And now The Joker is dead.
Jessica Taylor stopped typing, and reread the last six words she’d just typed. And now The Joker is dead. Even now, she couldn’t really believe it. Of course, it wasn’t for sure. The Joker was known for his near-death escapes. The only witness to comment on the death was Bruce Wayne, who had claimed that Batman saved him. And, of course, there was no body. But the man had been shot in the gut, and left to drown in a vat of poisonous chemicals. How could anyone survive that? No body had been found, because it had been carried through the vat’s drainage duct, and dumped into the river along with the rest of the waste.
But still, it was strange. A few short weeks ago, she had been faced with the prospect of writing The Joker’s biography. She’d even interviewed the notorious criminal face-to-face. And now here she was, writing his obituary. The Gotham Gazette had requested she write one up for them, because of the “unique insight” she had been briefly given into his twisted mind. They’d even hinted that, if she did this well, there might be a full-time job in it for her. But that wasn’t the only motivation behind her writing this. It was cathartic, a way for her to cleanse her soul of the darkness that had hung over her existence ever since The Joker had entered her life. She recalled his ominous words at the end of their last encounter, in the interview room at Arkham:
"I'll get out of here. I always do. And when I'm back on the streets, prowling in the shadows, I might decide to come after you. Then again, I might not…”
Even thinking of those words now, she shuddered. At the time, her back had been turned when he said it, but she could still picture, in her mind, the glee on his face as he made his taunting threat, the wicked glint in his cruel, cold eyes. It was a threat that gave her many sleepless nights, particularly after hearing of his escape from Arkham. She found herself wondering in quiet terror, is this it? Perhaps this is the night he’ll come for me.
Then again, he might not…
Yes, Jessica Taylor was glad to be rid of The Joker. For the past couple of weeks, she had been free to sleep easy. Her safety, now returned to her, was cherished, and she would never endanger it again. She returned to typing:
And with him dies the secret of his identity. Even now, after all the years he has haunted us, we know no more about him than we did on that fateful first day he appeared on our television screens, vowing to kill Henry Claridge at the stroke of midnight. It’s a mystery that will baffle investigators for decades to come. And that’s the way The Joker would have wanted it. His final parting joke to the world.
As Jessica struggled to think up a catchy closing sentence for her piece, she was interrupted by a knock on the door. Sighing in mild annoyance, she turned from the laptop and stood up. But she’d barely taken three steps towards the front door of her apartment when it was kicked open, and the figure from her nightmares limped inside.
The Joker.
“You’re alive!” she gasped in a haze of shock and panic.
“More or less,” he replied with a grin.
The Joker was looking worse for wear, that’s for sure. He really did have the look of someone who had clawed and scratched their way from death’s door. His green hair was long and unkempt, like it had been the first time Jessica had saw him, and hung about his head in thick, greasy strands. A second chemical bath had only served to heighten his ghoulish appearance. The black circles around his eyes were deeper, darker. His lips were redder, rawer. And his white skin had gone beyond the white of a clown, now taking on the sickly hue of a disease-ridden corpse.
“Here’s a riddle worthy of Nigma. Question: how does a criminal mastermind who got a shower of shrapnel sprayed into his gut manage to walk around? Answer: with great difficulty! HA!”
The laugh made him wince in pain and clutch his side. His chest was still a network of stitches, the second-rate work of a back-alley crime doctor. Slowly, he limped closer to Jessica.
“Anyhoo, Miss Taylor, I just stopped by to thank you, for inspiring me.”
Up until this point, Jessica had been frantically searching for a means of escape or defence. But she was backed into a corner. Now, she turned to face her tormentor, confusion in her eyes.
“Inspiring you?”
“Why, to tell my life story, of course!”
“You…you’re writing a book?”
“No! Don’t be stupid, girl! Why would I be so mundane? Haven’t you been watching the news, or reading about my handiwork since my latest escape from Arkham? I’ve been telling you all the story of my life!”
“I…I don’t understand…”
“Of course you don’t, with that feeble little mind of yours. Your view of life is too narrow to appreciate the masterpiece in storytelling I’ve crafted. It is fun, isn’t it, being a storyteller? It gives you so much power. Power to create worlds, or destroy them! Or the power to make the past whatever you want it to be, to reshape history as you see fit. And of course, the power of truth, the power to make people trust and believe whatever you say. I like to think of a storyteller as a kind of magician.”
The Joker stood upright, raising his hands in the air as if he were an actor on the stage, entering into a grand performance.
“A magician will show an audience his hands, spread his fingers wide open, to show them all that his hands are truly empty. He will then rotate his hands, and show the audience the back of his hands, to show them that nothing has been concealed. And then, to proof absolutely that nothing is hidden, the magician will tug at his sleeves, proving to the spectators that he’s not keeping anything up there. And then, out of nowhere, the magician dazzles his audience, producing a bunch of flowers or a flying dove out of nowhere. It’s magic! But it’s not really. Everyone in the crowd knows it’s not real. The magician is blatantly lying to them. But everyone plays along, and enjoys the show. Everything’s true if the magician says it’s true. Now, sit down, Miss Taylor…”
The Joker was grinning, but the request was laced with more than enough menace to make it a command that Jessica promptly obeyed, sitting back down on her computer chair.
“Are you watching closely?”
The Joker raised his hands in the air.
“I raise my hands, and tell you I had a tragic childhood, and a cruel, abusive father.”
A mother shoots her husband to save her young son’s life.
Are you watching closely?
“I spread open my fingers, and tell you that I was bullied and pushed around all my life.”
A terrified child cowers in a packed schoolbus, the violent laughter of every child on the bus circling all around him, until he finds himself laughing too.
Are you watching closely?
“I show you the backs of my hands, and tell you I was a hapless victim of society, a failure, a nobody, a bum.”
A talentless stand-up comedian stumbles through his routine, every joke laced with desperation, as if his life depended on a laugh.
Are you watching?
“I tug lightly at my sleeves, and tell you I was forced into a life of crime through no fault of my own, driven by the need to protect the woman I loved, only to be pushed to the brink of madness by her senseless death.”
A young man is told that his pregnant wife is dead, and is left a shattered wreck, a heartbroken, empty shell.
ARE YOU?
“Is it true? Does a magician really make flowers appear in his hand by magic? Does it really matter? Nobody cares whether the magic is real, it’s how the trick is performed that lingers in the memory. Oh, and what a performance this story has been! Oh, it will all appear random to the little people, and that’s fine. Why should I spoil the illusion, and let them know how I came to be the man I am today? As it is, I’m whatever they want me to be, my origins are limited only by the boundaries of imagination. And isn’t that a hell of a punchline? All this time, all these deaths, all to tell my life story…and it might not even be the real story! Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Oh, and one more thing…”
The Joker gave a flourish with his hands.
“Abra Kedabra!”
All of a sudden, Jessica’s ears were ringing from a deafening bang. She looked at The Joker, and it appeared as if he had produced a gun out of nowhere, as if by magic. Jessica looked down, and spotted the hole in her chest, blood pouring out of it. She began to cry, and before she knew it, she had toppled forward off the chair, and was lying on the ground.
The Joker kneeled down beside her, stroking her hair gently as her life slowly drained away. Her fading eyes wide with terror, she looked up at The Joker. His face would be the last she’d ever see. He leaned in closer, his grin widening, as he spoke to her one more time before she died.
“Get the joke?”
THE END...FOR NOW
