Chapter 10:
The elevator was fast and The Joker and Harley were soon on the 18th floor of the complex.
"408 dear." He reminded, letting Harley walk ahead.
She gasped loudly, suddenly.
"Here it is Mistah J!" She squeaked. And he smiled, walking smoothly to the spot she pointed.
"Ah, so it is!" He exclaimed. "Very good sweety-pie."
Harley beamed at his approval, watching as he wrapped against the door with his cane. It was fairly late, nearly midnight, and no answer came.
"Must be asleep, the dear." The Joker smiled. "What say we try to liven the place up a bit Harley-hon?"
"Lets!" She jumped with excitement.
At that, The Joker took a paperclip from out his pocket and easily picked the lock. Pushing the door open, it came to a sudden halt and The Joker began to giggle.
"Door chain sweetness. Can you believe? We'll surely have great fun with this one!"
"Hmm." Harley's face twisted in to a frown. "Let me handle this one Mistah J!" She said, moving forward. He obliged her, letting her past, and watched in amusement as she pushed with all her strength against the door.
She struggled for several seconds before he intervened.
"I like your approach doll-face. Allow me." He said, stepping forward, reaching through the crack, grabbing hold of the thin chain and pushing it forward while leaning his weight against the door. In moments the chain ripped from its hinges and the door swung open.
"Ah, an alarm system as well." The Joker immediately noticed the small panel just inside the entrance, flashing red.
"A moment." He said, approaching the device with great precisian and speed, as he had the keypad outside the building. And also as had been outside, the alarm was disable within seconds.
"Seesh, no wonder he's always escapin' from Arkham." Harley thought to herself, watching him work. She hadn't the faintest clue what he was doing or how he was doing it, but it was working wonders. She wouldn't be surprised at that point, she thought, to see him break in or out of the highest security buildings in the world, it seemed he was that smooth and that good at disabling locks and alarms.
"Now, let's locate our paranoid playmate." He whispered to her, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
Harley followed closely behind as he navigated through what looked to be a well furnished apartment, though it was hard to tell in the dark. They checked several rooms near the back, each coming up empty. An exercise room, gathering dust, a study, another room filled with computers, books and papers scattered about.
"Typical. The last room down the hall. You would think for safety purposes, one would want to be closer located to the exit." The Joker mused, chuckling lightly.
And he was right, as they pushed open the door to the final room, at the end of the hall, they came upon the resident's bedroom, and there he was, lying asleep on a giant, plush looking mattress.
The Joker barely could contain his excitement, covering his mouth with a hand to stifle the laughter threatening to erupt from his throat.
"You stand by the door Harley. If Mr. Goldstein attempts to escape, I fully expect you capable of obscuring his path." He instructed.
"Rightio Mistah J!" She complied, performing a military salute.
He grinned, patting her gently on the head before making his way to the sleeping journalist.
The room was dark, the only real visibility provided by an obscured moon through a crack in the windows curtains, and The Joker cut an intimidating silhouette against the muted light, surreal looking in his height and thinness.
"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey." The Joker touched his cane lightly to Goldstein's nose. The man stirred, waving at his face as though some insect were buzzing around him, and The Joker looked at him with curiosity.
"Come now Mr. Coldbean, it becomes fun only provided you're aware of your impending doom." He spoke more loudly then usual, again tapping the sleeping man's nose with his cane. This time he stirred more violently, swatting at the air with exasperation.
"Go away!" He mumbled.
"Hmmm." The Joker stood back, examining his soon to be victim. "I do believe Arnie thinks us unwelcome guests to his quaintly modest surroundings. I must confess, the slight rather hurts. What say you, Harley dear?"
"Hurt's like a skinned knee Mistah J!" She answered giddily.
"Indeed." He said, again bending down, closer to the still sleeping man. "Well, I think it only fair we let Mr. Selfish know of our displeasure at his un-neighborly attitude. After all, as they tell us back at Arkham, awareness of a personal problem is the first step towards its amendment. And rudeness is such an awful affliction to suffer."
The Joker placed a hand upon Goldstein's shoulder and shook him, gently.
Finally, the man's eyes began to open, slowly, and he starred up, half dazed and struggling to focus.
The Joker grinned down at him.
"Good evening Mr. Goldstein." He began softly. "We're so glad you could join us."
It would be several moments longer before the journalize became cognizant of his not being alone, and instinctively he shot up, his heart rate, very quickly and very drastically, increasing as he pushed back along the sheets of his bed. He starred ahead at The Joker with a look of pure astonishment and disbelief, his eyes wide, his mouth gapping, and after some seconds, his expression began to morph in to one of utter horror as it dawned on him just who he was looking at, and that the situation wasn't, as he had hoped, a dream at all.
"My word Mr. Goldstein, you look as if you've seen a ghost!" The Joker exclaimed. "I am no spirit, I assure you, though I understand how the white of my skin may cause you to think so."
"How did you get in here!?" The journalist finally managed, after feeling his voice had gone from fear, fear which was increasing with each moment past, as he came to more clearly realize his position.
"Oh!" The Joker sighed, standing to his full height, raising his arms above his head. "Of course you would advance the question initially. After taking such extensive precautions to ensure your own safety, how anyone could enter your apartment without your previous consent must indeed be a query to befuddle the brain. It is awful, isn't it? The realization that you aren't safe? Not in any place or at any time? That, no matter what steps you take, no matter what measures, someone or something, somewhere, can end your life, just like that!?" The Joker snapped his fingers loudly. "And that, not only is this possible, but even probable? Safety, or rather, the concept of safety, Arnie, my boy, is but an illusion, created and wielded as a weapon of sorts, utilized for both monetary gains and the power of control. You see, promise to people an assurance of protection, instill in them absolute faith that, in adhering to a certain set of standards and rules, their preservation is nothing short of guaranteed, and you would be amazed at how quickly they fall in to line and obey." The Joker was gesturing theatrically now. "Anything to keep from living in fear. Oh, people do abhor the notion. And understandably so. Fear is a painful state to endure. You Arnie, you bought in to this concept of security. You truly believed that, in purchasing a condo situated in one of the lesser crime ridden districts of Gotham, one which boasted a supposedly impenetrable security system, and just for good measure, a night watchman to stand guard in the front lobby, and by double locking your door, and having installed an alarm system from ADT, that you've actually made yourself more safe then, say, a derelict living on the street. Most people suffer this unfortunate delusion, so you've really no reason to feel any more foolish then the remaining general public. But worry not, my ink happy friend, for I, The Joker, bearer of unequivocal truths, have come to break you of the bounds of such prevarications, and show you the light of reality."
The Joker smiled as the journalist appeared frozen in fear, sweat having formed heavily on his brow and above his lip.
"Am I right Harley?" The madman asked, turning to his girl.
"As always Mistah J!" She answered enthusiastically.
He grinned again, moving to face his target once more, stepping suddenly towards him. At this, Goldstein started, thrusting his hand beneath his pillow. His mind had been racing as The Joker went on in his monolog. Arnie was the paranoid type. Living in a city like Gotham only served to fuel this mind set. And so not only did he live in a high rise, what he had thought was secure apartment complex, and not only had he had installed a security system in his own unit, but he also kept a loaded gun hidden under his pillow at night, and that weapon was what he was now reaching for.
"Ahh, ahh Arnold!" The Joker chastised, brining his cane up lightening quick and striking the thing hard against the journalist's reaching arm. The man yelped in pain, instantly forgetting his target, grabbing for his now throbbing limb. "Is that any way to treat your guests? And that bethinks me, Harley and I were meaning to complain over your, plainly, boorish reception. Such impertinence is most unbecoming deary. It may one day land you in some trouble."
"Yeah, ya big meanie!" Harley joined in.
The man looked to her, his eyes startled, and he now began to visibly shake.
"Oh God, p-please don't kill me." He began, his voice pleading.
The Joker's brow furrowed.
"By why ever do you think we should want to kill you Arnie?"
"Y-you're The J-Joker!" He stuttered.
"Ah, my reputation precedes me, as always. But assumption is a dangerous engagement, sure expectancy a fatuous thing. You should never presuppose anything Arnie, never anticipate a thing to be the same tomorrow as it was today."
"You're… you're not going to kill me then?" The man dared to ask, a hint of hope in his voice.
"Well of course I am!" The Joker exclaimed, laughing suddenly.
"But… but y-you said…"
"I said nothing Arnold, nothing as to my intentions towards you."
The journalist felt a massive shock of panic race through him, and in the rush of adrenaline, again reached for his gun, only to find himself once more halted by the same hard object cracking him, this time across the face. He fell backward, his head spinning, white light exploding and then dancing in his eyes.
The Joker stood, with his cane reared back, looking down at the now disoriented man, smiling.
"Arnie! What did I just tell you!?" The Joker scolded him like a child. "You do need to work on that. Rudeness can be such a killer!" He laughed uproariously at his own joke, the rest of the room as silent as before, and then his hysterics ceased, and he glared at Harley abruptly.
"Oh, uh… hahaha! Mistha J, you're such a funny guy!" She stammered, trying to sound genuine in her amusement.
He smiled.
"Yes Harley, I am." He said. "Come here and take Mr. Goldstein's weapon, will you?"
The girl didn't hesitate, jumping to action at his request.
The journalist was only just starting to come around from the blow to his face, and he began sluggishly to push himself up on to his hands and knees. Harley didn't think twice of reaching across him and under his pillow, taking the gun there. He seemed only to notice her after she had pulled back from him, and he jumped suddenly, startled.
"S-stay back. G-get away from me!" He stumbled over his words.
"What's he squakin' about Puddin'?!" She looked to The Joker with a confused expression.
"Mr. Foulfeind, I'm sorry to say Harley, is merely in a state of denial as to his current predicament. You see, he continues to harbor the ridiculous notion that, somehow, there still is some possibility he may emerge from this situation with his life. I do so dislike having to crush your remaining hope Arnie..." He laughed. "But I'm afraid the only chance you have of escaping this particular dilemma is if that loon who dresses as a bat comes crashing through your window. Now, the Batman may be capable of many things, things which may seem unnatural and even fantastical to someone such as yourself, but I assure you, being in all the right places at all the right times is not among his abilities. And you should know, Mr. Facecream."
Arnie was breathing hard, the sweat having accumulated more heavily on his forehead.
"What do you… what do you want? Money? I can… I can get you money. I have it saved up, nearly a million."
The Joker laughed.
"Oh, dear, sweet Arnie! I have more money then what you can even conceive of. And tell him what I do with that money Harley, my love."
"He burns it, ya door knob, or flushes it down the toilet." She gleefully answered, looking the petrified journalist in the face.
"That's right honey bear. That's what I do Arnie. The rest I use to purchase certain materials. You know, guns, such as this sleek little number here." And he pulled an automatic from his inside pocket. The one he had used on the night guard. "Flash powder, C4, chemicals of varying sorts, hired help, anything to help advance my art. And, of course, one wants always to look his best when performing for the public. So I use a little to fashion myself in the most classic, yet cutting edge and distinctive styles possible, such as the gorgeous outfit you see me now sporting." He stepped back, holding his arms out to give a better view of the expensive looking suit. "I had it tailored to my exact specifications. Beautiful, isn't it?"
The man just starred ahead, saying nothing.
"I really despise people who have no sense of fashion, or who lack a discerning eye for fine things." The Joker continued. "But, let's move back to the matter at hand. Even if you were capable of offering some grotesque sum of cash, no amount of any currency could ever best the sheer delight derived from watching you die. You see, Arnie, I've met many a millionaire, and even billionaire, under nearly identical circumstances to how we now meet, and they've proffered to me money, the same as you, only in far grander, far more obscene quantities, and my reply was the same to them as it is to you. They thought my clemency was for purchase, that they could bargain back their lives. They learned otherwise very quickly. So, if a clear enough picture has yet to be drawn for you, let me put it simply. Your money means nothing to me, but your death, Arnie, your death means for me pleasure. And what is life good for if not for delectation?"
"P-please." The man began to beg. "I-I'm a writer, I write for-for The Gotham Gazette. I could… I could write articles about you! Positive articles. Try to get the public to sympathize with you!"
Again The Joker laughed.
"And find yourself among the unemployed double quick my lad. What purpose would it serve? If the idiocy prevalent among the masses has thus far prevented them from getting the joke, then the loss is theirs to count, Mr. Goldstein, not my own."
"Oh God, please, don't. Th-there must be something, something you want. Something I can give you!?"
"I want your death, Mr. Goldstein." The Joker grinned and his eyes shined with cruelty as he moved forward.
"N-no, please! Stop!" The journalist scrambled back across the sheets. "Please stop! God, HELP ME! SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!" He began to scream at the top of his lungs as The Joker continued to encroach, the smile never leaving his face.
"No one can hear you Arnie." He said softly, reaching in to his pocket, pulling from it a straight razor.
The man didn't seem to hear him as he continued to scream for help, his voice cracking with the strain, and finally he reached the edge of the mattress, falling clumsily to the floor. He rose up, weak kneed, and saw The Joker still coming for him, the same pace, the same expression. He began to move away, around the bed, feeling as though, at any moment, his legs would give out on him and he again would fall. Yet somehow, he was able to will himself to run as he made a dash for the door, knocking a lamp to the ground on his way.
"Stop him Harley." The Joker ordered calmly, and she complied, springing towards the wobbling journalist, chasing him down with ease and bringing him down with a swift sweep of the legs.
Again, the man tried to rise, but before he could reach his feet, The Joker was upon him, yanking him up by the collar of his shirt. He continued to scream, but no one came and The Joker forced him, with what seemed remarkable ease, back to the bed, even as the journalist kicked and punched and fought, and quickly the man found himself lifted off the ground and slammed down, hard, against the mattress. And just as swiftly, The Joker bent down against him, pinning his flailing arms above his head, jamming a bony knee in to his stomach, and the madman's face was mere centimeters from his now, grinning wildly.
"Such spirit Arnie!" He said. "I am impressed."
Goldstein was crying now, tears filling his eyes and falling down his face without abandon.
"Please…" He pleaded weakly. "Please let me go…"
The Joker shook his head vigorously.
"No, no, silly boy!" He said. "We haven't finished the game yet!"
And then he released one of Arnie's arms, and the man didn't hesitate to strike at The Joker with it, hitting and thrashing against the maniac, against his face and his chest and his arms. And The Joker laughed, letting the journalist strike him.
"That's it Arnie!" He erupted in hysterics. "Hit me! Hit me as hard as you possibly can! Oh, the pain is exquisite!"
Goldstein fought desperately, balling his hand in to a fist, smashing it with all his strength in to The Joker's face, against his jaw, and more and more the man grew distressed as The Joker's laughter simply became stronger, even as blood began to run from his mouth and nose, until finally the journalist grew weak and he could no longer lift his arm to lash out.
"Goodness! Is that all dear?" The Joker looked disappointed. "How utterly displeasing. Why, I've assailed pampered, rich girls who put on a better show of endurance then you Arnie. Hit harder too. And after such a promising start!" He shook his head. "You're going to give writers everywhere a bad name with such a poor account of yourself." He reprimanded. "Simply unacceptable."
He leaned in closer to the still crying man, brining the gleaming razor to his face, running it flat side along his cheek, gently.
"Shh, shh, shh." The Joker shushed him. "It will all be over soon." His voice was soothing and quieted. "No more pain."
Goldstein's eyes had been pressed shut, and at last he opened them, looking up in to the lunatics bright eyes.
"P-please, d-don't do this." He begged.
And The Joker just smiled a sweet smile.
"No more pain Arnold." He said again, in that same, soft voice, before abruptly turning the razor on its edge and dragging it hard across the man's face.
Goldstein cried out in pain as the blood began to seep quickly from the wound, and The Joker brought the blade to the other cheek, repeating the motion, so that now two, identically clean, long cuts ran along either side of his face.
"Stop… stop… oh God, pl-please stop." The journalist sobbed.
But The Joker did not as he continued to rapidly and efficiently make dozens and dozens of similar, smaller incision's all about the face, until it looked as if the man wore a crimson mask.
And then he slid the blade, flat sided, along Goldstein's throat, down, until he reached the top of his chest.
The journalist again began to struggle, tossing about, trying to push the madman off of him. But The Joker didn't allow for it this time, releasing Arnie's other arm and striking him hard against the face with the back of his now free hand, repeating the vicious motion until the man ceased to resist, and the lunatic again resumed his work with the blade, turning it once more to its edge and slicing down the center of Goldstein's thorax, splitting the thin, cotton undershirt, drawing a line of blood down to above his navel, though the cut was shallow.
"Let's make a pretty star." The Joker spoke softly, drawing the razor now to one side of the man's chest and dragging it along until a cross was made by the incisions, and then repeating the motion in a diagonal line from his shoulder to his hip, and again on the other side, until a star shape was achieved by the wounds.
"Oh God… Oh God…" The journalist was mumbling incoherently now and seemed to be in a state of delirium. His shirt was cut to pieces and his exposed chest and stomach now matched the same red of his face.
"God resides not in this place Arnold." The Joker answered him, leaning off of the bleeding man for a full view, looking down to examine his work.
"Very nice." He nearly whispered. "Harley, did you bring our camera?" He asked more loudly.
"Uh…" Harley stood back. The whole thing was creeping her out, just a little.
"No Mistah J. You left in such a hurry that I… I forgot it." She answered meekly, fearful of his reaction.
"Well, that's too bad." He said calmly. "I would like to have taken pictures, for the memories you understand?"
"Y-yeah Puddin'. I'm sorry." She apologized, relieved he hadn't become angry.
He waved a hand.
"No need dear. They'll be further opportunities. Perhaps we'll go back for it when we're finished here."
"Sure thing Mistah J." She answered agreeably.
"Now let me see." He again spoke to himself, grasping his chin in one hand, pondering what more he could do to improve the work.
Goldstein, meanwhile, had begun to break from his dazedness, moving to get up and failing, falling back down. But again he tried, this time sitting up successfully, and he tried from there to stand.
The Joker's face twisted to an expression of agitation, and he walked swiftly to the struggling man, backhanding him hard so that he again fell to his back.
Suddenly the lunatics eyes lit up.
"I know!" He exclaimed, reaching to his inside pocket, pulling a deck of cards out, all joker's.
"This will be perfectly splendid." He spoke with excitement in his voice, turning the cards one over the other in the one hand that held them, before splaying them and picking a single from the deck.
"Whatcha gunna do Mistah J?" Harley asked, though she hesitated to do so.
"Leaving my mark, sweetness. I wouldn't want some second-stringer like Zsaz taking the credit for my masterpiece."
"But, isn't he in Ark…"
"Shh, shh." The Joker waved her off, bending down over the journalist with the card between his fingers and burying it edge first in to one of the open wounds along the man's torso.
Harley grimaced and looked away, feeling as though she were going to be sick, and Goldstein cried out in pain.
"AHHH! Oh God, s-stop, s-stop!" He screamed.
"No, I don't think I want to Arnie." The Joker ignored his pleas, taking another card from the deck and doing the same with it as he had the first one, and repeating the action until the entire deck ran along the cuts, tracing the star pattern, creating a 3-Dimentional effect.
"Now isn't that lovely Harl?" He asked, his tone bright.
The clown-clad girl forced herself to look, her eyes squinting, and she was sure she might wretch.
"Y-yeah Puddin'. Real nice." She said.
"I think so." The Joker nodded. "Like one of those stencil toys they make, you know, the ones that make all of those enchanting, colorful swirling patterns."
"Yeah Mistah J. I had one when I was little." Harley confirmed she knew what he was referring to.
"It's too bad about that camera." He said again, sounding sad.
Harley flinched at the disappointment in his voice.
"Ah, c'est la vie." He shrugged. "Accomplissons le travail alors, n'est-ce pas ?"
Harley looked at him with confusion. "Huh?" She asked. He didn't bother to repeat himself in English, instead bending down again and holding the straight razor to Goldstein's neck.
The journalist was again disoriented, his head falling from side to side as he mumbled to himself.
"Goodnight et au revoir monsieur Goldstien. Votre propogation de ma brillance sera fortement manqué." The Joker spoke fluidly, pressing the blades tip below the man's ear, pushing down hard, and dragging it with the same, even pressure across the entire length of his throat, ear to ear. The wound appeared at first as only a thin, red line, little beads of blood collecting along it, and the journalist began to gurgle and spit, a terrible slurping nose coming from him.
"One more touch to finish it off." The Joker turned the razor with flair, sticking the blade to the inside corner of Goldstein's mouth and dragging it up and along his cheek, doing the same to the other side so that it created what could be called a permanent grin. The action had caused the journalists head to tip back and the wound along his throat opened up like a gapping mouth, blood pouring out in waves.
"Two smiles for the price of one!" The Joker laughed.
Harley felt certain she was going to hurl and turned away from the sight.
The room fell silent for several seconds, The Joker just starring at the now lifeless body of Arnie Goldstein, Harley covering her mouth, afraid of losing dinner.
"Ah! Let's be on our way then!" The Joker broke the silence, tossing the razor aside and clasping his hands together.
Harley nodded, though said nothing and watched as her Puddin' looked about.
"Now where did I put that cane?"
"Over there Mistah J. By the bed." Harley pointed to the left side of the mattress.
"Oh!" Thank you darling." He exclaimed, smiling a boyish grin at her, before striding to where his cane lay and taking it up.
"Now we may depart."
And he moved out of the bedroom, down the short hallway, to the front door, Harley following closely behind.
The building was as empty and as quiet as it had been upon entering and they made it down the elevator and to the street outside without encountering so much as another soul.
"Thanks for letting us up!" The Joker had called over his shoulder to the dead watchman before the pair shuffled out, in to the night air.