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13 December 2008 @ 10:17 pm
The Fresh Hyaline Line (I)  
Title: The Fresh Hyaline Line (I)
Pairing: Joker x Rachel Dawes
Fandom: Batman The Dark Knight
Genre: Drama
Rating: T
Word Count: 889
Summary: Joker has an interesting thing to tell: there is no real difference between civil obedience and disobedience. It comes down to the basic slaughter.

Chapter Two

The Fresh Hyaline Line

They are like the scum to be pitied,
Entrenching themselves deep—far and shitted in
In the worst of society
In the conformity
In the Fat messes they call “civilization”.


Today, he thinks he wants to kill her.

She visits him in the asylum (where dead bodies and broken minds come to stay and pray) and brings him papers upon piles of “official agenda”. She smiles ever-so politely and makes small talk. He puts up with her shit and just grins.

And smacks his lips enigmatically, making and lengthening the sounds to send her reeling—

Flung and sharp, he snaps back the line and catches the new fish he’s caught (“Rachel Dawes,” she introduces). And never does he ever say his name, never admits it like a common criminal.

“I’m one in a million, beautiful. Because, you see, what I want is what the world wants, only the world doesn’t know it yet.”

Nauseated, sickened to her stomach and heart, Rachel leans back in the hardback chair and stretches out her legs and takes a long, hard look at him. And sees: an imperious face riddled with a wincing winsome smile.

“A name, please, that’s all I want.”

“Oh just call me Smiles.”

He laughs, she twitches.

And like he promises (before the meeting commenced) he gives her a dashing smile, spreading his cheeks wide and brutal and puckers his lips like he’s waiting for a kiss.

“Don’t you just wanna kill me?”


“Do. You. Want. To. Kill. Me?”

“Why?” She barely dares to whisper.

“Because you envy me, of course!”

He laughs again.

He is always, always laughing—it seems.


Behind tightly shut and guarded walls (there are no doors or windows) he reads the news religiously. Memorizes the words (near verbatim, hearing and sounding them out de-libe-rate-ly) and rehearse speeches he composes back to himself. You see

People are easy to read and manipulate.

Cut them, slice them, anyway it’s done, they beg for mercy—for pleas of compassion and humanity—before the knife even goes in.

Slip, slip, slippery slippity slip, he toys with them like training a circus lion (only he is the lion in this game). Slip, slip, their minds go blink.

Testing limits, now that is a great suggestion.


Everything burns and everything spoils. So what matters is spoiling the fun before it can burn.


All of a sudden, he wakes up in the middle of the night with an epiphany ringing from ear to ear. He grins insanely and silently cheers: he’s got it figured out (the entire world).

There is nothing worse than uncertainty. And there is nothing that people hates more than leaving their “fates” up to chance. And to play God, he just has to learn to mold them into soft clay and bake them just right—without scorching.

So when the plaster is shaped and the design refined, he will have Gotham—the world—bowing down. To chance.

It’s like anarchy in the most poetically beautiful fashion (something he thinks she’ll be proud of).


“Choices don’t do anything for you, and neither do explosions. You need some…uh…some sort of display, an explosion that is properly flashy. It don’t have to be expensive or anything. I mean, it’s the sentiment that counts, don’t you agree?”

The nurse pauses and stares at him, not knowing (wanting) what to say.

“I think I just broke my mind. But you’ve probably broken yours a long time ago.”


That girl, Rachel—Something, never comes again. But he still remembers her (the face, the air, the young and conceited look of scorn she wears).

And when they meet again in some distant future or life, he will know precisely what to say.

He has it prepared, inculcated flawlessly. Amazingly, even for him, he adds.


There is no such thing as justice.


He sings capricious ditties and tunes he writes in the mornings, before the sun rises. None of the nurses or damn doctors comment (they’re too stupid and afraid, he laughs). But one of the other patients is getting pissy and haughty and choking on ugly sanctimony.

And so, as a humane euthanasia, he decides to eliminate the offending idiot.

The kindest mercy killing the city has ever witnessed. And he, like all good judges and perfunctory saints, turns the killing into a dealing.

Humble too.


A name for himself. A real one, one that defines and declares his presence (essence) that makes him wholly him. And holy, to demonstrate just how loving (the punitive) he is towards them.

Filth. Hideous, grotesquely bent, billowing blithely filth.

“The Joker, what say you? Not that it really matters, you being one of them.”

The nurse (a different, second, one) emits a nervous laugh.

“And pop goes the weasel! By the way, did I ever tell you how I got these scars? I think they make me look quite…charming…but some don’t think so. What say you? Again, not that it matters.”

And pop went the weasel.

Her head is smeared in blood with a hole shot right through.

Joker leaps out of the window and laughs, running free and home.

Rough and violent, he runs scarlet (scrapped) hands through his hair, streaking strands luminous and bloody-red. Oh ho-ho, hee hee, ha ha…ah ha ha.

lucyyylocketlucyyylocket on December 14th, 2008 09:22 am (UTC)
Wowza !
This is, in a twisted sense, extremely beautiful.
I adore your writing style, and it throws such imazing imagery into my imaginative brain.