Fic: Untitled, Four
I know the squealers when I see them.
I know the squealers when I see them.
I know the squealers when I see them.
It’s not hard.
He used a television to tell a joke.
What do I always say-the message is in the medium.
And his little gang-it wasn’t hard to find one and make him squeal. Time, place, everything he knew. And some things he didn’t know.
Chinese have their own rules. They’ve got brains, but no originality. Everything’s a ripoff.
I know the squealers when I see them.
Accountant. Good at calculation.
Calculation isn’t math.
Oh Gambol. Gambol Gambol Gambol.
You’re too easy to play. Too easy to read. All muscle and no brains.
You’re family. You’re clan. You’re brothers and boys, grandma’s cooking and dick contests. You’re homeboys and protection, territory and piss.
You’re boring.
You can’t be strange-you’ve got no imagination. You can’t see the funny side because you’re bitches and hos, thugs and smack. All guns and no creativity.
You’re manners and momma didn’t raise no fool. You’re respect and nigger, scraped an honest territory dealing coke in the hood.
You can’t stand the sight of me because I’m a clown.
A magic trick.
Want to see one? I came prepared. I practiced.
First, you stick a pencil in the table. Make it stand up, stay up-sometimes they don’t. Ruins the trick. Tip: make the lead sharp and long.
Wait. First take the eraser out. That’s your point of impalement.
Next, you have to know how far to hold the guy to make the pencil disappear. Beginners-aim for eyeholes.
Then, grab his head and slam. On the pencil. Hard. This takes a little practice. Has to be fast. Find a good pencil. I like Pentech.
And
TA-DA!
It’s gone.
The Chechen.
Now there’s an interesting place. Chechnya.
Not Gotham-nothing can be Gotham, but it’s another little system. War, terrorists, soldiers, and shepherds.
You know what I heard once?
All Chechens know how to use a rocket launcher. But not all Chechens know how to tend sheep.
I like that.
Now Mr. Rottweiler thinks he knows how to be a shepherd. He lets his dogs loose on the sheep. Let’s a mad dog out to take care of the problem.
No no no. A good shepherd takes care of the problem himself.
A good shepherd isn’t afraid of bats.
“Let’s wind the clock back a year.”
tick tock tick tock
I have a speech. I speech their language. It’s not hard. I know what they want before they know it. It’s all part of the plan.
“A guy like me…”
“Freak.”
Can’t hurry the act, can’t hurry the act.
Listen, Gambol.
“I know why you’re afraid to go out at night.”
Him.
When they’re gone, it’ll be our playground.
“Dent, he’s just the beginning.”
Of the end. Of the end, of the end.
“We kill the Batman.”
We? No.
“If it’s so simple, why haven’t you done it already.”
Maroni.
Bland. Like wet spaghetti.
These Italians, Sicilians, whatever. Should’ve stayed on their side of the Atlantic.
You see-criminals aren’t looking for chaos. They’re looking for a new order and if they had it their way, they’d be tyrants. Mussolini is Maroni’s idea of a wetdream. Rome and Empire.
I’m his Jesus.
He’s Constantine.
Maroni converts to me because he thinks it’ll save his soul-his empire.
When I unleash the plague and burn the city, he’ll blame me. Want to crucify me. Become Pilate-wash his hands of me.
I’m the Saviour. Come to wash Gotham in blood.
Oh, you didn’t think I’d use that. You thought I was all about games.
You think I’m out of character. When did the Antichrist become a clown?
You tell me.
You’re the one who thinks I’m acting. You’re the one who thinks I’m strange.
Oh, you want to refer to literary canon? You want to point to the comic strips.
I am whatever you write me to be. I am the words of your reflection. You can’t stop looking because you see yourself.
Does it frighten you? To know just how strange you really are.
Don’t be afraid to laugh.
“Enough from the clown!”
What did Grumpy say? “I know why they call him ‘The Joker.’”
Really? He knows?
You’ve got to have an ace in the hole. Mine’s suicide bombing.
But let’s not blow this out of proportion.
“You think you can steal from us and walk away?”
Think. Think? I know. I did.
“I’m putting the word out. 500 grand for this clown dead, a million alive so I can teach him some manners first.”
Little Gambol needs a lesson in manners from grandma.
I’m only trying to help.
Hm. Oh well. Time to go.
Here’s my card.
Sitting in a kitchen. Group therapy with a television.
Pathetic.
Their balls didn’t drop off-they never had any to begin with.
He thinks it’s a contest of justice. I know the truth. It’s a contest of the crazies.
Here’s an idea: crime makes sense. There’s reasons why people go career. There’s stories. That’s why there’s courts. To hear the stories.
I have no story.
They think it’s about money. Murder for money-now that’s twisted.
The only fairness in the world is arbitrary, without sense and without justification. The only sanity in killing is outside their system.
Completely random.
The real trick is in the hands.
Sleight of hand.
I’ll show you. Come here.
I grab your left hand with my left hand. Nice and tight. No escape, see?
I grab your head with my right hand. A little to the side. Makes your head turn. Makes it easier to impale on a soft spot.
My left hand pins yours down to the table-like so.
While my right hand-the one everyone’s watching-slams your head into the pencil.
Like THIS.
I do it fast, so no one sees.
They only see the pencil, disappeared.
Practice makes perfect.
Half.
I said half.
Interesting that no one asked the sanest question of all:
Half of what.