CHAPTER 8: PARTIES AND PRACTICAL JOKES
The Joker is asexual, at least to the casual observer. He is liken to a monk in his lack of urges. While he is human and he's had his share of women (easily obtained, believe it or not and all in the more socially acceptable manner), none of them have ever meant anything more to him than the physical relief they provided. And he certainly never kept any of them around for long periods of time, at least not in the past.
It is not unusual, however, for The Joker to become attached to any one thing or person. But attached in the sense that he favors it, or them, above others and occasionally looks forward to interactions with it (or said individual). Rather like a man enjoys owning a cat and patting it gently whenever it decides to come back to him. So seldom is this abnormal sight that his men think he is slightly robotic in his ways. They think things they would never voice; is he human, is he even capable of affection, of sexuality?
Whereas he relies on mental stimulation, he more or less shuns physical stimulation unless it's absolutely necessary. Whenever the urge becomes too much of a burden to ignore, and it scarcely does (he has the inhuman ability to neglect almost any bodily necessity for ages on end without serious repercussion), he will see to himself in the usual manner. Afterward, following the rush of endorphins, he tends to get his more adrenaline-fueled ideas. During the act he often thinks of explosions, delightfully big and horrendously destructive. And he always plays his music, and it's always Beethoven.
The Joker lays on the cot in his room, thinking. The arrival of the milk carton is just what was needed. Brought to him by one of his men who unknowingly collected it during a food run, it has made matters far less complicated than they were steadily becoming. Thank god for that. Up until now, Martha Aiken has become a substantial distraction, and up until the milk carton he has been preoccupied with trying to get himself back on track, a thing easier said than done, even for a man as diligent and disciplined as himself.
His stares up at the ceiling, thinking that his reaction to her haughty proclamation was entirely justified.
"Colmany on the corner of 22nd Street and Persian." He repeats to himself, doing his best impression of her voice. "You'll need men on the roof, won't you? You can't be the Batman. You're a different planet in the same solar system."
He chortles, wagging his head like an old woman. It had been the presumptive way in which she has suggested it that had driven him to do it, to slash at her with such wild contempt. Little insignificant Martha, thinking she could ever know more than he did, that she could ever be better at creating chaos than he was. The need to slice at her, to see her blood and bring reality back for both of them had been crippling, and he had given in to it, but that was not his major mistake. The major mistake had been lunging at her afterward. The major mistake had been allowing that one intrusive bit of physical contact that, at the time, had felt so alluring it would reduce him to a shaky, quivering fool afterward, and that would later break him from his concentration completely – not to mention keep him out of her room for days on end, almost afraid to interact with her for fear of a repeat incident, or the occurrence of a far more embarrassing one.
In all honesty Martha's ideas about a zip-line from Colmany to the rooftop of Gotham 1st National had been exactly what The Joker had needed to propel his plan into it's penultimate phase, with the final phase being it's execution. He had barked his official orders out that very night, and his men had been quick to act, going out into the city to find the necessary tools and items, warned to keep an ever-vigilant eye for the Batman who, unfortunately, had a knack for interfering with his lads during these odd little collection rounds. Most of the imperative equipment, particularly the zip-line objects, were procured from Mt. Pleasant, an outdoor hunting and hiking store on the north side of the city. Now he has just about everything set aside for the event, including the school bus. The timing has been planned down to the smallest of details. This meticulous behavior is part of his nature. That, and he has been using this massive preparation as an excuse not to think about what will need to be done with Martha Aiken. Truthfully, he has been ignoring the issue for far longer than he should be.
Now that everything has at last been sorted, save for the men he will be bringing with him to Gotham 1st National (those positions will need to be outsourced – for obvious, and fairy crucial reasons), his mind turns back to the milk carton, and Martha.
He has no need of her now that her usefulness has ended.
He has to get rid of her.
He has to get rid of her and move on with the plan. But how? How does he get rid of her? Is he even capable of it at this point? He has trouble imagining what it will be like around the place without her. There would be far less crying, for one thing, and despite his charming personality he just wouldn't have the same unnerving effect on his men as he does on Martha. Granted, he commands their respect, and to extent their fear but . . . He sighs. It wouldn't be in the same. In all honesty her reactions to his performances are often times a major self esteem boost for him. He fears he will miss her cowering most of all.
He sighs again, remembering the death of the pizza delivery man, and her hysterical wailing. He chuckles fondly at the memory.
Sadly, Martha Aiken has become a constant part of The Joker's life, almost like a pet, and it's only just now becoming obvious to him. It is a mistake that needs immediate correcting. Luckily for him, the arrival of the milk carton was the catalyst that finally propelled him into action.
He stares up at the ceiling, deep in thought. He is going over the various contrasting options for what should be done with Martha (most of which include humiliating murder scenarios, coupled with one or two acts of tasteful compassion), when a terrific idea comes to him. In a heartbeat he's up and bounding across the room. Smiling, he waltzes down the corridor to the main dinning section. There he finds a group of men huddled by a large table, playing poker. They immediately pause their game at his spontaneous entrance.
"Gentlemen," He proclaims, that old spark returning to light him up, "Gentlemen, we're going shopping!"
If only Martha had seen the reports on television about the men in clown masks who robbed a well-known clothing store downtown, and the Party Supply shop just a few blocks over. If she had seen these reports she would have been able to wager a guess as to what was going to happen next. Unfortunately, Martha remains oblivious to the midnight robberies, and so when The Joker comes to her door the evening after wearing a suit of considerable taste and his widest grin, with a confusingly elegant dress for her to quickly change into (all the while pointing a German Luger at her belly), she is more than unsettled, to say the least. She changes quickly, back turned to him offering little argument, and he watches her don the form-fitting fabric in-between quick glances down at his polished shoes. He thinks little of the act of watching, of this exchange being any kind of voyeurism or how uncomfortable she might feel by his presence there while she changes. He's brought her to the bathroom before, seen her asleep and at her most vulnerable. She should have no reason to feel awkward around him.
And besides, witnessing her hasty (and relatively messy) removal of clothing leaves him unimpressed and feeling more impatient than aroused. Although he does permit himself to form a proper opinion once she's properly clothed.
The dress, he thinks, suits her – a deep plum color with thin straps and a low angular cut at the chest. She wears it well. He feels a small pang of pride at how well he chose.
Afterward, the blindfold is placed comfortably over her eyes, and she is lead down the hallway in her beautiful satin gown with the pistol held firmly against her back until they reach the door to his room. He lets her into his private sanctuary, and the harsh slam of the door behind them makes her jump.
She has no idea what's happening. It's been weeks since she's seen him, and the gun gives her a feeling of true foreboding, of certain doom. And the dress – the dress just confuses her.
When the blindfold comes off, her eyes meet the quaint picture of a table, one of the smaller circular ones from the dinning area, set with two places and a single, lit candle, with a pair of chairs on either side. This is not so out of place. What does make the scene particularly strange are the balloons and streamers decorating the blank ceiling and back corners, their bright and friendly colors a severe contrast to the cold and otherwise empty look of the room.
Martha Aiken is at a loss.
She feels a slight building of pressure at her back as the pistol digs against her, a signal to sit down. She finds her place at the table and watches him take his. He finds his radio, under the table, and puts on something light – The Pines of Rome, he decides, will do. It's all very dream-like and she wonders if she's still asleep. He sits across from her, relaxed and smiling with one hand resting under his chin and the other keeping the gun aimed at the center of her forehead. She finds herself reminiscing about the last time he had a gun on her, and remembers the precipitous death of the pizza delivery goon. She trembles, pushing it out of her mind. At the center of a table, just next to the candle, is a large silver pan, covered by a rounded lid. Her eyes move away from it and land on the bucket of ice on the floor, something she missed earlier. She spies the bottle of wine and immediately straitens up, feeling all the more nervous. She has no idea where this is going.
"How do you like the decorations?" He asks her.
She takes a moment to look around again, and forces a smile. "They're nice."
"It was either this or more dead rats. But I figured you'd want something newer, nicer for our little dinner."
She blinks.
"What's the occasion?"
"Going-away party." Quips The Joker.
He pulls the lid off the pan in one quick motion, revealing the rotten body of a dead pigeon. Martha shrieks and clamps her hand over her mouth to discontinue the high pitched sound.
The Joker nods his head with appreciation and says "The mayor of Gotham was very worried about a plague of pigeons in the city, you know. The mayor couldn't remove the pigeons from the city. Gotham's many citizens couldn't walk on the sidewalks or drive on the roads. It was costing a fortune to try to keep the streets and sidewalks clean. One day this man comes to City Hall and offers the Mayor a proposition. 'I can rid your beautiful city of its plague of pigeons without cost to the city. But, you have to promise not to ask me any questions. Or, you can pay me five million dollars and ask one question.' The mayor considers the offer briefly and winds up accepting the free proposition. So, the next day the man climbs to the top of City Hall, opens his coat, and releases a blue pigeon. The blue pigeon circles around in the air a few times and flies up into the sky. All the pigeons in Gotham see this strange new, blue pigeon and gather up behind it. The Gotham pigeons follow the blue pigeon out of the city. The next day the blue pigeon returns completely alone to the man atop City Hall. The Mayor, well needless to say he's impressed. He thinks the man and the blue pigeon have performed a wonderful miraculous feat to rid Gotham of the plague of pigeons. And even though the man with the pigeon has charged nothing, the mayor presents him with a check for 5 million dollars and tells the man that, indeed, he did have a question to ask and even though they had agreed to no fee and the man had rid the city of pigeons, he decides to pay the 5 million just to get to ask one question. The man accepts the money and tells the mayor to ask his question."
Here The Joker pauses for dramatic effect.
Finally, he says "The mayor asked: 'Do you have a blue criminal?'"
Another pause, followed by the Joker's slow, monotonous cackling, cackling that builds until it becomes an uproar of wicked laughter. Martha is shocked to feel herself biting back a giggle – it was a funny joke, but still and all, here she now sits with a dead bird as her supper and a criminal as her date.
The wine is poured once The Joker stops laughing, only a little bit at first, and only in Martha's glass. He holds it up, sniffs it, and shoves it directly under her nose. Hesitant, she takes it and sips. Simple red wine from an unlabeled bottle, and not being one for wine, she continues to sip meagerly if only to avoid appearing rude.
"You know," The Joker begins conversationally, "I'm going to miss you, Martha Aiken."
She stops mid-gulp and eyes him carefully.
"It's true. I've grown accustomed to your face!" He bellows sing-song, making her swallow harshly. Seconds later he's grim and talking to her with an intense look of seriousness. "But you and I both know, it was never going to last."
He shakes his head and sighs.
"Pretty sad, really. I mean, I don't normally get attached to people. I don't even get attached to weapons! And I like weapons." He accentuates this fact by waving the gun around frantically. "But you know what they say . . . I mean, I don't, but you probably you. Drink your wine!" He shouts ecstatically.
"Where did it come from?" It's a bold question, but one worth asking. She waits on edge for his response.
"Why do you ask, Martha?"
"It's not from the wine cellar." She points out.
"Astute observation." He replies casually. "Take another sip and I'll tell you where it came from."
She goes to sip, pauses. "Did you poison it?"
"You tell me."
"Did you?"
Impatient, he kicks the ice bucket, sending it sliding haphazardly across the floor to topple and spill.
"I could put you out another way, you know." He declares curtly, leering. "I could shoot you in the knee, and apart from it being a relatively boring wound, the pain will be so severe that you'll pass out, like that."
He snaps his fingers to illustrate his point and her eyes go wide.
"But," He continues, easing back in to his seat, "I went to all the trouble of stealing the wine, and the decorations. So the least you could do is be thankful, and stop asking so many questions. Questioning life takes the surprise out of it, Martha." He finishes, chuckling cruelly.
She drinks.
"That's better."
"You're going to kill me." She remarks flatly, numbness returning as she ponders her fate.
"You think so?"
"I don't know what I think anymore. I feel like Alice talking to the Caterpillar. Like I'm not even myself anymore." She admits.
"Oh! Alice in Wonderland! I love that story." He proclaims loudly, clapping his hands together like an excited child. "You know, I once knew a man who used to dress up as the Mad Hatter. It's true, he would put on the enormous hat and bow tie, the whole get-up, and lure little girls in to this old abandoned play park, and –"
All at once he stops and smiles, tongue darting out to wet the corner of his mouth.
"On second thought, best we keep the dinner conversation delicate, eh?"
She takes another sip of wine and starts to notice her vision blurring. She shakes it off, determined.
"Are you going to kill me or not?" She says finally.
He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. "Martha, Martha, Martha. Why so serious? Hasn't your little stay here taught you anything?"
"It's not that I want control." She explains. "I can't even remember what control feels like anymore. Why would I want it now?"
It's the truth, sadly.
"I think I deserve to know, though. I think I deserve to be told."
He motions for her to drink up and she nods, continuing to sip.
"It was a big decision for me." He tells her calmly, almost as if he's gloating. "I even asked some of the men about it. No, that's a lie. I asked all of them. Everybody had a different opinion. Do you want to know what the majority vote was?"
She nods.
"Drink your wine, and I'll tell you."
He reaches across the table, fills her glass, and she drinks it down in one continuous chug. He quirks an eyebrow, impressed, and proceeds to fill it again. By now she's beginning to really feel it. Whatever he's put into this drink is strong, and his face, along with the rest of the detail and clarity, has begun to melt away into vagueness.
"I feel strange."
He puts on his very best, Shakespearean accent and recites "There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in proportion."
"Francis Bacon?" She hiccups, and he nods, pleased. "The denseness and the strangeness of the world is absurd." She tells him, not bothering to mention the fact that it's Albert Camus' quote and not her own. Although, given the current circumstances, she can be forgiven. Everything has started to spin, but the dizziness, she finds, is not entirely unpleasant. There's something about it all that feels warm, hot even. It's spreading throughout her from the center, like an amiable, inner blanket smothering her into languidness.
"Well? What did your men tell you to do with me?" She manages, floundering.
"You have to be gotten rid of, I'm afraid."
She shakes her head. "I agree with you. It's not safe to keep me here anymore. I'm a liability." She slurs this last word so severely that she sounds like a drunken sorority girl. How embarrassing, and she used to be such a respectable young banker.
"You're a lovely lump that became a tumor, Martha. You were a well of knowledge but now you've sprung a delightful little leak." He pauses a moment, licks his lips. "The majority vote was that I should plug you right here and now. One of them even offered to do it for me, take care of you, the mess, the whole thing. Isn't that nice?"
She doesn't answer. Keeps drinking. It's becoming surreal. In a way it's maybe even soothing. She misses him grab the bottle and take a heavy swig directly from it, and the giggles start when he puts his feet on to the table, nearly knocking the candle off.
"What's so funny?" It comes out as more of a comment than a question as he waves the wine bottle in the one hand and holds the gun perfectly steady with the other.
She points down at the dead pigeon. "I remembered your joke."
"Dear god, you're just now developing a sense of humor." He takes another heavy swig. "The boys were right. I should put you out of your misery."
"Go ahead, but remember to make it look like an accident."
"Don't insult me, Martha." He retorts, playfully feigning offense.
"What do we have here, officer?" She asks in a deep baritone. "Well, chief," She answers, voice raspy and young. "It looks like she strangled herself to death."
She continues to snicker, too tipsy to notice his delighted reaction to the sound of her ridiculousness. He had no idea she was even capable of laughter, let alone the kind of absurdity she was now displaying. The sight of it tickles him. He finds it both interesting, and incredibly annoying. He wonders when he'll loose interest completely and make the move to shut her up.
"She backed in to a knife ten times!" She adds, placing splayed fingers awkwardly over open lips to try and stifle her own mad tittering. "She clubbed herself with a baseball bat on purpose!"
"She fell down an elevator shaft on to some bullets." He suggests quietly, amused and smiling as he aims the gun directly at her and cocks the hammer back.
By now she's rolling. She sees the gun and in-between gasps for breath says "Go ahead. I'll die laughing."
It's this last remark that does it, that sends him to his feet and around the table without warning, gun barrel drawn. In an instant he's pulled the trigger, and her laughter has suddenly stopped. Time stands still, and the eons of silence eventually cave to The Joker's boisterous laughter, much higher pitched and manic than her own had been. The large red banner hanging from the gun barrel reads BANG in brightly colored letters. The evidence of the practical joke sits inches from her fingers, which are now trembling.
She runs.
One sloppy, staggering lunge toward the door. She hits it hard and wrenches it open, shaken and sobbing, past the point of hysteria, but before she can exit his hand is on the surface of the portal, slamming it back shut. She screams, startled, and whirls around to see him pressing up against her, the pop-gun forgotten on the floor some feet away. She is trapped by his long arms on either side, and tries to duck out from under him. Following the failed attempt she hits at him repeatedly, cursing and crying and laughing all at the same time, now totally broken inside. He takes her weak pummeling with a certain amount of tolerant grace. Finally, he lifts one hand and harshly grabs her chin, holding her in place so that their eyes lock. She grasps his wrist with both hands and tries with her last remaining ounce of strength to push his hand off of her face. The effort does little good. Eventually she stops fighting and goes rigid. There is some strange witchcraft in his eyes – and she is hypnotized again.
For a time he simply stares at her, eyes bright and calculating, tracing the tear stains down her cheeks, observing the various wrinkles and bruises and scars that have made her new face. He recalls when he made her put the makeup on. Better yet, he remembers when he first picked her photograph out of the pile of Gotham 1st National Employees his men had stealthily compiled for him at his request. She had been the perfect candidate. Even then he could tell, but now so much has changed.
His stare is hard and penetrating. She glares back, hatred and loathing and all manner of venomous scorn bubbling in her innards. There is something else there too. It registers in her mind that he is very close, unbelievably close, and that his touch is warm. She can smell his cologne, something she faintly admits she's never minded, and his breath, hot on her face, carries his scent as well. It is somehow not altogether disagreeable. In a split second her mind centers on what can be done, what should be done – what must be the only real option. She remembers the dream, the last one she had about him and, ignoring all self argument, she gives one last shove, not to remove his hand from her person, but pushing herself physically in to him until their lips suddenly meet and crush together haphazardly. She can only partially understand what this should accomplish. She reasons it will throw him off – she can't tell if it does, and she can't tell if he likes it, but at the very least she can feel proud knowing that she did something he certainly wasn't expecting, something he could have never predicted her to do.
He receives her kiss stiffly, and in this awkward commencing she can not read him.
At first he does very little, nothing to pull her off, nothing to tighten the contact. But then, to her amazement, his grip on her chin loosens. His opposite arm slackens, allowing him to press closer in to her, and before either of them can comprehend what's going on a passion is building between them.
He tries his best to rationalize it in his own, demented way. The inner argument is almost similar to that of a high school debate team. She isn't even that attractive, or smart. And yet, here she is reciprocating, seemingly not the least bit disgusted. He wonders if it has been her conscious decision to initiate the kiss, or if it is primarily the drug and the drink. He hopes she doesn't vomit. He considers pulling away – he ought to, especially if it is the drink or the drug acting on her behalf. Then again, he's been working so hard, he's earned a break. He thinks about his own self imposed chastity and groans into her.
He finds her soft and warm and incredibly enticing. The kiss evolves from one of chaste, almost timid limpness to a moving, lively thing. Some fire has been lit here, a firework display has been set off. Before he knows what he's doing he's pressed her lips opens with his tongue and slide inside of her mouth, and the surge of taste he receives is phenomenal. His senses tingle. He catches a strong whiff of her, of her hair, and oh she smells good. He hasn't done this in ages. God help him, he's been so preoccupied with the Batman and the ruining of Gotham that he's nearly forgotten how good this kind of interaction feels. He plays Beethoven's 9nth in his head and is surprised to find it fits the moment perfectly.
Martha feels his hands shift down quickly and then the base of her dress is being impatiently hiked up until her legs and hips are exposed. She decides she doesn't care and wraps her arms around his neck, dragging his now slightly hunched form back up to her. Their tongues mingle and at one point she breaks away slightly to spread a trail of kisses across his right cheek, using his Chelsea-grin as a guide. This small, simple act is a hard slap in the face that sends him hurtling back in to reality.
Wait just a minute, now, folks.
He pulls away quickly. She watches with confused eyes as he scampers across the floor and snatches up the gun.
"What are you –"
The butt of the toy-Luger cuts her off mid sentence, hitting her directly in the head, sending it snapping back. Her body crumples, and she is reduced to an unconscious heap at his feet. He stands over her, hair an unkempt mess, sweat spoiling his makeup, not sure of whether or not to laugh or scream.
One thing is for certain; it's all become considerably more complicated now.