A/N: This piece was certainly a break from my usual, and I'm not sure how well it turned out. After finding time to watch all three Nolan films after so long, I couldn't help but put pen to paper. A million praises to Heath Leger for giving us perhaps the best performance cinema might ever see.
"All it Takes is a Little Push"
A high-pitched, hysterical burst of laughter, eerie and chilling to the soul, echoed through the solitary confinement cell. The louder he became, the clearer it was that the voice belonged to a mentally abnormal inmate.
"Hey, be quiet in there!" the correctional officer barked, banging on the bars with the butt of his Glock-18 pistol. "You aren't in the circus anymore, you clown!"
The prisoner, however, was of a different opinion. After a while, his laughter broke off and petered out into a nervous chuckle. Then a voice rang out—a quiet, insinuating, hissing whisper pierced the ringing silence.
"Yes, yes, mister officer. What else do you want?"
The inmate's dark eyes reflected the light flickering from the florescent light strips in the gloomy cell. Interested, they drilled through the cop, waiting for an answer. A sticky chill ran down the officer's spine. No criminal such as this clown had ever appeared in Arkham Asylum. The face, still unevenly smeared with theatrical make-up, expressed nothing but a paradoxical mix of extreme contempt and undivided interest in all the inmates' surroundings. His mouth, disfigured by scars, was forever frozen in an eerie smile. Long, clutching fingers straightened the cuff of his shirt, as if for a grand reception.
It would almost appear to the average person that he didn't understand his location. Perhaps for "the Joker," imprisonment was either just a vaguely annoying fact ...or temporary entertainment.
"Mr. Officer... Eh, Mr. Thornton, are you... happy?" asked the Joker, smacking his lips. Thorton jumped back, finding the other instantly at the bars. The inmate spoke softly and unhurriedly but, from such a purring intonation, it became even more eerie. No professional could correctly diagnose exactly what cogs were working in the mind of this criminal. Consequently, all police officers were strictly forbidden to talk with him on topics not related to the case interrogation materials.
Thornton did not answer, but he made no attempt to leave either. The clown couldn't hurt him, surely.
"Mr. Thornton, this is such a simple question... Can't you answer?"
The cop muttered something unintelligible. The inmate's unusual appearance and non-standard behavior riveted his attention, as if he had lost the ability to move.
"Ohh, maybe you're tired of fighting crime. I see it; you're hated by your superiors, so you've been drastically demoted and forced to keep an eye on the prisoners." Apart from the faint hum of the forty-watt lamp, his insinuating, whistling whisper was the only sound in solitary confinement. The Joker dangled his arms, shoulders supporting his weight against the cell bars. "You could have done better, and you know that, sir. It's all about these idiotic formalities." He smacked his lips again. "You could sit in your own cozy office and give your own orders."
Thornton struggled to collect his thoughts. As if summoned by the clown's words, the ghosts of missed prospects flashed before the correctional officer's eyes: the presentation of awards to obviously less diligent colleagues; the image of a mussy-haired wife slamming the door nearly off its hinges, never to be seen again; a sixteen-year-old daughter caustically declaring his lazy fatherhood and inability to support their down-the-drain family...
"Shut up," Thorton growled. "Otherwise I'll paint your face more than it is now."
The Joker curled his cracked lips contemptuously in a grin. He clicked his tongue and continued. "How awful when your life is broken by some idiot just because he has more power. If you were more resourceful, more daring, perhaps you mighta sat beside the next rich man. But you're just an honest cop, aren't you? Everything should be simpler, shouldn't it? It's worth dividing the world into black and white, isn't it? Without using nasty, useless shades of gray," affirmed the prisoner in a philosophical tone. "Maybe it's not too late to change everything?"
The officer clenched his fists reflexively. How could this painted circus freak know the minutia of his biography? And yet Thorton could not help but admit that the prisoner was telling the truth. This clown wasn't the dangerous mastermind everyone cracked him up to be, and suddenly he was right, in Thorton's mind—can you still change?
"Imagine just how much your life could change," the Joker continued, pressing his face between the two bars clutched in his hands. "You will become famous. This whole damn world'll talk about you. Money will come and, with it, the women—hello, beautiful!—ready to do anything for you, not like your wife." The prisoner grinned mysteriously, bearing his yellow teeth. His gaze remain fixed below hooded lids, firmly on the officer. "And your daughter will bow at your feet. Maybe then sprinkle in a bit of justice to punish your offenders. Eye for an eye, no? Just imagine..."
He whispered more, described perspectives, gestured giddily, breaking into high intonations. At first, Thornton was annoyed by this constant lip-smacking, irked by how the prisoner deliberately stretched out his idiotic giggles. When the subject turned to justice, he then began listening attentively, catching every word. Instinctively, he disliked agreeing with the psychopath at all, yet not one word of one lie passed the prisoner's painted lips.
The cop's mouth spontaneously moved. "What should I do?"
The Joker smiled with satisfaction and licked his lips. "One little favor. Tiny." He brought his thumb and forefinger to his face, leaving a negligible distance between them. "Let me out." He made a stupid face. "Open up this damn ...castle."
Thornton, as if awakened from hypnosis, almost bounced off the grate like it was a poisonous spider. No, no, his criminal was not like the others—he did not achieve his goal by force. He used other... more effective methods.
"I—I went off the rails there," the officer muttered, realizing that he himself allowed to go so far. "Shut your damn mouth, clown."
"Or-r-r what?"
"You'll be in trouble otherwise," the cop snapped. "I'll make sure of it."
The inmate rolled his eyes and bounced his head from shoulder to shoulder. "Come on, come on." His tone turned almost official. "You coulda just shot me..." He threw an expressive glance at the clock behind the officer.
Thorton followed his gaze. Ten minutes.
"It wouldn't cost you too much trouble, right? Especially since you understand perfectly well that I'm the only one who can help you. You can't achieve anything without me. No, no, cops like you are just a laughing stock to Gotham. For years. And if you do me a teensy, insignificant service, you can enact change. Just think." The prisoner made a gesture, as if he could circle the whole city with his hand. "Money, booze... girls." He winked. "And, of course, what you miss so much is... just respect."
The criminal watched carefully as Thornton fiddled with a set of keys, still doubting his decision.
"Come on, come on, come on! Come on, come on!"
Finally, the cop opened the lock with trembling fingers. He looked the Joker up and down. He was staring at something behind the officer, an expression of terror plastered to his face. Immediately, Thorton stole a glance over his shoulder. A few moments of confusion were enough; the criminal, hitting the officer with his elbow in the solar plexus, snatched the Glock-18 out of his hand.
"Oh, you…" Thornton croaked, huddled in pain. He wanted to say something else, but the former prisoner sat down next to him and put the muzzle to his middle.
"You see, I... don't like pistols." As if justifying his stance, the Joker said so in the same whistling hiss-whisper. "Too fast, and therefore boring. But you helped me a lot." He nodded slightly. "Therefore, dear friend, I'll give you a good chance at fame. I'm sure they'll write about you in the newspapers."
Thornton had no time to understand what had happened. A short, dry sound of a shot cracked through the air, and incredible pain pierced his stomach. Darkness fell over his eyes.
The Joker dropped the corpse and smacked his tongue. "Well, buddy, you're simply shining with beauty," he commented, examining the limp form of what a couple of seconds ago was a weak-minded officer who wanted to watch the world burn.
Wiping the slightly soiled pistol on Thornton's uniform, the killer stepped over the body. He bounced on the balls of his feet, turning about three-sixty to examine the premises a final time. "And... here... we... go..."
He left the hall, humming some eerie melody.