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14 December 2008 @ 01:55 am
The Fresh Hyaline Line (II Blood Kiss)  
Title: The Fresh Hyaline Line (II Blood Kiss)
Pairing: Joker x Rachel Dawes
Fandom: Batman The Dark Knight
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,331
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 One Chapter Three

The Fresh Hyaline Line

“We live in a rainbow of chaos.” —Cezanne

Government is real made surreal made unreal.

II. Blood Kiss

If theories persist untreated, they become incurable Truths. And out of the asylum, Jack the Ripper-Napier stumbles, and through the window and onto the streets. Surrounded by ink and bloody joys, he lights up a cigarette and immediately crushes the thing.

Vile thing, disgusting thing. He doesn’t know why he ever smoked, even once (just for fun).

It’s been years since they’ve let him step outside and smell the freshly laundered air (washed by God Himself no less) and feel the wind whistling through his stringy hair. And this is when he feels most at peace.

Almost like he is human again, just like any of these mindless toys off the street. The muttering retreats. Of random meets and shuffling, dusty, weary feet.

“Gotham is most beautiful in its darkness.”

(The taxi driver gives him a quizzical stare through the rearview mirror.)


Rachel rises promptly at seven every morning, jogs (sometimes), and has her morning cup of coffee by eight. This is a routine that does not waver. It is a ritual that controls its own course and thoughts. And Rachel all too happily obeys (it gives her a sense of security).

She exits her apartment in a modest suit and sensible shoes. Her arms clutch a stack of papers, gathering them tightly to her chest.

The sun shines directly on her face. Rachel shivers, thinking she’s being watched. And swiftly shrugs the feeling off: left foot, right foot. Baby steps and no-nonsense rationale.

Looking both ways, she steps into traffic.


“A shot of gin.”

“You’ve been downing those things like they’re water. I’m warning ya, buddy, it ain’t good for ya.”

“Why do you keep looking away? Why…so angry…so serious? Do my scars, perhaps…ah offend you?”

He leans forward and stares intently, unnervingly.

Never blinking.

These scars, you see, were the result of a very unfortunate misfortune.

My father – Was a very cruel, cruel man. Drunk too much and liked to hit. Some would even call him sadistic. And one night, well, the story is actually extremely amusing. One night, no, no, don’t look away now.

I had a wife –And was she beau-ti-ful. The most gorgeous, heavenly woman in the world. But she had this addiction, and she just wouldn’t stop nagging. And I couldn’t take it anymore. And one night…

Jack and Jill – My sister, ten years younger than me. You didn’t think I had a sister? I did, and let me tell you something: she had the prettiest mouth ever created. But she had a terrible—just horrific—habit of sucking her thumb. And one night—

“I’ll tell you if you want to know. Ask, but be honest about it.”

The bartender shrivels away into a water-starved bud. But he could still smell the hot, caustic traces of hard liquor on the speaker’s breath. And like an acid, his skin starts to burn (just below the part where his chin starts to quiver).


Jack never understood why people have to work. It’s simple: life. There are no eternal obligations and regulations, no infallible moral code to adhere to. And best of all, there is no such thing as responsibility.

Except to each his own.

Hunger is hunger, hunger becomes desire, becomes food. Hunger does not translate into payroll.

He grabs the muffin and chants out a thanks. Gratification and gratitude, they were the only necessary standards to be followed. Everything else, why, they were all trifle.

They are all animals in tuxedos and dipping Chanel dresses. They wear their Rolex watches and worship the damned, the detested, the depraved. And by doing so, they become like that too.

“…Next to, of course, God and America, I love you land of the pilgrims’. Say! Can you see by the dawn’s early? My country ‘tis of centuries.” He spoke and drank rapidly a glass of water.

Thee comings. And their speeches. Their dirges and their elegies. Upon the granite countertop and upon the marble epitaph, are sprawled a hundred poems of greatness.

(Their being the operative word.)

These politicians.

And then, Jack gets this crazy idea. It’s almost as good as a forthright insurrection.


La dee dee dee, da da…

Fingers drunk-tap-drum on the books and hands dance across the musty pages—searching. Yearn, learn.

“By jingo by gee by gosh by gum.”

By v by free by me.

Me. He settles on that.


One night, in his never alleviated lonesomeness, he visits another bar. Purely by accident, just happened to stumble in (shelter from the cold, home for a moment). And over by a tall, imposing booth sits a fat lady.

He approaches her, suave and debonair, making sure to comb back the messy, greasy hair.

“Why hello there, darling. Don’t you look like an Anna-Chelsea. Is that your name?”

The woman glowers and mumbles something about lunatics and the full moon and goes back to her drink (dry, sweet sherry).

“Haven’t your parents ever taught you any manners? It’s not good to ignore someone trying to strike up a conversation.”

“Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, but I sure as hell know who I am. And I am not this Anna-Chelsea whoever she is. So I’d appreciate it if you would leave.”

“Now you’ve hurt my feelings. I think you should apologize. I know! Why don’t you smile for me?”


He has his guns (like they their sons). He has his knives (and they their wives). He has his devices (and they their vices).

They have her, he has her perfectly.


The Scarecrow is not an entity to be feared, he wants to explain to the ignorant masses. The Scarecrow is a facsimile, a sham, a something that is to be pitied and mocked. It has the loud, obnoxious pretentions of a criminal, but it is really a petty, incompetent Average.

But I, on the other hand…A true genius.

Plus, the Scarecrow is so adamant in maintaining his identity, his worthless worth. And it is no fun in keeping everything so stagnant.

Zero empathy, zero tolerance, but it is wise to be open-minded. And creative, now, that is a must.


At noon, Rachel extracts herself from the monotony and distracts herself with a pastry from the bakery across the street.

Every day, for the past week or so, she keeps seeing a stranger there—sitting, amused and wry—looking at her. Wondering what she is up to. Wondering always at a distance.

And even though she wants to demand just what is his problem, she bites her tongue and grabs her snack and walks out. Stomping a bit just to subtly get her message through. And when she did that: he laughed.

Making her blood run cold. Stiff, the corpse is tossed and sealed.


He becomes obsessed and acts almost like a stalker. But one with sense and reason, and that is sufficient.

(As for this Batman fellow, Jack couldn’t care less. Pitiable, nearly. How low these modern heroes have sunk.)

My oh my.


Acquiring stealth is a tricky process. Jack never was one to be quiet and sneaky. He likes grand schemes and machinations, likes being noted for his brilliance. Being paid due respect is the mantra he lives by.

So, it has taken him a very, very long time to practice creeping in and out. And he is very, very relieved to discover that she sleeps like a purse of unrefined, unadulterated salt.

“It is the right time, the prime time…rock the night away.”

Jack wields a knife expertly, can carve names (and faces) from the thin, chilled atmosphere.

When Rachel wakes up the next morning (ready for her morning run & steaming mug) she tastes copper on her lips and feels an odd, newly formed cut on her left cheek.

Small, it stings like a cordial calling or reminder.