WARNING: FREAKY SHIT IN THIS CHAPTER! IN THE BEGINNING I WARNED YOU THAT THIS WOULD BE FUCKED UP AND IF YOU HAVE NOT BEEN SUFFICIENTLY DISTURBED SO FAR THIS ONE SHOULD DO THE TRICK! IF THE CONTENTS OF THIS CHAPTER OFFENDS YOU: GOOD--THAT MAKES YOU A NORMAL HUMAN BEING. HOWEVER, DON'T INSULT/BITCH/THREATEN/WHINE/COMPLAIN/RANT/UPBRAID/SCOLD OR OTHERWISE ANTAGONIZE ME ABOUT IT. THANKS, THIS HAS BEEN A MESSAGE FROM THE MANAGEMENT.
If he pretended that she wasn't so cold it wasn't so bad. If only he had a face to replace the grey one before him with. If only he had ever really seen a face besides hers and the damn bat's.
And his face wasn't really a face--flash-- at all! It was rubber!
He wasn't allowed to kiss and never had. He wondered if skin felt different than rubber. Of course he had felt his own skin on occasion, but another's skin must feel--flash-- different than his. The skin of a person must have held some sort of…something that a subhuman thing like himself did not possess. After all, he was different. Nothing like them. Nothing at all!
Errant cackles escaped him as he pictured tearing welts and violet bruises into the dark rubber which batman was surely made of. Blood poured. He cackled as he thrust inwardly carelessly (after all- you can't hurt a dead girl!) and felt the sting of a hot fire poker pressed against his inner thigh. He cringed as the burnt flesh slapped against the frozen corpse he was chained to. Lights flashed.
Eight silver rings pierced the waxen skin of his back and were tied together with a long woven piece of dark purple silk stained black with blood. It was pulled taught in an incongruously elegant array of twisted bows. Every movement he was forced to endure was agony as the skin of his back was stretched and irritated by the crudely done piercings. His hands were bound to the tiny waist of the nearly blue corpse and the bones of his knees burned from over an hour spent in the same position. His seed leaked down her thigh and pooled on the floor.
"There's a batman." He said and the tip of the poker was pressed to one of the rings in his back. He screamed.
"No other shall touch you." She demanded and tears leaked from his red rimmed eyes. "Say it!" She demanded and his body started to shake.
"Say it!"
"Say it!"
The smell of burnt flesh was making him ill and his response was expelled brutally, like the vomit he could no longer produce.
"No other shall touch me." --flash--
"No other will want you."
"No other will want me."
"You don't deserve any better."
"I don't deserve any better."
"Say it as you practice on her. If you are as celibate as you said, James, you'll need it." She said with grim satisfaction and he took his flaccid penis in hand, showing her that he was spent only to feel the back of the poker against the bottom of his foot. His eyes were too dry for tears, but his body shook as he took his uncooperative member--flash-- in hand and forced it into the impossibly tight vagina before him. He thanked Her inwardly that he was always smiling. He couldn't have laughed.
He didn't find this funny. Not one bit.
Commissioner Jim Gordon did not know whether it was fate or coincidence, but just as he was about to leave to discuss something urgent with the Commissioner of Boston's police department (on grounds which had not been explicitly stated but he would have bet had something to do with joker), he found an envelope jutting from his windshield. He pocketed it discretely and only opened it once he was on the road and far from view. His eyes nearly popped from within his skull at the message.
Investigation into The Joker's background has revealed that he came from a rather unique family, with possible ties to now-institutionalized drug lord James Haydn, a transsexual pimp, a female mass murderer of unknown identity (who is both James Haydn's ex-wife and most likely the joker's mother), and prestigious Boston attorney Peter LaVigne.
According to a source, she sends Mr. Haydn an anniversary card every year and Mr. LaVigne not only keeps them, but has done much to find the identity of this woman. Pull some strings. See what can be done. Speak with LaVigne.
Jim Gordon swiftly tucked the letter away and returned his attention to the road.
Several hours later Gordon found himself outside the restaurant that Commissioner Emerson Burton had indicated, a small café halfway between Boston and Gotham, somewhere on the road that most probably would not even note as they sped by. He entered at the appointed time to find the large, rather imposing man sitting in the back with a cup of coffee. His eyes were hazel and his dark hair was peppered with grey. With barely a glance Gordon strode toward the larger man and sat across from him. After sending the waitress off to fetch him coffee Burton sighed and abruptly began.
"I need him." He whispered and Gordon raised an eyebrow questioningly. "You know damn well who I mean. The caped crusader. The masked vigilante. The dark knight. I need him. Now."
"It has been years since he made an appearance. He's a fugitive. Official policy has always been to arrest him on sight-"
"Oh, and yet you don't mention that the murder? Save it Gordon. You've been with him since day one. You still are. If anyone can get him to Boston: it's you."
"And why do you want him? Why now?" Jim asked in a low voice as a pretty young waitress slid a cup of coffee before him with shaking hands. She was obviously misconstruing their conversation and Commissioner Burton glared at her until she turned pale as a ghost. She sprinted back into the kitchen where she eagerly told the cook about the lover's spat brewing in their little café.
Burton glared at him as he pulled out a blue card. It read "Happy Anniversary" In letters embedded in emeralds. Gordon had never seen a card like it. It must have cost a ridiculous amount of money.
He opened it and nearly vomited all he had eaten in the past year. A small man sat naked on the stomach of a corpse. All that could be seen of the corpse was spread legs and a violated pubic area dripping with seed and blood. He sat with his back to the camera. An array of corset pairings dripping blood adorned his ashen back. His head was turned, revealing empty doe eyes and an emaciated face that was obviously the Joker's. The once maniacally jovial man who possessed a strange charisma and radiated unshakable surety was a shell. He looked like a large lost child. Gordon couldn't help but count his vertebra. Pathos such as he had never felt before wracked him.
"Your son misses you." Glinted in emeralds above the twisted passion play of pseudo-innocence and pain. Gordon dropped the card and it clanged against the table.
"There's your Joker." Burton said gruffly and Burton began to massage his temples with the tips of his fingers. "After receiving this three days ago, Haydn attempted suicide. Ripped his gown apart with his teeth, wove a rope with it, and tried to hang himself from the ceiling fan. He only managed to knock himself out--when he jumped he took the ceiling fan with him--and he's been in the hospital with a concussion since."
"This card was given to Haydn's nephew, LaVigne, and since he and I are friends he gave it to me. No one else has seen it. I'd rather keep it that way. After seeing what happened with your office the last time the joker was involved, I'd rather play this one close to the chest."
"Understood." Gordon ran his hands through his hair.
"I've done some digging since. It turns out that Haydn was committed twenty-four years ago when an angry ex-wife killed his girlfriend and attempted to nail him to the wall with a nail gun. From reports all I could gather was that she was beautiful and that she had three aliases: Briar Frazier, Fleur Davies, and Leah Rosamund. Rumor has it that she was pregnant. I would bet my badge that, that woman is the joker's mother."
Gordon nodded. "All though, Haydn is definitely within your jurisdiction. You could go talk to him and get the information you need. She's probably holding the joker somewhere that Haydn would be familiar with."
"I've already done that."
"Then what on earth do you need him for?"
"I'm playing this close to the chest. I don't want my men involved. However, I am sure that wherever this pair of lunatics might be found, they will be done away with when he finds them."
Gordon sighed.
"If you give me your word that you'll get him on it, I'll give you all of the information; including his real name."
"You don't even trust the cops who work for you, yet you are willing to risk your job and reputation to go out on a limb for me and an accused murderer in a bat costume?" He didn't want to admit that merely knowing the joker's true identity was enough to make him want to submit. He was positively dying to know.
"Then call me crazy." Burton said. "But I follow my instincts. Are you in?" He then held out a large, hoary hand and Gordon shook it vigorously. Next he held out an envelope, which Gordon also took in hand. He quickly hid it away.
"Have him take care of it Gordon. If you don't, I'll fucking kill you." Burton peered deeply into the other man's eyes before sliding out of the booth. He left a few dollars on the table before stalking out of the tiny café. Gordon finished his coffee.
pride1289: Thanks! Glad you like it. If at the end you are still confused feel free to ask some questions, but I promise that most questions will be answered by the end.
andaere: Yeah pretty much. I figured that people who become like that didn't grow up in a happy suburban cookie-cutter home with a lawyer father, a mother who tucked them in every night, siblings named Jason and Jennifer, and a little welsh-corgi named Kipper. And it'll probably get even worse.