Something familiar,
Something peculiar,
Something for everyone:
A comedy tonight!
Something appealing,
Something appalling,
Something for everyone:
A comedy tonight!
Nothing with kings, nothing with crowns;
Bring on the lovers, liars and clowns!
Old situations,
New complications,
Nothing portentous or polite;
Tragedy tomorrow,
Comedy tonight!
–– A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, "Comedy Tonight"
Isn't this lovely.
I bang on my double-bolted door. "Hey, Joker. Hey." A small window opens in the door, and I find myself glaring into the pits given the misnomer eyes.
"What's wrong, Har-ri-et?"
"What's wrong is that a would-be child murderer has imprisoned me in a room that looks like Pee-Wee's Playhouse." No, seriously. The walls are a gay (happy, not peculiar) shade of yellow and the ceiling is a baby blue with–– good god–– puffy white clouds. The carpet is grass green shag, the door bright purple, wacky, and zig-zaggy, and there's a half a gold Rolls Royce smashed through the wall. The armchairs are bright-hued, overstuffed, and some disturbed person has attached large googly eyes to their backs. I am about to have a very loud conniption fit.
"And what have you given me to wear? This thing is…" I trail off, wrinkling my nose in distaste at the short dress and ankle-length trench coat hanging in the bright orange closet. I have the horrible feeling that the coat is his, and ignore it, tossing the tiny slip of a dress at the cell door. "This is small and absurd." I pause. "And if you say anything about clothes making the woman, I will hurt you. And what the hell––" I nudge a large (shudder) clown doll with my smallest toe "––is this? I found it in my bed and only refrained from disemboweling it for fear of setting off some explosive."
There is a burst of hysterical laughter, and with a grinding and clanking, the door unlocks. I scoot up against the far wall, trying as hard as I can to put distance between me and the madman making his entrance. The Joker strides in still cackling, and attempts to pull me to his side as he picks up the abused doll, but I bat his hand away, snapping, "No, don't you laugh and grin at me–– you sent me a clown."
There is a long silence.
I barely have time to register the fury in the Joker's eyes when a fist connects with my mouth, slamming me into a bedpost. Before I can recover, I feel the back of the Joker's gloved hand make contact with my cheek with undue force, feel the chipped buttons cut open my skin. I gasp a little, gulping down blood as rough gloved hands bruise my upper arms. "You, ah, talk a lot, Har-ri-et. And you're rather ungracious to someone who has very generously allowed you to live." I swallow, hard, and snap my mouth shut, sweat beading on my brow. Harry, now is not the time to be a wiseass.
The Joker's grin widens, and with three quick motions, I'm thrown on the bed, crushed beneath his hips with my hands jerked above my head, nearly dislocating my shoulders. Fuck! I think, struggling wildly, panic clouding my mind. I'd better reboot my safety cowardice before I get myself butchered. "Did you really think I liked you well enough not to hurt you? You–– you know me better than that, giiiir-ly. You know I eat meat, ah, rare." He lowers his gaze to my terrified face, a hungry, greedy delight illuminating his eyes, and his fingers touch my new cuts and bruises delicately, almost–– tenderly? curiously? reverently? "Do you–– do you want to know why you're still alive?" he whispers. I don't move, and see the same fierce anger flood his eyes. The fiend grabs my chin and forces me to nod jerkily, then, leaping up with a flourish, grabs the back of my neck and throws me into the bathroom, where I skid wildly, fall over the edge of the bathtub, and slam my face into the wall. Ow.
The dress lands ingloriously on my raised rump, and, after a pause, the Joker exits dramatically, slamming the door behind him. Bastard bastard bastard. I groan, twisting around and sinking into the tub, hands on my head. If this goes on much longer, I'll be dead on my feet before the Joker gets 'round to officially executing me. Already, the brightly hued walls feel like they're closing in on me, compressing me. Damned if you do, damned if you don't–– stay here, suffer; escape, watch others suffer. Stay, become an accomplice in Batman's demise. Leave, become the cause of multiple homicide. Fuck.
"Har-ri-et." I shudder. Fucking clown. My mind is dizzy and sick and cold and numb, and I can feel a trickle of blood running like warm molasses from a new wound on my forehead. The eye that made painful touchdown upon the knobbily bedpost is agonizing to move, and my vision is blurry and shaky. I when I look in the mirror, I see that it is not simply bleeding, but completely dark with ruptured blood veins. It sends waves of pain through my mind every time that I blink or even attempt to look around. This is not good. I suddenly remember that when my brother was beaten in the sixth grade, he got a bloody eye. The treatment for it was extensive and required us to check him into an emergency hospital room. My stomach lurches, nauseated by the memory of the black eyeball. No way I'm going to be getting any treatment here–– chances are, before I ever get to a doctor, I'll go blind. I wipe hurriedly at my mouth, praying for it to stop bleeding. I don't want to provoke the psycho clown anymore than I would on a regular basis–– which is enough, of course, to make him kill me.
"I'm coming, Joker–– you just want me to put on the dress?" Despite my efforts, I hear my voice tremble uncontrollably. There is a noticeable pause on the other side of the door and I feel fear clog my lungs like thick cold fog. What have I gotten myself into? I took my life for granted. I took my death for granted. And now I am finally realizing the amount of pain that both can involve. For me to survive, I think, stripping slowly, every movement pure anguish, I'll have to be a lot stronger, if not smarter.
I cannot refrain, however, from sniggering at the ridiculous picture I make: one black-eyed girl with a slimy, unkempt look about her–– Lord knows how long I was out before my PTS nightmares jolted me awake–– wearing yet another glittery dress, now black with red diamond patterns. I look like one of Gunther's Sunshine Girls, but without the complementary bisexual female companions. Mustering all of my most idiotic courage, I saunter (i.e. stagger) into the adjoining room, take a deep breath, and strut proudly (i.e. totter pathetically) past the Joker's scowling face to subside into a large armchair.
"I look like a Vegas waitress/crack whore, and unless that's a new trend, honey, I don't think your public relations cred is going to rise any. Unless you're trading up the killer laughs for a career as master pimp." My hand waves a little vaguely in front of my battered visage as I attempt to appear blasé. Silence fills the room behind me, and I quietly gulp, hoping that I haven't signed my death warrant. Then I hear him chuckle softly. A pair of large sunglasses drops onto my lap, and I put them on, shocked and hesitant.
"You'll, ah, need to protect that eye." I flush dark red, and purple in certain places. What is he doing? "So I'd put those on and watch your-self." The Joker slides around the chair, reptilian, fingers trailing along its back as he coils around to look at my face. His tongue flickers around his lips like a snake's, and I shiver. "You weren't, ah, joking about losing all sense of self-preservation." His the cold tips of his gloves trace my jaw line musingly. "Or–– or perhaps you're cleverer than you appear, little Harriet. You know your so-called bravery fascinates me, don't you?" The bastard grins, wiping a trickle of blood from my lips with his thumb. I'm now entirely confused. What bravery are we talking about here? Me running my mouth after I've been beaten to a pulp? I'd call that more idiotic than courageous, Mister Joker. He looks pleased, however. "Mm-hm. Trick-y girl. You know how to play your cards."
In one swift movement, the Joker has stood up and turned on his heel, licking the blood off of his finger as he does so. "You know the old saying, 'Know thine enemy?' Well, Miss Vince, it occurred to me that you appear–– or at least pretend–– to understand me much better than I do you–– judging by the confident tone of your, ah, nasty little article. Tha-t leaves us with an uneven playing field. It isn't––ah, fair." During this little rant of his, I've been reviewing everything I ever learned about self-defense, in case he attacks me again, but at the peroration, I roll my eyes, cursing inwardly at the pain this inspires.
"Wow, Joker, I wouldn't think fair play was ever one of your top priorities! But we learn something new about our mass murderers every day!" I can feel the acidity of my words as they slide off my tongue, and my bloody lips twist into a wry smile. It's like every movement takes conscious encouragement just to move past the pain, I muse miserably, listening indifferently to the Joker's insane giggling.
"No, Har-ri-et––" (it's amazing how he manages to make that sound patronizing every time) "––I'm a great believer in the even playing field. That's why I want the ol' Batster to come out of hiding! After all, it isn't like Maroni ever hid behind a mask." I shoot him a look. "True?"
"Maroni never needed to!"
"You don't either. Neither does Harvey Den-t." I'm brought up short. Well. That is true. But since the day I got involved, I have wished that that party had been a masquerade, and that I had been wearing the largest African ceremonial mask in existence. Since that day, I have prayed for a chance to trade my face for another's–– trade lives, if possible. But I, unfortunately, do not have the monies for full-body plastic surgery and a red eye flight to an untraceable base in the Bermuda Triangle, which are the only things I can think of that would deter this freak of human nature. I recover my angry mood, and snap back at him.
"And what about you, hypocrite? Batman's not the only one wearing a mask!" There's a pause, and then, through the dark glasses, I see the large red mouth split into a wolfish grin.
"This is my face." My eyebrows shoot into my hairline.
"Your face is greasepaint, kohl, and Mary Kay?" A vein twitches in his temple. I will myself to shut up.
"Oh, it wasn't the one I was born with–– but it is me. Here––" The Joker takes off his gloves and wiggles his fingers. "You'll see–– if you ever get a chance to check–– there aren't any matches, no other, ah, aliases. You know why? It's because I'm you, Har-ri-et. I'm what you all, ah, really are. I'm just–– ah-nest with myself. I use my make-up to reveal, rather than con–conceal."
The monster leans closer, predatory smile spreading like an oil spill. "Do you remember that stampede in Iraq, Harriet? Only a few years bac-k. Fake suicide bomb alert made thousands panic and rush over a bridge in Baghdad." The bright red lips smack with delight. "At least nine-hundred and sixty-five people killed and four hundred and sixty-five injured!" He giggles wildly, hands twitching in front of his face. "It's so fun-ny Harriet! Someone shouts 'Fire!' and everyone goes berserk–– not just the usual loonies, but everyone! Suddenly, there's no more order…no more little moral code." The Joker straightens up, yellow fangs still bared. "And that's with a fake bombing. Imagine–– imagine how people act when they know they're going to die. Hee hee hee… I'm Dr. Phil-of-the-future, girl-y, just showing people that they shouldn't lie to themselves anymore." His voice has become deeper, smarmy. "That–– that they should throw away the lies taught to them." I stare at him. Suddenly Joker jumps up and points at me, giggling. "And I'm telling you now: the word 'death' is like abracadabra––say it once and POOF!" His hands fly into the air. "Every 'good man' turns into a rat. A simple creatureclawing at the others to stay alive." The grinning psychopath shrugs elaborately. "It's Darwinism in a brutal world, Har-ri-et, and I'm planning to survive."
I am motionless, quiet rage building inside of me. This sick, cynical little theory is the reason Harvey Dent is dying? Why so many have died already? My mouth swings open despite every particle of common sense telling me to shut the hell up.
"'And is not our modern history, my brothers, the story of brave malenky selves fighting these big machines?'" I laugh bitterly, choking a little on my anger. "Appypollyloggies, Joker, but you do what you do because you like to do. Don't, 'ah', lie to yourself."
Yep. Talking was a bad idea.
My head is being jerked back by the hair and my neck feels like its going to snap. I gasp–– a horrible, rattling sound. The Joker's leering face is right before mine, his bright red lips two centimeters from mine. His voice is sneering, derisive. "You think you're better–– don't you? You think you're different from me. But you'll see–– you'll realize what you really are. Everything–– changes under pressure." A leer slithers across his disfigured features. "You already have." I blink back blood and tears behind my dark lenses. "After all––" the Joker leans in close, smile playing around his extended mouth "––before me, you would never have considered yourself prepared to commit murder. Or shoot a man in the knee! Hee hee hee, y'see, I've lit a fuse under you, m'dear. It's called necessity, and all of your little repressions are rising to the surface–– you're boiling over with 'em." I gasp in pain, trying to tug his hand from my hair.
"Aren't you worried that I'll drown out the flame? You know, that the effects will overpower the cause? Frankenstein's––ow!–– monster?" That makes him pause.
"Hmmm. A good point, little Har-ri-et." I grit my teeth in frustration as well as sheer agony. I really wish he'd stop calling me that, but I have nothing to wish on. Damn. Maybe if I knew the time–– I snap to. Obviously, whatever the time is, it's not one to be a space cadet during. "But, considering what I do know about you, I think that an unlike-ly situation. You want me around–– don't deny it! You're a journalist. And in all honesty, Miss Vince, where would you be without me–– or Batman?" He pulls an exaggeratedly curious face, rolling his pitch black eyes to the ceiling and fidgeting like a hyperactive kid on Christmas. In a slow, speculative whine, he continues, saying, "You'd be out of a job–– no… out of a, a hobby." His grin widens. "You're a little voyeur, aren't you? Profiting off of pain. Madness. You love the adventure, don't you–– as long as you're behind your desk. Oh ho ho–– compared to you, my cowardly, lion-ized friend, I'm a saint!" He licks his mouth almost frantically, eyes narrowed, and then purses his lips. "You–– you were just someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, hmmm? Weren't you? I could see it in your eyes as you, ah, blabbed–– the fear, that is. The fear of a hunted animal." He giggles hysterically, flipping out his knife and placing it close to my face. "But I wonder. Won-der, if, if maybe you weren't just scared of me. Because in the terminal, you weren't scared at all. Not at al-l. You were–– dangerous. And I can't deny that you can be extremely courageous–– idiotically brave." The flat of the blade is pressed against my skin, caressing it. "You're a contradiction in terms, Harriet." My name is said curtly, as if he's disturbed that he can't understand me.
After staring at me in twitchy silence, he appears to make a decision, letting go of my hair and pulling me to my feet, muttering, "I think we both need to know what you're afraid of. What you really care about. So that I can attack it, and you can–– hee hee hee–– defend it! What do you think, Har-ri-et?" I wobble in place, happy that he can't see my eyes.
"I think you should just start calling me Harry."