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Post by Joker on Oct 8, 2012 21:47:55 GMT -5
The Joker languidly sleuthed around his empty little magic shop. It wasn’t his main base of operations, but it was his home away from home, and more importantly away from Harley. She was a good kid, real funny looking, but sometimes that dame just really made his skin crawl.
And hence, he created for himself a little niche in Downtown Gotham to get away from it all.
He was already wearing his fluffy purple bathrobe over a wife beater that had seen better days and a pair of boxer shorts with smiley faces on them. On his feet he wore dirty pink bunny slippers and to top it all off he carried a nice cup of chocolate milk (with extra packets of sugar dumped into it). He never got any time to relax, always worrying about wrecking havoc in Gotham, he needed some serious R&R. Now don’t get him wrong, he loved his daytime job more than the next Arkham inmate, but it was still work. And Harley was worse than a newborn baby, always whining and whining and whining with that…voice. At least you could throw a newborn baby into a wall but he already tried rocketing Harley off into outer space and she STILL came back.
His eye twitched and his hands gripped the cup so tightly it threatened to collapse under the pressure. He took a deep breath and let it all out. This wasn’t the time or the place to be thinking about things like that. He should be thinking about ponies, and rainbows and the squishy sounds Robin’s brain made when he smashed them with a crowbar.
Already giddy with the brain splatter thoughts he immediately relaxed and plopped himself into a second hand Laz-E-Boy recliner and turned on the TV that sat in front of him. A marathon of Charlie Chaplin movies played on one of the public networks and immediately he zoned all of his attention into the funny maestro.
Today was going to be a good day.
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Post by Scarecrow on Oct 9, 2012 18:44:43 GMT -5
It was ever so sudden that the Scarecrow burst through the outrageously zany doors of the joke shop. Everything about the joker was inane and innately ludicrous, zany, goofy, slap stick, he was like all the clowns in the clown car were mashed together in a 50 car pileup. Just the colors bothered his eyes, he could feel a migraine coming on just from looking the place over, he'd massaged his temples vigorously before entereing and taking a good few breaths, his taut mid section, scrawny yet heaving. The breath that drew from his bosom was deliberate and exasperated and he'd not even entered the room with the Joker yet. That voice, not nearly as bad as his girlfriend, who mad officer Hooks seem like Demi Moore, but his manner, his smirk, that rictus grin. Like he was a corpse. The idea of throttling the clown prince of crime, it brought a sudden peace, a placid calm over him as he pictured what was to come.
And then he'd entered letting out a "Joker! put on your sunday best! What if I told you Bruce Wayne is giving a charity donation to Gotham National Bank right now! and the mayor is in attendance! It's a once in a lifetime caper! We could make billions!" he'd realized he'd raised his hands akimbo in that somewhat melodramatic manner that the rogues seemed to do. Oh god. Just being around the Joker lowered his IQ enough to make him into such idiotic theatrics and corny one liners, punchlines and dramatics. He figured he'd entice the man a bit more and let out an unsure "Thats a lot of...exploding whoopee cushions, acid spewing ascots and...snapple?" the straws that the straw man were grasping at was evident, he didn't know enough about the architect of anarky that was the joker to know HOW to entice such a mind, or even if there was a way to do so.
In his time as an Arkham employee it was something of a dreaded duty to interview or census the Joker, Crane's employment didn't last long enough for him to have the distinct "pleasure." and thankfully so, though it was said more than half of those who did ended up stark raving mad. He'd heard stories of one MD pouring bleach into his children's bath water and another going at his wife with shards of glass.
Then again, Jonathan Crane stood among the now leisurely dressed chalk skinned psycho in his usual motif, wide brimmed hat, burlap mask and long flowing dark overcoat. He continued "The security detail is about two dozen officers, I have enough fear gas for half that, if you have some of your laughing gas we could gas them, take the mayor hostage and make a quick getaway, then hold him for hostage and fleece the city even more!" he was speaking with a measure of haste, and it was unlike their brood to simply lay it all on the line, to show AND tell so readily, perhaps simply because he was uneasy around the hellish jester, perhaps because he knew how fragile and frail allegiances with him were, what a dicey proposition setting ones wagon to the joker's star, perhaps he remembered their previous association and how that had ended...less than enjoyably for Crane.
Or perhaps he just wanted to get in and get out and over with the entire operation. Wham, bam, thank you clown. Regardless, his tone was equally uneasy as he spoke the words deliberately "Are you in?" he offered the Joker a gloved hand, fingerless, his own nails black and immaculate considering one would expect a man who dressed up as a Scarecrow to have less than standard grooming habits. Instead he withdrew said hand knowing that he'd likely had one of those damn buzzers somewhere on his person. For all he knew he kept a few in several orifices.
This was going to be a long day.
To need the Joker. What a nightmare. |
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Post by Joker on Oct 11, 2012 19:46:03 GMT -5
The Joker didn’t move a muscle or turned to look at the wicker man barging into his humble adobe (uninvited). He let the Scarecrow sweat it out a good long minute as he desperately fumbled to catch the Joker’s elusive attention. By the time Scarecrow had wrapped up his proposal , the Joker was already finger scooping the last globs of chocolate and sugar from the bottom of his cup. He took a leisurely pace while licking his finger before sticking it into his mouth and making a loud suction pop as he pulled it back out. He smacked his lips together and sighed contentedly. The proceeded to lean back into his recliner till his head lulled over to one side and he cocked an eyebrow up as if remembering something he had just forgotten. He finally looked over his shoulder at Scarecrow.
“I’m sorry were you SAYING something?” The Joker asked innocently enough, but the twinkle in his eye and the slight curl in his lip told a different story.
Without so much as a warning, he immediately stood up from his seat and flung his dirty old bathrobe into Scarecrow’s arms and marched his nearly half naked self into one of the empty rooms of his abandoned magic shop. Once he closed the door behind him there was loud banging and crashing noises, followed by other miscellaneous sounds such as dolphin clicks and squeals and bomb noises. The rumblings only lasted for a few minutes and then abruptly stopped and the Joker came out of his room as his glimmering and glamorous usual self. His hair was slicked back in its signature pompadour with a silken golden button up shirt under a deep rich purple tail coated jacket with matching suit pants. The only thing that wasn’t adoringly cradled in lavish thread were his bare feet. But, in both of his hands, he held two pairs of shoes. Classic spit shined spats and neck breakingly high black stilettos.
“What do you think?” He asked out loud but never looked up from either of his shoes.
Without waiting for a reply he tossed his spats off to the side and wedged his arching feet into his heels. He looked down at his feet excitedly and began walking around the shop. Once he reached one end of the room he began proactively striding with a certain model-esque grace that it became apparent that it wasn’t the first time he wore heels before. This may or may not have been surprising; but it never did cease to amaze people. Especially now that his already high stature of 6’2” now stood a towering 6’7”.
He strode confidently over to Scarecrow, and stuck his elbow out towards him, as a gentleman caller would offer his arm to his potential lady. “I am no gentleman, but ma’am, you certainly are no lady.” He grinned mischievously, “But if we plan to go to this ball you’re talking about, he better get to the coach as soon as we can!”
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Post by Scarecrow on Oct 13, 2012 0:06:23 GMT -5
The Scarecrow would’ve admitted well before entering the abode of the Joker- if one could call it that, the majority of the place was filled with the most annoying baubles and toys, like some kind of macabre Neverland Ranch..he wondered if it used to be a timeshare with Michael Jackson, or if the two had collaborated on the interior decorating- that he could’ve told anyone who’d asked the Joker was going to say something inane, insane, prattle on, and generally be outstandingly, irrevocably, unconscionably absurd. Gregarious and goofy, quirky and confounding, there were other, more colorful adjectives the Scarecrow utilized in the prison of his mind that weren’t fit for a live television audience. Regardless, when it happened it was hardly any less grating, thinking he’d zoned out entirely or he just wasn’t there- a diagnosis one needn’t be a head shrinker to make- Scarecrow had been shocked by just how irreverent and jovial the man had been. He’d felt as if he’d walked into a Loony Tunes short.
If he had, his face would’ve reddened until he’d nearly boiled, steam firing from his ears until the imminent explosion. His fists had actually began to shake as he clasped them, so livid the robe blanketed over him entirely for a moment before a taloned gloved hand ripped it from his head, tossing it aside. He’d began to rub his temples impatiently as he waited for the Joker when he’d emerged wearing his usual duds. The man’s pasty white skin was so in contrast of the bright colors he adorned and truthfully if Jonathan Crane were capable of fear he thought this man’s visage might well frighten him. Coulrophobia. Although something of a common fear recently it was a misnomer, and had sense been added to several psychiatric lists as a specific phobia, particularly in the DSM-IV. However the thought that he was so terrifying for some reason- at least for now- placated Scarecrow.
The question of his attire was one to cause a notable furrow in Scarecrow’s brow, likely visible even under his mask. Was he asking Scarecrow’s opinion on his outfit? The man dressed as a demented clown, an ICP reject asking another dressed as a Scarecrow on what to wear? And…was that a dolphin? Did he he hear a goat back there? He tried not to think what varying wildlife might be of use to the Joker and for what insidious, -or more likely- idiotic purpose. Flustered and clearly flummoxed he offered “You look…like the lovechild of Michael Jackson and John Wayne Gacy. Or a living Prince video.” For some reason after he said this, he thought the joker would find this a heartwarming compliment. An "olive branch" as it were. Then again guessing the Joker’s moods was a bit like guessing the lotto, only the extremely desperate would even attempt it. And then a backwards, sheep sheering bumpkin would manage to get it.
The two headed out after a few attempts at going through the door only to realize a few of the doors were fake doors built into the wall. For what purpose, Crane couldn’t guess- if there was one- And apparently even the owner of the establishment didn’t always guess the correct one.
When the mayor grasped the hand of Lucius Fox in accepting the donation and grants of Wayne Enterprises no one more than he was more shocked by the sudden gunfire rampant throughout the dais and street as the officers creating the perimeter- and even the sharp shooters posted strategically around the building- began to fire on each other and civilians alike clearly terrified of one another; the professional radio silence erupted with terrified screams and shout, diatribe of death, as if they were unloading clips at their own fears made flesh and bone.
As the motorcade was in the midst of the fear mist, the officer nearest the mayor made the decision to smuggle the mayor inside the bank where he knew a few dozen officers were stationed to back them up and in the event that the fear gas encroached further the safe was air tight and the mayor could be absconded inside. To see the horror on the grizzled veteran officer’s face as he walked into a hell of his fellow officers on the floor convulsing with rictus grins was almost enough to make the entire trip worthwhile for Jonathan Crane as he outstretched a hand and fired a pulse of fear gas in the man’s face, increasing his fear to heights incalculable. Crane had been distracted by watching the man double over, grasping at his chest as if it were on fire, tearing off his skin as if it hurt him, near digging his own heart out of his breast plate before succumbing to shock. Another flanking attempted to raise his gun letting out a “Mr Mayor! Get to the safe it’s air tight!”
“Joker! secure the mayor!” he assumed for some reason that his ally had something that could stop the man, now trotting half way down the lobby of the Bank. He pictured a boxing glove gun most prominently, but that was just silly. And an errand thought he had not time for, for before the officer could get the gun high enough to put a bullet in Scarecrow the opposing hand of the Scarecrow had fired off a twin jet of gas and the man fell, like winter wheat before the reaper’s scythe.
“Scorpions!” was all he let out, giving the man all he needed; this was akin to giving a pyromaniac all the ingredients for a pipe bomb.
The Scarecrow needed a little fun, he shouted then with a caterwauling guttural tone“COVERED IN SCORPIONS! COVERED IN SCORPIONS!” prostrating himself in a half kneel so he was within the man’s periphery.
“They’re crawling all over you..scuttling…in your mouth…stinging your tongue..down your throat..in your gut..below your belt..Everywhere...EVERYWHERE!” all of the sensory input Scarecrow preached seemed to not only come true but to heighten the man’s indiscernible, unending terror. As the man made glottal, groaning gags and teared at his throat, nearly ripping out or biting off his own tongue, Scarecrow drew the pen chained to the desk and tossed it onto the man, who utilized it to continuously stab himself until his body was like pox and whole rifled carcass, bleeding and pink as he ran through the room like a human sized sponge of blood.
His exsanguination was exquisite, as he shouted continuously in the height of terror “THEY’RE ALL OVER ME! COVERED IN SCORPIONS GET THEM OFF!” having stabbed himself hundreds of times and continuing, his blood so shot from him, like a crimson hurricane that he slipped on it before finally dying.
The mayor was now nearly theirs. Barring any unforeseen circumstances. As he looked to his “partner” he realized the Joker was a walking, talking, loudly dressed, ADHD inflicted, pasty faced, red lipped unforeseen circumstance.
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Post by Joker on Oct 15, 2012 21:25:31 GMT -5
“Why, you sure do know how to make a gal feel special don’t cha?” The Joker picked up his index finger and thumb like pincers and pinched the Jonathan’s cheek through the mass of straw and burlap.
They both then began to walk out from the Joker’s complex only to fumble around trying to find the exact exit. The Joker always chortled every time they tried opening a painted on door or finding that some of the doors only opened to brick walls. The Joker tried to explain that it kept his bait excitingly active when they tried to squirm around finding the exit. False hope never tasted so delicious.
The Joker merrily clip-clopped with his pointed heels after the Scarecrow as they unimaginatively invaded the sanctuary of the charity event. The Joker yawned every chance he could at the Scarecrow’s predictable use of fear toxin on the shooters and the rest of the crowd. He barely lifted a pinky finger to try and pitch in and simply threw here and there spurts of his laughing gas merely out of habit and not particularly because it amused him. With all the squirming and writhing maggots of bodies splayed all over the floor he decided that now would be as good a time as any to trifle around in their pockets, wallets, and purses and steal away any loot he could find worth taking. He pulled out a plastic party favor bag from his back pocket and began storing his discovered baubles into it.
When pilfering through unprotected pocket books, he happened upon a coulrophobic party guest. Just by standing at the man’s peripheral vision, he screamed and yowled as if hot coals were being pressed against his flesh. The Joker wandered over, grinned maliciously for a split second, and then frowned.
“Eh, what’s the point?” He kneeled down to the semi conscious figure on the floor and slapped the man’s cheek lightly and he began to convulse in what looked like a fusion of a heart attack and a seizure. “You can’t even tell the difference between an oboe from an elbow.” The Joker mused disappointedly as he stood up and walked over the gentleman’s sweaty and pissed covered form.
The Joker unenthusiastically scanned the room for anything else to play with, and right when he was about to leave the scene of the crime, without so much as a howdy-doo to the Scarecrow, he saw a slumped figure of a red headed woman in the corner of the finely furnished room. He took long graceful strides over the fallen bodies till he reached the woman. He lifted her face up in his large bony hands and saw that she was unnaturally beautiful (in that it was obvious that some parts of her beauty were medically endowed rather than naturally endowed). A sweeping smile spread over his face as he immediately checked her pulse. She was still alive – just unconscious – and immediately he lifted her up off the floor and with as much grace as a labor worker would fling a sack of potatoes over their shoulder, so he packed her unresisting body over his own shoulder. He whistled happily as he began to walk about when he heard the distinct screech of the straw man coming from the inner bowels of the building, to be more precise, around the vault area.
The Joker rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Keep your pants on Johnny boy.” Without any particular haste he walked over to Crane’s location to find the mayor trying to make a run for his pathetically pampered life. “Always coming in to save the day,” The Clown Prince of Crime said out loud as he put away his party bag into his back pocket and pulled out a small canister that read “Worms in a Can!” on the side. He shook it up in his hand, ripped it open with his teeth and threw it right in front of the mayor. Out poured neon colored ribbons that wound themselves tightly around the mayor’s body. The mayor tried to escape the binding of the “worms” but ended up falling over himself instead.
The Joker’s half lidded and uninterested eyes watched the mayor squirm around on the floor. He then yawned again much more melodramatically. “Johnny boy, I know you have a fetishism with instilling fear in others,” His gaze drew over the Scarecrow condescendingly as he watched him torment a fear gassed prisoner. “But – CAN WE GO NOW?!” He whined as he shuffled the unconscious woman on his shoulder.
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Post by Scarecrow on Oct 20, 2012 20:37:22 GMT -5
Finally gas masked figures, decked out in all black, the largest one who seemed to have some measure of field leading control sported a scraggly beard and mustache, and long hair had made his way through the mayhem to the group and Jonathan pointed a pensive finger “Octavio! Time for our treats! We’re about to trick!” with that the lumbering man hoisted up two burlap sacks full of all kinds of legal tender. The room was caked with the smog of the intermingling gases and the bodies were strewn about, it was a maelstrom of mayhem, it was terror; it was beautiful. Perhaps one of the most beautiful things he’d ever laid eyes on.
And then, with two words, it was over: “He dead.” His eyes seemed to snap Crane out of a joyful, or sleeping lull, as if he were caught in a playful dream, warm, safe, secure as a security blanket. Only to awake to a waking nightmare, a fever dream wherein he pulled back the covers to reveal his legs lobbed off and bleeding, nubs kicking back and forth impotently. The hiss that erupted from the god of fear was as terrifying as any could hope to imagine, as if belched from the bowels of hell, curdling in ones ear and assailing their ear drums relentlessly “WHAT?!”
The manner of haste he moved with made him seem like the flailing counterpart in literature traversing the yellow brick road. Crane knew as soon as he knelt down and checked the man’s pulse, unwrapping a tightly wound politician as if he were a king tut that the presence of vomit and the calcifying eyes sent him off to see the Wizard. “He’s dead!” he bellowed in a rumble that spouted from the lowest part of his gut out of a gaping then, and he lost it excessively, kicking the corpse frantically bludgeoning it time and again until his lithe, slender breast heaved a bit before he set on his supposed partner like a phantasm in the night “JOKER! HE’S DEAD! YOUR INANE TOYS KILLED HIM! THIS PLAN HINGED ON HIM WALKING OUTSIDE IN A VERY ALIVE STATE SO WE COULD ESCAPE WHILE THEY THOUGHT WE WERE GOING TO KILL HIM!” he released the purple suited jester after he realized he’d been throttling the man like something of a bobble head and began to pace himself. Gripping his head and angrily convulsing as if he might tear out his own hair.
Finally the idea came to him, grabbing the cadaver he propped it up in a chair and a generous supply of masking tape over the body and mouth, the mayor’s sunglasses and a lot of luck and brainless civil servants and hopefully he’d get away scott free. He doused it in what was left of a few chemicals he had on hand he'd normally mix to create variants of his fear toxin and lit a match, setting the cadaver in a heated blaze but not enough for one to think his life was forfeit, he then kicked the corpse out the promenade doors, the wheeled desk chair squealing as he did so and police scattering for what they assumed was merely a bound and gagged politician. The wails of Jim Gordon could be heard above all "OH MY GOD THEY SET THE MAYOR ON FIRE! PUT HIM OUT!" and he nearly doubled over in ecstasy from the fear he'd educed, enticed. Propriety, he told himself and with that the group headed toward the side entrance and hoisted up the manhole cover in the alley and down they went.
“One Mississippi…Two Mississippi…Olly olly oxen free!” Was all a now seemingly collected Crane could let out an utterance as he gestured to them to head through the dark, dank dungeonous labyrinth of septic skein, a veritable morass of water flows and quagmires. He spouted children’s rhymes, idioms and playful gripes when he began to lose himself and Scarecrow took over more of what was normally Jonathan Crane’s hamlet.
And as they walked it was ever more clear that the Scarecrow had a plan to get from A to B as the crow flies, following touchstones and land markers only he seemed to know and even his most ardent and able of helper monkeys seemed bewildered by their barring. Finally when he found the correct marker, a red ring spray panted nearby. he stopped, looking up to the ladder and blue eyed boys set up and uncovered the manhole cover that lead to Scarecrow’s warehouse abode. "Ring around the rosey."
As the Joker and Scarecrow headed up in it they’d see it was frightening and dank, dark and twisted as the psyche of the man that hung his hat there, terrifying and gloomy as Joker’s home was wacky and wild. Clearly they’d walked all the way outside of gotham heights and the narrows and into the industrial sector as they were in some form of factory meant for the production of some form of heavy industry, the containers meant for molten metals and superheated gases, furnaces all seemed to be filled with people, converted to holding cells where various forms of the fear toxin were so pumped into their miasma so that Crane could witness the effects.
The victims were doing much as the victims of the heist, clawing at themselves, biting at themselves, many convulsing until broken bones occurred or tongues were bitten off and choked upon in a sanguine censure. There were even those tied with wire to the conveyer belts who convulsed where they were tethered.
But The Scarecrow did not emerge from the manhole empty handed, in one hand he clutched a rusted piece of metallic rebar, slender fingers wrapped around it as a spider might it’s prey. “Ashes ashes..WE ALL FALL DOWN!” And when the rebar flew it cut through the air with a loud whoosh, waylaying the purple mannequin of a man and as he crumpled, folding like a joker in blackjack, Scarecrow had to admit a perverse pang of pleasure shooting through him. He added a few more swings to be sure, double tapping was ever important, he looked at it as doubling up a patient’s medication really. Universal healthcare, Jonathan was so progressive, a pro bono case, a saint if ever there was one.
The Saint of Fear.
After a few dull pangs of metal on meat Octavio stepped forth, at least twice The Scarecrow’s size and yet sweating bullets and a quaver in his voice. “I think he out boss.”
The Scarecrow seemed to have regained some measure of propriety and cleared his throat, smoothing out shirt and pushing down mask, tightening the noose so notable around his neck a bit as if it were a loosened double Windsor and then continued with a measured. “Well...Prep the patient. You know the procedure with high risk, reticent patients gentlemen: The chair.”
They scooped up what was now a "anesthetized" mass of purple cloth and pasty skin and put him in what seemed to be an electric chair. Strapping him down tightly, even the head secure. Clearly something had so malformed in the brain of Scarecrow when he just crossed his “partner” so.
Diligently the master and god of fear went about his work preparing something special for his new admission, after all the lengthy triage round was now done, diagnosis, all that was left was to administer the medicine.
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Post by Joker on Oct 25, 2012 17:27:38 GMT -5
The Joker shuffled the dizzy dame onto his other shoulder. Though she wasn’t particularly heavy, lifting more than a hundred pounds of for long periods of time was something he just did not do – nor ever would. As the Scarecrow wrapped up whatever it was that he was doing, the Joker pranced his way to one of the many vents in the large charity room, popped it open and shoved the unconscious woman into it. Seeing the Scarecrow’s toxin work one too many times, he knew she’d be out like a daisy for many more hours to come – plenty of time for him to pick up his cargo at a later time.
He clapped his hands to together wiping away the all the dirt and grime that had caught onto his hands after the laborious work he put into hiding the body and smugly smiled at a job well done. As he cattily walked back towards the Scarecrow’s location he was unpleasantly met with Scarecrow’s unwelcomed bellow of dismay. The way the Scarecrow was looking and leaning and preening over the evidently deceased mayor of Gotham, the Joker didn’t know whether or not he wanted to even come back towards Jonathan. He didn’t even know why he was so upset by it anyways. It was a mayor, mayors come and go in this town as is.
Before the Joker could even make the effort to decide whether to stay or flee, the Scarecrow had already begun his military march towards him. “What the-“The Scarecrow grabbed the Mirthful Master by his lapels and shook him like a squirrel looking for nuts up a tree. “Get your crow’s feet off me!” He yelled as he pried fingers off his suit, “Do you even KNOW how much these cost me?” He brushed his suit and palmed out the creases that the Scarecrow induced by roughly grabbing him. “Pfft, no, of course you wouldn’t, you wear clothes you stitch together from old ladies’ broken Sunday service straw hats,” the Joker grumbled as he fitted his suit on him again to it flowed off of over every bony curve of his frame.
After wiping himself down and making himself look as presentable as he did when he first came in, he had noticed that the Scarecrow had been tinkering with the mayor’s corpse and propping it up to sit in one of the wheeled chairs found on the charity floor. The Joker watched off to the side, again, as before, not lending one finger of assistance to the Master of Fear as he waited for the final product to emerge from the ruin. As the Scarecrow began slathering chemicals onto the body that smelled profusely of gas, the Joker’s mind lit up – he was going to set the dead dud on fire as a distraction! Mr. Scary really did have some water in his coconut after all – just goes to show you that you really can’t judge a man by his straw stuffing.
As they pushed out the fiery cadaver onto the street, the Joker laughed raucously as the Scarecrow stifled some giggled and they both headed out into the opposite direction of the commotion to bury themselves into the bosom of the sewers. A fragrant place no doubt, but it was become an accustomed smell for those who were in their line of business. Superheroes tend to stay pretty much out of dark and stinky places, unless provoked. The Joker, not particularly prepared or in the right mood to travel in the dirty depths of Gotham tenderly walked along the cobbled walkways through the sewer, the Scarecrow’s murmurings not in the least bit perturbing, but annoying as it sometimes made him lose his concentration and make him accidently step into a particularly slimy puddle with his stilettoes.
Once they both entered into the secret hideout, the Joker immediately wiped his shoes on one of the available robes that the Scarecrow left lying around. He couldn’t figure why Scary would mind, seeing as how it came from filth in the first place. Once he was sufficiently clean again, note to self: bring rubber boots and gloves when hanging around Scarecrow; he took a drab look around the room. Poor, Scarecrow, he not only took such poor care of his personal attire, but it seemed he also didn’t have very good decorating taste either. Cold and cool as steel, the industrial theme didn’t suit the clown prince of crime’s currently personal taste at all. Where was the theater? The vaudeville? They were supervillains for crying out loud, they ought to act and dress accordingly! Looking at the Scarecrow as it was, he probably could’ve been confused for a real Scarecrow with that lousy potato sack he dared to call a shirt.
The Joker’s eyes roamed over the steel cages that were filled to capacity with the poisoned. He pounded a few of the cells playfully, just to get a rise out of them, but was only met with some jitteriness and random noises. Too doped up on fear toxin, they couldn’t even access their primary dive to either flee or fight. “Nice pets.” The Joker dully commented before being unceremoniously bashed over the head with sewer pipe. Without too much of a complaint, he fell straight to the floor and was carried off into one of the Scarecrow’s many “Spook” chairs.
As one of the Scarecrow’s goons began to strap one of the last leather bindings onto the clown, the Joker’s eyes immediately snapped open. He looked around quizzically before smiling generously. He looked up at the large buffoon, “Kinky aren’t we?” He winked.
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Post by Scarecrow on Oct 30, 2012 0:46:07 GMT -5
"Welcome to the jungle. We've got fun and games." there was a playful and quite insane lull lingering in the voice of the Scarecrow as he so spoke out. Be that as it may his voice came out raspy, guttural and gravelly, like something from a nightmare in and of itself. His red eyes stared at his target for a good few minutes as strap after strap was administered tightly and his henchmen roved through his pockets pulling out all manner of contraption, gadgets, gizmos aplenty, whosits and whatsits galore, thingamombobs? at least 20.
Who Cares?
No big deal.
The Joker was buried alive in a nightmare orchestrated by the agony, the undertaker that was the Scarecrow. And when they were finally done- though he had no confidence they'd gotten all of the man's toys- he spoke with a more collective and somewhat more sane nature in his tone, more clinically, though clearly vested and enticed as he spoke on his favorite of topics "Oh I assure you clown, that chair does quite a bit more than tie the room together wonderfully. You might recognize it. A man of your...sensibilities. Or dare I say eccentricities. You're now in the embrace of Sing Sing's own; the infamous "Old Sparky". An embrace that killed thousands of men in it's years of operation. And each soul that passed through it undoubtedly spent every night, every day, hour, minute, second thinking; dreading that embrace. What single object is so vested with fear? the fear of so many souls, so many killers, rapists, reprobates...I couldn't name one."
And when he approached the Joker, like a creeping, sinister fear himself, drawing forth a hand and stooping, craning with the cold clinical hand of a man of science unleashed, lead amok, science without conscious; the shimmer in his grasp was as a diamond, as the low gas lamps allowed light to dance off it. A blade. A slender, surgical blade. And he cut joker and the next came, a needle, when he took blood from the man's neck his tone was nearly as benign as any other physician overburdened and uncaring about his charges "More seriously Joker. I'm taking a blood sample, you aren't a well man, consider this your yearly physical. I've diagnosed you with an inability to feel fear. But fear not..poor choice of words.."
He cleared his throat then and stood erect, looking to the blood vials he'd taken and drew another needle full of a near glowing yellow liquid, he gave the syringe a tap with his finger to alliviate any bubbles forming and injected the joker somewhat harshly in the neck.
"I've administered one of my more potent formulas. I've a good dozen or so to try on you, some that work on the most fearless of subjects, including kryptonians and martians! Through this experimentation I will show the world that even the most maniacal of brains, the most insane of minds can feel fear, it is the most true of emotions. The most base and primal, even the Joker will be so brought low by the Master of Fear!" he hadn't realized how maniacal, how passionate he'd become a true demiurge on the topic, he'd started to shake so when he'd spoke, stalking off into the shadows of his lab.
Some hours later he returned with several other vials and again repeated the process. "Do you fear me now Joker!? Tell me what you see!" he'd doubled up on his more potent dosages, even the batman would've stroked out or had a heart attack at these dosages.
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Post by Joker on Nov 5, 2012 11:55:34 GMT -5
Once the wayward goon of Scarecrow’s had strapped in the last leather binding, the Joker nodded curtly towards the steely gentleman. “Nice and tight,” he demonstrated the capable knots by straining his bleached forearm against the restraints. “You could have had a very promising career in the BDSM business,” he chuckled as he continued to wriggle his hands in his restraints, not particularly to get himself out so much as to just while away time he had as he waited for Scarecrow to do whatever his pea sized little brain demanded of him.
As the Scarecrow went about to describe to him the vintage furniture that he was encased into the Joker’s eyes flittered towards his fingernails, looking them over with an uncharismatic eye. He supposed that Jonathan’s deep seeded need to teach (seeing as how he was previously one of Gotham’s professional college professors) often made him drone on and on about the mitigating details that we’re undoubtedly useless in the real world but that he alone found interesting and found breath enough in his person to expound.
The Joker’s eyes flashed upward and found the lumbering straw sack standing over him and without so much as a peep the bastard nipped him in the neck with a surgical knife. The Joker didn’t utter a single word as a vial was pulled under his neck and caught the deep black and thick putrid drops of his blood. The green emerald glimmering eyes looked into the dark crevices of his fellow rogue’s face – and was not laughing. There was an eerie and unsettling silence that had covered the room as the Joker stalked Jonathan with his eyes like a cat stalking a mouse.
But as the Scarecrow took his vial away into the coveted area of his chemistry set contraption (the Joker had a much finer chemical playground than he did) his crinkled angry filled features smoothed out into his previous calm and playful mask. “I would definitely love the Hellokitty band-aid please, and an orange flavored lollipop to boot.” He smiled as he wriggled his long leg appendages in a mock leg sway that a child would’ve done when visiting their physician.
When the Scarecrow came around again and stuck a needle in his neck, the Joker seemed to have been oddly prepared for the assault, he leaned his head back as the needle plucked into his skin. “Ooo! Doc! Watch it would ya?!” He complained half heartedly as he smiled gruesomely and his eyes widened. He looked around the room excitedly as he waited for the pictures of goblins and ghosts to cloud over his vision. He had suspected that the serum would react and reach optimal potency in only a minute or two, but found that after several minutes the only sensation he felt was a light numbing feeling in his wrists from where the henchman and bound him a little too tightly.
He smacked his lips loudly as Crane came about with another vial of hocus pocus to inject into his person. He wasn’t sure why he had made such an effort to try and obtain his presence for testing, he probably would’ve willingly let him test his potions on him had he asked nicely and offered him a few interesting baubles. But people as crazy as Crane always had to do things the hard way.
“Yoo hoo!” The Joker called out as Scarecrow wheeled in the other vials. “I think this one is defective. But it does give me an eerie sensation of beef in my mouth, like a phantom cheese burger.”
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Post by Scarecrow on Nov 13, 2012 19:39:23 GMT -5
Crane's demeanor despite his patient's reticence- something he wasn't entirely unfamiliar with considering he had an entire steal mill, furnaces filled the the brim, inundated with reticent patients- and the eerie manner in which he acted seemed entirely cold and clinical to a degree that might come off frightening in and of itself. To any other person in the world, even the bat himself his morbid behavior, unsettling, if not offputting, unsettling and well, frightening.
As it were Jonathan Crane was incapable of real fear anymore, what man could call himself the master of fear, the god of fear and be so subject to it's effects? The wizard Merlin had once given away his book of magics to a lover only to found himself bound eternal by his own power, or so they say. The Scarecrow had taken that lesson to heart long ago, he would never have his own power used against him, he could never really feel fear. So when the man began to chafe against his bindings his voice was as twisted, morbid as the man himself "Now now wiggle worm. Have a care, you keep squirming and I'll chop off all the useless ruck that can't seem to sit still and tourniquet you off with your innards." There was a measure of horrifying, disconcerting glee that he spoke with in his tone as if he promised this to Joker, as if it were a prize, his tone vacillated as if he were a disciplining parent to one that couldn't stay mad at his charge.
And yet as he awaited some form of response from the clown, a shriek of terror, a howl of horror, cold sweats, hyperventilating, agitated pulse, ANYTHING he was met with nothing but loutish quips and absurdity, the inane currency the joker dealt in. Anger welled in him and he stalked off with a scoff, huffing loudly and stomping like a spoiled child who hadn't gotten his way.
When he returned sometime later he had another variant of his fear toxin which he injected without word nor manner nor way, stoic almost but surely far less excitable, gleeful as previous. Clearly the failure had affected what he thought would be a day of triumph for science, fear, and The Scarecrow. He could not fail, he would not fail, this clown would not have the last laugh, if he had to leash this dog down and experiment on him for days it is what would be done. But he would win, he would show all the bullies of the world that Jonathan Crane could not be made a mockery of, he was fear, he was terror, he was the Scarecrow!
After the dozen or so variant of his toxin had little more affect than the first he looked at the Joker with a seething anger where before there had been a measured calm, even an elation at having such a unique lab rat. The bee line he made nearly tripped him up and it seemed as if every step his livid hatred grew, it burned in his tone as he let out a guttural hissing rasp "Why won't you fear me! FEAR ME!" his face now close enough to the jester that they could well Eskimo kiss before he pulled back angrily, straw and spikes bristling from his clothes, he had to remain calm or the Scarebeast might well make a cameo appearance.
And yet when all was said and done he didn't. Instead it had been hours, and he'd worked laboriously on this project and made so little headway he'd actually felt as if studying Joker's anatomy, what makes him tick left him with more questions than answers. In this fit of rage when the cackling cacophony of the clown prince burst out like water from a dam he grabbed for the rebar he'd utilized earlier setting upon the man like a wraith, howling as a wolf in the night and growling as he brought the rebar down on the pallid cranium of the joker.
"YOU WILL FEAR ME! IF I HAVE TO TURN YOUR HEAD INTO A CANOE TO DO IT YOU WILL FEAR ME!" the blows he rained down were sickening to all those around him, his henchmen, somewhat accustom to the horrors they witnessed under the tenure of their abominable employer had to turn away. The sound of metal colliding with bone, the introduction of blood to the chorus of sounds heard was evident, wet and revolting, he seemed to get some sick pleasure from each strike, letting out a shout every time he did, a ghostly caterwaul.
"Inane idiot!"
"dolt!"
"Lout!"
"Oaf"
"buffoon!"
With each and every word he brought the rebar down again and again, stopping only when he'd let out all the air from his lungs, his arm seethed with the burn of lactic acid that replaced the seething hatred he felt for himself and the man before him, his body covered in the life blood of the clown that he'd labored to collect hours ago. His sunk in chest heaved, ebbing and flowing with much needed air as the pipe dripped of blood.
The Scarecrow nearly collasped but the laughter had ceased, replaced by his own cackling as he had seemed to thoroughly enjoy the last dozen or so hammering blows. He stood erect and smoothed the wrinkles of a blood soaked brown shirt, stained straw falling from his folds as he did.
Wordless for a time, the silence cutting and blunt as the rebar he'd utilized to bludgeon the clown before he brought his hand to his elbow and said in a personable warm "Well. That certainly helped my tennis elbow."
"Take two of these and call me in the morning." as he brought the rebar down two more times and then threw it aside, blooded it smeared on the cold concrete floor and he set about the room like a phantasm, needing some rest and a fresh perspective, leaving the Joker to his own devices for a time.
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