Bully
"Don't scream and I won't kill you," his hot breath warmed her ear. Sally knew she couldn't scream if she wanted to, he'd knocked all the air out of her with that last punch. His one hand was firm against her mouth and she whined as his fingers bit down into her cheeks. His other hand was already fumbling around with her belt. She sobbed and hitched under his hand His grip tightened and it felt as if her jaw might just give up and break.
"Shut up," he said pushing her head back into the alley's brick wall. Sally saw stars for a moment. She chewed the inside of her mouth trying not to scream anymore. Her waist moved and jived with his hand. He was pulling the belt, trying to rip it off, and only succeeding in frustrating himself. Harder and harder he pulled by the moment Sally could feel the belt digging into her flesh.
"Fuck," he said and pushed her to the cold, slimy ground. Sally saw her chance and was immediately on her feet. She pumped her legs as hard as she ever had before yet it felt like she was in a slow dream. The alley seemed as long as eternity. A car passed at the end of eternity. Suddenly sally remembered she could scream. She pushed the trapped wail out of her lungs. It bounced off his hand and back down her throat.
His hand clamped her jaw and she squealed underneath his grasp. He spun her around, his other hand wielding a silver blade. She could see the lights of freedom reflected off the blade. Then a shadow as if movement. As if—No, just her hopeful imagination. He smiled with yellow teeth and the stench of numerous smoked weeds.
"I'm fast, huh?" he said with a sick pride, "Now I told you as long as you listened and stayed quiet I wouldn't kill you. I promise you and I never break a promise. I don't really wanna hurt you anyway. Who would want to hurt such a beautiful young lady," she heard his zipper come down and felt something soft poker her gut, "I love you."
He let go of her mouth then and Sally might have screamed but now both his hands and his knife was at her belt. She could feel the cold metal against her belly and then there was a prick and he cut through the belt. Her waist expanded minutely and there was a small giggle of glee from her assailant. Then her pants were around her ankles and then her white panties were there too. She felt herself lowered to the cold ground and gasped. She told herself this wasn't her body, that no matter what this wasn't her body.
He smiled the happiest smile ever. Sally looked into his eyes and knew he was evil. Then— There it was again, a shadow from the rooftops, something moving. Then it all happened so fast nobody really knew what was going on.
The shadow dropped from the roof and grabbed Sally's rapist by his neck. The shadow held tight and the rapist gasped. He beat against the shadow's arm, flailing and kicking his legs, but it was no use. The shadow held strong, unflinching. Finally, Sally's assailant went limp. The shadow dropped him to the ground and turned to go. Sally quickly got on her feet and pulled up her pants.
"Wait," she said buckling her belt, "I didn't thank you for saving my life."
The shadow didn't answer.
"Are you some kind of superhero or something?"
The shadow turned around white, hard eyes stared back at her. Sally was now convinced she had just been saved by a vampire.
"Who are you?" sally asked.
There was a rustling of leather and the shadow was gone, back to the rooftops and as it ran away, silhouetted in the full moon, Sally thought she saw pointy ears and a cape.
Patrick Dumphrey, or as the kids of Chamberlain Elementary knew him; Fat Pat, Pat the Plump, and even Patty the Fatty. In Junior High kids veered away from the fat stuff for a while. Sure they still referred to him as Fat Pat but there was also Patty the Faggy, Patricia the Fag, Fat Pat the Fag, and the infamous phrase, "I gotta go take a Dumphrey."
Finally in High School things finally changed. Patrick Dumphrey joined track and a lot of his fat disappeared and the fat that stayed became muscle. They still called him Fat Pat but it was more out of habit then anything else. He was even able to procure himself a girlfriend and get himself gloriously laid on White Day, Chamberlain's version of Ditch Day.
Finally, the last anyone heard of Fat Pat was prom night when Patrick Dumphey was crowned king and someone began to chant, "Fat Pat! Fat Pat! Fat Pat!" and it turned into, "Patrick! Patrick! Patrick!"
That was the last Patrick Dumphrey and anyone else heard of Fat Pat for four years, five weeks away from the finish of Patrick's senior year of college.
Patrick was heading across the parking lot from the dorms to the cafeteria when he was stopped by Dean Ratgowin.
"Patrick," Ratgowin called, "Patrick could you come here a second?"
Patrick, hungry and trying to get some food before they stopped serving dinner in fifteen minutes, reluctantly went over.
"Yes, Dean Ratgowin."
"Patrick, I wonder if you'd show a new student around for me. His name is Dutch Arwin. He'll be taking some summer classes and moving in with us next semsmetr and he wanted to know if he could come check Camberlain out for himself. He'll be staying in the dorms for the next few weeks just to get a feel for thing. I'd show him around myself but I have a faculty meeting and I really must go."
"Well, I don't know Mr. Ratgowin. They stop serving dinner in fifteen minutes and I'm really hungry."
"Well I'm not asking you to take him on a tour of the school right now just take him to dinner and show him where his room is. I believe it's in your building anyway."
"I don't know Mr. Ratgowin."
"Patrick," Ratgowin said in a soft stern voice, "I would really appreciate it," and there was something in his voice. Something that said it wasn't a request after all
"Okay," Patrick resigned, "Where is he?"
Ratgowin pointed to the administration building steps. Politely waiting halfway up the steps was a young man with the body of a lumberjack. He had to be at least six feet tall, if not larger, and his legs seemed like tree trunks to Patrick. There was an uncomfortable feel to him and, for some reason, he reminded Patrick of someone he knew. He couldn't quite put his finger on it but there was something there.
Patrick went over to him.
"Dutch?"
The young boy looked up and smiled. Patrick flinched a little at that smile. It reminded him of the smile the Joker always wore in the Batman comics. Patrick got his mind off the comics and stuck out his hand.
"My name's Patrick, you'll be eating dinner with me tonight."
"I'm Dutch," the kid said still smirking, "Nice to meet you," and when he shook Patrick's hand it felt like he was trying to break it. Patrick attempted to be as manly as possible and squeeze back but the harder he squeezed Dutch just squeezed harder. Rick's hand felt like it had been caught under the wheel of a moving car and later that night it would still be sore. Dutch knew these things and smiled wider. Patrick was once again caught with momentary fear as he saw the Joker's smile once again show itself and then even worse was he saw that smile become a smile he knew. A cruel smile he never wanted to see again. Then Dutch released his hand and the strange thoughts went away.
"Let's go eat," Dutch said slapping Patrick hard on the shoulder.
"Yah," Patrick said trying to smile and not favor his hand, "Let's."
They went into the green and blue tiled lunchroom, the only two people there, and got in line.
"What'll it be, boss," asked Frank.
"I'll have some mashed potatoes with gravy and that beef thing there."
"You got it. What about you, man."
"I'll have the mashed potatoes," Patrick started, "the beef, some chicken legs, a piece of the lasagna, and a slice of pie."
"No problem."
Frank trundled into the back to get the orders.
"Somebody's hungry," Dutch said and stared at Patrick like he was an animal.
"Yah," Patrick said with an uneasy smile, "I used to be fat and I guess my appetite never really went with the weight."
"Used to be," Dutch said and laughed.
"Yah," Patrick said trying to laugh back.
Frank came back with their plates. They both took them and said thank you.
"So, where do you want to sit?" Patrick asked.
"Oh, I don't care," Dutch said, "I'm following you Fat Pat."
Dutch laughed again and the familiarity that hit Pat made him drop his tray.
Ryan Blake and John Deighan sat in the cab of Old Man Henty's pick up truck, smoking a joint and trying to figure out what to do. Old Man Henty, Irwin to his neighbors, was in the truck's flatbed unconscious and losing a lot of blood from the fracture in his skull. He wasn't dead yet but well on his way.
Ryan Blake wanted to take Henty to the hospital and get him some help but Deighan knew that meant they'd get busted not just for hijacking the old man but assaulting him as well.
"Well we could just like drop him off out front, anonymously," Ryan suggested.
"Are you kidding?" John said, " He'd tell as soon as he was conscious.
"Shit, you're right," Ryan said taking drag from the blunt," So what are we gonna do? If we get busted my mom's gonna kill me."
"We ain't gonna get busted, Ryan cause I tell you what we're gonna do we're—"
John's window blew inward. Dark hands grabbed him.
"You're going to jail."
John disappeared through the broken window. A tinny squeal escaped Ryan and he stared, frozen and unable to move, out the broken window as the blowing wind wind whistled past. What the hell was that? Was that a person? It had just come in through the window like—
Ryan's window blew in and arms wrapped around his shoulders. He tried to scream as the thing pulled him out the window but all that came out was a hissing gasp. His ears felt hot and he realized they were cut and bleeding. Then he was on the ground, looking at the upside down figure towering over him; white eyes, hard sneer, and Ryan knew the thing looking down at him was none other than—
His own thoughts interrupted themselves.
"Who are you?"
Ryan was knocked unconscious and Irwin Henty was rushed to the hospital. He survived but spent the latter week in a coma. The day following Ryan Blake and John Deighan's weed break in the cab of Old Man Henty's truck, they were found fixed together, their wrists and ankles bound with what police described as a rope with weights attached to the ends, otherwise known as a bola.
Patrick ran down the hall, water and soap dripping from his naked body. His hands clasped the yellow towel strewn quickly over his bottom half. Sure enough Dutch came out of his room just as Pat was passing. It was as it Dutch always knew when Pat was near and always "just happened" to bump into him.
Dutch came out of his room and spotted Pat running down the halls.
"Whoa! Watch where you're going Fat Pat… and get some clothes on Blubber Butt."
Pat heard Dutch laughing behind him and tried to ignore it but somehow Dutch was just so good at making Pat feel like he was in elementary school again. It seemed like every time Pat was around Dutch he felt eleven again and even worse was the horrid nostalgic feeling he got around Dutch. It was as if he had known Dutch in a past life or something. But he had never seen Dutch before in his life. Or so he had thought.
He had been in the personal bathroom, the only dorm shower bigger than a phone booth, washing and thinking; Patrick did all his best thinking in the shower, it was where he got most of his ideas, when it just hit him. He bolted out of the shower, quickly wrapping his towel around his waist. The door to Patrick's room burst open moments later and Patrick rushed in, dropping his towel and slamming his door shut, Dutch's laughter fading behind him. He ran to his closet and flung open the door.
Boxes filled the closet from bottom to top, each one marked with a black Sharpie marker.
DC, MARVEL, 80'S BATMAN, ALIENS VS. PREDATOR, FRANK MILLER BATMAN, 70'S BATMAN, 60'S BATMAN, 50'S AND 40'S BATMAN, AZRAEL, DAREDEVIL, FRANK MILLER DAREDEVIL, SANDMAN, SWAMP THING, 90'S BATMAN
It looked like the closet had been bricked up with these boxes and each box itself looked as if it weighed a hundred pounds for each one was brimming with comic books. This was Patrick Dumphrey's only geek related passion he still kept up with and allowed himself to become immersed in. This was his past, his childhood, stuffed into frail brown boxes and stacked inside a dorm room closet. It was the only good thing from his childhood and the only thing he truly cherished. Each comic was well over twenty-five dollars and each one, though seemingly stacked willy nilly, was carefully organized and in the best of conditions. This was, to put it simply, Patrick's love.
Patrick grabbed a box in the middle of the cardboard stack and pulled it out. Any other person would have avoided that box completely for it seemed to bear the bulk of the closet's immensity but Patrick pulled it from under the other five boxes smoothly and rapidly to reveal his makeshift cubby. It was purely genius within itself. A small cubby created literally from the surrounding boxes bearing each other's weight. No one would ever think to look behind that box in particular and if they did either the appearance of the box's load bearing or the resistance the box first dealt when removal was attempted would surely dissuade them. In the four years Patrick had gone to Chamberlain Community it had worked and no one had ever found his secret stash.
Now he placed the box on the hardwood floor and pulled a green photo album from his cubby. He habitually returned the middle box marked 80'S BATMAN and took the album over to his bed.
Page one: Birth, Page Two: Baby's Firsts, Page Three: Preschool and Kindergarten, Page Four: Grades 1-3, Page Five: Grades 1-6
And there it was. His fifth grade picture, Ms. News's class, first row, sixth child from the left, there was Patrick "Fat Pat" Dumphrey and right above him was the bully that had made Patrick's life a living hell for eight consecutive school years. From 1st to 8th grade Patrick had gone to school with him and in 5th grade he'd been unlucky enough to be in the same class as him. In the picture, Patrick's bully had two fingers up behind Patrick's head in the universal silent insult know as "bunny ears", in later years when Patrick himself would attempt the insult his fellow students would tell him it meant he wanted to shower with the fellow he was doing it too. But here it was, two fingers carefully placed behind the head, so simple yet so painful and right behind that head was the sneering bullying face of Dutch Arwin.
Patrick looked up the name in the little captions below the picture: Joseph Irwin. That's why Patrick always felt Dutch reminded him of someone because Dutch was the spitting image of Patrick's old bully, Dutch Arwin was the mirror image of Joseph Irwin, a dead ringer. But it seemed more than that. Dutch not only shared the looks of the bullying Irwin but he shared the same mannerisms. He knew to call Patrick Fat Pat even though Patrick weighed no more than 150 lbs., he always seemed to be around when Patrick least expected, he received the simple idiotic joy that Irwin had received in Patrick's torment, and he even had the same guffawing laughter. It was clear. Dutch wasn't just the spitting image of Irwin he was Joseph Irwin. Only he was smarter. Joseph Irwin had been dull and simple, a grunt, minion material. Dutch Arwin was clever and manipulative, he could see it in Dutch's eyes, eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of ages. That there was something too. Joseph Irwin had blue eyes, Dutch Arwin had green eyes. They were different people. But Patrick knew they weren't. When Dutch talked to him, when Dutch teased him, and especially when Dutch smiled Patrick knew it was Joseph Irwin and that wasn't even the worst. The worst was that Joseph Irwin had been dead from a car accident for eight years.
"What ya lookin' at, Patty?"
Pat jumped at the voice and dropped his album. His hands fumbled for the blanket underneath him to hide his nudity. Dutch giggled maniacally. Pat got the blanket over his waist and tried to seem angry.
"What the hell are you doing in my room?"
"The door was open," Dutch replied, "I came to see what you were up to buddy."
Pat hated that more than anything. As mean as Dutch was he always seemed to be nothing more than Pat's friend. He would insult, tease, and drive Pat completely bug shit but in the end he always convinced everyone, and sometimes almost Pat too, that it was all just good clean fun.
Patrick picked a pair of dirty pants from the floor and began to ease them on under the blankets.
"So when you saw me naked you just thought you'd stare at me?"
"Don't flatter yourself Fat Pat the Fag,
(Pat flinched at this.)
I wouldn't want you even if I was gay you little homo," then Dutch's face became serious and scary, "and if you try and tell anyone AI was in here looking at you I'll bust your face in, tell everyone you're a fag, and then bust your face in some more you little shit."
Pat stared at the dead bully in front of him. The dead bully that had returned to life, gotten a new name, and stole the Joker's smile. The dead bully broke into great guffaws of laughter, he began to stroll around the room, touching Pat's things and smiling that evil smile. Pat didn't even have the guts to put on a shirt let alone tell Dutch to leave, he just stared at Dutch trying to convince himself he was not looking at the reincarnated Joe Irwin, he was not very persuasive. Then Dutch halted dead in his tracks. He stared at the book lying open on the floor and the picture which glared up at him. He looked right into the eyes of the bully in the picture then he looked right into Pat's eyes. He rushed at Pat and gripped him. Pat squealed as Dutch's fingers dug into the flesh of his shoulders.
"Fat Pat. Fat Pat. Fat Pat.", Dutch whispered into Pat's face and face gagged at the horrible smell of death on Dutch's breath. Then when Pat didn't know if he would pass out of throw up Dutch let him go and began to laugh again. He walked over to the comics and a lump of emotion that was almost maternal worry rose in Patrick's throat, Dutch was going to hurt his comics.
Patrick picked up the blanket around his ankles and threw it over his shoulders. He tied the ends around his neck. He did this without even thinking.
"Get away from my comics," Patrick said in a strong voice that didn't sound like his own, "and get the hell out of my room, punk."
Dutch turned around with a matter-of-fact grin on his face. Then the grin disappeared when he saw Patrick. Patrick seemed taller, bigger, and scarier. Dutch attempted to sneer but it only seemed like he was constipated.
"Fuck you," was all he could say and then he stomped out of Patrick's room, "I'll be seeing you around, Fat Pat."
Dutch began to giggle again as soon as he was out of Patrick's sight. Once again Pat was reminded of the Joker. He shut his door and locked it. He sat down and pulled the blanket from around his neck. His breaths were deep and forced as if he was having an asthma attack. It felt like all the air was knocked out of him. He had never been so scared in his life. But he had also never felt better. For that brief moment he had felt like another person, stronger, he had felt like a hero. But he also took relief in knowing that it was over. Little did he know it was only the beginning.
Chamberlain's Chief Commissioner of Police, Gordon Doyle, was not a superstitious man, he believed in what he saw and could be proven and only that. He was a simple man, a bachelor, and had worked in the Chamberlain Police Department for over ten years just like his father had. He had never really wanted to be a cop but it had been easy for him, his father being sheriff, and he had taken the job without complaints and in the years he had served as officer, lieutenant, sheriff, and finally, chief, he had come to, not love, but respect the job he had and the good he did.
But it was now more than ever that he wished he'd been offered another occupation.
Dark Vigilante Strikes Again, Dark Avenger Prowls Chamberlain, Major Decrease In Crime As Dark Hero Stands Vigil Over Town, Chamberlain Fears No More As Hero Prowls The Night, Chamberlain Finally Gets Its Hero
The headlines ran rampant. No matter where he went Doyle found himself staring down a reporter begging to no more about Chamberlain's very own superhero. Doyle himself wished he knew something. They had no fingerprints, no evidence, and no idea. The eye witness accounts didn't help either, always the same. A man, dressed all in black. Sometimes blue, sometimes hazel eyes. He wears a makeshift cape and a black mask, sometimes the mask has pointy ears, but no one ever sees his face. The witnesses say he is 5'11" while the criminals claim he is well over six foot. The only thing they had on him was that he was young, barely in his twenties. Now all Doyle had to do was figure out why some kid was dressing up like a superhero and leaping about town doing good like some uber boy scout.
Doyle had a head ache. Time to go home.
Doyle grabbed his jacket and headed out the back door toward his car. He was the only car still in the lot, a tired old brown 89' Honda Accord. Doyle pulled up his zipper and schlepped over to his car. He slid behind the wheel easily and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The headache was getting worse. Then there was cold metal against his forehead and the click of a gun's hammer being pulled back.
"Evening Commissioner Doyle."
Doyle looked in his rear view mirror into the grinning face of Kenny Garson. Scars patterned his face. The voice inside Gordon Doyle's head told him to panic, told him to go for the gun. Doyle's instinct told him to remain calm. So he did.
"Kenny Garson," Doyle said, "I didn't know they let you out."
"Sure did, Commissioner. Let me out two weeks ago."
"Good for you, Kenny. You've paid what you owed. Now it's time to move on."
Kenny was sweating now, profusely. He was nervous. Kenny wasn't a killer and it was getting to him. Doyle could see it in Kenny's face. Ten years ago Kenny had gotten drunk and went out cruising. He ended up parked behind Ewen High School eyeing down a couple of girls in their prom dresses out for a smoke break. One of the supervisors spotted Garson watching from his car and approached the vehicle. Kenny, drunk and jumpy, sped away and hit one of the girls, a junior named Kelly McManus. Kenny had just kept on driving without even realizing he had hit someone. As for the girl, she died instantly when after being thrown twenty feet into a brick wall. Kenny was arrested within an hour. Gordon Doyle had been the officer who arrested him, found him passed out in his car by the Cavalier bar. There was blood still drying on the hood. Kenny Garson received the minimum sentence of ten years for vehicular manslaughter and there was no doubt in anyone's mind it had been Officer Gordon Doyle's testimony that put him there. No one had gotten any type of license plate or any real good look at the car so if Doyle hadn't found him there before he woke up, Garson would have gotten off scott free. But Doyle had found him and sent poor Kenny Garson to Shawshank for a good ten years. Now Kenny Garson was back, angry, and from the looks of it he had a lot of reasons to shoot good old Commissioner Gordon Doyle.
Doyle stared into Garson's fiery eyes trying to ignore the shaky gun. He knew that shaking was his only chance of getting out of this alive. If he let on he knew Kenny was nervous Kenny wouldn't even give him the chance to act. Doyle had to play this cool and watch for his chance.
"You're right Commissioner, time to move on and that's what I had planned to do when I got out. But, you see, when you wake up every morning and have to look at this mess in the mirror it makes it a little hard to just move on and forget the past. Especially when the shit," Kenny accentuated this by pressing the gun's barrel harder against Doyle's temple, "who put you in jail became commissioner while you spent ten years rotting."
The gun barrel slipped a little and Doyle had to restrain himself from going for the gun. It wasn't time yet. He had to get Garson a little more off guard. He baited Garson.
"I didn't want to ask but since you mentioned it what did happen to your face, Kenny. You don't look so good."
Kenny giggled, it was a nervous giggle.
"I don't look so good. I don't look so good," he was rolling his eyes now, Doyle forced himself to wait a little longer," Well you wouldn't look to hot either if you spent the past ten years as the prison bitch. Do you have any ideas what they do to prison bitches, Doyle? Do you?"
Doyle took a chance and tried something. He was lucky not to have his head blown off. He shook his head.
"I'll tell you what they do," Kenny said, " they rape you every night, pass you around like a freaking cigarette only you're the one doing all the sucking and blowing and screaming. They like it when you scream, that's why they cut you so much. As for my face, well, have you ever had a fifty pound weight smashed into your face while you lay screaming on the weight room floor."
Doyle shook his head again watching the gun's barrel shake and twist.
"Well I have. Took a while for ever bone in my face to heel. So yah, that's what happened to my face. I don't look so good."
Kenny rolled his eyes again and Doyle knew it was his chance. He went for the gun, grabbing the barrel and twisting. The pistol fired into the roof, silver moonlight filtered in through the hole. Doyle twisted again, trying to pry the gun from Garson's hand and then the unthinkable happened. Thinking about it now it probably wasn't the right time to try for the gun. If he had waited a bit longer he might have gotten the gun no trouble but Kenny always had been jumpy and Kenny's grip had just been better.
Kenny pulled the gun out of Gordon's hand and cocked it. Gordon took his chance to run like hell. The gun fired into the windshield and a spider's web materialized. Doyle ran for his office and the gun under his desk. Then there was a loud bang, a shot, and Doyle felt something pass through his kneecap. His knee buckled backward and fell in on itself. There was a sick squelching sound and a spurt of blood as Doyle fell down. He tried not to scream, to remain as calm as possible, and failed. He howled into the night. Then he heard running footsteps and felt the familiar cold of the gun against his temple. He shut up quickly, his fingers gripping into his thighs trying to suppress the pain in his leg. Doyle heard the gun cock on last time and then something small and black passed by his nose. He thought it looked like a boomerang or a frisbee. Then Garson yelped and the gun went off as it hit the ground. Gordon Doyle propped himself up on his hands and watched the rest with child like interest.
A young man, probably in his twenties, no taller than 5'11" and no heavier than 180 lbs., literally leapt from the roof to the parking lot below, a good twenty foot drop. The man wore a black Zorro mask and a faded black cape. His shirt seemed to be spandex while his pants were an unmistakable leather. Black batting gloves and army boots adorned his hands and feet. It was unmistakable the worst costume in the world, looking like a bad Mardi Gras outfit, yet Doyle could tell there was more to this man than his costume, which did not have pointy ears.
The man, moving with the speed of a mongoose and the grace of a swan, floated over to Garson and plowed his fist into Garson's face. Garson was literally knocked into the air off of his feet and sent skidding across the parking lot. Doyle had time to notice a tooth lying on the ground.
Ignoring the powerful hit, Kenny leaped to his feet and went for the hero. The hero in turn ducked Kenny's fist and landed a hard blow into Kenny's armpit. Kenny howled and grabbed his pit. The dark man cam up from his crouch and palmed Kenny in the mouth. More blood splattered about as both of Kenny's lips split.
In a sad attempt at a last ditch effort, Kenny kicked his foot into the air. The avenger grabbed the foot and shoved his heel into Kenny's balls. Kenny was then lifted off the ground and thrown over the hero's head. The hero rushed over to Kenny and landed a final blow knocking Kenny unconscious. He then walked over to Doyle and investigated his wound. Doyle was feeling a tad dizzy and wasn't quite sure if he'd be able to stay conscious for much longer.
"Who are you?" he asked the young, horribly costumed man checking his wound.
"No one," the hero answered in a deep, grating voice, "Just somebody who wants to help."
Gordon Doyle let himself pass out then, grateful for his hero and filled with an adolescent glee.
Pat cupped his hands over his nose, trying to hide the sobs. Blood and snot ran from his nostrils. Dutch giggled on the other side of the door.
"Fat Pat," he said, "Fat Pat. You didn't think you could actually beat me, did you? And you don't actually think this door will keep me out do you?"
Pat bit his lip and his breath hitched. He was scared. There was a distinct clicking sound as Dutch tapped his new three inch long nails against the door. This couldn't be happening. This just couldn't be happening. It was.
Patrick had been outside, coming back from dinner, when he stopped at his car. There was mayonnaise on it. Not just a little here or there but everywhere. Someone had taken God knew how many jars of mayonnaise and smeared it literally over every inch of the car. Fingered in the smeared mayonnaise on the windshield was two words.
FAT PAT
Pat wiped the name off his windshield and went to drive it to a car wash. He did his best not to explode even though he knew damn well who did it. That was when the smell hit him. Sitting ever so pleasantly on his passenger seat was a wet paper bag. Pat carefully tried to pick it up and the bottom gave out. Rotten fish heads littered the floor. He tried to ignore that too but the maniacal laughter behind him wouldn't allow it. It was the last straw. For weeks now Arwin had been plaguing him; pouring soda into his book bag when he wasn't looking, spoiling his food with cupfuls of salt, and the worst, spreading the name Fat Pat all over campus. Every where Pat went he heard the nickname besting him at every turned corner. Now with an empty bag of fish heads in his hands and the manifestation of his dead fifth grade bully laughing at him he realized that no matter what he did and no matter how hard he tried he would never really be anything more than Fat Pat. There would always be someone ready to bring him down back to the fifth grade.
Now there comes a time in every loser's life when he just can't take it anymore. Enough is enough. The loser usually symbolizes this moment by exploding in an almost humorous blast of fury and successfully pounding on a bully. Every loser has this moment. Patrick Dumphrey never had. Now something strong was echoing in him. It built up, becoming louder and louder until finally a gritty voice that was not his own poked out for just a moment.
"That's enough shitface," Patrick turned to face Dutch and was momentarily granted the image of the Joker smile fading away on Dutch's face, then he was staring down his fifth grade tormentor.
"Let's go," Patrick said.
Dutch sneered and strolled into he middle of the parking lot. Then he smiled again. People were already gathering, vultures to the kill. Professor Vic Mooney, who's testimony would later get Patrick Dumphrey expelled for instigating a fight, gathered with the curious students. Soon there was a crowd and in the center of it stood Patrick and Dutch. Dutch smiled what had to be the widest smile in the world and Daniella Norbert, a medical student, would later swear that smile looked too much like the smile of her abusive father. Professor Daniel Patrick, who had also gathered with the students, would later swear it was the smile of Freddy Krueger from all those Nightmare movies. And that night a dozen other students and teachers told their loved ones how the smile of Dutch Arwin seemed just too familiar.
Patrick himself stared into that smile and all the strength he had was gone. He was just a scared little a kid about to fight the biggest bully in the world. What Pat Dumphrey, know popularly as Fat Pat, was facing down was not Dutch Arwin, nor was it really Joseph Irwin, it was a disgusting amalgam of both and behind it all was the Joker, not the comic book clown faced villain, the real Joker. A long red lipped smile revealing teeth that seemed like fangs. Pale skin, the flesh of the dead, with green burning eyes staring out from deep eye sockets. The fingers were long and three inch nails stretched from the tips. He was still growing too, becoming taller by the minute, and the smile stretched and grew, the lips growing redder, the skin becoming paler, the nails becoming claws and the teeth fangs. Whether anyone else saw the Joker/Bully before him, Pat didn't care, he was much too afraid.
"Let's go," the thing mocked Pat in a high whiny voice and then it laughed again and a female student fainted. No one noticed.
Pat drew his shaky fists before his face. He went into battle and it was quick. The Joker thing's bony hand shot past Pat's defenses and planted a beautiful fist right into Pat's nose. His face exploded in hot pain and there was a brief moment of shock before he began to cry. Everyone laughed. Pat ran away, crying and ashamed, feeling worse than he ever had as a scared little kid. He cried all the way up to his room and in the parking lot everyone laughed and no one really knew why, except for Dutch.
Everyone then got in their cars and went home, everyone. They left the parking lot they left the dorms, and they left the buildings and everyone left. Three hours later a foreign exchange student would be perplexed to find herself waiting in the airport for her ticket back to Cambodia and Robbie Picket, head of campus security, would be fired for leaving just before all the shit went down. As for the moment, the campus was desolate save for weeping Fat Pat Dumphrey and the Dutch/Joseph/Joker thing laughing maniacally as it headed through the abandoned dorms.
"Everyone's gone," the Joker thing said from the other side of the door, "everyone except you and me Fat Pat and I think it's time to end this once and for all."
"No," Fat Pat squealed, "that's impossible. Everyone can't just leave campus."
And even though logic told him he was right, he knew he was wrong. This was beyond logic. He was alone on a campus that was never empty, being stalked by the Joker, and now he realized he was gaining weight. Not much but just enough to notice. His fingers were thicker and he felt his belt squeezing against his gut. He took a step forward and snotty blood plopped to the floor. He fell to his knees then, not used to the weight he had worked so hard to lose.
"Fat Pat, Fat Pat," the thing chanted, "Once a loser always a loser, right Patty, and once you're fat you're never anything but fat no matter how much weight you lose. Right Fat Pat. RIGHT! ANSWER ME YOU LITTLE SHIT. ANSWER ME. ANSWER MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE."
Fat Pat howled and bawled into his pudgy, sweaty hands and a chill ran down his spine at every hitch and giggle from the Joker thing. He had been beaten. He had been shown the truth. He was nothing but pudgy Fat Pat. He was nothing.
The Joker thing's laughing slowed a bit. He was preparing for the final blow.
"I just want you to know, Fat Pat," the thing said, "I'm gonna be coming in pretty soon. But before I come in there's something I want you to see. Why don't you check your closet."
Everything in Pat's pudgy body froze. He waddled over to the closet as fast as his short legs would take him, his nose had stopped bleeding. Throwing open the closet door he felt more tears forming behind his eyes. They never came. The closet was filled with shredded paper and cardboard. Everything looked like it had been put through a paper shredder and Patrick could just imagine the Joker thing in here when he was at class, taking those long claws and having a good old time. He gasped and drew in breath. He lost twelve pounds when his chest rose and then he lost eight more when it fell. There, right where Patrick's hidden cubby had once been, was now a single piece of white paper with only four words on it
HA HA FAT PAT
That was the last thing Patrick Dumphrey ever saw. He let out the longest, loudest scream of his life. A scream heard by no one save Dutch Arwin and by the time that scream was finished Patrick had lost all the weight he had just gained and then some. For when that scream finally died out, after what seemed like an eternity, Patrick Dumphrey had died with it and was no more. The Joker thing tapped his claws against the door and prepared to come in.
The scream was sweet serene music to his long pale ears. He smiled his long fanged smile and tapped his claws against the wooden door. Soon he would break the lock with relevant ease and finish the job. A job he'd done a million times before to a million other losers, a job he loved doing and would continue to do until he end of time itself.
The Joker thing grinned and reminisced. It reminisced about it's horrid job as a retired actor might reminisce over his favorite shoots. People underestimate monsters in this way all the time. People don't believe monsters really think or remember or care. They do, better than humans do, and this one remembered the good times like a widow remembers her love. He remembered when he had been a tiger picking out the small brown man at the end of the group. He remembered when he had been a man named Keith badgering the Jewish woman at the end of the road. He remembered each job with crystal clarity and reveled in the thought of many more after this. Now the time of remembering was over. He had a sufficient erection and if he remembered too much he might remember who he really was.
He twisted the knob and the lock snapped in half easily. The Joker stepped into the dark room and began to giggle again.
"Oh Fat Pat. Ooooooooh Faaaaaaaaaaat Paaaaaaaaaaaaat."
A shadow moved.
"Fat Pat's not here anymore."
It was a deep voice; gritty, bitter, old.
Dutch Arwin, Joseph Irwin, and the Joker turned to the shadows and screamed as they stared down the scariest thing they had ever seen in their long evil life. They never bullied anyone ever again.
The wound was tourniquet and an ambulance was on it's way. He had a feeling the chief would be fine. He left Chief Doyle lying unconscious in the parking lot not fifteen feet away from his assailant.
The cop had asked who he was. Had asked just like the little boy tied up by Old Man Henty's farm. Had asked just like the woman in the alley. Three times in one night. He himself sometimes wondered. Things didn't seem right yet they seemed just perfect. Yet still they asked that question. Who would believe him if he told anyway? No one. No one would believe he had once been Patrick Dumphrey. No one would believe he had once been Fat Pat. What did it matter now anyway. They were dead, both of them. There was no more Fat Pat. There was no more Patrick Dumphrey. There was only Batman.