(So this is my take on the origin of Jack Napier aka The Joker.
Not being a fan of the origins he's given reasons on my profile I've taken a stab at one though I've most likley failed
I hope you enjoy this I'm sorry for the lack of Mr Napier in this chapter but if its liked I'll put some more up.)
Ch 1: Hysterical.
When I was packing my things my mother turned to me with a tear in her brown eyes and said:
"Did that thing have any decency at all?"
I knew who she was referring to. The one and only, Jack Napier.
The hearts of my peers in school would fill with ghoulish stories, by the wince of his name like he where an animal in cage. But thinking back to my childhood memory, I never recall him as the monster the ghost stories portray him as. But he was neither an angel, by no account. The best I could describe Jack Napier was by calling him color. Every room and person was black and grey, and he was the color. He had the power to give and take whatever he pleased. He was feared and loved all the same. He ruled the lower end of Gotham City like God.
The lower end of Gotham to this day is not a pretty place, though it is far more cleansed than I recall in my childhood years. In those days brothels shined their glittery signs at passers by, where bars where open all night to the point wives had to claim their husbands from the poor lit places (which would usually result in a black eye or two). In the days where you would play on your stereo, an innocent track like Michael Jackson - Billie Jean and dance in the comfort of your bedroom, some poor neighbor across the street caught in a brawl with the thugs of Gothams underworld would hear it as their final song.
My family and I where unlucky enough to be in a steady home in Gothams lower end. We where one of the few families who where lucky enough to have a home and not a dusty crammed apartment. It was not until I was older did I realize that families with homes in Gothams lower end where involved with Dean Falcone.
Dean Falcone, the father of Carmine Falcone a familiar face in the modern Gotham crime ways. I knew Carmine when he was a young man, and his father when he was nearing his death bed. I'd loved Dean Falcone with all my heart he was the Grandfather I'd never had, Carmine however I was not so sure with. He told me to call him uncle but unlike his father I never got a family bond with him instead I had a secret disgust for him that I could never quite understand. But as I grew older I discovered it was a mutual thing, but now I'm getting sidetracked from the point of this chapter an introduction to the man of the hour.
The first time I ever met Jack Napier was at a funeral when I was ten.
A friend of my fathers had died someone within the Falcone working circle, so out of respect the whole family was dragged along. I of course was not happy, but just by my fathers angry look I zipped my mouth shut. Unlike most children within the lower end of Gotham my brother and I didn't need to be beaten into submission all my father had to do was give us 'the look' and we where quiet. Upon arriving I instantly met as I called him at the time 'Grandpa Dean' where I was whisked away from my fathers side. He said to me "Sandra (my mothers name) my you've shrunk." I giggled and cocked my head to the side, saying "Its me grandpa Dean." He would pull his shocked face, which never failed to amuse me stating "You grow prettier each time I see you I thought you where your mother.". I always enjoyed Deans company, he would sneak ten dollars in my pocket and tell me to run along, he'd let me beat him up whilst pulling silly faces, and allow me to play cards with him though the rules never stuck in my brain and had to be re-taught them every time I played, things that real Grand fathers do. We where spending the after party of the service at Grandpa Deans mansion of a home, it surprised me no one had ever tried to rob it especially since it being in Gothams lower end, but if they ever did they'd be dead and that my dear reader isn't an overstatement.
It was there I lay my ten year old eyes on Jack Napier. The minute he walked into the room the party rose from its mourning and transformed into the immature fun nature of a bachelor party because it was graced with his presence. He told the best jokes, (I came to this conclusion from every time he spoke to someone they'd suddenly burst into hysterics). He was the best card player in the house (I knew this from overhearing someone bitch about it). But what I found the most surprising of him, was his constant grin. Whenever someone spoke to him he smiled, when drinking beer he smiled, when loosing money at cards he smiled, when the speeches of honoring the dead mans memory came and those that knew him or didn't shed a tear for his soul, he still grinned to his hearts content.
My poor ten year old brain was rattled by this revelation. I was always taught that funerals where a sad occasion and here was this man breaking the code of civilization. It was then I decided Jack Napier was the most beautiful man I'd ever lay my eyes on. Not because he was attractive god no! My ten year old tomboyish mind would punch boys before kissing them. Even when I remember back in a more mature state of mind Jack Napier was not attractive, but maybe I'm saying that because it wouldn't be a mature thing to acknowledge a man like Jack as attractive. He was a medium weight and seemed to hunch his shoulders all the time, when he wasn't speaking he had a silver dollar coin laced through his fingers, his skin was tanned but he still seemed sickly pale I cant describe how there was just this look of sickness inside him, and his hair was a dirty blonde not brown, not blonde, but dirty blonde a hybrid of the two if you will. He wasn't some ghoulish monster with fangs and a glass eye but there was something not right with him. But he still has to be the most beautiful person I've ever met. For the simple reason that he could mask every flaw built inside him, and contain every dark fantasy dwelling, every distain and hatred to the common man, to the point he was to the untrained eye, perfect.
Of course being ten I wasn't philosophical enough to grasp that idea and instead was curious as to why the sly grin always stood on his face, so during the time when music blared and people reigned the dance floor I approached him. "Mr." I stated tugging his jacket sleeve. He turned to face me, I was taken off guard for a second. The look in his eyes just seemed to have this way of placing you on an operating table and dissecting every part of your personality in one look. However he blinked and I was composed enough to ask. "Why are you always smiling." His tongue slivered on his bottom lip, his hand fell on my shoulder nailing me to the ground, and with a grin revealing his surprisingly white teeth he said: "Because its all so fucking hysterical." Before I had a chance to question what he meant, my fathers arm yanked me back from Mr Napier's grip. He looked up at my father smiling still. "Is this your little cub Harry? She's pwitty." He stated up to my father. In what I now recognize was a mock at politeness. Without a word my father pulled me away walking far away from Napier, whispering in my ear; "Don't you ever talk to him again." But I was still pondering in my head…..what was hysterical about a funeral?
But as I later learned everything was hysterical to Jack Napier.