Title: A Virgin Lamb: Crashing Gotham's Parties III
Summary: More-than-a-bit-but-not-wildly-AU. "And, see this room; it's all white. And, white- very nice, very crisp- just isn't, ah, bright enough for me. I much prefer-…red." Part III of a series about various interruptions and the aftermath. In this part: the walls are fluffy, Ra's drops by again- kinda- and a bat is carved into flesh. Set around a month after 'The Dark Knight'.
This story was previously published on - by me! But with a different nom de plume- as a chaptered story, but is now being re-uploaded as one-shots, because I'm annoying like that. And have yet to finish the final part.
WARNING: Violence and perhaps even straight-up gore in this part. And the Joker's homoerotic musings.
PART III: 'CLOWN TERRORIST TRANFERRED TO ARKHAM ASYLUM: POLICE COMMISSIONER ASSURES PUBLIC THAT MONTHS OF VIOLENCE ARE NOW 'BEHIND' GOTHAM'
It was night or, er, thereabouts; it's awful hard to say when ya haven't got any windows.
Before he was put in 'solitary', his room- his old room- had a small window like a, um, an envelope and it had been grey out there all the time; it always seemed that way in the Narrows. Washed out. Kinda ominous and sinister and uninviting.
Homely, as far as he was concerned.
So, really, it didn't matter that he didn't have windows or even a window, sing-u-lar- he just had four padded walls and a padded ceiling to look at, with a padded floor to stand and sit and lie and roll on- 'cos it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to his view.
Even the festering slop that masqueraded as meals in Chez Arkham didn't help him differentiate night from day; Breakfast Mush looked like Lunch Mush, which was indistinguishable from Dinner Mush and, this being the case, it didn't make sense to call them 'Breakfast' or whatever 'cos he didn't know if it was. Breakfast, that is. It was; it existed. Even if he wished it didn't 'cos it was so goddamn tasteless it might as well just be make-believe; food he thought up in his head was far more exotic.
Sometimes, he liked to imagine that two consecutive meals were breakfast and it felt like a treat; he always grinned and giggled and fluttered his eyelashes at the orderlies- always at least two; for their safety. Shucks, guys; two for little old me? You'll make me blush! What was he gonna do? Stab them with his plastic baby food spoon? Ac-tu-ally- hey!- that was an idea…- who delivered and removed his plastic- everything in this frightful place is stuffed with cotton wool or made of plastic; how am I meant to have fun?- food tray. A few times, he'd received a swift slap round the face for his cheer; tryin' to liven the place up and he got a smack! (Not that he didn't enjoy it, but if the orderlies figured that out, all the pleasure would be gone from his current existence.)
Lots of the fellas on the staff were a little, hmm, 'nervous' around him, for some reason. Well, okay; so he'd bitten off some fingers- two? Three?- of the idiots who'd dared to hit his beau-ti-ful face when he was clearly not in the mood- he'd told them! He'd said; 'Not today, darlings; I need some me time'- and, well, he'd never get his picture in the tabloids if his visage was ruined. The inhumanity!
The other loonies- I believe 'patients' is the generally accepted term, huh? Personally I have very little 'patience' so I don't think this 'being a patient' thing is gonna work. Hahaheha! – weren't too fond of him, either. It didn't really concern him all that much, 'cos- let's face it- nobody liked him. A couple of his hench-clowns worshipped him- he'd almost been tempted to start a religion, but wasn't sure if he had the time for all that responsibility and blessing of fat, screaming babies when he'd rather just cut out their tongues- but that wasn't the same as liking. He was abhorred- detested, hated, ostracised; take your pick!- by the 'normal' folk and that was so much better. Hatred made ya feel so much more alive than pure affection- what bullcrap!- did.
They called him a dazzling array of imaginative- they were all real artists, real scholars- insults, on the rare occasions that he passed them their cells or in the corridor; he wasn't allowed to mingle anymore. Not after the, ah, riots and the man who choked to death on spaghetti; I swear it wasn't me, Doc. I'm really more of a, uh, fettuccine guy.
One; 'freak', 'crazy-ass freak' and multiple permutations. Either these particular crazies grasped the concept of irony- doubtful- or were so 'ill'- read: fucking insane- that they didn't realise they were in an asylum; they probably believed they were in a five-star hotel.
'What simply appalling service at The Arkham Ritz, my love; I called for room service weeks ago! I most certainly shall not be staying here again!'
Hehehehahaha! Oh, ha, he!
There were an awful lot of The Rich in Arkham; probably something in the Perrier. He wouldn't be surprised if they wrote to the most prestigious hotel guides- not that they were allowed pens or even pencils. Or paper; lethal papercuts-, pissed and wanting their money back; 'accommodation not as described. Most disappointed.'
Insult of choice number two; 'fag', 'faggot', 'fairy' etcetera, etcetera. Easy explanation; they all wanted a piece. He couldn't blame them; he had an uncommonly fine ass.
He felt no shame for getting his, ah, fill- he wanted the Bat;wantedwantedgottahaveBrucie!Comeoncomecomeon- of delight where he could find it. His love for Batsy- 'Obsession,' declared the last Doc he'd seen, shaking his head stiffly; 'Uh, no, Big Guy. My love is as wholesome as a virgin lamb in a white wedding dress. I'd even go so far as to say platonic,' he'd countered; these fools will never understand what we have, Baby!- made him feel far from shame; it was necessary, created him, saved him, damned him- fuck, like he cared about damnation! Damn away!
It wasn't like they even knew about his sex life, anyway. They just assumed that 'cos he put on 'make-up' and knew fine tailoring when he saw it- damn fine; he dressed magnificently and they were all envious of his sartorial elegance -, he was 'some homo.' Half-true, but very, very small-minded. Tut, tut; it was the 2000's!
And, the last of the top three- his personal choice when he envisaged scenarios where he slaughtered everyone in the immediate area; he did voices for all the people he encountered in his little stories- was, predictably, 'clown.' Like that was offensive. Pfft. He dressed like a freakin' clown. That was the idea.
Retards.
Oh, um, what had he been-
Yeah!
It was night, maybe- he preferred night, anyway, as an idea- and there was some vaguely Asian guy with a high collar, black eyes and a thin, well-kept moustache in his cell. This was unusual, even for him. Or, at least, unexpected.
Did they up my meds dose, huh? Where's my Bat mirage?
The lights had just flared onto full brightness- 'morning' already? Rude!- and the Joker was blinking like a, um- what was the word?-…owl! Owlishly! 'Batishly', maybe? Did Bats blink? He'd like it if they did.
His Bat blinked. The Joker could tell when he did 'cos he wore black around his eyes- We can do each other's make-up, Batman! Please, oh, please! I promise I'll be, ah, gentle with you…Heh!- and the repetitive momentary contrast between his coal-black- like night and hate and filth and leather- eyelids and the healthy-bright-white of his eyes was startling in a way that ya didn't notice until ya got in close to the Bat, which was, by the way, the Joker's absolute favourite place to be.
(Closely followed by 'near a building that he had just blown up and was, in fact, still, gloriously on fire'.)
Especially if, at some point in the conversation- 'cos his Bat was so talkative; couldn't get a word in- Batsy assaulted him. He always hurt him so good. Like no one else ever had, ever could-
Carefully, deliberately, the Joker, who had been sat with his knees drawn up, pressed tightly against his chest, back flat against the centre of the room's fluffy East wall, stretched out his legs and peered curiously up at his visitor.
He sure didn't look like a psychiatrist or a psychotherapist or a psychologist or whichever 'psy' person they were gonna use on him next.
"Hel-lo," he said brightly, cheerful at the unexpected intrusion; finally some spice in his life! Locked away from the Bat…he was so alone.
A limp-wristed gesture indicated the room.
"Forgive me if I don't offer, a, uh, a chair. Heh, heh! They seem to have just walked off...Chairs have got legs? Get it? Huh?"
Not one muscle twitched in Vaguely-Asian's face.
Tough crowd.
And sorta familiar.
"Soooo," the Joker rumbled, interlocking his fingers and stretching his arms above his head. Tendons, and all those other wonderful parts- cut 'em out, lay 'em on a table-, in his fingers and wrists cracked- oh, right there- delightfully.
He paused, narrowing his eyes in thought. He looked Vaguely-Asian up and down.
Oh, I see.
Self-righteous face. Foreign. Stealthy. Austere. Grumpy-lookin'…Ding-ding-ding-aling-aling!
We have a winner!
"You're the new Ra'sssssss." He drew the already-exaggerated sibilance of the 's's out too long, but he enjoyed it, so where was the problem, hmm? There was the added benefit of a slight spit situation. There was wetness on his chin; he didn't wipe it off, even when it started to itch.
"I come to you from the League of Shadows." The confirmation was delivered gravely, in a generic- Global, sorta- accent. He coupled this with a regal incline of his head, not quite pulling it off as well as Razmatazz.
The Joker's tongue travelled slowly, teasingly, from the corner of his mouth, across his lip, back inside…Just to see what Vaguely would do.
"Uh, huh," he said finally, in response to the previous declaration. His reward was a long, steady stare.
A long pause.
Uh, awkward.
"Y'know, it's kinda dis-, um, discourteous to bust in on a lady in her boudoir. You've caught me undressed and without my, huh, without-" he failed to contain a short spurt of giggling, "-my face on! Ha!"
Indeed, they had not liked his painted face and had disallowed the paint upon his admission to Arkham. Bastards, all of 'em; dragging him into uniformity.
(If he looked like everyone, then he was no one. If he was no one, he'd disappear-)
"I have occasion to speak with you," Ra's-Two stated, his face hardly moving again. It was weird and boring and the Joker didn't like it; his hand itched for a razor, to hack into that face and peel and make it remarkable-
The Joker blew out a puff of annoyed breath. Some stranger busting in on him-…it had started out so promising and then quickly deteriorated into tedium. Sigh. The story of his life. (He couldn't verify that; he didn't know his story. Didn't even know the start.)
After a while, he frowned, sucking pensively on his lips.
"You're definitely not some meds-fuelled fantasy. I can tell. I prefer my hallucinations tall, dark and mysterious. Oh and, uh, uh, wearing a cape."
He grinned and temporarily drifted off into his 'Batplace.'
Oh, Bats-
"I only have one order of business that I wish to discuss with you, " Vaguely said evenly, as if the Joker hadn't spoken a word.
You did not just ignore me. Fuckface. Oh, we are done, here.
Calmly, the Joker repositioned his legs so that he was sitting with his legs crossed, leaning forward slightly. He wondered if Mr. League realised that he'd decided to kill him.
"I don't like you," the Joker informed him casually- he traced the material of his own pant leg with his finger; figure of eight, cross, 'D-I-E'-, "You 'n your band of Unmerry Men-" he gestured expansively, agitatedly, with his idle hand, "-; you're just so damn predictable. I don't like people who're blatant about their pretty little plots. You disgust me. What's worse, you don't, um, interest me. At all. Hum. Sorry."
He couldn't quite decide what the new expression on Vaguely's face was, but it had hardly changed- it had, though, just a bit- so surprise.
The Joker steepled his fingers professionally, holding his hands close to his lips for a moment, as if considering.
"And-" he continued, jerking his hands forwards decisively,"- you wanna kill my Bat. Honey, that just won't do. No. It's just not how things- how they're gonna work."
He shifted his weight, shuffled a little.
"No, no, no," he mumbled, "My Bat. Not him; you won't. My city."
Vaguely, appearing only mildly ruffled, opened his mouth, assumedly to speak and not do anything noteworthy such as breaking into song or making, hum, a racoon emerge from the fleshy orifice.
The Joker didn't care to find out.
He pounced.
Taking advantage of Vaguely's momentary shock- the guy was trained, a goddamn Ninja or some shit; he'd have to work fast-, he slammed his forehead mercilessly into his opponent's-fightfightfightnotBatsdon'tcare!- nose, cackling with glee when his forehead announced its displeasure with a blossoming pain across the front of his skill.
Ow, ow, ow! Hehahahahohe!
Without pause, he drove his knee repeatedly into the guy's crotch- 'grunt, grunt, grunt!' Keep in time with the music!- and then, when he doubled over, kicked upwards, his whole lower leg connecting with the general stomach area. But kicks- and not very good ones; wearing asylum-issue, lace-free tennis shoes wasn't conducive to inflicting real agony- and crotch-pain wasn't his goal or aim or whatever.
He slipped his hands down Vaguely's sides, even as he recovered and sent his left fist soundly into the Joker's cheek. The Joker staggered, laughing outright- My! I haven't had a whack like that in months-, but he had his prize.
A small, pitiful dribble of blood was making itself known just beneath Vaguely's nose. He was growling a little, now and the Joker almost felt sorry that, just when things might get interesting-
One swiftly-pilfered- well-crafted, I might add; nice gear, League of Evil, Unimaginative Shitmeisters- blade in each hand, the Joker lurched towards the other man- the only real human in the room; he was better, more, had to be that way right now- and swiped across-and-down, jabbed in an arm, dropped one knife and grabbed a hold of a neck. Insert blade into mouth.
I know this game. It's the best one.
Vaguely struggled. Unfortunately- for Vaguely-, the Joker's skill had always been speed- quick, quick, quick (Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick!)- and style, but that was irrelevant at the mo and the rapid succession of blows and the not-really-shallow slit in his belly- gut him; gut him like a fish or an animal or a mother!- rendered him dazed and useless.
I expected better. Good thing I came to the, uh- had a realisation about your gang after Al spoke to me. After I realised that the Bat was worth more.
"You'd really think," the Joker began offhandedly, "That, uh, that a guy like you- in your profession-…vocation, is it? Like a, uh, like a priest, right? A calling?- would know better- by now- than to enter a cell with a man-iac, like me, who just loves knives- loves 'em-, wearing several knives within easy range of my nim- nimble fingers should I just happen to make a grab for 'em. 'Cos, really, Sweetie; that's just careless. Very disappointing. What would Al say?"
Vaguely said nothing. The Joker twisted the knife a little, sliced, a small slit where the top and bottom lip joined.
You'll be like me, like me. Then you'll have to die 'cos you can't be like me. No one can. If you're like me, who would I be?
Stillness. Nothing. Resigned to death? Probably some sacred duty.
The Joker glared, annoyed at the lack of reaction- give me something, gimme, make it funny- and shook Vaguely, hand digging into his throat like a claw. His nails had been cut short- don't want the clown to scratch himself to death- so it didn't inflict much pain…It was the thought that counted.
(Flowers on your birthday, fire on mine, why? Why did it cross the road?)
"I'm glad your Ra's failed. He was a fucktard. He, uh-…the Bat's better than him. Too good. He deserves better. From me. I'll give him better. Watch me; I will."
"Unf'like'fly-" finally! It speaks; good dog! Still too cool, though. And muffled by a knife; can't have everything, "League has'h ah pref'ence in Goff'am, fe Batman if'our priority-"
Just you try it, buster. Touch him, minemineminemine, and-
I won't have to worry about you, in a few minutes, Ra's-Mark-Two. Your pals, maybe…Oh, I can find them and put them in an industrial blender. Serve 'em as smoothies in one of those classy 'Juice Bars' uptown.
"This is our town," the Joker hissed- he's mine! He's mine!-, "Mine and Bats'. And we do not take kindly to naughty non-uh-non-Gotham-ites rollin' into the city and thinking they can just rip it apart. Not cool, Ra's-Less-Convincing-Replacement. It's our playground and you're the, er, well- I'm sorry- but you're the fat, geeky pyroman-i-ac that no one likes."
I may be a slight- uh, okay, I am a pyromaniac, but look at me; I'm stunning.
Cocking his head, the Joker suddenly met Vaguely's eyes questioningly.
"Can I, uh-…Before I kill you, I gotta know; did you actually like Al's moustache? You probably- he was your boss. Looking back, I gotta say that I find it kinda- I hated it! Sm-smirking at me! I can't even grow one, y'know; not that I'd try."
"'Oo f'insane," Vaguely informed him, like it was a freakin' revelation.
The Joker gave an impatient roll of his eyes.
"Yeah, I'm also a Virgo at weekends; what's your, ah, point?"
Vaguely said nothing.
Tonguing his scars restlessly, the Joker started to slowly rotate the blade in his victim's mouth, but-
Fuck this.
The twist of his wrist- He; I'm a poet and I didn't even know it!- halted and his whole body tensed- let me at him, let me at him- in preparation to strike.
"I'm bored of you now," he remarked blandly, but, gosh, there must've been somethin' in his tone 'cos when he met Vaguely's eyes, the muscles around Vaguely's eyes sorta spasmed- like they were having their own little death throes, in anticipation- and his own smile grew and grew and grew.
"And, see this room-" he jerked his hand in gesture, but 'cos his hand was partly in Vaguely's mouth- some of his fingers, the tips of 'em and a bit, uh, more; knuckle territory- only the knobbly, bony part of his wrist really pointed anywhere,"-it's all white. And, white- very nice, very crisp- just isn't, ah, bright enough for me. I much prefer-…red."
The next few minutes were kinda of a- whatcha call it?- blur. He knew that he sliced up the guy's face- a grin like me! We can start a club! I have trouble sharing, will that be a problem?- and that he cut said face so fiercely that some of the blood splattered the wall and he remembered the fleshy tendrils of jagged flesh hanging down like wiggly worms dipped in carmine.
While the poor little Ninja was clutching at his face- yeah, Buddy; your hands'll stick it back together-, the Joker carelessly strolled to stand behind him and, whistling tunelessly, slashed two deep- deep, deep, yes, right down to the bone; drink more milk and your bones get stronger!- crosses- 'X' marks the spot, hmm? Where's my treasure?- into the back of Vaguely's knees. He immediately- no fun; I wanted to beat ya down!- stumbled and ended up on the ground, blood- there you are my old friend! Mommy missed you!- starting to soak into the softness of the padded floor.
After that, it was like child's play. He carved a bat- all for you- into Ra's-Two's back, but he might've, unintentionally- this is why you're not allowed pets!- stabbed too hard and a rib splintered and cracked like a twig and Vaguely's breathing started sounding wet and when he turned his head, looking back at the Joker almost de-lerious-ly- I know how ya feel, Bud- , little pinkish-red bubbles appeared when he breathed. It was so cute.
The knives were sharp, though not really sharp enough to cut through large amounts of muscle and all that other stuff that he knew by sight and feel- yet couldn't name-, but- damn it!- hewas gonna try.
Always gotta try.
He turned the blade on its side and started to saw- back-forward, forward-back- through the back of Vaguely's thighs. He didn't bother cutting off his pants first- what a waste of my valuable time- so some of the material got caught in the gaping, uneven wounds and it would probably get infected; did that really matter, though? Vaguely was already half-dead- which, actually, being the insipid moron he was, he probably had been in his entire 'life'; poor fool- and- sadly- fading fast.
Alas, poor Vaguely; I knew him-…not really that well, at all. Someone probably cares that he's dead. Maybe; dunno why. He is survived by a poodle named Fluffychops, a rubber plant called 'Steve' and some highly-polished, oak nunchucks. Oooh, I wonder if he has any-
Momentarily abandoning his dissection of Vaguely's lower body, he sat back on his heels and surveyed the sorry excuse for a man in front of him.
If I were an Evil Ninja, where would I keep my nunchucks?
Well, if Vaguely's behaviour was anything to go by, up his freakin' ass.
"Hmmm."
Tapping his chin in delicate contemplation, he then leant over the prone form and none-too-gently grasped up and down Vaguely's sides and across the lower part of his back- his upper back had been mostly exposed when he did his bat sketch-, checking for anything concealed and sorta, um, sticks-and-some-chain-shaped. Vaguely groaned and coughed scratchily throughout.
Noisy. Victims should be seen and not heard! Hahahaha! No, carry on; I like it when they sing.
"Nothin'," he pouted, sitting back again. He prodded a finger into Vaguely in the middle of the bat on his back- bat on his back, bat on his back, heh,heh; wish the fucking Bat would take a hint and put me on my back- and Vaguely started gasping.
"I wanted nunchucks."
He went to work again.
The room was turning red- the walls and floor and even the ceiling- and Vaguely was turning white.
Much better.
Finally finished- to his high standards, oh yes- he stood, rubbing his hands together as if to clean off dust; it just created swirls and patterns in the syrupy- mmm; syrup! I feel like pancakes!- black-redness that coated them.
"Really warms up the room, Ra's-Two, huh?" he mused, slowly turning on the spot to assess his handiwork.
There was a heart finger-painted on the wall- a big heart, with little rivulets running off it like the building was actually bleeding- and he didn't recall doing it, but knew he must have.
He smiled, puffed up with pride.
Vaguely hadn't responded.
The Joker, scowling darkly, nudged him in the side with his foot.
"Hey!" he said, indignant, "I asked you a question. Really warms up the- oh, uh- oh; you're dead."
He put his hands on his hips. Lifted his hands off, put them back down again. He rolled his eyes excessively.
"Well, what am I meant to do now?"
Oh. Wait a sec-
If Vaguely got in-
He twisted his body around, legs tangling, to cast his gaze towards the door.
-Then I can get out.
The Joker's chin snapped down as his eyes wildly scanned the former-Mr.-Vaguely.
"Keys, keys, keys," he chanted, stooping low, squinting, nose wrinkling and then breathing in deep when the aroma of freshly cut flesh and blood and insides, smacked him full in the face, "Where are your- aha!"
Fumbling his fingers inside a blood-damp front pocket, they snagged part of a keychain and he tugged and straightened.
"Standard-issue crazyhouse keys, as sported by orderlies and Doctors everywhere. They keep their's in a safer place-" he wagged an admonishing finger,"- You really should've learnt from their good ex- uh, example."
The suddenly Joker felt heavy and exhilarated all at once; he was flying, with weights in his stomach.
Get out. Find Brucieman. Get some matches.
He sighed, bowing in Vaguely's direction.
"It's been fun, but it's time for me to leave. I've got to, er-…catch a bus? Blow one up, maybe. Pay a visit to my sweetheart, for sure. And we simply don't have anything in common, Honeybunch. See ya!"
The Joker traced his lips with his tongue and then ambled towards the cell door.
If he got in and no one noticed- no one came in so they didn't notice or maybe the Leaguey League's killed all the staff…Naw; too noticeable- then the, er- he glanced towards the corner, raising his eyebrow- then the surveillance is off. Big Brother's blind…Why, this escape's gonna be as easy as takin' crack from a whore!
Closing his eyes in anticipation, he slotted the key into the lock and turned-
Click-click-clickity-click! Yehaw!
With an innocent whistle, the Joker opened the door and poked his head out.
No one around. It didn't matter if there had been; he had a knife stuffed into his sock and one in his hand for safety.
(Vaguely had a sword strapped against his leg- why didn't ya use it? I betcha Razamatazz would've; shame!- and the Joker had been tempted, but, they were kinda ungainly and he'd probably lose it and Bats might get manhood issues if he showed up with such a superior weapon.)
He skipped off down the hallway, humming.
"We're off to see the Batman, the wonderful Batman of Oz, uh, Gothoz!"
It occurred to him, as he waited for an elevator and twitched in excitement- I'm gonna see him! I am, I am, I am!- that it had been unwise, plain stupid, for Vaguely to tell him the League's plans. He was obviously- 'cos he adored his Bat so very much- gonna go straight to the Bat and warn him. And, hopefully, other, more physical pursuits. Heh.
Wonder what he wanted to discuss with me? The latest plan for 'Operation Squash Gotham'? Heh! Not in-ter-ested, Buster! Why tell me about Bats, though, why-
He promptly forgot all such thoughts when he realised that he was dressed in the nauseating decaying-pumpkin orange of the Arkham uniform.
This won't do at all. Bats can't see me like this! I need to, er-
The Joker needed to put on his face and his skin.
He whistled jauntily- the elevator arrived and he thumbed 'Basement', swearing scarlet all over the controls- and swept a hand through his hair; he nicked his eyebrow with the knife still in his hand as he did.
The Joker lapped it off- tastes like me and Vaguely-, tapping his foot in an impatient rhythm as the elevator descended.
To the Tailor! Uh, Taxi!
All thoughts are most welcome. The final part of the series will be written at some point, but I've no idea when. If you prefer, you can simply imagine what the Joker gets up to after his escape; it'd probably be better than anything that I might write, anyway.