all the world loves a clown

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the funniest man in the room


October 20th, 2010

On Display [RP for [info]lovesagoodjoke]

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Arkham Asylum was never completely silent. No matter what time of night, no matter where in the entire facility a person went, there was always some kind of sound. Fans creaked and sometimes rattled, the shoes of doctors or guards on their rounds squeaked, and the older buildings groaned and clicked as only decades of user can make happen. Even down in the morgue, there was the constant hum of the refrigeration units to keep away the silence. And in the inmate containment areas, there were always a few patients who would be whispering or screaming or even singing.

There were a few sounds in Maximum Security Two, the heavily fortified area containing the most dangerous female residents of Arkham. In the center of its circular shape was what looked like a tank or terrarium, but the inside was totally devoid of anything green or growing, save for its lone occupant: Dr. Pamela Isley, the eco-terrorist known as Poison Ivy. The inmate in the one cell visible from Ivy's tank changed depending on who was currently free and menacing Gotham City. On that particular night, Ivy was separated by two clear plexiglass walls and eight feet of electrified steel hallway from her best friend, Harley Quinn.

If either woman had been paying attention, they would have noticed that some sounds missing from MS2's background noise were the whirr of active security cameras and the voices of living guards nearby. But there was the approach of footsteps, and then the whizzing of Harley's plexiglass cell door opening, and then shutting.

"Sorry to interrupt the girl talk," said Joker, wearing the tattered and bloody remnants of someone else's guard uniform over his usual green and purple clothing, "but I just couldn't stay away. I needed to make sure Harley-Girl here was seen to before she leaves. You're welcome to peep, though, Ivy! You might learn a thing or two!"

August 5th, 2009


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"Wh- where am I?"

The man's voice is shaking, just like the rest of his body. Shaking as much as it can, despite the fact that the man has been duct taped to a creaking old office chair with one broken caster that tilts it so the tape is always pulling at his arms and legs where they've been secured. No matter how much the man blinks, he can't seem to focus, which is mostly because of the bright light shining right into his eyes. No sound but his own shaking breath and the thundering of his heart.

A scuff of shoe leather on wood, and the man turns toward the darkness, realizing he's not alone.

"Now that's interesting," says a voice from the darkness. It's male, but not particularly baritone, with a sussurance to it that immediately makes the man's skin crawl. "The first question is almost always 'who are you?' and then 'what do you want?' you see. What a peculiar way to start."

Whoever it is in the dark place with the man steps around so that the man can see him, illuminated from the side by the single, blinding bright light. The man screams. In front of him is a maddening vision, something in human form with long, scraggly green-brown hair, white and black makeup crossed with a bright red smile. No, the man discovers with growing horror, the smile isn't just makeup. Ragged, crooked scars reach up from the ruined corners of the man's mouth.

"I like peculiar," says Joker, tittering. "So I'll answer you. Once upon a time, this was a theatre. And don't mistake me, sir, I mean that with the 'RE' at the end, not the 'ER'. They put on plays here, the greatest plays in the world. Like so much of our fair City of Gotham, this once grand lady is a corpse, rotting and putrefying. But there's just enough stage left for this little... drama." Joker's tongue flashes across his mouth like a lizard's. The man squirms some more.

"I'm not much one for modern theatre myself, mind you," says Joker. The tone of his voice is conversational, almost friendly. "Too many kids' movies getting turned into musicals, not enough people making deals with the Devil and getting sealed alive into Egyptian tombs, if you know what I mean."

There's more light in the space, from everywhere and not just the single bright spot. Not enough to discern anything yet.

"But one show..." Joker's head lolls back the way someone does when they're recalling a most pleasant memory. "There's one I love very dearly. So close to my own black, black heart."

Joker crouches in front of the man, who is sweating profusely and by the smell, has probably wet himself at least once. Reaching into his purple jacket, Joker extracts a six inch-long sliver of silver and unfolds it. The man's eyes go so wide they might as well pop out. A straight razor is a rare sight these days, but still a recognizable one, especially for the man. He's seen it before, and recently.

"He gets it, you know? He understands." Joker's bloodshot eyes have been until now wild and searching. They've turned focused and still, gazing at the long, gleaming surface of the blade.

"We all deserve to die," he sings, "even you, Mrs. Lovett, even I... for the lives of the wicked must be made brief-- for the rest of us death would be a relief."

His voice is broken and off-key, but no performance of the song has ever chilled an audience more. The man whimpers and when his eyes open, the light is stronger. They are definitely in an old, abandoned theatre and they are on the stage.

Joker closes his eyes. "Want to know my... favorite part? He laughs!" The ragged smile widens. "It's funny. Killing without remorse, turning people into meat pies, murder and revenge... and it's all so goddamned funny."

A sudden movement, Joker's gloved hand grasping the man's chin, holding it tight enough to bruise, putting the man's gaze on Joker's face. Joker traces the uneven line of his scars with the tip of the razor. "I'm a big fan, you can tell."

"In fact," says Joker, standing, "I never miss the show when it's in a town I'm in. Community theatres, high schools, big budget revivals, I've seen 'em all. I can't miss the chance to sit and laugh along with a theatre full of people watching a man murder and butcher human beings. I love Sweeney Todd, sir."

Another sudden movement. Joker spins the chair around, letting the man take a good look at the ruined stage. A gaping hole, the broken floorboards turning it into a jagged-toothed maw, is just inches from him. Joker lowers a slip of paper into the man's view before it's taped against his forehead. It reads:


Something behind the man thumps three times against the stage. The razor flashes. Skin parts beneath the sharp steel of the blade, arteries sliced open and a heart that doesn't know it's dead yet pumps dark red blood into empty air. Joker's foot connects with the back of the chair, sending the still gurgling man into the dark pit below.

Joker giggles. "God, that's good."

March 11th, 2009

Crime and Punishment ((RP for [info]lovesagoodjoke))

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Joker brushed his hair back, tugging the long, stringy green locks back over his head as he peered out through the warehouse's front windows. He waited, fingers restless on the Desert Eagle in his right hand, the massive weight of the pistol making it hard to keep steady, even if he wasn't so clearly on edge.

But Joker was on edge at that moment, all right. It showed in the hunch of his shoulders, the way he almost vibrated with frustration. It had been nothing more than a simple smash-and-grab, for once. Chemicals cost money, and so did lab equipment, and if he was going to keep his little project a secret, he'd have to buy those things instead of just mailing an Anthrax love letter to some company and moving into their building.

"A simple smash-and-grab," Joker muttered. "Simple."

And then, it had all gone to shit. The silent alarm got tripped. One of the guards managed to squirm his way out of zip-tie and pull his gun on Sleepy and Dopey. And even though on most days, Joker would have been happy to see him, Batman showed up.

Thanks to a little fancy footwork on the way to the cars, Joker had gotten away and back to the hideout, while Sleepy was probably getting his car flipped over by that monstrosity of a tank that Batman drove, with Batsy thinking it was Joker inside.

After a few minutes, Joker turned back towards the form laying on the floor.

"No one followed us," he said, "looks like Batman bought it. And I don't know whether or not you should be glad about that, Harley girl," Joker hissed, crouching down.

One of Batman's toys had wrapped Harley up in ropes until she was immobile from shoulder to waist, her arms pinned to her sides. That's how Joker had thrown her into the car, and that's how he'd dragged her back into the hideout.

"Because-- look at me!-- because does this look like a happy face to you?"

February 18th, 2009

[[info]inspiredmuses] 1.3 - There's no place like home

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1.3 - "There's no place like home."

Three nights ago, Police Commissioner James Gordon came home at 10:38 PM, after putting in an almost fourteen-hour day at headquarters. He did his best to be quiet as he entered the two-bedroom apartment through the alley-facing door, but dropped his key ring directly on his foot. Gordon's toddler daughter, Barbara, turned over in the bed next to her parents', but didn't wake.

Inside the apartment, a green sticky note was on the microwave oven. It said "PORK CHOPS - 3 MINUTES. BEER IN FRIDGE. LOVE, BARBARA." That would be his wife, also named Barbara. Gordon set down his wallet, badge and gun on the dining table, started nuking his food and slipped off his shoes to walk through the rest of the place.

In the smaller bedroom, Gordon's son, James, Jr. or "Jimmy" was sound asleep in his Bugs Bunny pajamas. And seriously, how unimaginative are these parents? In the master, both Barbaras were also out like a light.

Gordon sat down to his rubbery microwaved pork chops, washed it down with a light beer, drank a second one in front of SportsCenter, then turned in at 11:23 PM.

Survey )


January 28th, 2009

[[info]inspiredmuses] Sample post for application

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What professions did you consider before choosing the one that you did?

Why is everyone so interested in my history? What's past is past, isn't that the way the saying goes? Is who I was or what I might have been so much a part of who and what I am now that it's such an important topic of conversation? I mean I get questions about the past all the time, you see.

"Where did you get the scars?"

"How did you get in here?"

"What did you do to me?"

"Where were you between the hours of ten and twelve last night?"

It's getting a little damn rude, if you ask me, which you did.

Once upon a time... )


January 12th, 2009

Called a consultation [RP for [info]lovesagoodjoke]

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It would be insane for someone to say that they missed anything about being locked up inside of Arkham Asylum. After all, it was the country's foremost nuthouse for arguably the most criminally insane individuals on the planet. The fact that so many killer crazies tended to congregate around Gotham City was a subject for plenty of debate among all kinds of psychologists and sociologists and other ologists, none of whom agreed on anything. In the opinion of the man known only as the Joker, that phenomenon was nothing more than natural selection in action. Predators responded to prey. Gotham was full of the darkest, richest, saddest kind of people and those who ate them developed in kind.

Ahead of the curve.

Got my referral and everything )
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