Post by The Joker on Jun 1, 2011 10:12:47 GMT -5
Once Upon a Time in Gotham City…[/blockquote]
Shelly Blanch jogged past the newspaper stand, oblivious to the latest bold front page headliner, “Joker kills again!”, her attention was more focused on the motivating music that blared from her Ipod and into her eardrums. This nightly jog had become too routine to make her feel any immediate danger. She felt safe. Within her mind – she’d never be that person who got robbed, she’d never be that person read about in the Sunday paper that was abducted and murdered. Her own personal little world was far too comfortable to take the threat of a Gotham serial killer seriously. Much to her surprise, however, another individual’s fantasy would soon transform her reality.
Rhymed footsteps slapped the concrete behind her. She softened the volume of her Ipod, her ears keening in on the approaching presence. Then – suddenly – a calm warm voice spoke out, ”Hi.” Another fellow night jogger, she assumed, glancing over at the source of the voice, which, was a slim tall guy in sweatpants and a black hoody. With the Ipod headphones still plugged in her ears, she opted to pretend not to hear him. However, he persisted, keeping pace by her side, ”I like your shoes.” She nodded briefly, acknowledging the compliment of her purple sneakers before picking up speed in an attempt to lose the odd stranger.
Something said next planted her feet into the pavement – halting all movement, ”Shelly, have you talked to your Mother lately?” The unsettling question forced her into turning to face him. The question was odd – odd – because she wasn’t sure if he might be a friend trying to scare her given that he knew her name, or maybe play a joke on her, and because the question in itself, if it was a joke for that matter, did not sound playful by any means. Matter of fact, the question offended her. She stared, trying to see his face through the black hoody that shadowed it. ”Blake?”, she splatted out, hoping that it might be her Brother. ”Your Mother, Shelly, we should talk about her, and not Blake.” The night sky failed to give her eyes any reading of his face. Now slightly frustrated and confused, her voice shed some temper, ”I’m sorry? Do I know you?”
”NO!” The rage filled shout echoed the empty street – a street she now just nervously realized was empty. ”Your Mother knows me, Shelly.. she does.” He finally quit approaching her, stopping just feet away, this slightly calmed a bit of tension on her part. Still, however, she could not make out exactly who he was. ”How do you know my Mother? Who are yo—“, anxiously – he interrupted her, ”We were only properly introduced a few hours ago.” Quickly continuing after a brief pause, her ears are forced to listen, and her mouth to be kept closed, ”She’s incredible. I think her piss could even power my automobile.” Puzzled, a natural ”What?” immediately grumbled from within her. ”Well – duh – it was all that gasoline she drank, gallons of it! I made her drink it. I told her that if she could down three gallons, piss into an old lawnmower AND start it.. then I would let her go. And you know what? The lawnmower actually started! Fired to life! Right on the first pull!”
”Is this some kind of joke?” She didn’t know what else to say about the terrifying story. ”Yes, actually, it is.” Oh – how she sighed with relief. She laughed, awkwardly, finding the amusement disturbing. ”My Mother put you up to this, right? Gosh. She has such a dry sense of humor.” Somewhere inside that black hollow hoody she could tell that he was probably smirking, ”No. She is dead. I beat her to death. Then… I fucked her.”
How rude – she thought. Some joke. Deep down, however, she could not help but feel the need to take him serious enough to call her Mother, just to reassure that this was a joke played on her by her Mother, or, she had just happened to stumble across a weirdo tonight. She punched in the digit on her cellphone, speed dialing her Mother’s number.
A silent ring with a faint light glowed and screamed inside his pants pocket. Horror struck her face – even moreso – when he playfully answered the phone with sarcasm, ”Hello?”
Panic. She had to get away. Her feet moved too fast. She tripped over herself. Damnit – not like this. He’s got me. Her eyes soon rolled back into her skull, fainting, as she felt the leather of his glove covered hands around her wrists, dragging her body somewhere dark to hide disturbing acts.
The Following Day…[/blockquote]
Martha Blanch, the Mother of Shelly Blanch, sat frozen in her chair – reading the newspaper article laid out before her. Her son, Blake, lovingly at her side. Both of their eyes engulfed with tears as the paper read…
Late last night, the deceased body of a young woman was found (later to be identified as Shelly Blanch) inside the abandoned apartment complex of Easy Springs. A ‘Joker’ playing card was found at the crime scene leading many to believe that Shelly Blanch was another innocent victim of the Joker killings that have haunted Gotham the last three months. The police refused to release any additional details. Our condolences respectably go out to the family of Shelly Blanch.
Her face implanted itself into Blake’s chest. His hand soothingly pats over her back, ”They’ll get this bastard, Mom. Detective Arnold already told me they had a big lead. He said your cell phone was found with Shelly AND that her cell phone was missing! Remember? A few days ago you recalled your cellphone being stolen during the time that you were in the subway? Mom, they have surveillance videos. And, if he still has her cell phone.. they can GPS it or something! They can find this guy. They can.”
She continued weeping – knowing rather or not they did catch him – her daughter would be lost forever.
Meanwhile… at the Gotham Police Station[/blockquote]
”Chief! Chief!” Frantically, detective Arnold spilled into the Chief’s office. ”Damnit, Arnold!” The Chief looking over surveillance videos of a subway, the detective’s excitement nearly pushing the Chief into a heart attack. ”What is it?
Three simple words shook the entire station, ”We’ve found him.” Everyone shifted their heads from desks, focusing attention on the conversation between detective Arnold and the Chief. ”The.. t-the Joker?” Arnold quickly replied, ”Yes! We tracked the cell phone, and, assuming he kept it – GPS marked him right NEXT DOOR.” As if a fire had just erupted inside the building, every officer, staff, and employee of Gotham’s law enforcement jumped from their feet and tried to chaotically exit the room at once. People rushed down the hall, running into locker rooms, strapping on bullet proof jackets, loading their arms with pistols, shotguns, and whatever else that could make a bang. A group was quickly assembled, surrounding the apartment building next to the police station that the Joker was believed to be residing. A GPS tracker held in Arnolds hands, he directed the SWAT-like trio of men through the building – reaching a door – kicking it down – and, surprisingly, there he sat.
The room was a complete mess. Photographs of ex-victims sloppily pasted onto walls, mirrors, even floors, scribbles of red colored crude written messages decorated over the room, ‘Joker’ playing cards scattering the carpets surface. And, amongst the pigsty, there he sat. There he simply sat, casually seated at the edge of a bed. The cell phone that led the police to him grasped in his hand. Dressed like a mad man; a purple coat dirty with blood, green hair going in every which place but straight, face distorted with white and black paint, and his lips - those scarred hideous lips - caked in red lipstick.
He simply stared ahead – not even acknowledging the police men as they busted through the door, rushed him, and clubbed him down like a piñata.
Days Later…[/blockquote]
Just outside a steel door, outside the room that housed a bed ridden strap jacketed Joker – Arnold and a public defender spoke. ”Why do you have my client restrained like this?” Almost repulsed, Anrold responded, ”Are you serious? He killed two prisoners and a guard!” The lawyer peeked through the small opening into Joker’s cell. “Erm.. has he said anything yet?” Arnold joined the lawyer’s side, also looking over the beaten and battered Joker. ”Not one word.” Arnold paused, ”Monstrous – isn’t he?”
The defense attorney nodded in agreement. ”I’m going to need to look over the case files.” He had a case to prepare, after all. ”Have you gone over the victims with my client?” Arnold nodded, before signaling the attorney to follow him into another room, ”Yes, we spent hours in interrogation with him – shoving photographs of victims under his nose, keeping him in the hot seat, but, it never did any good. No emotion. No expression – other than that sick grin carved into his face.”
”Here you are..” The detective pulled open a steel cabinet drawer, reaching in and grabbing an arm load of files. He dropped them on a table, the weight of the files making a clunk upon impact. Carefully, he individually sorted through them, the lawyer looked on in disgust.
Rosey Stark
[/center]”Rosey Stark, his first known victim, well, the first we’re aware of. He took his time with her. All of her organs were missing – took them for trophies, we assume. She was ripped open from her belly button to her neck. That wasn’t what killed her, though, no.. he force fed her gun powder first. Made her consume all sorts of chemicals – acid, oil, bleach, even human feces – THEN – we believe, that he ripped her open, and maybe even ate her liver, heart, lungs, bladder, whatever was empowering. Yes, he directed an ultimate form of expression with Rosey. Killed her in more ways than one. Took everything from her. Her pride, dignity, her life, her beating heart. Ripped her open and ate her alive.” The lawyer cringed.
Months Later..[/blockquote]
Gotham News Reports:
”After months of thrilling court sessions and surprising twists, the jury finally reached a verdict this afternoon on what was named ‘The Trial of The Century’. Judge Davis sentenced Gotham’s serial killer clown to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
The killers only alias; the Joker, which was a name dubbed by the public for his signature trademark of leaving ‘Joker’ cards at crime scenes - identity still remains a mystery. He did not utter a single word during the entire trial nor did he show any remorse at all during the testimony of the victims’ relatives and close friends. The Joker, who was charged with the murder of eight women, six men, and three children, has become the only serial killer in Gotham history to not receive the death penalty due to plea of insanity. Most of the public was outraged by the judge’s sentence. Even more so – with the fact that he’ll serve the first ten of his two hundred year sentence as a patient in Arkham Asylum. The doctors of Arkham believe that this will be a great opportunity to help understand the mind of a killer. The Joker is expected to arrive at the Asylum sometime tomorrow morning.”
