[identity profile] maestroofmirth.livejournal.com
After the auditions for new 'assistants' the Joker resolved that Harley was ultimately his best choice (for now) and decided to hit the town with his big breasted jester. It had been a while since Gotham had been exposed to the Joker's own unique kind of caper, so he decided that something big, sparkly and generally offensive would be the order of the day.

Striding purposefully through the abandoned Boco's Circus, the Maestro of Mirth comes to a halt at the old wooden roller-coaster, decommissioned after far far far far far too many accidents occurred with passengers flying out of cars, cars flying off of tracks and pieces of the track just plain old collapsing beneath cars.

Why it stayed in service for two decades, the Joker would never know.

Leaning on one of the rickety old cars he leers in at the passengers chained to the seats. There are no handles or seatbelts in these coasters; just good old gravity. And these passengers are in for one hell of a ride. "I know you didn't expect to find yourself at Boco's Circus, but it's your own damn fault for not questioning why your bus driver was replaced with a buxom blonde with a sometime irritatingly nasal tone at the last service station stop. So shame on you! Still, look at the view into old Gotham town over yonder." He points vaguely into the distance.

The Joker grins, and pats one of the old tourists in front of him on the shoulder, almost in a reassuring manner. "This old circus is one of Gotham's finest. You may have seen it on Coaster Crazy on CBS, Thrillseekers on ABC, We're Going to Die on TTFN or even Sites of Extreme Violence on HBO-" he raises an eyebrow at an old lady in paisley, "- I doubt you could afford that one, dear. Needless to say, this is a place of some ill repute, and it, and you, will shortly be headline news on CNN! Behold!"

The Clown Prince of Crime raises his arms and a curtain drops from behind the roller-coaster, revealing a huge coiled spring with a large boxing glove on the end of it. "This device contains enough power to launch this coaster all of the way from Boco's to the heart of Gotham's thriving downtown! And as little Timmy looks up from the high street to see what he thinks is a shooting star making odd screaming sounds he'll see a wonderful, handsome, and of course, smiling clown's face on the front of it as it comes careening out of the sky into mother, father, and little Toto too! The Joker hath arrived!!"

He bows and smiles at the tourists who are all beginning to shout and scream. "No yelling yet. You'll need your voices for the journey ahead! But in order to save this moment for posterity, I have it being fed live onto some website now that I forget the name of!" He waves at a few clowns sitting on the sidelines, each holding camera phones.

"So say your goodbyes, people of..." He edges closer again, "where did you say you were from again?"
[identity profile] maestroofmirth.livejournal.com
Boco's Circus is one of an unfortunate few old carnival sites built on the outskirts of Gotham back when the city was trying to look appealing, snazzy and generally a fun place to be.

Boy, did that not work out.

All of the circuses were eventually abandoned. Corners had been cut in numerous places. Animal houses made of asbestos. Rollercoasters with foundations only an inch into the ground. Cabaret stages that had the annoying habit of collapsing. Ghost trains powered by the riders having to push the carts along with their feet... If Boco's Circus has been the Flintstones Circus, the motif may have been a success. As it was, the entire place and its surrounding competitors all died a death.

"Vaudeville is dead! Long live the crappy television talent show!!" The Joker jumps out onto one of the aforementioned cabaret stages and makes a quick hop again as a floorboard snaps beneath his feet. "Hoho! Nearly got me there! No, no pratfalls from the Joker tonight, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, no! Instead we see the best of the worst audition for the role that would make Donald Trump's latest slave green, or should that be greasepaint white, with envy! Yes, the interview from heaven, or maybe hell, to see who will be the Joker's next apprentice!!"

Music plays from the bandstand, a gramophone sat there being operated by a chimp. The Joker beams and bows to the west wing, to the east wing, to the people in the stalls, to the rabble in the front. And finally to the only actual person in attendance; Harley Quinn.

"What do you think, Harl? Shall we bring out the first poor sap?"
[identity profile] give-me-an-amen.livejournal.com
"People of Gotham, I salute you!" It has been a long time coming, but the Deacon Joseph Blackfire is once again on a podium in Gotham square, masses around him, and being played to televisions and radios across the city. All have heard of how the holy man has cleaned up the streets in a violent yet effective pogrom of the colourful psychopaths that make up the city's rogues gallery. All have heard how Blackfire intends to make Gotham a glowing example of how a city should be in these modern times. All seem to have forgotten the man named Blackfire from a decade ago, who tried something very similar, and was supposedly killed by his own cult...

"That is right, people of Gotham. I salute each and every one of you for having to put up with characters such as the Joker, the Scarecrow, the Riddler and the Catwoman. The Batman. Oh, hoo hooo. The Bat Man. Your saviour from all of these freaks and malcontents." Blackfire chuckles as the crowd grows hushed. To many, Batman is a rumour and myth, but one that brings hope in the darkness. "You have trusted your fate to a man in a bat costume!! I salute you people for your desperate need to cling onto anything that can bring you light, but surely, Gotham has gone too far when it needs a being like that for protection!"

Blackfire waits for absolute silence before continuing. "I am no politician. I am not running for some kind of office or official position. I am an old, very old man, and I have seen the world and all its faces. All of its evil. I can tell you that there is no evil more raw and corrupt than in this city. It breaks my heart to tell you that you have all gone far too far, but it is not too late. I have performed wonders over these months, and I will show them to you."

On the large television screens erected in Gotham Square appear images of burned out houses and factories. "These are places purified by my righteous anger, Gotham City. I am no pyromaniac, do not misunderstand me. But safehouses for criminals? Brothels? Drug dens? They must all be removed like rotten flesh from around a wound." A number of men and women accompany Blackfire on the stage at this moment. "These are my brothers in arms. You may recognise some as some of the most terrifying monsters in Gotham, but through me they have found the true meaning of existence. They have no need for individuality when they work for Gotham. Gotham the being, Gotham the state of mind. You can work for Gotham too, if you do but listen to me."

Something is going on. Perhaps it's something in Blackfire's voice. More likely it's the subliminal message being played through the huge screens. The crowd begin to chant the Deacon's name. "Ha, haha. No no, I am not your leader. I am merely his disciple." He quietens the crowd down, but the television crews picked up the wave of support for Blackfire, and it's infectious.

"Do you feel... loneliness, Gotham? Alienation, perhaps? No doubt due to the state of your city, you sometimes feel fear and despair. Why, when you could live in a jewel like Metropolis, where is your sense of self-worth? They mock you, you know. The other people in America. They condemn you for your following of false idols. They misunderstand that it's all you know. But perhaps you should feel guilt, and shame. Even failure! Do not worry though, Gotham. You do not need to feel these things alone. Feel them together, and come before me. Feel them together, and be as one. Hate all others. Your hate is justified. Where were the rest of your countrymen every time your lives came under threat? Hate them! Anti-life justifies your hate!!!"

And Gotham explodes...
[identity profile] man-of-stee-ll.livejournal.com
"All units on the ready. Hold your positioning until further notice. And to all of you, I send my deepest appreciations. We're doing work of the Gods now, and as I promised before, you'll be legendary..."

Luthor sends his communique through Calculator, and relays through his three location captains. With that, he's back to his windows, and watching the remnants of the blown universe filter through. Soon, it will be enough.
[identity profile] man-of-stee-ll.livejournal.com
In a different place, another time, things could have been better. Or they could have been much, much worse. But when you're given a chance to see your mistakes, and re-live them what can be done?

A panicked twosome were the subjects in question here. Their location could have been considered paradise to some. Again, how often are you stuck on a deserted island with a beautiful woman, and no distractions for miles?

"...and every ounce of your blood for a quarter tank of gasoline!"

But then again, perhaps not?
[identity profile] man-of-stee-ll.livejournal.com
A true "murderer's row" was what faced him. Virtually an army of the worst thieves, monsters, rogues, and miscreants were surrounded in an area un-traceable to their enemies.

The Keystone City burial plot known as "Avernus" was the only location that's safe enough to hold this. Accesability is another key point as to where they'd meet.

The "why" however? Simple. Lex Luthor asked. And his inquisitions usually mean business.

Luthor's feet crunched over the faded, dried grass of the cemetery, not focusing on any specific viewer.

"The time...is now. I am here not as a leader. Your heads have done such a phenomenal job doing that in my stead as we see." One glance to a chattering Multiplex, and back to his speech.

"I am presented today, as your peer. And as the harbringer of a new era. You see, we've all lost something precious. We've lost our way. Our...intimidation factor. This world can offer us nothing. But I..." Lex' hands begin to glow, before the image of another Earth forms in them.

"I can give you so much more...consider this a gift. My gateway, to a world of sport. A land of opportunity. This is your hunting grounds. Find your enemies, and feast. Chase them, track them, kill them. And do it all...not for me. For yourselves."
[identity profile] eddie-nygma.livejournal.com
Following the Joker had proved uniquely challenging - the Clown's chaotic mind extended to most everything he did. It was difficult to establish a pattern from which to extrapolate. No wonder that Batman has such an unpleasant disposition, if he has to deal with this all the time.

Gotham's Grand Central Station was the city's largest transportation hub, and held the offices for the Gotham City Port and Transit Authority - and Nygma managed to track the Joker here. Harley hadn't come with him, so it was entirely logical that the Joker might be meeting his secret flame here, if such existed.

Unfortunately, logic usually has very little to do with the Joker's plans.

So the Riddler stand and waits in one of the shadowy corners on an upper level of the building - one with a good view of the busy atrium below.
[identity profile] mistahjay.livejournal.com
"Iiii don't want to set the world on fire~!" The thin, well-dressed man sung to himself as he waited in line, tapping his fingers against his elbow as he cradled a basket full of groceries in his arms. He ignored the glare from the young mother behind him, because if she can't appreciate the classics it's not his fault! Besides, he'd been waiting for nearly thirty minutes while this old woman struggled with giving exact change for her purchase and he was, frankly, very proud of himself for keeping the nervous twitches down to a minimum. It wasn't often that he had to do his own shopping, but he'd be darned if he was going to be completly at the mercy of his own impulses, just because of crying children and noisy families and the faint smell of lemon pine that was...

"-here's my baby?!" The woman thundered, and it cut into the man's haze of self satisfaction. Gosh, he thought, as he saw that, indeed, the cart where the youngster who was bopping along to his song was empty. And then he was being grabbed by the lapel, as the woman enthused, "Did you see him?! I swear to God I was only distracted for a second and..."

And somehow, the animal in the woman knew to give the thin, harmless man a moment to catch his breath, despite every instinct in her body demanding an alternative action. "No." The man admitted, "But I'll help you look for him. He couldn't have gotten far, right?"

The young woman nodded, tears still streaking down her face, as the thin man went to the left, moving with practiced ease. "Ah hah." The thin man murmured, squatting down and reaching inside one of the colorful displays encouraging shoppers to indulge in a soda or a piece of candy before leaving. There was the kid, no more than 14 months old, looking up at the thin man as he(or she) sucked on a Wonka bar. "You've got good taste, kid." The thin man said calmly, reaching over and picking the child up. He turned around, bouncing the child a little in an attempt to keep it from panicking, and turned to call for the young mother when the screaming started.

"No! You MONSTER!"

"Feind!"

"Oh God we're all gonna die!"

The thin man blinked in confusion, looked over at the child, who was shamelessly grinning as she tugged on his face again, pulling more of the careful blend of makeup and prostetics that he used to go out in public. The thin man felt his face, saw that yes, the little girl had tugged his false nose off, and, for the first time in a long while, wondered what, exactly, he was going to do.

"The Joker's got my baby!"
[identity profile] beastlyboy.livejournal.com
Somehow, the club just isn't as fun when one of your friends is flying there under eerie posthypnotic suggestion.

God, Gar, you're such a fuck up, he thinks to himself, looking down at his boots for a moment. There's a quick, fleshy sound, and a green mouse weaves between the stomping boots and snapping heels of the dancing wasted youth. Thump thump thump thump thump...verminous ears pick up a change in the beat that human ears would not, as Beast Boy scratches against one of the back walls of the fun house like building, pressing his claw to the mouse-size Titan transmitter to let his teammates know that he's found where the drop off point for whoever's making money off of these unwilling criminals is...
[identity profile] mistahjay.livejournal.com
Winnifred 'Mouse' Cordova, a thin, plain looking young woman who couldn't be much older than twenty, who stood with a slightly hunched slump, a slight buck-toothed underbite that was the source of her nickname, and a personality that fit someone who grew up in Gotham City when named 'Winnifred' and under the age of eighty, did not bare this man(One Rodney Newchester, a realitor trying to break into proper investing.) any ill will. He seemed like a decent person, played too much online poker, wrote bad poems but had enough decency not to make anyone read them, utterly mundane taste in pornography...nothing in his life was a sin grave enough to give her boss the information he requested.

But he owned the remains of the Lao-Ritz, formerly in the possession of one Johnny Karaoke, and was trying to renovate it into a thriving night-spot again. And for whatever reason, her patron wanted that piece of property, and wanted it at cost. That was the world, Mouse rationalized as she glided through information, picking at little weaknesses and common habits, and quietly making a few donations of her own to the impossible ecosystem of the internet.

"Is the package ready?" The evil man in clown makeup asked softly; Mouse squeaked, but nodded, unable to hide her fear as she quickly handed a manila folder full of papers, names, numbers-what progress had reduced the value of a human life to.

When the shark decided it wanted something, Mouse reflected as she closed her window, re-set the disabled alarms, and drew a blanket around her still shaking shoulders, what right does the rhemora have to object?

---

Rodney Newchester was having what might be thought of as a bad week. It started when his mailbox exploded on Sunday, a playing card being the only hint at the horror that was edging closer and closer to him. Now, only Wednesday, and the man had gone from a vivacious person brimming with life to a pale ruin of himself, shaking wreck, hiding inside a false apartment filled with armed police officers and still not even a little assured of safety.

Gaslighting, Harvey Bullock thought to himself, that Goddamn-"Sorry, Mister Newchester, what wuzzat?"

"It's alright." Rodney spoke with a meekness that was entirely alien to his build and nature, "I was just asking...why? Why would he want...I mean, I could understand getting caught in a crossfire or something, but why this? Why all this effort for someone who never did him any wrong?"

"He don't gotta make sense." Harvey lies, because it's more comforting than the truth-the clown always had a reason, some terrible, insane reason. Bullock looks up, chewing on his toothpick as he glares at a particularly deep shadow behind the overstuffed chair Rodney was using as a citadel of sanity. "Never has, right?"
[identity profile] dead-man-denny.livejournal.com
Close to midnight, the haggard mugger leads the Spirit,incongruously, over the fence of Wildwood Cemetary. The boob had assaulted the vigilante out of ignorance. Two-pronged ignorance, actually: ignorance of his victim's identity and belief that Denny's suit was anything approaching good.

The Spirit vaults easily over a lower fence a few meters off and slams his right big toe into the tombstone of one Ford Davis (1910-1986 He Rests that He May Rise Again). The steel in his boot shuffles off a good bit of the impact, but causes a definite thud in return. His quarry veers off to the south, through the endless stone flora. The Spirit quickly shakes it off and quickly takes off after the mugger.

Moonlight filters through sparse cloud cover and a light flurry of snowflakes washes out crooked row after scattered row of headstones, statuary, and mausoleums as the Man in the Hat works his way ever closer to his target through the familiar chaos. They cover a good 30 acres of cat and mouse when the Spirit jumps over a collapsed grave, and is tackled in mid-air and tossed backward into the pitched earth. He manages to flip the mugger off of him and into the wall of the cracked vault, where the poor bastard cracks his skull. Colt himself lands ass-first through the roof of the aluminum coffin, and his quarry lands head-first into his lap. Their impact dislodges several large chunks of earth and sends them down, pinning everything but the Spirit's head. The perp shakes what dirt he can off his pinioned head, cracks an improbable, vicious smile and chokes out, "He's coming! Beware the Jo..." before passing out cold.

Colt tries tugging his arms free, finds himself pinned, "Really?" he more pleads than inquires at no one in particular, "Are you kidding me?!"

It's at that moment he realizes just how long a night he's in for.
[identity profile] mistahjay.livejournal.com
The Joker had been...blocked. He had ideas, for certain, but nothing really GREAT-and Joker simply refused to indulge in a mediocre crime when taking horrible revenge against Russia. It was all so complicated; what was enough to remind the crowd who the big fish in the pond was, what was indulging Quinn in her little crush a bit too much, what would further his plans against this invisible manipulator with the surgical skills and lack of subtly, and whatever happened to robbing banks in giant jack in the box shaped robots? He was letting himself get too Gotham, too complicated, too...batty. He needed to simplify.

Ernest Hemingway went to Europe to drive an ambulance when he got sick of the East Coast, but the Joker's track record with going outside of the country was never very, well, good. It tended to be fun, but, Joker admitted to himself as he rubbed his stomach, he was still recovering from Two-Face's little temper tantrum. Still, it was a solid idea, and this means that, well...

The ambulance crashed through the flimsy walls of the Central City bank, sirens screaming, horn honking, and perhaps most importantly, the Joker stepping out of the driver's seat, calmly locking the door, and pulling a shotgun on the nervous looking teller. "I'd like to make a deposit, please." Joker croaks in the grand tradition of bank robbers everywhere-wait, what?! "Quickly."
[identity profile] man-of-stee-ll.livejournal.com
The fourteenth floor at Lexcorp Tower is in a state of eerie calm, with employees clearing the area upon a "Red" code call. Instead of an emergency evacuation, they're all re-assigned to different areas of the building to continue their duties.

The owner, however, takes a single aide by the elbow, heading to his main conference room. "You wanted to know everything before. Now is your time to learn another piece."

The doors close behind them, lighting up their seams as a time-lock goes into effect. Lex Luthor presses on a keypad beneath his desk. "Opening unternet channel sixty-six. Conference mode on."

He takes a step back as a single camera beams onto him, glowing his entire body, before sending a duplicate image to the desk.

"This is Lex Luthor. Initiating open channel. Tell me what you're doing, now."
[identity profile] mistahjay.livejournal.com
He came out of nowhere, dressed almost like a movie theater usher in a red suit, black slacks, and bow tie. At first, his neighbors in Gotham Center thought it was another copycat, the Yolex Watch of preforming, a fact of life in a city as attractive to the costume set as Big G happened to be. Heck, seeing 'Bartman and Kittywoman' preform their not-quite-X-rated rendition of the Bat and Cat's early, flirtatious street romps is practicly a requirement for any sufficently hip tourist. The little person with the green skin, bulbous eyes, and MC's jacket didn't really attract all that much attention either, even if he was holding the slender hand of Mason DuPree, a cubist painter who'd just made his debute the other night at one of Gotham's many society functions. The sheer number of soirees was a survival tatic on behalf of the filthy rich; the maniacs couldn't rob all of them, or so the logic goes, and a dozen lousy targets will put any career criminal off of taking a risk on the off chance this party they're hitting is the one with the actually loaded guests.

But, back to the boulder. Which is to say, the present, where the white-faced man with the cabbage green hair bows to an invisible audience, putting an arm around the dazed looking young painter and miming, with great faux sollemnity, some sort of introduction. The little green man took this as a cue, and pulled a megaphone out of his jacket. "It's the Moppet Show, with our very special guest star...the Joker!"

Normally, this is when the screams would start, as the herd tried desperately to get out of a maniac's splash zone, or, failing that, to at least get something they could sell on the internet. But, this was Gotham Center, overpriced coffee and ciggarette choked heart of the most cynical, savvy city on Earth, the town Paris wishes it could be when it grows up. All the announcement got was some wiseacre throwing a couple quarters into the Moppet's held-out cap.

"Presenting...rock art." The clown's voice was, like the best preaditors, seemingly harmless. Horns, crests, and great bellows are all marks of prey who defend themselves through intimidation, after all. The clown calmly held the back of DuPree's head, gently ran a finger through the younger man's hair, and slammed his face savagely into the rock face below. "ART!" The Joker howled out, eyes gleaming as he raised DuPree's head up into the air again, "ART!" for another slam against the stone, "ART!" and over and over again, almost drinking in the slow realization in the oh so hip crowd that this is not post-modernism at all.

"ART!" Then, the payoff, the first horrified screams, as the Joker gets Gotham's choked veins racing with blood again!

[identity profile] eddie-nygma.livejournal.com
The invitations have gone out to the proper sources - anyone who's anyone in the Arkham Alumni, plus a few of the more mundane but reasonably reliable 'sane' Gotham villains might expect an invitation. Anyone with that certain sense of flashy panache that distinguishes them from the common thug.

It's a night of celebration - Dr. Crane and Mr. Nygma are celebrating their turn for legitimacy - and a night for renewing old acquaintances. The Riddler is particularly curious to sound out support for his notion to bring the weight of the colorful half of Gotham's underworld to bear on Black Mask.

The Iceberg Lounge has been closed off for the private, invitation-only party, and the Riddler has provided video footage of his ambush for Batman under the Big Top. There's a buffet, and a few tables of poker games going on.
[identity profile] mistahjay.livejournal.com

Gotham City. Six o'clock PM. Watching television, Gotham? Not for long. There's a scream of static, and then...

"Attention, Gotham City. This is...The Joker."

The transmission sputters and snaps, finally refocusing on the grinning face of the Clown Prince of Crime himself.

"Rumors of my demise have been greatly exagerated, I'm afraid." Joker winks at his audience, before resuming his 'serious face' grin. "In order to remind you, my dear Gotham City, just who the clown prince of crime around here really is, I shall be revisiting an old favorite. I know, retro's so on its out, but I just can't help myself..." The picture shudders again, showing a camera eye's view of a posh apartment complex. "Before my...little face lift, the honorable Judge I. Joe Kats decided to have a brief, uncharacteristic show of morality, throwing me in the slammer after I acted like a good citizen and paid my bribe! Now, I think you shall agree, Gotham, that while we may be a spicy cesspool of crime and villainy, some things are simply not done."

Again, the clown. "At precicely midnight tonight, I shall end Judge Kats's contemptable life, and purloin the information I need to make off with every asset the old man has. I will not be caught. I will not be traced. And not even BATMAN can stop me! Say your prayers, Kats! Vengence...is in the cards!" Cue the chortles of insane glee, and the Joker card image that lasts for all of a minute before the local stations viciously take back their airspace.

Meanwhile, in the Ha-Hacienda, an evil man sits in the thrice damned chair a professional disagreement left him in...and drops his remote control into his popcorn bowl in sheer shock. "What." The Joker asks...himself, a henchperson, an invisible friend?...staring open mouthed at the television. "...what?!"

Some hours later, around eleven twenty five PM,

Joe Kats wipes his brow, looking nervously around him. "I...I thought he didn't do this sort of thing anymore. I thought he only did explosions and giant clown robots and-officer what are you doing?!"

"Relax, sir." Officer Julie Tailmar adjusts her glasses and shows the man the medical patch on her shoulder. "Standard percaution when the Joker makes a threat like this. If he somehow manages to get Joker venom or another toxic substance in here, this should keep you alive long enough to get you to Gotham County Hospital, where the toxology lab's all set up. Now, just hold still..."

The judge winces as he feels the fluid within the needle enter his body, more sweat running down his expansive forehead...the police seem comfident that they can save his life, at least, but how many times has the Joker proven them wrong before?

 
[identity profile] mistahjay.livejournal.com
Funny. Funny. Funny.

"Did you hear the one about the master criminal stuck in a wheelchair?" The Joker murmurs, flipping a card back and forth between his fingers. He's put on his makeup; looking roughly like 'Joe Kerr', the alias he used for situations like this-were there rules for hireing the Question? No matter, close enough. He didn't honestly think any masked avenger worth their tights fell for it, but it was a matter of respect: The Joker expended the energy to look like a normal human being and give you a little mystery to solve and make yourself feel better with, you'll take a few minutes to listen to what the clown has to say, if only to rub said mystery solving in his face. "When Batman caught him, he said, 'What are you doing, mook, in your condition?', and the master criminal shrugged and said, 'That's just how I roll, Bats!'." 

"Heh." The Joker runs his tounge along his teeth, fnapping the card on the desk in front of him. "Heh hah ha HAH HA HAH HA HHAAAAAAAH! Ooh, that's a goodun!"
[identity profile] mistahjay.livejournal.com

Gotham.

The Gotham Underworld, to be exact. The actual location isn't important; one of a seemingly limitless number of old, abandoned warehouses, underground bolt holes, secret sewer caverns, or hidden basements beneath innocent looking skyscrapers. What was important was that it was there, secret enough that the rabble would not be tempted to lay siege, but obvious enough that the dimmer members of the court would be able to find there way there. Was was vital was that, despite the recent...quiet period, the underworld realize that the throne was strong. Busniess continued. Money changed hands freely, and without fear of meddlers, especially caped meddlers in black pajamas, would only attempt to interfere if things suddenly turned unforgivably violent...or they were feeling particularly suicidal.

What was nessicary, was that the Clown Prince of Crime continue to hold court. Slow spells were not dry spells, they were...a repreve. Gotham needed to grow, needed to repopulate, needed to fatten its larder, because what was the point of a skinny cow? Becides skim milk, and who really likes skim milk? Yes, the Joker thought, he was just letting the law think it was winning, allowing the Bat to think his silly little intimidation taticts were working. Even now, in the exalted company of the criminal elite of Gotham City, the Joker brooded in his seat, his mind entierly on the beginnings of a scheme for a new adventure in crime, one that would be all the more thrilling when contrasted with the recent months of...mundanity. Yes. Batman wouldn't know what hit him...

Sneering unpleasently, the Joker reveled in the shiver that went through the hardened, calloused crowd, knowing full well that he didn't even need to break out the laugh all that often anymore. When the Joker moves, he is a force of nature, and you just prayed he was going for a drink and not a hidden explosive trigger or gas grenade. Leaning forward, slowly, soaking in the glory of the collectivly held breath of the room, the madman finally parted his lips, to speak!

"...does anyone have any threes?" The Joker asked, tapping his fingers against the table. "Anyone? Any threes? No cheatsies, remember!"

[identity profile] wrist-magnum.livejournal.com
Arkham Asylum
Ten minutes until midnight.


Floyd left the car at the access road. Pulled it behind some scrub brush that the grounds crew still hadn't cleared out. Typical. The laziness of the Arkham employees was one of the main reasons that the place had a revolving door on it. Inmates danced in and out, seemingly at will.

One was going to tonight.

Floyd crept from the car to a point between the rear loading gate and the wall outside of what, if his memory was correct, was the cell of Dumfree Tweed. The severe threat block was deeper inside the monolithic building, containing all sorts of walking nightmares, when they were at home, that was. Joker. Killer Croc. Mr. Zsasz. John Dee, the human skeleton called Dr. Destiny. He was one of the only ones in Arkham who actually spooked Floyd, deep down, with his ability to reach one spidery hand into your head and claw out your nightmares.

He didn't have the current duty rosters. Didn't have the current floorplan. So, if they'd changed things substantially since the last time he'd been inside, there could be trouble. Best to have a distraction, and a plan. Because the moment the shooting started, he'd have about 7 minutes at best before the Bat, or one of his people, showed up to respond.

Whoever he sent, Floyd just hoped it wasn't the Huntress, or that kid. He couldn't shoot a kid. Wouldn't shoot Huntress.

Anyone else? Fair game. They walked into his sights, they'd better know a good orthopedic surgeon. Maybe that chick at S.T.A.R. who always rebuilt Vic Stone.

He checked the loads in the wrist magnums, left, then right. Right hand contained a clip of ezpolsive-tipped shells. Left hand contained rubber bullets. No kill shots with the left, unless they were point blank. Right hand was to blow a way out when everything shook loose.

Time to party.

Twenty steps to the loading gate. Duck beneath the camera, wait for it to swivel left. He crossed the twenty steps in time to miss the revolution of the camera and pressed the buzzer twice, the signal for a prisoner drop-off, counting on the guard shift to simply pop the door.

They didn't disappoint.

He aimed low, coming in rolling, and shot twice, one rubber bullet into each kneecap, the new silencers working like a charm. A buzz like a particularly quick flying mosquito, and another, and the two guards were clutching their knees, rolling on the concrete.

"Shh," was all he said, pulling the mask into place, and slipping a blackjack from his belt. Two swings and the guards on back-door duty were out like a busted Crime Alley streetlight. He had about ten minutes before the roaming guard made his way back to the door on his usual rounds. Just enough time to lug these lumps into a supply closet.

He had to fire three more times before making his way to the block containing Harvey Dent. Nothing lethal. If he got popped again, he had enough murders on his jacket to make sure that Zoe wouldn't ever see him again, unless it was through plate glass before they popped a needle into his arm. He wasn't going to be taken alive. Noah had instructions, and the keys to his Cayman accounts, to make sure Zoe was set up for life should anything happen.

He wasn't going to be looking out of the inside of one of these cells again, that much was certain.

He reached Harvey's cell without incident, sliding the prepped security card he'd recieved in one of his mail drops from the Calculator.

"Counselor," he said. "Your ride's here. I figure we're about two minutes from an appearance by somebody we don't want to see. Clock's ticking."
[identity profile] jla-extras2.livejournal.com
Arkham Asylum


"One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do...
It's just no good anymore since he went away..."


Common Arkham wisdom is that it is never a good sign when the Joker is singing.

Or sharpening a blade.

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