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tinhuvielartanis) wrote2009-05-13 01:12 pm
13
It's different than when I channel Cadmus because Cadmus isn't channeled in the same way; rather, he's a possessive sort of character, possessing my writing rather than channeling so that I can write. It's pretty much an unpleasant experience, but one that I've grown to need over the years. He's my psychic heroin, I guess you could say. The Joker is more like appearing when he needs to and giving me nudges in the direction I need to go to make him happy with the story. The only time he reminded me of Cadmus was when I was writing "The Nun's Date." I guess that's why I'm not as fond of that one.
My current intent is to write my thirteenth, and last, Date Night story. It doesn't necessarily mean that I won't be writing more Joker stories, though. Just no more Date Nights. This is merely my intent. That doesn't necessarily mean that my intent will be listened to or adhered to by my personal Joker, and that's okay. Writing J is tons more fun than writing Cadmus, or even Maul, for that matter. It's liking writing either one of them holding a big bag of slinkies or juggling a couple of jack-in-the-boxes. A bit hard or surreal to imagine, but it's like that, just like that.
I get in a double whammy with what I've written so far. I get my Heath reference (Ned Kelly) and a nod to the Joker Blogs Dude ("Kelly? That's...that's a girl's a name) all in one tiny scene. I'm proud of that. So here's the beginning of the final Date Night. Where it goes, only Mister J knows. Oh, and apologies to those who had grown to love Sidney. Sorry. It's J's world and nobody lives very long in Joker-land, unless you're a hedgehog.
It was hot. Interminably so. The Joker hated heat and Gotham was hot, so he hated Gotham too. He peered out of the abandoned building in which he was currently holed up, cursing the loss of the posh mill house to which he’d grown accustomed. Hell, Arkham was more comfortable than this dump. He was barefaced, wearing nothing but boxer shorts. He’d used a popsicle stick and a paper plate to make a fan with some scotch tape he’d found. Sitting by the broken window, hoping for a breeze, the Joker fanned himself with his makeshift fan and cursed his bad luck.
There’d been no sign of the Batman, even after all the Joker’s personal gifts and messages, but home base was raided by a pack of blue shirts led by Commissioner Gordon himself in the middle of the night. They barely made it out, but not without some losses, the worst of which was Sidney and the Joker’s new Gordon Ramsay. He was without good food and a trusted good, thanks to Gotham’s Finest. And now there was this godawful heatwave. He scowled, the corners of his mouth turned downward, despite the scars constantly pulling upward in an incessant grin. Just once, the Joker would like to really frown and it not look like a parody. His scowl deepened. Turning away from the window, he walked over to his computer, which was set up next to Leopold’s habitat. Leopold had been in a ball for the past 24 hours, as freaked out by the hustled move as everyone else had been. He looked over at his hedgehog and said, “Mammalian pill bug, that’s what you arrrre Leopold.”
Leopold ignored him in his self-protection mode. The Joker shrugged his shoulders and fanned his face. Things looked bleak, what with losing most of the cash and his closest henchman. He tried to look on the bright side, though: at least he didn’t have to kill Sidney himself now! The Joker sighed and juggled his iPod carefully into the air in front of him in between bouts of fanning. What was this any way, the fucking Deep South? Fucking miserable weather. It was enough to make him go on a killing spree.
They say that heat causes acts of violence to rise. And god makes heat, so thank god!
Ever since the untimely death of Sophia Carteres and the raid on the Joker’s lair, things had been hanging on a precipice in Gotham. Just one little push and everything would fall into the Abyss that is pure madness, or pure enlightenment, depending on one’s point of view. The Joker liked to consider himself enlightened, like a mad wandering shaman who’d just soon rip your head off as give you the secret to Life, the Universe, and Everything. He was Zaphod and Deep Thought all rolled into one. And, right now, he was a fucking sweltering Zaphod. Maybe he should ditch this dig, move to the Deep South, and kill everybody. It’d could be chalked up to euthanasia. He may even be proclaimed a hero.
The Joker blew forcefully through his lips. He needed some fun. Once the sun began to go down, he’d don his outfit and apply his war paint. He’d then go out on a date. But what sort of girl was he in the mood for? He’d had nurses, singers, crazy punk rock girls, even a nun. Who else out there could he woo to his chamber? The Joker thought, listening to his music the entire time. Nobody that really seemed extremely palatable came to mind. Again, the Joker blew through his mouth, stretching the scars on his face. When he did this, their presence was made even more apparent to him. They no longer hurt him, but he was well aware that they were there….forever. A long-tended rage surged freshly through the Joker’s solar plexus and he was determined to reclaim what was his and staple the make-shift fan he was forced to use to the forehead of whomever was responsible for losing him his mill house.
A knock at the door.
“Come in…” the Joker mumbled.
It was a henchmen he’d never seen before. “Mister J, any plans for tonight?”
“Yes, I’m going into town tonight. What’s your name?”
“Kelly.”
“Kelly?” The Joker raised his dark blonde eyebrows at the criminal in his service. “-That’s…That’s a girl’s a name.”
“That’s my last name, sir. My first is Ned.”
The Joker looked at him for a minute. “You’re Ned Kelly.”
“Yessir.”
“Helluva name, Ned-d. Do we have a car yet?”
“Just stolen. An Oldsmobile.”
“It’ll have to do. I’ll be down by sundown. Be behind the wheel or don’t-t be here at all."
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All the Best!
Yours truly,
Oleander 56
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RACHEL!!!!!!!
If I were the Joker, I'd leave that two-faced bastard to scream at the walls. Sheesh!