7.10.09: Dedicated to my beloved baby girl Dottie, 6/7.09 - 5.07.09. May she rest in peace, and know that I'll always Love and Miss her.
Also dedicated to my friend Ellis. This is partly her story, too.
--xoxoHAHAHAxoxo--
Story Song: Funhouse by Pink
Ch, 1. Why So Serious?
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She knew he would show up here eventually. There was no doubt about it. The Joker would most certainly want to take care of the man that had put the "word out" on him as soon as possible.
The mob boss, Gambol, had warned her that the clown faced lunatic was probably more dangerous than he seemed. After all, he had busted into a mob meeting all alone and had walked out without a scratch on him. And this was after he had stolen a large amount of money from the group. Not many people could say they've done the same and lived to tell about it.
But she wasn't worried. How "dangerous" could he really be if he wore clown makeup? The very thought made her snort and roll her eyes every time.
Trisha was ready, or as ready as she felt she needed to be. She would leave her car a block away, in case any cops decided to show up if things got too out of hand, and she had more than one gun on her person, four actually, all fully loaded.
Yes, the professional hit woman felt prepared. She was confident that this face painting whack job would be no match for her. A simple in and out hit. One bullet, maybe two, and she was done, free to go home to wait for the next call.
And there was always a next call. People liked her work. She kept things simple and she always got the job done on time.
That's why Gambol had been referred to her about his little problem. He didn't have much faith in the young gangsters and thugs running around the streets of Gotham, and she couldn't say she blamed him. Professionals were the way to go for jobs of this caliber. Some little punk with spiky hair didn't deserve five-hundred-grand, much less the million dollars, for getting lucky enough to simply run across this guy on the street.
A smile crept across Trisha's face as she got out of the car and headed down the sidewalk and through a neighboring yard. She blended well into the shadows with her black outfit, designed specifically for functionality and comfort, and it was dark enough outside that anyone looking her way would just think the movement against the trees was a figment of their imagination.
For three days she had been staking out the place, but so far nothing had been out of the ordinary. Ordinary, at least, for a mobsters house. People came and went. A couple had gone in and never come back out. That's just the way the business goes.
Tonight was different, she could feel it. Like electricity in the air, that calm before the storm.
Coming around the corner of the hedge and into Gambol's side yard, she saw a car parked in the driveway. Not necessarily odd, but what was being drug out of the car caught her attention. Pausing, she watched as three young men stood at the open trunk of the car, maneuvering what appeared to be a home made body bag between the three of them. They headed up the path to the front of the house, where a couple of Gambol's men met them at the door.
She overheard one of the young men, the black one, tell the bodyguard, "We've killed The Joker, and we want our money."
"That's for Gambol to decide. Bring'em in." The bodyguard responded, and the group moved inside and out of her sight.
Trisha's eyes narrowed. There was no way these young punks could have gotten so lucky so fast. It didn't add up. It had to be a trick.
Moving quickly around to the side of the house, always keeping to the shadows, Trisha found her way into the back yard. All of the lights in the huge house was on, but one room in particular seemed to be the real hot spot. She could faintly hear the tapping sound of billiard balls before it was replaced by voices.
Staying near the outer edge of the yard for the moment so they didn't catch sight of her through the windows, she could somewhat hear the conversation within, only half listening to what was being said as she pinpointed the spot she wanted to be,
"…they say they've just killed The Joker. They brought the body."
A moment of silence, interrupted by the sound of rustling plastic. Then, "So, dead, that's five-hundred--"
Suddenly, a new voice. One that made her stop in her tracks to listen more carefully, one that made her heart jump in her chest with excitement, "How about alive, hm?"
Peering around a tree to look in through the nearest window to the room, Trisha could only make out Gambol's back, and the fact that a pair of gloved hands were at his head.
"Wanna know how I got these scars?" the voice asked. She wouldn't have heard the whispering questioning if it hadn't gotten so deathly quiet. It was like the world stopped to hear the story, as well as the men inside with the story teller.
Moving swiftly but carefully out of sight, Trisha found another window more towards the back of the room. It was open, too, with sheer curtains like all the others. Keeping to the side, she looked around the edge of the frame and into the room again, only this time she was able to see everything.
The Joker had a knife to Gambol's face. The men that had brought him in in the "body bag" had the mobster's men down on their knees, guns to their heads.
She took all of this in very quickly before settling her gaze on her target. Studying him, watching him, listening to his voice as he began his story. Probably more intrigued about him than she ought to be.
"My father was…a drinker. And a fiend," From her mostly-side view of the room, she could see the expression on Gambol's face, his eyes darting once or twice to the knife held near his mouth. She could see his calm, pampas demeanor starting to waver already.
"And one night, he goes off cra-a-zier then usual. Mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself. He doesn't like that. Not. One. Bi-t."
Even to a hardcore professional like herself, Trisha had to admit that the way he spoke, that dark voice of his, and the way he licked his lips and shifted his eyes constantly was a little unsettling. Pressing closer to the edge of the window, she wanted to hear more, held by his darkly smooth voice just as easily as Gambol was held by his hands.
"So, me watching, he takes the knife to her. Laughing as he does it. He turns to me, and he says, 'Why so serious?' He comes at me with the knife,"
A very real chill crawled up Trisha's spine when The Joker's voice changed, getting raspier and deeper as he used the words of his father. When she saw the blade of the knife slipping casually into Gambol's mouth, even as the story continued, she wasn't able to suppress a shudder of anxiety.
"Why so serious!?' " He growled again in his father's voice. Gambol, glancing down at the hand holding the knife in his mouth, now looked truly terrified when he met The Joker's eyes again.
"He sticks the blade in my mouth. 'Let's put a smi-ile on that face-uh!'" Gambol's eyes widened in terror. Trisha steeled herself for what she knew was coming.
"Annnd…" The Joker paused. She saw him look over Gambol's shoulder, to the man kneeling on the floor nearest him. She looked, too, and saw the horror on the bodyguard's face.
"Why so serious?" The Joker asked him, his tone instantly more casual. Then, with one quick, violent jerk of his hand, the knife tore through the side of Gambol's mouth, severing an artery near his jaw. Some blood sprayed into the air, unnoticed, before The Joker let him fall to the floor to bleed to death.
Trisha was frozen. It felt like there was ice water in her veins. She realized all at once that this was no normal hit job. No normal target. The Joker was deadly. He was dangerous. More so then any of her other jobs had been. It wasn't just because of what she'd just seen, but the overall feel of the situation, the dark aura surrounding the purple suited clown that now she couldn't ignore.
She suddenly felt unprepared, like she had lost some of her focus in what had just happened. She realized that this man scared her like no other. He was different and he was lethal. Four guns may not be enough, after all.
"Now," The Joker said, reaching up to remove the garbage bags that had been the make shift body bag, his tone all business. When he turned to walk around the pool table, Trisha quickly slipped under the window and headed around to the other side of the house, still listening to his voice as she sought out a safer point of entry.
"Our operation is small. But, there's alo-o-ta potential for…aggr-r-ressive expansion," he went on to say before she rounded a far enough corner of the wall to loose track of his voice.
She still had a job to do. He had briefly unnerved her, that was all. She hadn't been expecting just how dangerous he really might be. She would still do this whether Gambol was dead or not. She had her money, the 700,000 she had demanded up front, so she might as well finish the job. It would look bad for her record if she didn't.
Finding another open window a couple of rooms away from the billiard room, she climbed in and moved quickly back towards the room where she could hear The Joker's voice again.
"Make it fast."
She stopped and hid behind a wall just in time, because there he was, walking out into the hallway, a broken pool cue over his shoulder, and a cell phone in his hand, licking his lips as he dialed a number.
Once the phone was at his ear, he gave a quick order of, "Start the car." Then he hung up, dropping the phone back into a pocket of his purple coat as the sounds of scuffling and cursing followed him out of the billiard doorway.
From across the large entrance hall, Trisha knew this was her chance. He was alone, walking aimlessly further into the tiled room, not even paying attention to his surroundings. He was studying the broken pool cue in his hand, the heavy end she noted, twirling it like a baton and swinging it a few times like striking at an invisible piñata.
It was now or never.
Reaching slowly for the gun by her waist, she slipped it out of the holster, and aimed carefully around the corner of the wall at his head. With a slight smile on her lips, she pulled back the hammer with a soft click…