Post by lee on Jan 21, 2020 23:21:18 GMT
Joker: An Interview With Madness
Yesterday—
“...An intelligent—and compassionate—young doctor with the potential to have become a prominent psychologist one day. He will be missed.”
“This is how Dr. Byron Blaine, current administrator of Arkham Asylum, described the late Dr. Daniel Franklin. Few details surrounding his murder have been released to the public due to the ongoing investigation. When asked, Commissioner James Gordon said no suspects have been named, although, in this reporter's opinion, it is probably because the GCPD has so many potential suspects to choose from. As of yet, there have been no reported sightings of Gotham's own Caped Crusader, yet where Arkham is concerned, you can be sure he is already on the case.
“Now, over to Klaus Newton for a look at this weekend's weather.”
“Thank you, Summer.”
The auburn-haired newscaster gave the weatherman a smile. “So, what can we expect for the next few days?”
Klaus gave the young woman a winning smile. “Well, Summer, if Batman is on the case this weekend, I hope his cape and cowl are waterproof.”
One week ago—
“Do you have a preference as to what I should call you?”
The white-skinned inmate with the rigor mortis grin replied, first, with an innocent shrug. “I would suggest you call me what everyone else calls me, but you seem much too refined for such language.” Amused by his own comment the inmate cackled, his laughter dancing on the young psychologist's nerves.”How about we just stick with “Joker”? If you need a last name, we can go with “Crown Prince of Crime”. Would Esquire be too much? It would, wouldn't it? Let's just skip that.”
“Alright, Joker,” the doctor replied. “I want to inform you that our sessions will be recorded so I can document them later.”
The Joker sat back in his gray folding chair and chuckled. “I've been told I have the perfect face for radio.”
The doctor pressed the record button on his recording device and spoke. “Today is October 17th, 198...”
“Cut.”
Dr. Franklin looked at his patient. “Excuse me?”
“That was a horrible intro,” Joker commented. “Have you never listened to Orson Welles' broadcast of The War of the Worlds? Honestly, Doc, you are more like Ed Wood than Steven Spielberg. Ah, never mind me. Maybe “dry” is your style.”
“Yes, well,” the doctor replied. “It works for me.”
The Joker clapped, stomped his feet, then extended his hand towards the doctor. “Magnificent! You are a comic gem.”
Yesterday—
Commissioner Gordon held up his hand to quell the chatter of the media. Once silence was achieved, he spoke.
“As of yet, we are no closer to knowing the identity of Dr. Franklin's murderer. While the investigation is ongoing, naturally we are limited as to what we can and cannot reveal to the press.”
“Are you saying that you know, or at least have an idea, who the killer is, you're just not at liberty to say?” a young newspaper reporter asked.
The woman beside him spoke up. “That is not what he is saying at all. Commissioner Gordon is saying exactly what he said. When the GCPD has a suspect, we will be told.”
“Thank you, Ms. Vale,” the commissioner said.
“I know it has probably been considered,” Vicki Vale continued, now addressing James Gordon, “but wouldn't the prime suspect be whoever Arkham's most recent escapee was?”
Gordon sighed. “It would if there had been an escape, but, as of now, every inmate is accounted for.”
“What about the Batman?” someone shouted.
Commissioner Gordon turned away. “When in doubt,” he muttered, “always ask about Batman.
Three days ago—
“Alright, Joker,” Dr, Franklin said as he hit the record button. “Yesterday you brought up both schizophrenia and amnesia as our session was ending. Would you care to elaborate?”
The Joker put a styrofoam cup to his bright red lips and took a sip of water. “All I was saying was that the former can lead to the latter.”
“You believe schizophrenia can lead to amnesia?”
“Take me, for example,” Joker replied. “Well, that was just a silly thing to say. Of course you are going to take me as the example; I'm the one you are focused on.” He raised the back of his hand to the side of his mouth and loudly whispered. “Of course, if it were me, I would be more inclined to focus on Poison Ivy, if you know what I mean. Of course you do; you are a man of letters. She can give me a rash any time. It's gonna take an ocean...of calamine lotion. She could leave a grin on a man's face bigger than any amount my toxin. Tell me, Doc; do you think the moss matches the canopy? Nah, you don't strike me as the horticulturist type. I'll bet Catwoman is more up your alley...whips and leather and a meow, meow, meow. But I digress. What were we talking about again? Ah, yes. Schizophrenia and amnesia; I almost forgot”
“Would you care to elaborate?” Dr. Franklin asked.
“On Catwoman and Poison Ivy? I thought I did. Oh, the other thing. Of course. Over the years, when people like you have asked me about myself, I have told them whatever they wanted to hear. Everything from I was a failed comedian to I was a lone gunman who killed some rich couple for a cheap string of pearls. You name it I've claimed it was what made me the person I am today.”
“Why?” the psychologist asked.
“Because, they all wanted to help me; they wanted to cure me...like I need to be cured of anything.”
“If that is the case, how can I trust anything you tell me?”
The Joker leaned in as close as his restraints would allow. “Because you don't want to cure me.”
Dr. Franklin leaned forward as well. “Then, what do you think I want?”
“You just want to figure me out. To you, I'm the riddle with no answer. Oh wait. That's the other guy.” The Joker slowly leaned back.
The psychologist followed suit. “And you equate all of these different stories to schizophrenia? Please explain.”
“Over time, they have all become true,” Joker began. “To the psychologist, the news media, the man on the street, even the colorful busybodies; they each choose what they want to believe and go with it.”
Dr. Franklin leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “And what do you believe?”
“Hehehehehe. That's the biggest freaking joke of all; I. Don't, Remember.”
Today—
“Two murders in as many days,” Commissioner Gordon said as he raised his glasses and pinched the skin above the bridge of his nose.
“Do you think they are related?” Dr. Blaine asked. “It is obvious who was behind this one.”
The corpse of the inmate was pasty-white and his lips were stretched out of proportion to the point the man's teeth and gums were completely exposed.
“Who was he?” Gordon asked.
“He was a new arrival by the name of Max; he was here because of what he did to his family. In the couple weeks he has been here, he has attacked two guards and a fellow inmate. He has been talking to Dr. Franklin about his anger issues.”
The Commissioner looked put his glasses back on and turned to the Director. “Who else was seeing the doctor? Anyone in particular?”
“Most of the inmates have...had...been scheduled to undergo a review by Dr. Franklin at some point,” Dr. Blaine replied, “but, I believe, he has been having regular sessions with the Joker for the past week.”
James Gordon turned to go. “I believe we have solved both murders, but I want to talk to Joker before I officially close the case.”
“What about...? You know he wants to be present whenever anyone interrogates the Joker,” Dr. Blaine reminded the commissioner.
“It won't be an interrogation,” Gordon said. “I just want to ask him a simple question.”
Moments later, the two men were being buzzed into Arkham's most secure level. Gordon recognized each name on the nameplates beside the doors, but focused on only one. The sound of movement in the cell grew louder as they drew closer. By the time the men came to a stop, the Joker's chalky face was waiting for them.
“Joker,” Commissioner Gordon said, “I have just one question.”
“I killed the little punk,” the Crown Prince of Crime confessed. “More than anyone else I've killed, he deserved it.”
His eyes were cold, colder than they had been in any of their previous encounters. Only the man's permanent grin and stark-white skin reminded Gordon who he was facing.
The commissioner nodded, then turned away.
“Jim.”
Gordon stopped and looked back. “Yes?”
“He was a good man.”
“He could have been,” Gordon replied. He started to turn away.
“Could I ask a favor?”
The question caught Jim off guard. “After everything you have done, you have the audacity to ask for a favor?”
The Joker shoved a small envelope under the door. “Pick it up,” he said.
Gordon looked down. “And become another one of your victims? Not going to happen.”
“It, and what is inside, is clean,” Joker said. “If I'm lying, may the Bat live a long, happy life.”
Gordon knelt and picked the envelope up. “What am I to do with this?”
“Give it to his fiance,” Joker said. “Just don't open it.”
The commissioner turned the envelope over and over in his hand, then put it in his pocket. As he turned to leave again, Joker called his name again. This time, Jim stopped, but he did not turn around.
“What?”
“Sometimes, I hate this stupid smile.”
Two days ago—
“And this concludes another session.” Dr. Franklin turned the recorder off. “We shall pick this up Monday.”
“You seem happy,” Joker said.
“I am,” the psychologist replied. “My fiance and I are going away for the weekend.” He smiled.
“And you are going to pop the question.”
The doctor nodded.
“Well, good for you,” Joker said.
Daniel Franklin looked his patient directly in the eyes. “Thank you.”
As a guard entered to escort the Joker back to his cell, the Joker looked back. “Congratulations, Doc. I hope you have a happy life with the woman of your dreams.”
Yesterday—
“...An intelligent—and compassionate—young doctor with the potential to have become a prominent psychologist one day. He will be missed.”
“This is how Dr. Byron Blaine, current administrator of Arkham Asylum, described the late Dr. Daniel Franklin. Few details surrounding his murder have been released to the public due to the ongoing investigation. When asked, Commissioner James Gordon said no suspects have been named, although, in this reporter's opinion, it is probably because the GCPD has so many potential suspects to choose from. As of yet, there have been no reported sightings of Gotham's own Caped Crusader, yet where Arkham is concerned, you can be sure he is already on the case.
“Now, over to Klaus Newton for a look at this weekend's weather.”
“Thank you, Summer.”
The auburn-haired newscaster gave the weatherman a smile. “So, what can we expect for the next few days?”
Klaus gave the young woman a winning smile. “Well, Summer, if Batman is on the case this weekend, I hope his cape and cowl are waterproof.”
One week ago—
“Do you have a preference as to what I should call you?”
The white-skinned inmate with the rigor mortis grin replied, first, with an innocent shrug. “I would suggest you call me what everyone else calls me, but you seem much too refined for such language.” Amused by his own comment the inmate cackled, his laughter dancing on the young psychologist's nerves.”How about we just stick with “Joker”? If you need a last name, we can go with “Crown Prince of Crime”. Would Esquire be too much? It would, wouldn't it? Let's just skip that.”
“Alright, Joker,” the doctor replied. “I want to inform you that our sessions will be recorded so I can document them later.”
The Joker sat back in his gray folding chair and chuckled. “I've been told I have the perfect face for radio.”
The doctor pressed the record button on his recording device and spoke. “Today is October 17th, 198...”
“Cut.”
Dr. Franklin looked at his patient. “Excuse me?”
“That was a horrible intro,” Joker commented. “Have you never listened to Orson Welles' broadcast of The War of the Worlds? Honestly, Doc, you are more like Ed Wood than Steven Spielberg. Ah, never mind me. Maybe “dry” is your style.”
“Yes, well,” the doctor replied. “It works for me.”
The Joker clapped, stomped his feet, then extended his hand towards the doctor. “Magnificent! You are a comic gem.”
Yesterday—
Commissioner Gordon held up his hand to quell the chatter of the media. Once silence was achieved, he spoke.
“As of yet, we are no closer to knowing the identity of Dr. Franklin's murderer. While the investigation is ongoing, naturally we are limited as to what we can and cannot reveal to the press.”
“Are you saying that you know, or at least have an idea, who the killer is, you're just not at liberty to say?” a young newspaper reporter asked.
The woman beside him spoke up. “That is not what he is saying at all. Commissioner Gordon is saying exactly what he said. When the GCPD has a suspect, we will be told.”
“Thank you, Ms. Vale,” the commissioner said.
“I know it has probably been considered,” Vicki Vale continued, now addressing James Gordon, “but wouldn't the prime suspect be whoever Arkham's most recent escapee was?”
Gordon sighed. “It would if there had been an escape, but, as of now, every inmate is accounted for.”
“What about the Batman?” someone shouted.
Commissioner Gordon turned away. “When in doubt,” he muttered, “always ask about Batman.
Three days ago—
“Alright, Joker,” Dr, Franklin said as he hit the record button. “Yesterday you brought up both schizophrenia and amnesia as our session was ending. Would you care to elaborate?”
The Joker put a styrofoam cup to his bright red lips and took a sip of water. “All I was saying was that the former can lead to the latter.”
“You believe schizophrenia can lead to amnesia?”
“Take me, for example,” Joker replied. “Well, that was just a silly thing to say. Of course you are going to take me as the example; I'm the one you are focused on.” He raised the back of his hand to the side of his mouth and loudly whispered. “Of course, if it were me, I would be more inclined to focus on Poison Ivy, if you know what I mean. Of course you do; you are a man of letters. She can give me a rash any time. It's gonna take an ocean...of calamine lotion. She could leave a grin on a man's face bigger than any amount my toxin. Tell me, Doc; do you think the moss matches the canopy? Nah, you don't strike me as the horticulturist type. I'll bet Catwoman is more up your alley...whips and leather and a meow, meow, meow. But I digress. What were we talking about again? Ah, yes. Schizophrenia and amnesia; I almost forgot”
“Would you care to elaborate?” Dr. Franklin asked.
“On Catwoman and Poison Ivy? I thought I did. Oh, the other thing. Of course. Over the years, when people like you have asked me about myself, I have told them whatever they wanted to hear. Everything from I was a failed comedian to I was a lone gunman who killed some rich couple for a cheap string of pearls. You name it I've claimed it was what made me the person I am today.”
“Why?” the psychologist asked.
“Because, they all wanted to help me; they wanted to cure me...like I need to be cured of anything.”
“If that is the case, how can I trust anything you tell me?”
The Joker leaned in as close as his restraints would allow. “Because you don't want to cure me.”
Dr. Franklin leaned forward as well. “Then, what do you think I want?”
“You just want to figure me out. To you, I'm the riddle with no answer. Oh wait. That's the other guy.” The Joker slowly leaned back.
The psychologist followed suit. “And you equate all of these different stories to schizophrenia? Please explain.”
“Over time, they have all become true,” Joker began. “To the psychologist, the news media, the man on the street, even the colorful busybodies; they each choose what they want to believe and go with it.”
Dr. Franklin leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “And what do you believe?”
“Hehehehehe. That's the biggest freaking joke of all; I. Don't, Remember.”
Today—
“Two murders in as many days,” Commissioner Gordon said as he raised his glasses and pinched the skin above the bridge of his nose.
“Do you think they are related?” Dr. Blaine asked. “It is obvious who was behind this one.”
The corpse of the inmate was pasty-white and his lips were stretched out of proportion to the point the man's teeth and gums were completely exposed.
“Who was he?” Gordon asked.
“He was a new arrival by the name of Max; he was here because of what he did to his family. In the couple weeks he has been here, he has attacked two guards and a fellow inmate. He has been talking to Dr. Franklin about his anger issues.”
The Commissioner looked put his glasses back on and turned to the Director. “Who else was seeing the doctor? Anyone in particular?”
“Most of the inmates have...had...been scheduled to undergo a review by Dr. Franklin at some point,” Dr. Blaine replied, “but, I believe, he has been having regular sessions with the Joker for the past week.”
James Gordon turned to go. “I believe we have solved both murders, but I want to talk to Joker before I officially close the case.”
“What about...? You know he wants to be present whenever anyone interrogates the Joker,” Dr. Blaine reminded the commissioner.
“It won't be an interrogation,” Gordon said. “I just want to ask him a simple question.”
Moments later, the two men were being buzzed into Arkham's most secure level. Gordon recognized each name on the nameplates beside the doors, but focused on only one. The sound of movement in the cell grew louder as they drew closer. By the time the men came to a stop, the Joker's chalky face was waiting for them.
“Joker,” Commissioner Gordon said, “I have just one question.”
“I killed the little punk,” the Crown Prince of Crime confessed. “More than anyone else I've killed, he deserved it.”
His eyes were cold, colder than they had been in any of their previous encounters. Only the man's permanent grin and stark-white skin reminded Gordon who he was facing.
The commissioner nodded, then turned away.
“Jim.”
Gordon stopped and looked back. “Yes?”
“He was a good man.”
“He could have been,” Gordon replied. He started to turn away.
“Could I ask a favor?”
The question caught Jim off guard. “After everything you have done, you have the audacity to ask for a favor?”
The Joker shoved a small envelope under the door. “Pick it up,” he said.
Gordon looked down. “And become another one of your victims? Not going to happen.”
“It, and what is inside, is clean,” Joker said. “If I'm lying, may the Bat live a long, happy life.”
Gordon knelt and picked the envelope up. “What am I to do with this?”
“Give it to his fiance,” Joker said. “Just don't open it.”
The commissioner turned the envelope over and over in his hand, then put it in his pocket. As he turned to leave again, Joker called his name again. This time, Jim stopped, but he did not turn around.
“What?”
“Sometimes, I hate this stupid smile.”
Two days ago—
“And this concludes another session.” Dr. Franklin turned the recorder off. “We shall pick this up Monday.”
“You seem happy,” Joker said.
“I am,” the psychologist replied. “My fiance and I are going away for the weekend.” He smiled.
“And you are going to pop the question.”
The doctor nodded.
“Well, good for you,” Joker said.
Daniel Franklin looked his patient directly in the eyes. “Thank you.”
As a guard entered to escort the Joker back to his cell, the Joker looked back. “Congratulations, Doc. I hope you have a happy life with the woman of your dreams.”