, Batman's name was on the lips of countless muggees and would-be homicide victims in alleys and street corners.
Upon closer look, religion had taken a very steep upsurge in Gotham City. For the citizens dealt with miracles every night. The miracle that they were still alive, and the miracle that an ordinary man had become a rallying symbol of hope for them all when he tore down crime at night behind a black mask. Such little victories proved their faith in their savior in even the darkest of moments. When all seemed lost, their messiah descended from the obsidian-black heavens to sweep the danger aside, and part the Red Sea of blood to keep their spirits up for a few moments. It may only be for a few moments before the next onslaught took its course, but it was the small moments that tried their faith and proved it every time. So still, they looked up to the skies in a united congregation whenever the blazing emblem from the floodlight shone its glory upon the clouds. Whenever it flicked on, it was almost like a Mass, as every person in Gotham instinctively raised their spirits towards the sky, in a single movement of hope. The hope for their carpenter's great work upon Earth, to bring his Father's message to his people.
Until, of course, his Antichrist reappeared. The laughing menace. They huddled in fear from his mirthful wrath, his unadulterated genocides and mind traps to test their faith in their hero. He constantly lured them away from the light, and into the darkness of their own souls, into corners of their minds that they never wanted to venture into. He brought out the worst in them, as they devoured each other, devolved to pure animals under his watchful eye. Those lucky enough to sidestep his latest plots trembled in the overwhelming power of this godless maniac – indeed, how extraordinarily godless he was. How could one with such lack of faith in…in anything, have such authority over their mere mortal selves?
And that was the flaw in their logic. They failed to realize the truth. The Joker was anarchistic, irreverent, remorseless, and illogical…but he was definitely not godless. In fact, he was perhaps the most ardent follower of Gotham's brand of religion in the entire city. He had followed it through all of his living memory. And he alone knew its true meaning, the root of it all. It was what his existence had come to revolve around.
He had two gods. Himself…
…and his Bat.
He stumbled into his warehouse hideaway, where he had hunkered down for the past week. It was as close to a home as anything, really. The city was his home – where specifically in his domain he chose to park himself was of little concern. Harley certainly didn't mind, either; at least, if she did, she certainly didn't let on about it. But at that moment she was cleaning up after his last brush with the cops, leading them on a wild goose chase while stealing some dinner for the two of them on her way home. In the meantime, he had to get the bombs loaded for tomorrow morning.
That, however, was the last thing on his mind. As he staggered blindly and felt his way down the wall to their sleeping area, all he could focus on was the shining object in his hand. He kept sniggering and giggling with increasing amusement at his find, and continually crashed into the various shotguns and assault rifles that littered the concrete floor. He nearly tripped over a barrel of gunpowder, and it sent him sprawling to the floor in a tangle of limbs. He simply laughed louder at this, his eyes still locked on the slivery target of his desire that he continued to clutch fiercely in his palm.
A batarang. He had found a batarang. The goddamn Batman had been foolish enough to drop one of his little toys in the midst of a rooftop brawl, and he had been cunning enough to swipe it away and pocket the little devil before Batty-bat had even noticed! Oh how sweet the tang of victory could be on his tongue at moments like this, intermixed with the blood that still trickled from his mouth (that last punch had been a medal winner to be sure), and of course the unmistakable collection of drool that formed in his mouth whenever the knight approached him. To have his purpose incarnate race at him at full speed with fists clenched and eyes blazing hate…it was bliss. Pure, untainted ecstasy. And now it showed through to its fullest, as the Clown Prince crawled on the floor towards his lumpy, stolen mattress with the night's trophy grasped in his fingers.
He tumbled onto his back on the makeshift bed, still not taking his gleeful eyes off the metallic prize. It seemed so pristine in here, surrounded by the filth of the unkempt warehouse. Almost to the point of looking out of place. But that could never be. In fact, there was never a time when it could have been more in place than right now. The batarang belonged here, in Joker's hand, grasped more reverently than any random civilian would have done had anyone else chanced to come upon it if he had left it there. No, this was his, hishishis, and he needed it to be his beyond any other need, any other want, anything…
Gasping deeply in between giggles, he squeezed his palm around the metal, feeling its flawless edges dig into his purple stitched glove, no doubt leaving grooves in his skin underneath. But that wasn't enough; no…it couldn't be enough. Nothing could ever be enough for him, not when it came to Batman. Always needed more. More of his bite and his mark.
Him…
He rolled up his multiple sleeves of jackets and shirt, exposed his bare forearm to the wild night air. Moving his left hand to grab the batarang from his right, he slowly crept it along his wrist to the stripped flesh until it lay perfectly flush with his veins, in between his wrist and his elbow crease. He exhaled heavily at the cool touch of the metal against his skin, feeling the powerful aura of the Bat that still lingered around his symbol seep into his being. It was like God's touch, upon his own skin, sending sparks of the divine into a mortal soul, buoying him up until he transcended the laws of ordinary men, and became something else entirely…
Still laughing, still taking in ragged breaths of emotion, he felt his chest burn with a fire for more. More of that power, more of that presence, of that flame that burned just as bright as his own, that fought to consume his in a torrent of righteous anger. But how could one fire destroy another? No, they were just two flames at war with each other, feeding off each other's fuel and igniting into something beyond their control, into this struggle they could never stop. Could only feed off each other. And while Batman turned his back on the endless give-and-take, he at least had the sense to enjoy it.
To satisfy the burning need, he pressed the batarang in deeper against his flesh. As the pressure increased, he felt the essence of his soul mate roar further to his core, but it still could go farther. Still could be pressed deeper…and deeper…and deeper…
When the first pricks of blood welled up on the wingtips of the steel animal, he knew he was getting somewhere. His laughter had now escalated to the point of hysteria, and his fight for breath was matched in intensity only by his fight to meld the bat to his arm. He plunged the object further into the cuts that had already formed at his wrist, and pain danced up and down his forearm as scarlet holy water streamed all along the outline of the batarang. His blood, spilt once again by the instrument of his other half, sent shivers of joy down his spine. As he gazed at the red rivers that laced down the silver, he pressed a thumb forcefully against the object, sending a jolt of euphoric agony down his nerve endings. It jarred him so wonderfully, clouded his senses so beautifully, that he knew now what he wanted. He needed to become lost in this sensation, to let Batman's traces of influence envelop him, shroud him in his cloaking power, feel him there with him even when they were miles apart, just to ensure that they truly were as bound together as he felt they were, as he needed them to be…
His laughter intermixed with cries of jubilation as he jolted the metal into his veins the deepest yet, sending a fresh wave of blood throbbing past the batarang onto its flawless surface. He closed his eyes at the dripping sensation down his arm, and let the object fall free onto his chest in abandon, as he brought his arm down directly in front of his face, inches from his eyes. When he opened his eyes again, he nearly choked at what he saw: the symbol of the bat, inscribed perfectly on the inside of his forearm, branding him as his enemy's own. The unnatural sight of the bat outline dripping with blood down his skin sent beautiful chills down his back again, so exceedingly perfect was the display. Perfect like his Bat, and himself, how they both were together, so made for each other, their bond so divine in its design that it crushed them both under its sheer magnitude. Crushed them, and defined his existence completely.
On pure instinct and emotion that swelled up in his chest, he brought his arm down to his face, bringing his mouth up to his chosen stigmata to lap gently, then as the need overtook him tear ravenously at the wound. He closed his eyes shut for the communion, feeling the blood coat his already-ruby lips, trickle its metallic taste onto his ruined tongue as it swarmed over the carving in incessant strokes, wanting the taste to merge Batman with him so completely until there was no separating the two of them. His laughs and feral moans and growls brought his need to a fever-pitch, taking his nips to new heights as he gnawed into his arm all the more viciously, like the starving dog he was devouring the meat on his bones. This was worship. This was the religion of Gotham, carried out by its one most fanatical follower. The mindless, hungering need for its warrior, and the struggle he faced with his demons and adversaries, the most potent of which believed in their union more than anything on Earth. And he always hungered for more, more, more and MORE…what else was there to give? What more could be sacrificed to his two heathens?
Unconscious of his actions, his free right arm traveled down to his chest, where the neglected batarang lay just above his frantic heart. His fingers worked at buttons, freeing his torso to the night air – his enemy's hunting ground. His lungs heaved rapidly underneath the splayed fabric of his shirt, yet he barely noticed what he had just done; all his focus was on the sensory information from his mouth and forearm, where he coupled himself to the Batman's image and mindlessly sought unity from the soul of his equal. For the crusader's soul was certainly there – wherever his symbol lay, wherever the Joker went, Batman traveled with them, his intangible influence floating ghost-thin around the presence of his nemesis, if only due to his complete moral contrast to the killer. And this killer had to get in touch with the single speck of Bat within his being, to finally merge with the whole that the two of them had fragmented off of at their mutual creation.
His mind still on autopilot, his free hand sought lower, down to the jungle where nobody but Harley went, and even then only sparingly when he needed to better manipulate her into submitting to her unknowing enslavement. But all-consuming need drove him on to unzip his pants to free the arousal that he hadn't seen coming before, but had cropped up without his knowledge. Still barely aware of his ministrations, he fisted himself furiously as he sucked up the blood that still cascaded from his forearm, letting the throb from both regions of his body sweep over him in the uninterrupted mantra of BatsBatsBats in his head. His need was neither solely spiritual nor physical in origin, but absolute, and seamlessly spilled into both areas of desire with its total domination of his senses. The world was collapsing around him now, and was slowly constricting itself in a vacuum until nothing remained in focus but the detective himself, a shining wraith against the dark of the moon and the eclipse of the sun. Nothing else mattered but him, his fight, his existence, his warped thinking and unbreakable foundations, nothing but him, BATMAN…
He came violently onto his hand as he screamed the name onto the symbol of the vigilante, at last overcome by the spastic rapture of the Batman's wavelength conjoining with his own. For he had felt him there at that moment, had seen his crystal blue eyes staring into him as if he were standing right above him, radiating that warmth that only he could project. He had been right there…
As the last aftershock slipped away from his body, he jerked his eyes open, thus breaking the spell. There was no Batman in the warehouse; all that was there was the jagged wound on his forearm, and the silver instrument that had caused it that lay pooled in blood on his chest. He released all tension in his muscles, and closed his eyes again in a sigh, letting the warmth of the afterglow surround him in a hazy bubble. He had tangoed with the gods just a few minutes ago, and the memory was now etched into his mind clear as day, to be filed away for a jubilant reflection at a later date.
His collection of thoughts was jarred out of focus as clanging footsteps approached him. He blearily opened his eyes in the sound's direction to see Harley strutting towards him, Taco Bell bags in tow. She smiled as she met his eyes, and plopped down next to him on the mattress.
"Could'a waited for me," she remarked playfully, running her fingers through the mossy mop of his hair as she fished for a taco in the bag.
He cocked an eyebrow, unsure as to what she was referring to. Wait…ah yes. Sex. Of course. All she could see was that he had jacked off while waiting for her, needing some sort of simply physical release. She couldn't feel the lulling warmth that surrounded the room now, the last latent traces of the truly magical event that had just occurred in the warehouse, of two divinities' spirits fusing together in the most holy of ways…
"Well," he began, reaching for the taco she handed him, "this one couldn't wait."
She laughed and bit into her own taco, unaware of how agnostically ignorant she truly was.
A precursor/insert to my monster-fic that's coming this June, during which it will already be established that Joker has a bat symbol carved on the inside of his forearm. This takes place after he picks up Harley, obviously.