[Fic] Funny Business (5/7)
Title: Funny Business, Part 5 (of 7)
Series: TDS, TCR, Batman
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, clowns. Includes some comic book logic.
Summary: They say dying is easy and comedy is hard, and for writerless Jon and Stephen, it's never been more true-- until they're paid a visit by Gotham City's most notorious comedian.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
(Jump to Part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7)
The lights in the interview area snapped on, glaring down on Donovan, tied to the chair with his mouth duct-taped. Stephen hadn't gotten the chance to meet him before the show, but he'd seen him on other programs. He was a heavy guy, balding, around forty years old if Stephen were to make a guess. During other interviews he would try to mask the sensationalism of what he had written by insisting it was merely a "comprehensive study" of one of the country's most notorious madmen. Of course, this would not be like any of those interviews.
Joker strolled from the C-shaped desk towards the interviewer's chair, and just like Stephen would do at the start of every interview, he stopped to accept the praise from the audience. Their reaction was hardly similar to any other night; there was no hollering or whooping, only quick appeasing applause. The clown didn't seem to notice or care, just bowed again and again with that threatening grin.
"Kirky, baby, how've you been?" the Joker asked congenially when he finally sat down.
Donovan thrashed wildly in his chair and tried to scream past the duct tape.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Joker replied with a deep frown. "I hope it's not genetic."
The lights on the main desk had dimmed. Finally having the Joker more than three feet away did wonders for Stephen's nerves. He glanced at Harley and the goons. The mime men focused on the audience and their boss. Harley split her attention between Joker and Stephen. Stephen tried to think. He had to do something. Maybe he could throw the chair at her? And then what? Get promptly shot? Get other people hurt?
Harley giggled at something Joker said said quietly to Stephen, "Puddin's a natural at showbiz!"
"Shame he couldn't perform under better circumstances," Stephen replied testily, keeping his voice down as well.
She snorted. "The circumstances are what make it funny," she said, as if explaining to a child. She rolled her eyes at his blank look. "You just don't get it."
Somehow, Stephen managed to feel amused that she'd just accused him of not being an it-getter. "And you do?"
"Of course I do!” she said with pride. "I'm Mistah J's number one gal."
"I guess sense of humor really is important to a woman."
She scoffed again, and Stephen got the distinct impression that she was comparing him and Joker then and there, like they were career colleagues. "Mistah J doesn't have just 'a good sense of humor.' He's an artist. This is his creative outlet."
She was so blasé about what was happening. Stephen knew she was crazy, but he also knew she'd been a doctor before submitting herself to the Joker. He supposed he'd been hoping she'd miraculously show some rational thought.
"You're helping a man hold innocent people hostage," he hissed. "People could die tonight, and you think it's all laughs."
She smiled and pinched his cheek. "You need to lighten up."
"I'm a comedian."
"And you won't stay on TV long with that attitude. Hey!" She ignored Stephen's gaping and held up a finger, as if pointing to a light bulb over her head. "Have you ever thought about a lovely, bubbly cohost?"
"Like you and Joker?” he replied incredulously. "Yeah, you're really getting equal screen time."
"A good act needs just as much help off-screen than on," she replied curtly, folding her arms.
"Of course."
"Whaddayou know anyway?!" she snapped.
Stephen swallowed hard. It suddenly seemed hotter even with just the low lights. It didn't help that the revolting tie was practically choking him.
"Oh, how rude of me!" the Joker said loudly. He grinned over at both of them, but there was a clear aggravation in his eyes. "Roll your chair on over here, Steve!" he said, like an apologetic party host.
Stephen would've been grateful to escape Harley's wrath if he wasn't being beckoned to something exceptionally worse. He gingerly got up and pushed his chair off the dais, trying to ignore Harley's impatient shooing noises. He kept his eyes on the floor as he made his way to the back of the interview table and lifted his chair onto the platform. He sat down.
"Much better!" Joker said, patting his shoulder. "Don't want the audience worrying about what happened to you."
There was little attempt in the statement to sound more like concern than foreshadowing. Stephen felt his eye twitch.
~ | ~
Jon only had to gloss over the clues to figure out the theme of the Joker's puzzle was comedy. But it was no single facet. The answers he needed were people (the Marx Brothers, Chaplin, Lenny Bruce) and places (Timbuktu, Kalamazoo) and even funny words (kumquat, flugelhorn, moose), among other terms (Commedia dell'arte, vaudeville). Jon wondered if the Joker had picked them based on difficulty, or if they were bits of comedy he actually appreciated the most, in his own warped way. Was Jon getting a look into the clown's head?
He berated himself for wondering. This was not the time to think about that, nor was there time to listen to Joker make Donovan sweat with small talk on the TV across the room. Jon had been working for about ten minutes, and while some answers came easily, the other clues might have just as well been blurs of black text. One in particular had him completely stumped:
Sound of a fruit comprised of small and juicy red, black, or yellow drupelets that form a detachable cap around a convex receptacle.
Sound of a fruit? Jon would have said "smash" or "squish," but the answer was nine letters and with the clues he'd solved so far the first two letters were TH.
He glanced at the clock and moved along. He'd come back to it. No time to linger.
~ | ~
"And so he says, that's not my dinner, that's my wife!" Joker said, elbowing Stephen in the side and shooting Donovan a wink. The audience chuckled nervously. "Try that one at some book parties, Kirk. Really slays them."
Stephen grimaced, doing his best not to picture the joke's bloody, pulpy imagery. Donovan was still shaking. The sweat dripping down his head was bound to start peeling the tape off his mouth.
"Oh, listen to me prattle on and on!" Joker apologized. He extended his hand toward Donovan magnanimously, signaling permission for him to talk. "Now, you wrote a book about criminal psychology, correct?"
More frantic muffled noises. Joker frowned. "Speak louder, man! I can hardly hear you!" He sighed, reached across the table, and ripped the tape off Donovan's mouth. He smiled pleasantly at the writer's scream. "You were saying?"
"S-someone, please..." Donovan weakly pleaded with the audience. He looked to Stephen desperately, but Stephen could only return the same expression.
Joker slammed his fist onto the table, earning the author's attention again. "Now, now, don't be rude. If you want to talk to the American people, tell them about your book."
That was obviously the last thing Donovan wanted to talk about, but he wasn't dumb enough to not oblige. "I... I wrote about you," he said.
Joker slapped his hands to his cheeks, looking frighteningly delighted. "Really? Little old me? I'm flattered, Kirk. What is it? My charm? My dashing good looks?" Harley yowled. "My sparkling sense of humor?"
"I... I..." Donovan glanced at Stephen again.
Joker yawned, patting the pockets of his jacket. "Borrrrring! I know I have that remote trigger somewhere..."
"Psychology!" Donovan blurted out. "Your psychology! It's just a profile, like any other!"
Joker's hands returned to the table. "Like any other?" he echoed sadly. "Any other humdrum looney toon?"
The clown didn't look angry, but Donovan quickly amended, "No, no, I mean like other profiles of you! Other people have written about you before. I consulted them! Why are you only doing this to m--"
"Such modesty, Kirk!" Joker interrupted. "Come, come, you and I both know your book stands out from all those dry, clinical reports. You're not even a doctor." He leaned forward, all secret smile. "They wouldn't let you talk to me-- they don't let anyone talk to me anymore-- but lots of birdies told me how you interviewed everyone else you could get your pudgy hands on for any sordid little details."
"What happens in a lady's boudoir is her own business!" Harley shouted indignantly.
Even with Joker sitting right there, Stephen was tempted to ask why Donovan, or anyone really, would want to know anything about that. It must've shown on his face, because Donovan glared at him and, despite his terror, snapped, "It's a comprehensive study!"
More like a glorified, over-publicized gossip anthology, Stephen thought. Not exactly the kind of book that was usually touted on the show, but the writers' strike had drained their guest pool. Of course, with the way Donovan had been promoting it, Stephen suspected he planned to use the book as a stepping stone for more serious work. Assuming he'd ever get the chance to write again after tonight.
"Ah, yes, a study," Joker said, nodding sagely. "Serious stuff." He leaned back to peek under the desk, at the small shelf on its underside. He pulled out a copy of Donovan's book: Permanent Facepaint: The Homicidal Life and Times of Gotham City's Most Notorious Clown.
"Paid by the word, eh?" Joker chuckled before handing the book to Stephen. Stephen took it. "Why don't you read a little for us, hm, Steve?"
Stephen's brow crinkled. Read a little? Why would he want him to--
"Come on, come on!" Joker said, clapping his hands impatiently.
Stephen hurriedly flipped the book open. It fell open somewhere in the middle, and he picked the first paragraph his eyes fell upon and read. It wasn't familiar; he'd only read the back cover and the first chapter. He relied on Emily to give him just the gist of the rest.
"Dr. Fahlicus expounded further, explaining that the Joker's acknowledgment of Batman as his only worthy opponent in fact signifies a need for approval, as if from a parent. This is not a positive kind of approval; it is a validation garnered from the attention he receives from the Batman's reprisals. There is a sense of worth, of purpose, found in the crimefighter reacting to the criminal. Yet at the same time, his never ending fixation on the Batman as his sole match suggest homosexual urges so terribly repressed that they reveal themselves in acts of aggression. It could very well be that the Joker's madness stems from society's continued disapproval of homosexual behavior and that he is merely acting out in a manner that same society finds preferable to the alternative."
It seemed like the place to stop, not that Stephen was eager to continue on. It sounded like a presumptive load of crap. He glanced at the clown for confirmation, but Joker didn't look at him; he just smiled eerily at Donovan.
"Scintillating stuff," Joker hissed, leaning forward over the desk like a snake entertaining a strike. "And it's all true?"
"Look, I... my sources... I-I mean, you'd know if... that part, it... it was theory... I..."
Stephen watched Donovan babble, watched his eyes search the Joker's face. Donovan was desperately trying to quell the Joker's imminent explosion. The clown giddily watched him squirm.
"I really don't know why you seem to think I'm so upset about you prodding your way through my little secrets, Kirk!" Joker finally chuckled. "It's like you're rethinking your judgment on rooting around the life of a certified psychopath! It's like you think I'd be offended by your gall. Like you think I'll slit you from groin to noggin before the night is over, is that it?"
Donovan didn't answer, and Joker lunged forward, grabbing his collar. He pulled Donovan over the table until they were nose-to-nose. "Is that what you think?"
~ | ~
Jon needed something stronger than an inhaler. This wasn't right. All of his answers had to be wrong, because there was no word that started with TH and ended with BBT, regardless of how many letters were in between. He read the clue again and again-- sound of a fruit...-- but his mind was a screaming blank. He'd managed to utterly fuck this up, and Stephen and all those people were going to die in a matter of minutes.
He glanced up at the captain and the lieutenant. They said not a word in range of the camera for fear of repercussions from the Joker, but they raised their eyebrows hopefully. Jon looked away, at the television. Joker's teeth flashed at Donovan, who rambled on and on, as if anything he could say would temper the clown's madness.
Jon wondered if this puzzled was unsolvable, if there was no answer, if he'd been wrong after all and Joker had never given them a chance. His gaze wandered to the framed photo on his desk, and he thought of the pictures on Stephen's desk, of the other man's wife and children. He'd called Evie earlier, before the Joker went live, and he'd told her to stay calm, that everything would be alright. And now he'd be a liar, worse than a liar...
No, no, no, no, no, he told himself. He had to calm down. Think. There was still plenty of time. Think. He couldn't have gotten all the answers wrong, not when he was sure so many were right. Think.
Still his eyes wandered the picture, to the happy faces of his own wife and children. His daughter stuck out her tongue, her thumbs in her ears and her fingers splayed, blowing him a raspberry. He remembered taking the photo, how she erupted into giggles afterward and reached for the camera so she could see--
Jon blinked, stared at the puzzle. That was it. That was it!
He didn't look at the clock; he just scribbled with his pencil, mind singing as everything fell into place.
~ | ~
Donovan babbled on and on in tears, face swollen and red. Stephen was surprised he'd held out this long, though not surprised to see the Joker still show nothing but glee. The clown sat back in his chair, relaxed, like Donovan's raw fear was a warm bubble bath. Stephen glanced from one to the other, and the lack of empathy he found in the Joker was maddening. He had reduced a human being to a pathetic, blubbering mess, and was not remotely touched by any of it.
And so Stephen could only blame that display and the stress he'd been under for the last hour or so for his lapse in composure.
"You're an inhuman monster!" Stephen erupted. "Don't you have any compassion at all? So he wrote a book! So what? Are you afraid it will make you look bad? That all the atrocities you've committed will be overshadowed by a book no one will remember in six months? And so the author deserves this? This man, he's a person! He's not a toy! It's not funny!"
As soon as he finished, Stephen wished he could swallow the tirade back down. Joker's eerily focused eyes were set on him now, and the clown looked more amused than ever. Slowly, he reached out and took hold of the ugly tie around Stephen's neck, flicking up the end so it batted Stephen in the face.
"Would you like to hear something funny?" Joker offered, voice low.
Stephen didn't move. He tried to not even blink despite the tie. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Donovan shake his head.
"Uh, Mistah J?" Harley gestured to a nearby monitor focused on Jon. The fake newsman held the crossword puzzle up to the camera. All the boxes were filled in.
Still clutching Stephen's tie, Joker frowned and used his free hand to pull a folded piece of paper from his coat. He opened it and Stephen saw it was the answers. Joker looked from the sheet to the screen and back again. Jon's wide eyes peered over the top of the paper, waiting. He seemed nervous, but calm enough that Stephen did not feel a sense of panic when he saw "THPBBBBBT" across the middle of the puzzle.
Joker grumbled and crumpled the answers into a ball. "Lucky guesses," he said, bouncing the ball off Donovan's forehead. Joker waved a hand up at the control booth and the box on the monitor disappeared.
"He got them all right!" Stephen exclaimed. He wasn't sure if he ever loved Jon more than at that moment.
"I suppose I'll uphold my end of the deal," the clown sighed, removing a pair of scissors from inside his jacket. He tossed them to Harley and leaned back in this chair, looking depressed as he pulled Stephen's tie taut. Harley neatly cut through the fabric, close to the knot, and Stephen fell clumsily back into this chair.
Stephen reflexively grabbed the knot in confusion, his euphoria quickly fading.
"Are those wires?" Donovan squeaked.
Feeling the stub below the knot at his throat, Stephen realized there were thin wires running through the material. He hastily yanked it off and held it up to his face for closer inspection. He gaped at the Joker, who spun the end of the tie around idly. "You made a tie into a bomb?!"
"Mm hm. Neat, huh?"
"No!" Stephen nearly shrieked, envisioning his head exploding into a pulpy mess.
"Sigh." Joker shook his head and dropped the strip of fabric. "No appreciation for the creative mind," he muttered gesturing towards the goons guarding the audience. One of them disappeared down the aisle between the bleachers and returned with two others, carrying a large metal box. It was plain and rectangular, except for two blinking red lights set above a grin-shaped vent in the side.
Stephen stared at the contraption. "Another bomb?"
"Oh, no,” Joker said. "That's not a bomb."
"... Then what is it?"
"Just a little laughing gas."
Stephen's stomach dropped. "But you got what you wanted! Jon solved the puzzle!"
"Now, now. I said I'd stop the explosion." Joker grinned. "I never said I'd let you all leave alive."
"Always look for the fine print," said Harley, her voice muffled from the gas mask she'd pulled over her face. The mime men stationed around the studio had done the same. One of the two men operating the cameras turned his so it faced the audience.
Stephen gritted his teeth. "You heinous son of a bitch!"
"Oh, now you start with the flattery!" the clown complained, pulling a remote out of his pocket. "You should be excited! Your last show will always be remembered as the one that knocked 'em dead!"
Hissing sounds. The red lights blinked green, and purple gas plumed from the box's teeth. The audience screamed, some shooting to their feet, others grabbing onto each other. The goons took aim at those scrambling from their seats.
And then as quickly as it started, the gas stopped, and the green lights went red again. The purple cloud dissipated. Harley knelt beside the box and in a moment popped the casing open. She fiddled with the insides and held up two empty glass vials. "He sapped it!" she exclaimed.
The Joker looked put out. "I knew I should've kept it closer by!" he said loudly, eyes flickering here and there, but still pouting like a child.
Harley and the goons were on alert, peering into the dark corners of the studio, weapons raised. The only part of their expressions Stephen could see behind the gas masks was their shocked eyes when a black figure swooped down from the ceiling. He swung from a line, striking down three henchmen with his feet, and he grabbed a fourth by the back of his shirt. The figure swung back the way he came and flung the goon through the glass of the director's booth. The Batman tossed something else in after him, and the booth filled with smoke. Stephen watched the men inside collapse.
Batman landed effortlessly on his feet and the remaining goons immediately surrounded him. Stephen held his breath, noting with dread that the hero was outnumbered. But he was quickly reminded that the Bat was no ordinary man. Guns went off, but when he went down it was to dodge, to knock the feet out from under one goon. And from there it was hard to follow-- the punches, kicks, flips, choke holds, gunshots. When it was over, the guns were scattered and the mime men were unconscious.
Batman turned to Harley, and she tore off her gas mask and flung it at him. He dodged the distraction and grabbed her gun from her before she could fire, but he didn't duck in time for her high, swinging kick to miss his head. He arched back at the impact but stayed on his feet, and he swung the gun around, striking Quinn across the face. Before he could throw another punch she dropped to the floor and rolled back, heels over head. She uncurled near the interview desk and shot to her feet, the discarded metal L from the set in her hand.
"It ain't nice to take things that don't belong to ya!" she grunted, spinning and launching the L like a shotput.
Batman ducked, once when it sailed over the ears of his cowl towards the audience, and then again when it came back like a boomerang. Harley dodged with a squeak and Stephen dove out of his seat when it came for his head. He felt a sharp breeze whiz by his face and heard a clang when the L lodged into the wall. Donovan yelped. The Joker didn't even twitch. In fact, he looked bored. Stephen peeked over the table at the fight.
Batman did something with his hands and Harley's gun fell to the ground in pieces. He approached her, saying nothing, and though she looked so small and out of her league, she unleashed another kick. He caught her ankle, flung her around once, and let go. With a surprised cry, she sailed across the set, hitting the glass top of the main desk and crashing behind it. The chair rolled back and toppled off the dais.
When the hero turned to the interview table, Joker brightened instantly. "Gotta admire a girl who can take a punch!" he said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a pistol. He aimed it at Donovan's head. Stephen decided if he lived through this, he'd look into supporting the gun control lobby.
"You're getting lazy," Batman said. "That letter was all too easy to follow."
"Aw, dearest," Joker cooed. "You act like I don't want you around. We really should get to counseling."
"Your sick games are tired. Give it up."
"That's what really frustrates me about you, Batsy," Joker said, pouting. "You never get the joke."
"There never is a joke."
"Sure there is!" the clown replied, grin wider than ever, arms in the air as if it was all so clear. "There's always a joke! Everything's the joke!"
"I'm not laughing."
"Only because you still don't get it. Take, for instance, the strike that's hampered this show. We have the big, powerful studios with all their money and clout versus the assemblage of little writers who as a whole don't have much to compare." He paused here, grinning at Stephen. "Do me a favor and untie Kirk, would you?"
Stephen didn't have to be told twice. As he worked on the knots, the Joker continued. "They fight their battle, they come to a standstill, put a whole industry in jeopardy. And everyone frets and cries and wonders what could make them come back to the table and compromise. Yet in the end, the people who have the most to lose are the only ones who lose out, because in reality everyone knows that the two parties will kiss and make up no matter how much the wronged party insists on taking a stand.
"I've said it to you before, Bats. It's all a colossal joke. Especially when it comes down to life and death. Speaking of which..." Stephen had undone all the ropes. Joker snatched Donovan by the collar and yanked him out of the chair. "I think the rest of the show needs a scene change."
"Let Donovan go," Batman ordered.
"Sounds familiar. I believe the next part of the script calls for me to not comply." Joker pressed the gun to Donovan's temple and pulled him between the bleachers, toward backstage. "Good thing we've laid this all out before. Don't want anyone to think we're scabs."
Batman did not reply. He moved forward, cape falling over his shoulders, a black shape following the clown's slow retreat.
"Time for the denouement," Joker announced. Cackling, he reached into his pocket and flung what looked like marbles across the room. They burst into gray smoke, quickly clouding the open air. Screams rang in Stephen's good ear. He waited for the cries to crumble into fits of laughter, for the spasms of his own chest and for his lips to stretch into a mindless grin. But he could only smell the smoke, dirty and arid. It was harmless, and when it cleared, the Joker was gone. His laughter reverberated with Donovan's screams from elsewhere in the building. With a sneer, the Bat took off after him.
It was suddenly quiet. Stephen glanced around at the fallen henchmen, then at the audience, frozen in their seats or sprawled on the bleacher steps. "Um... Everyone... everyone please file out, get onto the street."
He didn't even have to finish. "Stay calm and orderly!" he shouted over the din, afraid that someone would be trampled.
~ | ~
The police had gotten all the other civilians to move away from the studio, but Allison refused to be led away, not until she could know for sure that everyone trapped inside-- especially Stephen-- was safe.
She suspected that she hadn't been forced out of the area yet because of other pressing matters that had the police's attention. They were concerned with Jon's puzzle for one thing, and having trouble establishing sniper points for another. From what Allison gathered from the conversations going on around her, earlier in the day someone had booby-trapped the prime sniper locations with things as simple as ominous unmarked packages to bizarre gags like mechanical chattering teeth. (One officer was carted off to the hospital with several chunks missing from his legs after that one.)
Allison had been peeking over a cop's shoulder at a handheld TV when Jon solved the puzzle, and she clapped her hands over her mouth when two of the Joker's lackeys brought out the device to dispense his gaseous toxin. At that point the police chief had ordered his men to don their gas masks and charge inside, but the device proved faulty as it had started. Moments later the screen was a flurry of commotion as a black figure swooped into the studio, and suddenly it all went back.
And then--
"We have movement! We have movement!" an officer hollered as the door to the waiting room shrieked open. Audience members tumbled outside, screaming or crying or just silently shocked. They ran right towards the police barricade and armed officers rushed forward to usher them away from the building. Allison watched for Stephen, but as time ticked by and he didn't appear, her mind raced with worry. What if he'd been hurt? What if he'd been left behind?
Don't do anything rash, she told herself. Stay calm. Now's not the time to do anything stupid. You're an intelligent woman.
A dozen more people shoved their way onto the street, none of them Stephen.
"Dammit," Allison cursed under her breath, glancing sideways at the preoccupied cops around her. She burst past the barricade and ran to the door, hearing only exclamation of confusion from the officers trying to guide the audience out. She thought she felt someone grab at her shirt, but it could have been the pull of the crowd moving against her as they bottlenecked in the doorway. She got a few bewildered looks, but she ignored them and pushed through the packed waiting room to the studio door. She passed the last of the escaping audience members and hurried around the black curtain into the studio.
And there Stephen was, walking slowly after the mob, running a hand through his hair and looking like he had no idea what to think of what just happened.
"Stephen!" Allison shouted, and he jerked his head up as she threw her arms around him. "Thank God, you're alright!"
"Yeah, I... I'm fine," he said vaguely.
She held him at arm's length and looked him over. "Are you sure?"
He shook his head, clearing it. "Yeah, no one got hurt," he said. He glanced toward his desk, and Allison noticed his chair lying on the floor behind the platform. "Well, no one who didn't deserve it," he amended.
Allison didn't care what he meant by that. "Let's get out of here," she said, pulling on his arm.
Yet he shook her off. "Allison, he has Donovan."
She gave him a look. "And Batman went after him, right?"
"Yeah, but--"
"No, no buts." Allison laughed nervously, noting how he glanced toward the path between the bleachers. She wondered if security had seen the same look on her face after Batman came to their rescue. "The psycho clown is a job for the crazy vigilante ninja guy, not the fake pundit."
He looked at her, and she wanted to hit him for still having that hesitation on his face, but suddenly his jaw fell open. She shot him a quizzical look just before an arm wrapped around her shoulders and yanked her back into a tight hold. Something sharp and cold pressed to her throat, and an annoyed female voice growled in her ear, "Puddin's just misunderstood."
Series: TDS, TCR, Batman
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, clowns. Includes some comic book logic.
Summary: They say dying is easy and comedy is hard, and for writerless Jon and Stephen, it's never been more true-- until they're paid a visit by Gotham City's most notorious comedian.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
(Jump to Part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7)
The lights in the interview area snapped on, glaring down on Donovan, tied to the chair with his mouth duct-taped. Stephen hadn't gotten the chance to meet him before the show, but he'd seen him on other programs. He was a heavy guy, balding, around forty years old if Stephen were to make a guess. During other interviews he would try to mask the sensationalism of what he had written by insisting it was merely a "comprehensive study" of one of the country's most notorious madmen. Of course, this would not be like any of those interviews.
Joker strolled from the C-shaped desk towards the interviewer's chair, and just like Stephen would do at the start of every interview, he stopped to accept the praise from the audience. Their reaction was hardly similar to any other night; there was no hollering or whooping, only quick appeasing applause. The clown didn't seem to notice or care, just bowed again and again with that threatening grin.
"Kirky, baby, how've you been?" the Joker asked congenially when he finally sat down.
Donovan thrashed wildly in his chair and tried to scream past the duct tape.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Joker replied with a deep frown. "I hope it's not genetic."
The lights on the main desk had dimmed. Finally having the Joker more than three feet away did wonders for Stephen's nerves. He glanced at Harley and the goons. The mime men focused on the audience and their boss. Harley split her attention between Joker and Stephen. Stephen tried to think. He had to do something. Maybe he could throw the chair at her? And then what? Get promptly shot? Get other people hurt?
Harley giggled at something Joker said said quietly to Stephen, "Puddin's a natural at showbiz!"
"Shame he couldn't perform under better circumstances," Stephen replied testily, keeping his voice down as well.
She snorted. "The circumstances are what make it funny," she said, as if explaining to a child. She rolled her eyes at his blank look. "You just don't get it."
Somehow, Stephen managed to feel amused that she'd just accused him of not being an it-getter. "And you do?"
"Of course I do!” she said with pride. "I'm Mistah J's number one gal."
"I guess sense of humor really is important to a woman."
She scoffed again, and Stephen got the distinct impression that she was comparing him and Joker then and there, like they were career colleagues. "Mistah J doesn't have just 'a good sense of humor.' He's an artist. This is his creative outlet."
She was so blasé about what was happening. Stephen knew she was crazy, but he also knew she'd been a doctor before submitting herself to the Joker. He supposed he'd been hoping she'd miraculously show some rational thought.
"You're helping a man hold innocent people hostage," he hissed. "People could die tonight, and you think it's all laughs."
She smiled and pinched his cheek. "You need to lighten up."
"I'm a comedian."
"And you won't stay on TV long with that attitude. Hey!" She ignored Stephen's gaping and held up a finger, as if pointing to a light bulb over her head. "Have you ever thought about a lovely, bubbly cohost?"
"Like you and Joker?” he replied incredulously. "Yeah, you're really getting equal screen time."
"A good act needs just as much help off-screen than on," she replied curtly, folding her arms.
"Of course."
"Whaddayou know anyway?!" she snapped.
Stephen swallowed hard. It suddenly seemed hotter even with just the low lights. It didn't help that the revolting tie was practically choking him.
"Oh, how rude of me!" the Joker said loudly. He grinned over at both of them, but there was a clear aggravation in his eyes. "Roll your chair on over here, Steve!" he said, like an apologetic party host.
Stephen would've been grateful to escape Harley's wrath if he wasn't being beckoned to something exceptionally worse. He gingerly got up and pushed his chair off the dais, trying to ignore Harley's impatient shooing noises. He kept his eyes on the floor as he made his way to the back of the interview table and lifted his chair onto the platform. He sat down.
"Much better!" Joker said, patting his shoulder. "Don't want the audience worrying about what happened to you."
There was little attempt in the statement to sound more like concern than foreshadowing. Stephen felt his eye twitch.
~ | ~
Jon only had to gloss over the clues to figure out the theme of the Joker's puzzle was comedy. But it was no single facet. The answers he needed were people (the Marx Brothers, Chaplin, Lenny Bruce) and places (Timbuktu, Kalamazoo) and even funny words (kumquat, flugelhorn, moose), among other terms (Commedia dell'arte, vaudeville). Jon wondered if the Joker had picked them based on difficulty, or if they were bits of comedy he actually appreciated the most, in his own warped way. Was Jon getting a look into the clown's head?
He berated himself for wondering. This was not the time to think about that, nor was there time to listen to Joker make Donovan sweat with small talk on the TV across the room. Jon had been working for about ten minutes, and while some answers came easily, the other clues might have just as well been blurs of black text. One in particular had him completely stumped:
Sound of a fruit comprised of small and juicy red, black, or yellow drupelets that form a detachable cap around a convex receptacle.
Sound of a fruit? Jon would have said "smash" or "squish," but the answer was nine letters and with the clues he'd solved so far the first two letters were TH.
He glanced at the clock and moved along. He'd come back to it. No time to linger.
~ | ~
"And so he says, that's not my dinner, that's my wife!" Joker said, elbowing Stephen in the side and shooting Donovan a wink. The audience chuckled nervously. "Try that one at some book parties, Kirk. Really slays them."
Stephen grimaced, doing his best not to picture the joke's bloody, pulpy imagery. Donovan was still shaking. The sweat dripping down his head was bound to start peeling the tape off his mouth.
"Oh, listen to me prattle on and on!" Joker apologized. He extended his hand toward Donovan magnanimously, signaling permission for him to talk. "Now, you wrote a book about criminal psychology, correct?"
More frantic muffled noises. Joker frowned. "Speak louder, man! I can hardly hear you!" He sighed, reached across the table, and ripped the tape off Donovan's mouth. He smiled pleasantly at the writer's scream. "You were saying?"
"S-someone, please..." Donovan weakly pleaded with the audience. He looked to Stephen desperately, but Stephen could only return the same expression.
Joker slammed his fist onto the table, earning the author's attention again. "Now, now, don't be rude. If you want to talk to the American people, tell them about your book."
That was obviously the last thing Donovan wanted to talk about, but he wasn't dumb enough to not oblige. "I... I wrote about you," he said.
Joker slapped his hands to his cheeks, looking frighteningly delighted. "Really? Little old me? I'm flattered, Kirk. What is it? My charm? My dashing good looks?" Harley yowled. "My sparkling sense of humor?"
"I... I..." Donovan glanced at Stephen again.
Joker yawned, patting the pockets of his jacket. "Borrrrring! I know I have that remote trigger somewhere..."
"Psychology!" Donovan blurted out. "Your psychology! It's just a profile, like any other!"
Joker's hands returned to the table. "Like any other?" he echoed sadly. "Any other humdrum looney toon?"
The clown didn't look angry, but Donovan quickly amended, "No, no, I mean like other profiles of you! Other people have written about you before. I consulted them! Why are you only doing this to m--"
"Such modesty, Kirk!" Joker interrupted. "Come, come, you and I both know your book stands out from all those dry, clinical reports. You're not even a doctor." He leaned forward, all secret smile. "They wouldn't let you talk to me-- they don't let anyone talk to me anymore-- but lots of birdies told me how you interviewed everyone else you could get your pudgy hands on for any sordid little details."
"What happens in a lady's boudoir is her own business!" Harley shouted indignantly.
Even with Joker sitting right there, Stephen was tempted to ask why Donovan, or anyone really, would want to know anything about that. It must've shown on his face, because Donovan glared at him and, despite his terror, snapped, "It's a comprehensive study!"
More like a glorified, over-publicized gossip anthology, Stephen thought. Not exactly the kind of book that was usually touted on the show, but the writers' strike had drained their guest pool. Of course, with the way Donovan had been promoting it, Stephen suspected he planned to use the book as a stepping stone for more serious work. Assuming he'd ever get the chance to write again after tonight.
"Ah, yes, a study," Joker said, nodding sagely. "Serious stuff." He leaned back to peek under the desk, at the small shelf on its underside. He pulled out a copy of Donovan's book: Permanent Facepaint: The Homicidal Life and Times of Gotham City's Most Notorious Clown.
"Paid by the word, eh?" Joker chuckled before handing the book to Stephen. Stephen took it. "Why don't you read a little for us, hm, Steve?"
Stephen's brow crinkled. Read a little? Why would he want him to--
"Come on, come on!" Joker said, clapping his hands impatiently.
Stephen hurriedly flipped the book open. It fell open somewhere in the middle, and he picked the first paragraph his eyes fell upon and read. It wasn't familiar; he'd only read the back cover and the first chapter. He relied on Emily to give him just the gist of the rest.
"Dr. Fahlicus expounded further, explaining that the Joker's acknowledgment of Batman as his only worthy opponent in fact signifies a need for approval, as if from a parent. This is not a positive kind of approval; it is a validation garnered from the attention he receives from the Batman's reprisals. There is a sense of worth, of purpose, found in the crimefighter reacting to the criminal. Yet at the same time, his never ending fixation on the Batman as his sole match suggest homosexual urges so terribly repressed that they reveal themselves in acts of aggression. It could very well be that the Joker's madness stems from society's continued disapproval of homosexual behavior and that he is merely acting out in a manner that same society finds preferable to the alternative."
It seemed like the place to stop, not that Stephen was eager to continue on. It sounded like a presumptive load of crap. He glanced at the clown for confirmation, but Joker didn't look at him; he just smiled eerily at Donovan.
"Scintillating stuff," Joker hissed, leaning forward over the desk like a snake entertaining a strike. "And it's all true?"
"Look, I... my sources... I-I mean, you'd know if... that part, it... it was theory... I..."
Stephen watched Donovan babble, watched his eyes search the Joker's face. Donovan was desperately trying to quell the Joker's imminent explosion. The clown giddily watched him squirm.
"I really don't know why you seem to think I'm so upset about you prodding your way through my little secrets, Kirk!" Joker finally chuckled. "It's like you're rethinking your judgment on rooting around the life of a certified psychopath! It's like you think I'd be offended by your gall. Like you think I'll slit you from groin to noggin before the night is over, is that it?"
Donovan didn't answer, and Joker lunged forward, grabbing his collar. He pulled Donovan over the table until they were nose-to-nose. "Is that what you think?"
~ | ~
Jon needed something stronger than an inhaler. This wasn't right. All of his answers had to be wrong, because there was no word that started with TH and ended with BBT, regardless of how many letters were in between. He read the clue again and again-- sound of a fruit...-- but his mind was a screaming blank. He'd managed to utterly fuck this up, and Stephen and all those people were going to die in a matter of minutes.
He glanced up at the captain and the lieutenant. They said not a word in range of the camera for fear of repercussions from the Joker, but they raised their eyebrows hopefully. Jon looked away, at the television. Joker's teeth flashed at Donovan, who rambled on and on, as if anything he could say would temper the clown's madness.
Jon wondered if this puzzled was unsolvable, if there was no answer, if he'd been wrong after all and Joker had never given them a chance. His gaze wandered to the framed photo on his desk, and he thought of the pictures on Stephen's desk, of the other man's wife and children. He'd called Evie earlier, before the Joker went live, and he'd told her to stay calm, that everything would be alright. And now he'd be a liar, worse than a liar...
No, no, no, no, no, he told himself. He had to calm down. Think. There was still plenty of time. Think. He couldn't have gotten all the answers wrong, not when he was sure so many were right. Think.
Still his eyes wandered the picture, to the happy faces of his own wife and children. His daughter stuck out her tongue, her thumbs in her ears and her fingers splayed, blowing him a raspberry. He remembered taking the photo, how she erupted into giggles afterward and reached for the camera so she could see--
Jon blinked, stared at the puzzle. That was it. That was it!
He didn't look at the clock; he just scribbled with his pencil, mind singing as everything fell into place.
~ | ~
Donovan babbled on and on in tears, face swollen and red. Stephen was surprised he'd held out this long, though not surprised to see the Joker still show nothing but glee. The clown sat back in his chair, relaxed, like Donovan's raw fear was a warm bubble bath. Stephen glanced from one to the other, and the lack of empathy he found in the Joker was maddening. He had reduced a human being to a pathetic, blubbering mess, and was not remotely touched by any of it.
And so Stephen could only blame that display and the stress he'd been under for the last hour or so for his lapse in composure.
"You're an inhuman monster!" Stephen erupted. "Don't you have any compassion at all? So he wrote a book! So what? Are you afraid it will make you look bad? That all the atrocities you've committed will be overshadowed by a book no one will remember in six months? And so the author deserves this? This man, he's a person! He's not a toy! It's not funny!"
As soon as he finished, Stephen wished he could swallow the tirade back down. Joker's eerily focused eyes were set on him now, and the clown looked more amused than ever. Slowly, he reached out and took hold of the ugly tie around Stephen's neck, flicking up the end so it batted Stephen in the face.
"Would you like to hear something funny?" Joker offered, voice low.
Stephen didn't move. He tried to not even blink despite the tie. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Donovan shake his head.
"Uh, Mistah J?" Harley gestured to a nearby monitor focused on Jon. The fake newsman held the crossword puzzle up to the camera. All the boxes were filled in.
Still clutching Stephen's tie, Joker frowned and used his free hand to pull a folded piece of paper from his coat. He opened it and Stephen saw it was the answers. Joker looked from the sheet to the screen and back again. Jon's wide eyes peered over the top of the paper, waiting. He seemed nervous, but calm enough that Stephen did not feel a sense of panic when he saw "THPBBBBBT" across the middle of the puzzle.
Joker grumbled and crumpled the answers into a ball. "Lucky guesses," he said, bouncing the ball off Donovan's forehead. Joker waved a hand up at the control booth and the box on the monitor disappeared.
"He got them all right!" Stephen exclaimed. He wasn't sure if he ever loved Jon more than at that moment.
"I suppose I'll uphold my end of the deal," the clown sighed, removing a pair of scissors from inside his jacket. He tossed them to Harley and leaned back in this chair, looking depressed as he pulled Stephen's tie taut. Harley neatly cut through the fabric, close to the knot, and Stephen fell clumsily back into this chair.
Stephen reflexively grabbed the knot in confusion, his euphoria quickly fading.
"Are those wires?" Donovan squeaked.
Feeling the stub below the knot at his throat, Stephen realized there were thin wires running through the material. He hastily yanked it off and held it up to his face for closer inspection. He gaped at the Joker, who spun the end of the tie around idly. "You made a tie into a bomb?!"
"Mm hm. Neat, huh?"
"No!" Stephen nearly shrieked, envisioning his head exploding into a pulpy mess.
"Sigh." Joker shook his head and dropped the strip of fabric. "No appreciation for the creative mind," he muttered gesturing towards the goons guarding the audience. One of them disappeared down the aisle between the bleachers and returned with two others, carrying a large metal box. It was plain and rectangular, except for two blinking red lights set above a grin-shaped vent in the side.
Stephen stared at the contraption. "Another bomb?"
"Oh, no,” Joker said. "That's not a bomb."
"... Then what is it?"
"Just a little laughing gas."
Stephen's stomach dropped. "But you got what you wanted! Jon solved the puzzle!"
"Now, now. I said I'd stop the explosion." Joker grinned. "I never said I'd let you all leave alive."
"Always look for the fine print," said Harley, her voice muffled from the gas mask she'd pulled over her face. The mime men stationed around the studio had done the same. One of the two men operating the cameras turned his so it faced the audience.
Stephen gritted his teeth. "You heinous son of a bitch!"
"Oh, now you start with the flattery!" the clown complained, pulling a remote out of his pocket. "You should be excited! Your last show will always be remembered as the one that knocked 'em dead!"
Hissing sounds. The red lights blinked green, and purple gas plumed from the box's teeth. The audience screamed, some shooting to their feet, others grabbing onto each other. The goons took aim at those scrambling from their seats.
And then as quickly as it started, the gas stopped, and the green lights went red again. The purple cloud dissipated. Harley knelt beside the box and in a moment popped the casing open. She fiddled with the insides and held up two empty glass vials. "He sapped it!" she exclaimed.
The Joker looked put out. "I knew I should've kept it closer by!" he said loudly, eyes flickering here and there, but still pouting like a child.
Harley and the goons were on alert, peering into the dark corners of the studio, weapons raised. The only part of their expressions Stephen could see behind the gas masks was their shocked eyes when a black figure swooped down from the ceiling. He swung from a line, striking down three henchmen with his feet, and he grabbed a fourth by the back of his shirt. The figure swung back the way he came and flung the goon through the glass of the director's booth. The Batman tossed something else in after him, and the booth filled with smoke. Stephen watched the men inside collapse.
Batman landed effortlessly on his feet and the remaining goons immediately surrounded him. Stephen held his breath, noting with dread that the hero was outnumbered. But he was quickly reminded that the Bat was no ordinary man. Guns went off, but when he went down it was to dodge, to knock the feet out from under one goon. And from there it was hard to follow-- the punches, kicks, flips, choke holds, gunshots. When it was over, the guns were scattered and the mime men were unconscious.
Batman turned to Harley, and she tore off her gas mask and flung it at him. He dodged the distraction and grabbed her gun from her before she could fire, but he didn't duck in time for her high, swinging kick to miss his head. He arched back at the impact but stayed on his feet, and he swung the gun around, striking Quinn across the face. Before he could throw another punch she dropped to the floor and rolled back, heels over head. She uncurled near the interview desk and shot to her feet, the discarded metal L from the set in her hand.
"It ain't nice to take things that don't belong to ya!" she grunted, spinning and launching the L like a shotput.
Batman ducked, once when it sailed over the ears of his cowl towards the audience, and then again when it came back like a boomerang. Harley dodged with a squeak and Stephen dove out of his seat when it came for his head. He felt a sharp breeze whiz by his face and heard a clang when the L lodged into the wall. Donovan yelped. The Joker didn't even twitch. In fact, he looked bored. Stephen peeked over the table at the fight.
Batman did something with his hands and Harley's gun fell to the ground in pieces. He approached her, saying nothing, and though she looked so small and out of her league, she unleashed another kick. He caught her ankle, flung her around once, and let go. With a surprised cry, she sailed across the set, hitting the glass top of the main desk and crashing behind it. The chair rolled back and toppled off the dais.
When the hero turned to the interview table, Joker brightened instantly. "Gotta admire a girl who can take a punch!" he said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a pistol. He aimed it at Donovan's head. Stephen decided if he lived through this, he'd look into supporting the gun control lobby.
"You're getting lazy," Batman said. "That letter was all too easy to follow."
"Aw, dearest," Joker cooed. "You act like I don't want you around. We really should get to counseling."
"Your sick games are tired. Give it up."
"That's what really frustrates me about you, Batsy," Joker said, pouting. "You never get the joke."
"There never is a joke."
"Sure there is!" the clown replied, grin wider than ever, arms in the air as if it was all so clear. "There's always a joke! Everything's the joke!"
"I'm not laughing."
"Only because you still don't get it. Take, for instance, the strike that's hampered this show. We have the big, powerful studios with all their money and clout versus the assemblage of little writers who as a whole don't have much to compare." He paused here, grinning at Stephen. "Do me a favor and untie Kirk, would you?"
Stephen didn't have to be told twice. As he worked on the knots, the Joker continued. "They fight their battle, they come to a standstill, put a whole industry in jeopardy. And everyone frets and cries and wonders what could make them come back to the table and compromise. Yet in the end, the people who have the most to lose are the only ones who lose out, because in reality everyone knows that the two parties will kiss and make up no matter how much the wronged party insists on taking a stand.
"I've said it to you before, Bats. It's all a colossal joke. Especially when it comes down to life and death. Speaking of which..." Stephen had undone all the ropes. Joker snatched Donovan by the collar and yanked him out of the chair. "I think the rest of the show needs a scene change."
"Let Donovan go," Batman ordered.
"Sounds familiar. I believe the next part of the script calls for me to not comply." Joker pressed the gun to Donovan's temple and pulled him between the bleachers, toward backstage. "Good thing we've laid this all out before. Don't want anyone to think we're scabs."
Batman did not reply. He moved forward, cape falling over his shoulders, a black shape following the clown's slow retreat.
"Time for the denouement," Joker announced. Cackling, he reached into his pocket and flung what looked like marbles across the room. They burst into gray smoke, quickly clouding the open air. Screams rang in Stephen's good ear. He waited for the cries to crumble into fits of laughter, for the spasms of his own chest and for his lips to stretch into a mindless grin. But he could only smell the smoke, dirty and arid. It was harmless, and when it cleared, the Joker was gone. His laughter reverberated with Donovan's screams from elsewhere in the building. With a sneer, the Bat took off after him.
It was suddenly quiet. Stephen glanced around at the fallen henchmen, then at the audience, frozen in their seats or sprawled on the bleacher steps. "Um... Everyone... everyone please file out, get onto the street."
He didn't even have to finish. "Stay calm and orderly!" he shouted over the din, afraid that someone would be trampled.
~ | ~
The police had gotten all the other civilians to move away from the studio, but Allison refused to be led away, not until she could know for sure that everyone trapped inside-- especially Stephen-- was safe.
She suspected that she hadn't been forced out of the area yet because of other pressing matters that had the police's attention. They were concerned with Jon's puzzle for one thing, and having trouble establishing sniper points for another. From what Allison gathered from the conversations going on around her, earlier in the day someone had booby-trapped the prime sniper locations with things as simple as ominous unmarked packages to bizarre gags like mechanical chattering teeth. (One officer was carted off to the hospital with several chunks missing from his legs after that one.)
Allison had been peeking over a cop's shoulder at a handheld TV when Jon solved the puzzle, and she clapped her hands over her mouth when two of the Joker's lackeys brought out the device to dispense his gaseous toxin. At that point the police chief had ordered his men to don their gas masks and charge inside, but the device proved faulty as it had started. Moments later the screen was a flurry of commotion as a black figure swooped into the studio, and suddenly it all went back.
And then--
"We have movement! We have movement!" an officer hollered as the door to the waiting room shrieked open. Audience members tumbled outside, screaming or crying or just silently shocked. They ran right towards the police barricade and armed officers rushed forward to usher them away from the building. Allison watched for Stephen, but as time ticked by and he didn't appear, her mind raced with worry. What if he'd been hurt? What if he'd been left behind?
Don't do anything rash, she told herself. Stay calm. Now's not the time to do anything stupid. You're an intelligent woman.
A dozen more people shoved their way onto the street, none of them Stephen.
"Dammit," Allison cursed under her breath, glancing sideways at the preoccupied cops around her. She burst past the barricade and ran to the door, hearing only exclamation of confusion from the officers trying to guide the audience out. She thought she felt someone grab at her shirt, but it could have been the pull of the crowd moving against her as they bottlenecked in the doorway. She got a few bewildered looks, but she ignored them and pushed through the packed waiting room to the studio door. She passed the last of the escaping audience members and hurried around the black curtain into the studio.
And there Stephen was, walking slowly after the mob, running a hand through his hair and looking like he had no idea what to think of what just happened.
"Stephen!" Allison shouted, and he jerked his head up as she threw her arms around him. "Thank God, you're alright!"
"Yeah, I... I'm fine," he said vaguely.
She held him at arm's length and looked him over. "Are you sure?"
He shook his head, clearing it. "Yeah, no one got hurt," he said. He glanced toward his desk, and Allison noticed his chair lying on the floor behind the platform. "Well, no one who didn't deserve it," he amended.
Allison didn't care what he meant by that. "Let's get out of here," she said, pulling on his arm.
Yet he shook her off. "Allison, he has Donovan."
She gave him a look. "And Batman went after him, right?"
"Yeah, but--"
"No, no buts." Allison laughed nervously, noting how he glanced toward the path between the bleachers. She wondered if security had seen the same look on her face after Batman came to their rescue. "The psycho clown is a job for the crazy vigilante ninja guy, not the fake pundit."
He looked at her, and she wanted to hit him for still having that hesitation on his face, but suddenly his jaw fell open. She shot him a quizzical look just before an arm wrapped around her shoulders and yanked her back into a tight hold. Something sharp and cold pressed to her throat, and an annoyed female voice growled in her ear, "Puddin's just misunderstood."