Author's Note:This chapter takes place about the same time, if not a little bit after, where last chapter ended.
****Follow the soundtrack on Youtube!****
/watch?v=omUnWmSrDJ8&list=PLl67S7XSG83GKCZutsvgqh5JnpgwMKqCx
(The Link is also on my profile)
I'm giving this series an 80's (and some late 70's) soundtrack, because why not. It was a lively decade with a bunch of great music. I'm obssessed, what can I say. Plus, it might be a bit cheesy, which I find a bit fitting with the Joker when it comes to music. These songs will give you somewhat of an insight on the chapters. Anyways, I just want to give my readers an option of what to listen to as they read the chapters.
The Joker: Heath Ledger
Harley Quinn: Brittany Murphy
R.I.P To both of these amazing actors.
Summary: There's something maddening about the unexpected, but drastic changes calls for drastic measures.
For Now
"So I try to laugh about it
Cover it all up with lies.
I try to laugh about it..."
The Cure - "Boys Don't Cry" (1979)
After a job gone haywired, the Joker returned to the hideout with fresh wounds, and a few less men. He didn't even know where Skelton and Kelly were. Small scrapes and nicks littered across his body that would later add on to his impressive collection of scars. He didn't care about the significant amount of lost goons, they were replaceable, except for the two others that were currently missing. The others, who he didn't care to remember their names, were beginning to demand for increases in their paychecks for a job they were rather poor at anyways. There were only a handful of cops after us.. And, some mafia men on the other side.
Pacing around the main room, where the television set was located, the Joker threw his soaked coat onto a chair. He thinks there are some seams that need to be sowed; a job he wouldn't come close to doing. Let it fall apart. He ignored the water dripping from his drenched purple slacks and dyed tresses onto the floor and the squeaks his shoes permitted. There was a slight tremble in his steps, due to the only desperate escape route being the sewer. It had been a cold four mile walk underground, surrounded by a constant fowl smell.
The Batman never showed.
The thought alone left a sour taste in his mouth. Perphaps this was the reason why the Joker allowed the situation to lose control. Holding out as long as possible while sacrificing his men, waiting for the Batman to arrive. In the blur of it all, he wasn't sure what happened. He was eventually cornered, and forced to drop all of his weapons in order to move more swiftly. He had to climb a fence and leave whatever men were left. He thinks he heard Skelton and Kelly behind him as he ran until he found an escape—a manhole. It was when he was surrounded by nothing but sewage water that he realize he was utterly alone. It was merely a couple of cops and mafia henchmen.
The Joker was never one to worry over his health, but finding the idea of having to perform in the future with a loss of digits due to a case of frostbite, or catching a disease from the filthy sewers had him itching for a shower. How bothersome.
Grabbing the newest issue from the stack of newspapers from the coffee table, the Joker headed to the bedroom. Needing a distraction, he toyed with the idea of popping one of his old vinyls out while reading the newspaper after his shower. It sounded satisfying even though the last time, many months ago, he had done it, he was distracted by the music the whole time.
Apparently nothing was going according to plan tonight.
From the position he sat on the bed, the Joker could see his favorite of Harley's outfits. The red sleeve with the white ruffle at the end was peeking out at him as if to mock him. The red and black jester outfit taunting him, and reminding him of something he'd rather forget.
She left you.
He swore he hasn't thought about her in months—where did that come from? He also could've sworn the jester suit has been tucked in away from the world all this time.
Sitting in only his boxers and checkered socks, the Joker ran his hands over his forehead and through his stringy hair. Confusion running through him due to feelings he's long since consigned to oblivion. Uncertain.. Exhausted.. Rejected.. Betrayed.. Abandoned.. Worthless...
Brows creased, the Joker tugged at his hair while shaking his head. His scars twisitng into a grimace, trying to convinced himself as he stared at the lonesome blonde hair follicle he'd just discovered on his boxers. Nothing means nothing.
The same strand of blonde hair that was too long for him to convince himself that it belonged to him. Too blonde, compared to his natural dirty blonde. The same thing that had him sitting on the disheveled bed as his dark eyes wandered into the closet in the first place. To his Harley's garment.
As if trying to prove a point, he pounded a fist into the strand of hair—into his thigh. The nasty bruise that will appear much later only fueled his anger. A bruise similar to ones he's given to Harley during one of his fits.
He doesn't need her, he never needed anybody. Everyone has always turned into such a disappointment. And, apparently Harley was no exception.
His mind wandered—a faint rhythm of an upbeat song running through his mind. A feeling long since forgotten, not merely as important as it once was, caused a scowl to form on his features. Disgusted with himself because he was once so young, and dare he say, awfully naive.
'Hiding the tears in my eyes.'
Back in an old bedroom, a mess only a drunk, angry father, a tired mother with no backbone, and a heartbroken child could allow. A stack of used records next to the cheap mattress on the cluttered floor. Dirty laundry and a couple pieces of broken glass here and there littered the floor, but not a speck of dust could be found on the records due to over a decade worth of comfort found in them. Played over and over with such care, due to delicate hands. Despite his classmates swearing vinyls were worthless; "It's 1992, it's all about CDs."
'Because boys don't cry.'
Cuddled up in bed, wanting to escape from the reality he was living. The turntable plugged into an outlet, and the needle reading over the same, countless of grooves; the flimsy door, across from his position on the bed, locked. The built in speakers drowning out the screams and yelling from the other side of the door.
Laying in bed, engulfed by the words and rhythms of the songs he was fond of. Swearing he heard, "Shut that the fuck off!" Continued with incessant banging on the door. His father. The boy swearing he's since grown cold and numb to the behavior, only for fresh tears to arrive replacing the dried ones. Ignoring the world, this was as far as the thirteen year old could get from reality.
'Boys don't cry.'
Those very same records, now sit in the closet gathering dust—surrounded by Harley's junk. The Joker vaguely remembers dancing to them, with Harley tagging along with a smile plastered on her face. Her eyes shining with glee as she looked up at him, and maybe his did too.
They were the only worthwhile items he's ever really cared for—the only reason as to why his mind rarely ever wandered to memories of his own parents. They were music enthusiasts, true groupies so to speak. They met at a concert in the late seventies, casting eachother googly eyes throughout it. They were madly in love ever since, or so his mother would say. That is until everything went to shit; a reason the Joker didn't care to remember.
His hands were now jittering for attention, needing a distraction from the continuous downfalls of tonight. Grabbing one of the endless amount of pocket knives hidden between the mattresses, he began twirling it around his fingers, and payed no attention Ignored how his hands were trembling.
Hitting him like a brick to the head, a thought surfaced. Alcoholism.
His father became an alcolholic after suffering from an injury at work, rendering him unable to do the job—a permanent limp. Anger soon developed and bubbled through his veins, needing an escape from feeling worthless—because he couldn't provide for his family the same way he used to. Stubborness played a part as well - not wanting any other job, but the one he was used to. He was a construction worker, while his mother was a proud stay-at-home mom caring for weak, little Jack.
With the unopened pocket knife in hand, the Joker began pounding his fists against his head. Muttering a pathetic plea, "Stop. It."
His mother was forced to take up waitressing, and odd jobs here and there, just to keep a roof over their heads. And, what did that bastard do? Spend most of the hard earned cash on his own selfish wants, alcohol, which started heated arguments between his mother and father resulting with his mother cowarding on the floor and the boy hiding in his room—wondering why this had to happen to them.
The Joker had been on the other side of addiction before. Amature deals with the mob, since he was seventeen,caused for heavy exposure to drugs, and there had been so much of it—cocaine. He suffered from withdrawals when he was sent to Arkham after his first encounter with the Batman. At the age of twenty-five. The old doctor, Dr. Arkham, had warned the Joker's doctor-to-be that the Joker was suffering from anxiety, reslessness, and tremors due to such withdrawals.
Dr. Harleen Quinzel.
It all comes floaring back to her. It always does. She's witnessed him at his lowest point. Talk about embarassing. Comfort he once took in his old record collection, he now found in her—well, not lately anyway. Harley, with her perfectly painted lips and tight pencil skirts, was always near to whisper soothing words.
After a little longer than a week in Arkham, the Joker declared himself a new man—no more being part of a pack of lambs, he would be the wolf from then all out because he now had a goal in mind. The moment he stepped out of Arkham he planned on meeting up with his dear friends in the mob who left him for dead, and, of course, the Batman. Meeting Harley and having her as his was just a bonus.
Was his.
Letting out a loud grunt, the Joker began stabbing through the mattress repeatedly with the pocket knife out of sheer desperation to cut through his thoughts.
makeitstopmakeitstop.
Noting the sheets were shredded and the cotton was spewling out of the mattress into a useless heap, the knife gave way from his loosened grip landing on the carpet with a light thud. His eyes caught the newspaper he'd left on her vanity. He never got rid of the vanity due finding an excuse—it held his stuff.
The big print of the headline, bold and in red, built a glint of curiosity in his gaze, calling to him. Stalking over to the vanity, he snatched the newspaper carelessly, knocking over one of Harley's beloved knick knacks in the process.
BRUCE WAYNE HAS AFFAIR IN CALIFORNIA.
Unfolding the newspaper, his eyes trailed further down the page discovering a candid picture of Bruce Wayne turning to the side and the back of a blonde woman in a bathing suit with out-of-focus sand in the background. The lack of intimacy between the two in the print did nothing to ease the burning in the pit of the Joker's stomach for he could recognize the woman's slender figure, and her luscious blonde hair trailing over her shoulders. Squinting, he could almost make out a small beauty mark on the back of her right upper thigh, one only his harlequin had.
Gripping the newspaper, his vision blurred ceasing from anger. His eyes like daggers into the print. "That little harlot!"
Taking deep breaths, he thought, could be nothing.
His eyes trailed over an excerpt from the article: "For as long as I have worked for Gotham City Times, and as a journalist for other magazines, never have I seen Bruce Wayne absent from Gotham consecutively and spending much time away from his business [although it is a known fact that Mr. Wayne has several vacational residences across the country]. Bruce Wayne is known to have the pleasure of making deliberate displays of the many faces of known women by his side. These 'relationships' [if one would so call it] never seem to last more than an evening in the public eye."
The Joker rolled his eyes. "Blah. Blah. Blah."
He skimmed through the text until he found a mention of Harley: "This woman seen with Mr. Wayne may have been blonde, in shape, and young, but she lacked the model-esque signatures associated with Mr. Wayne's women; tall with a small celebrity-esque status [perhaps I've just never heard or seen of her before]. Beautiful as she is, I was quite surprised that when I was spotted meters away by Bruce Wayne himself, he furtively, but deliberately, hid her from my view. This slight gesture may suggest secrecy, perhaps, of a life other than the life of Bruce Wayne."
Scanning through the rest of the meaningless and flowered words of the article, he found that the picture was taken in Venice Beach, in Los Angeles, California, near Bruce Wayne's beach house. A newspaper writer for Gotham City Time's was on vacation with his family when he spotted Bruce Wayne with a woman he's never been seen with. Regarding it as a juicy story, the journalist began snapping pictures while he could, before his wife nagged him that it was supposed to be family time. As soon as he could, the newspaper writer emailed a written article with the pictures attached to a co-worker; word soon got around and the story was published.
The Joker wasn't one to use modern technology often, ever since he was first thrown into Arkham—his cellphone was really only ever for Harley and his henchmen. Harley was gone, and he wouldn't hire more muscle until later.
Hiring would be a waste while sorting this mess out.
Scavenging the drawer beside the bed on Harley's side, the Joker pulled out a laptop. Harley had brought this laptop from her old apartment; the same one she used during her tough college days. The same one she had used to pass the time living here, and stay in touch with the outside world.
Turning on the laptop, the Joker had one objective in mind—find out the address to Bruce Wayne's beach house.
I'm coming for you, my little wench.
Author's Notes: And, there you have it; as you can see, it was hinted that the Joker was teased quite often while in school for being the "weird" kid, even if it was just for music tastes or his use of going "old school."
I always imagined the Joker being an ex-addict to drugs, particularly cocaine, I guess its just because the way he acts all jittery, as if he's antsy for something. I guess a mix of wanting both chaos and cocaine, I don't know. Anyways, I did my research on cocaine & withdrawals. Don't do drugs, kids.
And, I chose this song for the chapter with the intention of a double meaning; it's a song from his childhood—a comfort—while the meaning of the song plays with his feelings about the current situation with Harley.
THANK YOU TO ALL OF MY REVIEWERS!
LadyAsaka: Whether Batman and Harley had sex will be either confirmed or denied next chapter. And, yes the inevitable confrontation will be fun to write!
Suki Fictionist: Don't worry, this story is not a Bruce/Harley story.
XxxoxoxxX: Yeah, same here; I kind of ship Harley with quite a few people too. Sorry about Ivy's oocness!
hyemi20: Here you go!
lala3366: I promise that this is not a Batman/Harley fic.
Feel free to review! I love reading them.
Until next time!
1/13/17
