hail eris, hail discordia
A dark sky hung over Nesreca, blotting out the midday sun. The only sounds that penetrated the ever-present pattering of rain were the click-scrapes of the Joker's shoes on the asphalt as he stumbled down the street.
He clutched the bag he'd found beside him in that alleyway with both hands, pinning it to his chest as he limped. Rain had melted most of the paint from his face; what was left was blood and the stains of black paint that ran circles around his eyes and trailed down his cheeks. His gaze, which seemed locked on some distant horizon, swirled with madness.
There had been no food for just under seven days. What water he'd been able to procure had come from puddles in ancient potholes or age-old rain gutters. His coat and his clothes were drenched, and hypothermia had already settled in. His knee, left practically unattended, was severely swollen and refused to bend.
The Joker's lips moved as he walked, playing and replaying conversations in his head, both imaginary and real. His body swayed from side to side, and on more than one occasion, he fell over, tripping over either himself or some crack in the ground. Still, each time, he picked himself up and kept walking.
For the first three days in Nesreca, it hadn't been so terrible. Sure, there was hunger, but that something he never payed much attention to. Then there was the thirst; easily enough slaked in the spring if one's standards weren't too high. Grenades and ammunition being an adequate carrot for a man such as himself to chase, the Joker had settled on following the treasure map.
When he looked at the 'treasure map', however, instead of the map of Nesreca marked on with blood, he found that it was only a newspaper page, illegibly doodled on with red crayon. He fought to shake it off, but there was no luck. He rammed the page back into the back.
The next day, his delirium growing, he looked at it again. And the blood was on the page, begging him to follow, tracing its path of promised carnage through the maze of a dead city. This, for the first time since he had arrived, exhilarated him, but only for the time it took to blink. In a moment, the image was gone. It was only paper, growing wet in the rain.
Eventually, he gave up on the map, leaving it lying in the gutter. He knew the path, he had it memorized. Now all that was left was to follow. There was a snowflake's chance in hell he was going to chum up with the to-be victims in the apartments Little Miss Whitehair had so graciously assigned him. There were bigger things to do. Places to go. People to kill.
On the seventh day, the sun broke through for only enough time to allow a dim ray of dying light to shine on an abandoned building behind a razor-wired fence, seated at the edge of the city. The Joker, his eyes locked open and his mind far beyond sanity, had found it.
He had found home.
Tittering hysterically, the Joker ambled past the abandoned guard shack with a mock salute toward the empty post. Decimated humvees littered the grounds of the lost military outpost, sitting in the position of attention while he came on a red carpet. Fans screamed and cheered. There were picture flashes, and he knew he wanted them all to die.
[how did you do it, joker how? just hOoOoOw did you kill the bat?!]
Fie, madame! A magician never reveals his secrets!
[no secrets here, mr. j! we know all about you!]
A bottle of blood, then. Why don't we be chums?
[more than a bottle! it looks like rain!]
yeeeeessss yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes-
The front door was unhinged. It took effort to pull open, and in his state, he almost didn't manage it.
No chauffeur service? You disappoint, madame!
[just a little farther, mr. j, you'll see soon]
What's to see? We both know Arkham, huh?
Finally in, and out of the rain, but the storm was just beginning. It was a downpour outside of Arkham, but he was here on a crusade. A knight in shining facepaint here to set his fellows FREE! Buh-ruthas aind sistuhs, HAL-LAY-LOOYAH! LET MY PEOPLE GO!
Wait. White suits. There were so many white suits. Arkhams's little worker bees. White suits with pills and distant stares and that look he always loved, the one that said 'take the knife and make me smile, mr. j, any knife will do, go on son, any knife, just do me a solid, wouldja, put out my eyes so I don't see, yanno, see what the world's really made of, what you see, yanno, just put a smile on my face please please mr. j', and my, oh, my was he happy to oblige. Just please be sure not to get it on the red carpet. Batsy hates blood on his carpet.
[oh but he's not here, handsome! go on, son! get it on the carpet, all on the carpet, we love that here!]
Ahhh, somebody likes it dirty
In a moment, he was stepping over the whites [are they pinks now???], over their pools of blood, trying not to get it on his shoes. Welcome to Arkham, baby. Why aren't you on fire yet?
Then, there it was. The door. That beautiful door, that horrible door, the door that he would have to pass before he could be a real boy and be done playing with his action figures
[everybody loves the bat mr. j, don't be too hard on yourself]
like his daddy hates and and and maybe get some good nightmares in, really terrify those silly sons of bitches, wake them up because the Folgers smells a lot like napalm-
Then there she was. The woman. The beautiful woman. Countless names ran through his head, all of the right but none of them accurate and he wanted to scream HAIL ERIS, HAIL DISCORDIA until his lungs ripped apart the gates of hell but there was no voice left in him before he had even started-
She came toward him, her eyes swimming sweet cacophony, beautiful delirium, that special something that pulled everything he was into it, ground it up, and spit it back out so what little humanity was left in him could pick up the pieces and try to cover its crotch because here comes Mama Chaos-
But she was gone. All there was left was the whisper in his ear. In that moment, he wished his cheeks were still cut so he could smile even harder.
The keys were in his hand. He opened the door.
Then he was in heaven.
He clutched the bag he'd found beside him in that alleyway with both hands, pinning it to his chest as he limped. Rain had melted most of the paint from his face; what was left was blood and the stains of black paint that ran circles around his eyes and trailed down his cheeks. His gaze, which seemed locked on some distant horizon, swirled with madness.
There had been no food for just under seven days. What water he'd been able to procure had come from puddles in ancient potholes or age-old rain gutters. His coat and his clothes were drenched, and hypothermia had already settled in. His knee, left practically unattended, was severely swollen and refused to bend.
The Joker's lips moved as he walked, playing and replaying conversations in his head, both imaginary and real. His body swayed from side to side, and on more than one occasion, he fell over, tripping over either himself or some crack in the ground. Still, each time, he picked himself up and kept walking.
For the first three days in Nesreca, it hadn't been so terrible. Sure, there was hunger, but that something he never payed much attention to. Then there was the thirst; easily enough slaked in the spring if one's standards weren't too high. Grenades and ammunition being an adequate carrot for a man such as himself to chase, the Joker had settled on following the treasure map.
When he looked at the 'treasure map', however, instead of the map of Nesreca marked on with blood, he found that it was only a newspaper page, illegibly doodled on with red crayon. He fought to shake it off, but there was no luck. He rammed the page back into the back.
The next day, his delirium growing, he looked at it again. And the blood was on the page, begging him to follow, tracing its path of promised carnage through the maze of a dead city. This, for the first time since he had arrived, exhilarated him, but only for the time it took to blink. In a moment, the image was gone. It was only paper, growing wet in the rain.
Eventually, he gave up on the map, leaving it lying in the gutter. He knew the path, he had it memorized. Now all that was left was to follow. There was a snowflake's chance in hell he was going to chum up with the to-be victims in the apartments Little Miss Whitehair had so graciously assigned him. There were bigger things to do. Places to go. People to kill.
On the seventh day, the sun broke through for only enough time to allow a dim ray of dying light to shine on an abandoned building behind a razor-wired fence, seated at the edge of the city. The Joker, his eyes locked open and his mind far beyond sanity, had found it.
He had found home.
Tittering hysterically, the Joker ambled past the abandoned guard shack with a mock salute toward the empty post. Decimated humvees littered the grounds of the lost military outpost, sitting in the position of attention while he came on a red carpet. Fans screamed and cheered. There were picture flashes, and he knew he wanted them all to die.
[how did you do it, joker how? just hOoOoOw did you kill the bat?!]
Fie, madame! A magician never reveals his secrets!
[no secrets here, mr. j! we know all about you!]
A bottle of blood, then. Why don't we be chums?
[more than a bottle! it looks like rain!]
yeeeeessss yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes-
The front door was unhinged. It took effort to pull open, and in his state, he almost didn't manage it.
No chauffeur service? You disappoint, madame!
[just a little farther, mr. j, you'll see soon]
What's to see? We both know Arkham, huh?
Finally in, and out of the rain, but the storm was just beginning. It was a downpour outside of Arkham, but he was here on a crusade. A knight in shining facepaint here to set his fellows FREE! Buh-ruthas aind sistuhs, HAL-LAY-LOOYAH! LET MY PEOPLE GO!
Wait. White suits. There were so many white suits. Arkhams's little worker bees. White suits with pills and distant stares and that look he always loved, the one that said 'take the knife and make me smile, mr. j, any knife will do, go on son, any knife, just do me a solid, wouldja, put out my eyes so I don't see, yanno, see what the world's really made of, what you see, yanno, just put a smile on my face please please mr. j', and my, oh, my was he happy to oblige. Just please be sure not to get it on the red carpet. Batsy hates blood on his carpet.
[oh but he's not here, handsome! go on, son! get it on the carpet, all on the carpet, we love that here!]
Ahhh, somebody likes it dirty
In a moment, he was stepping over the whites [are they pinks now???], over their pools of blood, trying not to get it on his shoes. Welcome to Arkham, baby. Why aren't you on fire yet?
Then, there it was. The door. That beautiful door, that horrible door, the door that he would have to pass before he could be a real boy and be done playing with his action figures
[everybody loves the bat mr. j, don't be too hard on yourself]
like his daddy hates and and and maybe get some good nightmares in, really terrify those silly sons of bitches, wake them up because the Folgers smells a lot like napalm-
Then there she was. The woman. The beautiful woman. Countless names ran through his head, all of the right but none of them accurate and he wanted to scream HAIL ERIS, HAIL DISCORDIA until his lungs ripped apart the gates of hell but there was no voice left in him before he had even started-
She came toward him, her eyes swimming sweet cacophony, beautiful delirium, that special something that pulled everything he was into it, ground it up, and spit it back out so what little humanity was left in him could pick up the pieces and try to cover its crotch because here comes Mama Chaos-
But she was gone. All there was left was the whisper in his ear. In that moment, he wished his cheeks were still cut so he could smile even harder.
The keys were in his hand. He opened the door.
Then he was in heaven.