Tinhuviel Artanis

dandyxrandy has convinced me to don the war paint again, this time in a collaborative effort. J is going to be interviewed by an intrepid journalist, a character wholly of dandyxrandy's vast imagination. The character sketch and interview questions belong to dandyxrandy. The Joker's answers belong to me because, apparently, my egg is just cracked enough to be believable. Imagine that. We won't be using all these questions/answers. This is more of an exercise toward the greater goal that will become the final product. So this is a brainstorm of sorts.

Name: Jessica Lee Striker
Age:27
Sex: Female
Birthday: August 2
Occupation: Journalist for Gotham Times

Jessica Lee Striker is a new fiery reporter, looking for any unusual job, taking the bull by the horns. She is interested in the relationships of politics, scandals, and justice. She's a writer of peace, a writer of war, a writer of whats right and wrong. Her views on the world are neutral, giving her an upper hand when interviewing someone who has a set goal. She gives the exterior of being a bit of an airhead but once she is in a solitary room with her other to get the facts, she turns into an intellectual monster. She's a contradiction.

Jessica Striker was brought up on a small country farm house, always told that writing and anything dealing with the arts would get her nowhere. Hard work and sweat was what she lived with until she was eighteen. On her birthday she was whisked away by her aunt to join her in Gotham to study under a veteran journalist. Once her first publication was published she became a small instant hit in the journalism society. The column was labeled 'Gotham? Of Bats and Clowns.'

She has written a sum of one hundred and seventy-two articles, six two page editorials, and several small edits. She hit the ground running. The woman has had connections with the mob, but none illegally so. Her main goal in this world is to reveal the raw truth, not facading a word.

Now that The Joker has arrived on scene she has become fascinated with his views, watching and reading anything he has to offer to the public. She has become a secret fan and only wishes to sit down and talk to him, not like a shrink to pick his brain, but someone who just wants an inkling of insight. She understands that there are several layers to the man. She just wants to know at least one.

Batman is another she would dearly like to meet. She supports him almost as much as the clown. It's good versus evil, heaven and hell, the Devil and an Angel. But for now she has to suffice with the mob, the gangs, the cops, and the politicians.

Writing is her passion.
Truth is her justification.


Where did you originate from?
Well, where does anyone originate from? It's not like I'm a product of parthenogenesis. It's not like I was beamed down by Scotty or chanted out of a secret pyramid by a gaggle of Thelemites. What sort of question is that? Are you serious? ::looks at her with honest curiosity. Is she really serious? Better question still, did she think he was?

On many accounts you have told different versions of how you obtained your scars. Why are there so many? Do you know the truth yourself?
Every scar demands a story. By the same token, every story demands a new scar. That's why there're so many because one always feeds the other. Of course I know the truth. But I ask you, are you brave enough to bear the scar in order to hear the story?

If it's not for money, not for power, not for control, than what is it all for?
Like I told the Chechen, it's about sending a message. This world we live in, this little hamster wheel of a world....it all seems so meaningless, don'tcha think? Everyone gets up at the same time, depending on what shift they're assigned, they eat the same bland breakfast while being told how unhealthy it is for them, yet very few make enough money to buy the foods we're told are healthy. Then everyone grabs their chosen mode of transportation or the mode chosen for them, and off they go to do their mindless little jobs and to what purpose? The more sane everyone pretends to be, the crazier everyone is going. For a society so enamoured of freedom, it seems to me that everyone is pretty much a slave.

I am not. I do as I please, when I please, and how I please. Now..now you can either learn and live by my example, get out of my way, or die trying to stop me. Your choice.

How do you view the people of this world now?
Chattel. Slaves. Tools. The hordes that delight in the blood I spill as they sit in their dark living rooms and watch on TV, but the first to condemn me when the sun comes up and the Bat has been lauded as "saving the day." You know. Hypocrites and knuckledraggers who would see an original idea flying at them like a brick and stand there to be brained to death by it rather than try to catch it or dodge out of the way. All it would take is three days of no electricity, maybe even less than that, to reduce our enlightened civilisation to the depths of Witch-burning depravity that would put the Auto-da-Fe to shame.

How did this all begin. How did you begin?
::smiles and taps the side of his nose:: Nosy little thing, aren'tcha? ::just raises his eyebrows and looks at her, the smile broadening to the point of the absurd::

What made you want to install this 'chaos' into Gotham?
A wise man once said, "Write what you know." I know Gotham and, so, I'm writing that first.

Some view you as a monster, some view you as an anarchist, some may even view you as a person with idealistic views, how do you view yourself?
I see myself as someone who is not afraid to come to grips with who he is or what he is. Humans so often try to lift themselves high above what is considered the baser life forms, but I submit that humanity is the basest of life forms on this ball of mud. Why? Because we don't want to associate ourselves with our true animal roots. We pretend that we're above your basic day-to-day savagery and, by denying this truest of our natures, we find ourselves perverting who we are and becoming the very worst of what we so very desperately deny. Therein lies the greatest joke to me. The ones who decry me the most are the ones who are, by far, guiltier than I'll ever be and of much worse crimes.

I'm a human animal. We all are. The difference is, I know it and the rest of you don't.

There is a theory that the insane aren't insane at all but are a form of a super-sane person. What do you classify yourself as?
Smarter than your average bear! I'll leave the classifications up to those who like to classify things and people and...stuff. You know. Virgos.

Do you have any remorse for killing any of the people? What about the children who don't know right from wrong and have yet the choice to make their own decisions?
Oh don't even get me started on children. The only differences between children and adults is children don't have to take responsibility for their atrocities in our "society" and children are vastly more honest than any adult who wants to fit in our "society" would ever have the balls to be. I have remorse for the truly innocent who've died in the war: the non-human animals. Everyone else is simply a casualty in a war that should never have begun in the first place, with "modern man" proclaiming a kind of civilised nature that's not only a bad lie, but also a really bad joke.

(Jess is going to be a bit bold and brave, even a bit lippy)
Are you going to kill me when we finish?
::gives her the most direct gaze she's ever received from anyone, causing her to thrill and quake simultaneously:: Well...what do you want me to do? You one of those kinksters who likes to follow known killers around in hopes of a cuddle only to be surprised right to the very last breath, realising it's not all it's cracked up to be? Or is that a genuine question out of concern for your livelihood? Maybe it's a little bit of both. Maybe you think you deserve some special dispensation because I'm even talking to you. Or maybe you're hoping that I might see something special in you and have an epiphany that little journalist girl is the one. You don't look like a Mary Sue. Don't act like one.

What do you want people to know about you?
I have a scar story for every last one of them up to and including a scar to go along with it. Get in line. It ends right around that corner, my beautiful lemmings.

What is your message?
What makes you think I have a message? Just because I'm all about sending messages doesn't necessarily mean I have one. That takes too much....planning.

Batman is Gotham's hero, yes, but why are you so keen in finding out who he is? It would be like asking you to take off your own mask. All we would find is a man underneath with ideas.
You're assuming a lot here, you know. First of all, what makes you think I don't already know who he is? And what makes you think this is a mask? And why do you think that, if I wiped off my war paint, you'd find a man with ideas underneath? You seem terribly sure of yourself, when you should certainly be sure of nothing, considering whom you're interviewing.

What else you got, Ms. Jess Striker Down?

I slept for the majority of the day, a deep and dreamless sleep. Now my back is killing me and I feel like I've been hit by a bus. Gonna have some cheesy eggs, then see how I feel. Right now, I feel like I could go right back into bed and do it all over again, but we'll see. I may end up all night, but I've plenty of writing to do. There are just a little tweaks to be done on "To Whom It May Concern," then I can release my latest Joker fic, which is a manifesto of sorts, I guess. The story was driven by 'The Bastard Sons of Enoch' by Shriekback and 'Pandemonium' by Killing Joker (B and Colesy are really good friends and B is now signed on to the Killing Joke label, Malicious Damage). Seems we're all connected.

If I have the capacity to think, I'd like to work more on The Blood Crown. The first two chapters after the prologue are entitled 'The Veiled Shrine' and 'The Mother of Memory.' The next chapter will be called 'Reluctant Reunion,' and will re-introduced Orphaeus Cygnus. I may give him dreads this time. He's rather fond of his crimson locks, so why not let him enjoy them to their full potential, á la Mick Hucknall? It's all gonna be delicate writing, though. I need to maintain the poetic lilt of the story in keeping with The Chalice, but I also need to ensure Cadmus doesn't end up being straight man to Orphaeus' merry humour.

Heath Ledger wins for Best Villain at MTV Awards

And he's saying in the Summerland about all the trophies he's getting, "I'm rackin' 'em up!" I just know it. Well deserved, Heath. Well deserved.

I don't agree, but it is good for the creative spirit, at least sometimes. There are nights where I do nothing at all, just staring at nothing as the TV rages on, my jaw slack and my eyelids sliding roughly over my dried out eyeballs. Last night and early this morning, though, I finally figured out why Faust was of such interest to Cadmus, I started a new Joker fic, I read an incredible multi-chapter Joker fic entitled Fugue (and I'm chomping at the bit for more chapters now, dammit), and I wrote out more Tarmian background in preparation to introduce the Apostate.

And I did all this while periodically checking Twitter to see the further adventures of Blog Boy. To those of you who are interested, the pictures I posted last night of Gonzo and Duke are actually Blog Boy out of the clown make-up and a co-conspirator. So now you know, if you didn't already, which you probably did, so that's okay.

Tonight I probably won't be so productive. I drug myself out of bed this morning and I'm so exhausted, I can barely move. One of two things will happen tonight. I'll either pass out in a fit of weariness too strong for even my racing mind and body to ward off, or I'll go catatonic, staring at something inane on TV, not really seeing it all. I hate insomnia. I'd give anything for a good night's rest. Anything, if I had it to give.

Yeah, a new Joker fic. It's not a date and it's not funny; rather, it's a noodly appendage that grew out of a conversation about J a handful of us had here on the Cliffs a few days ago. This Joker is far from the original version of him I imagined for the Date Series. His feet are planted firmly in occult and mythological ground, so it's not surprising at all that the only musical reference in this story is to a Barry Andrews song. Funny how that happens. If you read, I hope you enjoy. If you don't enjoy, I don't know what to tell you, mate.

( Laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry and you cry alone. )

Yes yes, it is another random post filled with randomosity and other random goodness. This is where I take a sort of mind dump to cleanse the soul and ruin the lives of innocent people who chance upon this entry. Then again, as the great philosopher Hexina once said, "No one is truly innocent," when asked why she socked that "innocent" mime in the face. I can live with that proclamation. That said, if you continue to read, you're getting what's coming to you.

---

I don't care what anybody says, Hexed was a good movie. No, it was a great movie. It's basically "The Boy Who Cried Wolf" retold with the Arye Gross (I love him) as the boy and Claudia Christian (yes, Commander Ivanova!) as the wolf. There are so many comic scenes the drip pure genius, my chakras just vibrate on a higher level thinking about them. With lines like this, how can a movie go wrong? "She even attacked a mime. Just found out about it. Seems the mime had been reluctant to talk." In fact, I may abandon my serial killer extravaganza and pop in Hexed, which is really just an extension of the whole Sunday Serial Killer motif. Hexina is one of my heroes.

---

When I was a kid, my favourite superhero was Spiderman. green_goblin7t and I share this common bond. Even though my greatest childhood love was Darth Vader and all my other heroes were villains, Spidey was the exception to my unspoken rule of "no nice guys!" I didn't just idolise Spiderman, I wanted to be Spiderman. I would have given my left kidney to be able to shoot web out of my wrists and swing through town. My main thing was the animated series from the 70s. I've never in my life read a Spiderman comic. The only comics I was ever into were Archie comics. Nothing thrilled me more than to get a grape Slurpee and an Archie comic from the local 7-11. I was a simple girl, grateful for the little things. But the bigger the Slurpee, the better. Anyway, I still have a piece of my Spidey-drenched childhood: it's a Spiderman head water gun. When you pull the trigger, Spidey literally spits on you. It still works, too.

---

Aunt Tudi and I have a pool. I got it on clearance at the dollar store last year. It was normally like $70 or sommat. I got it for just under $20. It inflates as you fill it up and it's 3 feet deep, I think. Or 4 feet. Can't remember. Once I rid the back yard of fire ants, we're gonna set it up back there, so we can float about in privacy. It's big enough to need a filter and pump, so it'll be large enough for Aunt Tudi and me to enjoy some cool, watery goodness on the 3000 katrillion hot days of Summer enjoyed by us inmates here in South Carolina. I may have to chop down some bamboo and fashion myself a makeshift snorkel. I remember snorkeling in Mills River up near Asheville. The river was very deep in areas and quite peaceful. There's nothing quite like the sound of water flowing past your ears mingling with the sound of your own breath as you float like a dead body down the river, nothing showing but the snorkel. I get concerned now that a bird will land on my snorkel and poop in my mouth.

---

I just realised that I have a previously unremembered source of income. Lula'a'kei'a'Lani, the Hawaiian Goddess of Loose Change! It's the old coconut figurine bank I kept in the Pit. The scheme was to get people to put their loose change in the bank and make a wish. It wouldn't surprise me if I had $10 in that coconut bank! That's a half tank of gas. I could go somewhere and do something, if I so chose. But I don't so choose. I like being a hermit. If I never left the house again, that'd be fine with me. Screw the world, I have an iPod.

---

Oh, speaking of iPods, newbies here on the Cliffs may have noticed my referencing Son of iGor. That's my iPod and my second one at that. My first iPod, simply iGor, crapped out on me, but I had an extended warranty on it, so Apple sent me a brand new iPod. This is Son of iGor. If Son of iGor ever trashes out on me, I'll have to jump off a bridge because I can't replace him. If I could, though, my next iPod would be called Bride of iGor maybe, or Random Acquaintance of iGor. Or maybe even Distant Cousin of iGor, or iGor's Unfriendly Neighbour. Hell if I know.

---

What's wrong with Tim Burton? His movies used to be so wonderful but, here of late, it's been a hit-and-miss situation for him. His Planet of the Apes was an affront to all ape-lovers everywhere. It was just....wrong. And, even though I adore the imagery of the film, Sweeney Todd pretty much left me cold. I'm not big on musicals, though. No matter how lovely Johnny Depp was in that movie, I'm not keen on ever seeing the flick again. Speak your lines, Johnny, don't sing them. Tim Burton is the Goth culture's champion. He needs to stick with what he knows and not try to go beyond that. Just be yourself, Tim. Toxic Boy is who you are, not big-time hoity-toity director man. The next time you take a seat in your director's chair, remember Beetlejuice and Batman, and all else will naturally fall into place. Just sayin'. Oh, and don't go with any film composer but Danny Elfman. You make a magickal team. Don't try to fix something that ain't broke. Again, just sayin'.

---

I'm half-writing a new Joker-fic. No, I haven't revived the Date Series. This one isn't gonna be an erotic fanfic either. It's...I don't know what it's gonna be. All I know is that it's drawn from a discussion paisleydaze and I have been having over the past couple of days. The occult and psychology play heavily in this one. I know it's gonna be short and, so far, it's totally unlike anything J-related I've written. One thing for certain: it has nothing to do with The Joker Blogs. So far, this one isn't fun, and something tells me that Cadmus' influence has a lot to do with this more archetypal Joker. I'm being pulled back to the Vampire world, despite my best efforts to avoid it for a while and have a few laughs. Oh, and to answer a question posed of me by delenn99: I'll submit my original work to publishers just as soon as I have an agent who is willing to take me on. Still looking for that. Any pointers on how I can lure a hapless agent into my Kung Fu grip? I'm all ears.

---

I want to go up to Cherokee and sit on a rock in the middle of the river up near the hospital. Maybe listen to some tunes on Son of iGor and contemplate Life, the Universe, and Everything.

---

The Cliffs of Insanity has a birthday coming up soon. The Blog will turn 7 years old. That's usually about the time a child starts becoming increasingly obnoxious. Since my journal started out that way, we can bypass that whole awkward phase and move on to greater pestiferousness and tomfoolery. Speaking of birthdays, Aunt Tudi turned 65 today. She has celebrated by sleeping. She does that a lot now. I'm by myself a good bit because she's asleep. I'm not complaining. I know it's because of her illnesses, but it bothers me a little because that's how Granny was a couple of years before she died. She had to wake up from a nap to go take a nap. I'm jealous of Aunt Tudi in that she can so easily sleep any hour of the day and I'm awake even when I am asleep, unless I drug myself into a stupour. Insomnia is the biggest bitch in existence, outshining even myself and stacye13, and that's no small feat. Aunt Tudi is like a cat now. I sit around this house looking at her and the cats doze all day long and I want to kill them in their sleep, and I chalk all that up to my coveting their slumber. I covet. I'm a commandment breaker. Look at me. I'm out of control. I'm a coveting senior citizen murderer with red-rimmed eyes that quiver from lack of sleep. Yeah, fear me, bitches. Who knows what I'll do next? Rest assured, it won't be sleeping.

---

I need make-up. I'm almost out of lipstick, I am out of powder, and my mascara is so old that it's dried up. I've still got plenty of faux kohl, so I'm good there. I'm just out of everything else. Don't know why I'd even need the make-up since I now spend the majority of my days at home, but you never know when I may want to do another webcam thingie. I still haven't figured out why my sound is off after I upload a video. It's fine until it hits You Tube. The mystery is maddening. I need to get a different kind of lipstick than the one I've been wearing. What I've been wearing almost instantly chaps my lips. Chapped lips drive me crazy because I can't leave them along. I'm constantly picking at my lower lip and peeling away the top layer of skin. It gets to the point of my bleeding. I used to have horrible lips as a young teen and I still have a diary where I'd leave bloody lip prints from the chapped horror through which I was going, usually from the big split right in the middle of my lower lip. It's no wonder teens are so difficult to get along with. Their lives are usually hell for one reason or another, so they may as well visit their suffering upon their friends and loved ones, right? Right. As for my make-up application, I learned how to apply make-up from observing Boy George and Robert Smith. Oh, and from art class. Undershadowing makes things look larger. That said, I apply very little faux kohl to my upper eyelids. Most of my eye colour and mascara are applied to the lower eyelids and lashes. It makes my eyes look much larger, and that's the intention. Case in point, this icon: . This is from a picture taken in 1997. You can't go wrong with lots of colour under the eyes. Theda Bara knew this. She was a smart lady.

---

Things I miss:

• Attending Circle. Sometimes even the most anti-social of us craves the group dynamics of a cast Circle. Not saying I'd want to do it on a regular basis, but it'd be nice to be with fellow Witches in sacred space for a little while.


• Bardic circles. These were almost as magickal as Sabbat and Esbat celebrations. But music is a magickal thing in and of itself. Tolkien himself contented in The Silmarillion that existence began with a song.


• Singing. Anywhere. Circle, Bardic, the UU Church. I miss singing.


• The Celtic music community of Greenville. I'll never be a part of it again, but that doesn't stop me from missing it. It's been 11 years now since I walked away.


• Quality Assurance and the people with whom I worked in that department: Doc, green_goblin7t, Richard, and Timothy. Sometimes even Raleigh and Terri.


• The Darth Maul Estrogen Brigade. It was 100% a positive experience and I made lifelong friendships because of that corner of smut on Teh Intarwebs, the most important being falkenna and Meche. It was a sad day when Darth Cleo shut the site down, archiving the majority for posterity's sake. I envisioned her turning out the lights in much the same way John Sheridan did at the end of B5. I often wonder about how Maulsmate, MaryCheetah, the Smut Brigade, MOTS, and Indigobunting are doing.


• My Friend Todd, every day, without fail.

---

My "nephew" Blake added me as a friend on MySpace. It's hard to believe that he's 17 now and has a beard and mustache. I remember when he was born. He makes me feel very old. I put the word "nephew" in quotations because he's not really my nephew, although I feel like he is. His mother and I were always like sisters, even though we're cousins, so Blake is my nephew in every way but the official way. So yeah. 17. I remember teaching him Talitha MacKenzie songs when he was 6, him rocking back and forth in the car to the beat of "Saor an t-sàbhaidh," singing the Gaelic like he'd done it all his life. But children are more open to language than adults, so I guess I can understand. Just recently, I asked him if he remembered any of that and he said he didn't. I bet if I played "Saor an t-sábhaidh" for him, it'd trigger the memory. He's always been a cool kid, and I don't like kids as a rule, so that's saying a lot. He's gonna be a groovy adult too. I have no doubt.

---

Mtzlplk or Mr. Mytzlplk was a villain featured on Superfriends back in the 70s. A lot of you fools weren't even born when he wrought his vowel-removing havoc on poor Superman. I think Casey Kasem voiced him. Could be wrong about that, though.

Click the J-Otter for the explanation.



I've rested my case. It's Miller Time!

Here's part 2 of "The Final Date." Some may hate it, some may love it. Either way, I hope you at least kinda like it.

( cut for sexual situations and tales of violence )

I'm almost finished with "The Final Date." All that's left for me to write is the Scar Story. ::bounces like Tigger on crystal meth::

If I hadn't been alive at the time of his death, I'd say I was the reincarnation of Jim Jones. My obsessions bleed over on the people around me. I've been told over the course of my life that I could give people Kool-Aid and they'd happily drink it. In 1980, I discovered ELO. By 1981, I had the entire family and many friends converted. In 1990, I discovered Shriekback. It wasn't until 1999 that the great Shriek migration began with my putting out the word that there were still fans out there. Props to boba and Phil Hetherington for providing me a starting point and helping me along the way with that. It led to the Shriekback Digital Conspiracy and numerous friendships and collaborations, including a friendship and working relationship with Barry Andrews. At the same time, I discovered a whole knew dimension of Star Wars fandom with the Darth Maul Estrogen Brigade, which broke my writer's block via the medium of fanfiction. This led me to new friendships that came to know Shriekback because of my obsession with that band. One friend, falkenna, met Barry Andrews and, because of our admiration for Darth Maul and for him (hers was newfound ~ that whole Jim Jones thing coming in to play again), he found himself placing rose thorns on his head in emulation of our favourite Sith Lord. When worlds collide, they really freakin' collide.

So, when clumsycake called me yesterday, she asked what I was doing. I told her I was writing my final Date Night story and twiddling my thumbs until the next installment of The Joker Blogs came out. She didn't know what I was talking about because she 1) hadn't seen The Dark Knight yet and 2) had yet to see The Joker Blogs. I knew she couldn't get the full-on goodness of the Blogs without seeing the movie first to witness the miracle of Heath Ledger's performance. So I asked all innocent like, "Whatcha doing tomorrow?" She said she didn't know. "You do now. You're coming over to my place to watch The Dark Knight, then you're gonna watch The Joker Blogs. No isn't an option."

Nowclumsycake is of the same mind as I am about Batman. No Michael Keaton, no Batman. I explained to her that the movie wasn't about Batman, as far as I was concerned. "Forget Batman. He's secondary. Just watch the Joker." When she got here today, since no wasn't an option, I would have had the Kool-Aid ready, but I didn't have any. She did bring Aunt Tudi some Crystal Light though, but that doesn't count. We watched the movie. We watched the Joker Blogs.

clumsycake is now a convert. For that matter, Aunt Tudi has begun to see the hypnotic draw of the Joker and she can't keep her eyes off the computer screen when the Joker Blogs Dude is on talking about his "delicate features and feathery hair."

Yea, verily, and hallelujah. Let the Kool-Aid flow.

Up late last night. Wrote a little bit more. Those who've read a few of the other fics know where this one is going. This one is called 'The Final Date,' by the way. May as well go out with a bang. A little something something about a wee reference in this portion of the story. The Pagoda at the corner of Andrews and Partridge is named for the song 'Pagoda Tailfin,' which is a song on the Monstrance album. And, as we all know, Monstrance is comprised of Andy Partridge, Barry Andrews, and Martyn Barker. Also, the reference about Harleen Quinzel is DC canon, yes, but it's more of a nod to the Joker Blogs than anything. Oh that and "skadoodle." If you haven't watched the Joker Blogs yet, consider yourself beaten about the head and shoulders with a rubber chicken by me.

Now I must go see.....a banker......

---

The sun began to mercifully sink at which time the Joker prepared himself for his night on the town. He had no idea where he was going or what he was going to do when he got there, but he was jonesin’ for a date and intended to have a good time despite the numerous setbacks to his plan, not that he had one in the first place. He showered, he shaved, he even shit. Then he donned his best purple, green, blue, and patterned outfit, and placed his collection of cutlery throughout the suit. He then sat down in front of the mirror in front of which was his war paint. He clicked his iPod to “Ceremony of Passage” by Vas and proceeded to so the most important thing in his life. Everything else was inconsequential compared to this ritual of the Joker’s. This was what made him, what defined him. This was perfection made manifest.

First came the white base. It smelled faintly of vanilla and was waterproof. All his war paint was waterproof. He came to realize this necessity, thanks to previous date nights. Sometimes a date can get messy and you didn’t want your defining trademark left behind between some lovely lady’s legs. So, yeah, waterproof. Then came the kohl eye designs, making his eyes look like skull holes, especially when he closed them. At one time, the Joker had played around with the idea of painting eyes on his eyelids, but he decided simplicity was the best avenue to take, no matter how amusing the actuality would be. Finally, came the most important part of his war paint ritual: the painting of the scars. He began by applying crimson lipstick to his lips. The top lip he coloured carefully, staying within the lines of his upper lip. The bottom lip he coloured with much less care, allowing the lipstick to bleed down the scars that dotted the lower clip. He then took a small jar of the same colour of lipstick and dipped his finger in it. Taking his fingers, the Joker smeared the colour from the corner of his maimed mouth and drew outward to cover every scar. Immediately the colour began to bleed into the outward crevices of the scars. He repeated the action on the other side of his mouth. Wiping his hands with a moist wipe, the Joker peered into the mirror at the clown peering back at him.

“Hiiiiiii,” he said to the reflection in the mirror, sucking on his yellow teeth. Not for the first time, he considered trying out those Crest whitening strips. Maybe the next time he robbed a drugstore for all their controlled substances, he'd grab a couple of those as well. May as well try it out and, if it didn’t work, he wouldn’t be out anything but a minute of his time. It’s not that he didn’t brush his teeth. He couldn’t remember how or why his teeth got yellow. It was probably all that time spent in Arkham, where hygiene wasn’t high on their list of requirements. Fuckers. That place was a joke. They neither wanted to help the mind or the body. God forbid the spirit need tending! If you weren’t crazy when you entered Arkham Asylum, you were well on your way when you left, if you left. His only positive experience at Arkham Asylum was this cute little doctor her planned on “converting” when he went back by the name of Harleen Quinzel. The girl was cute as a button and crazier than a bedbug, although she had yet to realize this about herself. The Joker had decided that it was his mission to enlighten her like the shaman he was when the authorities sent him back to that hellhole. Then, when it was time for self-discharge, he’d take Harleen with him, and they would live crazily ever after. After all his dates, maybe Harleen would be his last. Maybe. Ha.

The Joker looked out the window and saw his car pull up. Ned was a man of his word. There’d never be another Sidney, but Ned Kelly may just be okay, at least for a little while. It then occurred to the Joker that he really didn’t feel like going out. Screw Date Night. Or maybe not. Maybe he could trust Ned to bring him somebody back. Maybe he’d just have a prostitute tonight and leave her broken body on the steps of Wayne Manor with a Batman mask on her head.

“Ned! Get out of the car and come up here."

Ned shut the car down, got out and was upstairs in a flash. “What’s up boss?”

“You sound like Bugs Bunny, Ned-d. I want you to go without me. Bring me back a bee-yoo-ti-full woman. Hell, if you can manage, bring me two.”

Ned just stood there agog. “Are you serious?” he said, losing his subservient tone.

“Yes, Ned, for the firrrst time everrr, I’m serious. Now skadoodle.”

Ned skadoodled. He left the Joker pacing in his grubby new bedroom, looking much like Leopold pacing in his multi-coloured habitat. If he played this right, he may earn the Joker’s trust in much the same way Sidney had. Sidney had been in the Joker’s service since long before the Joker had been caught by the Batman and sent to Arkham. Before returning to the car, Ned rifled through a pile of documents in the corner of the main room the Joker used for meetings with his crew and practicing his knife throwing. He hit bullseye more often than not. In the pile of documents, Ned found a business card to a place called Spinning Vinyl. On the back of the card was a name and a number. Maybe the Joker might want to see this woman again. Ned pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number.

“Yeah, speak,” a sonorous voice said after the third ring.

“Okay, is this Annie?”

“Yeah, do I know you?”

“No, my name is Ned Kelly. I work for a man you may know.”

“Is it J?” the woman asked, her hope not masked in any way.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Dude, I’ve been waiting for him to call me for years. Then when I heard he’d busted out of Arkham, I was sure he’d call, but noooo. Where the hell is he? I and another girl he knows have been wanting to see him.”

“Well, how about tonight? Do you think you’re both up for it?”

“Lemme call Roxy and see. I’ll call you back in five yo.” And she hung up.

Ned went on out to the car, certain that the Joker would be expecting him to leave. Sure enough, when he glanced up to the second floor, there stood the Joker watching and waiting. Ned lifted a tentative hand and received no indication that the Joker saw him at all. He got in the car and drove off, hoping Annie would call him any minute.

After six long minutes, Ned’s phone rang. It was Annie.

“Hey Ned, come get me at Roxy at a bar on the corner of Andrews and Partridge. It’s called The Pagoda. We’ll be out front waiting for you. What kind of car you driving?”

“It’s a big white Oldsmobile. Dunno the make or year

Annie laughed. “Probably stolen then. Okay, we’ll be on the lookout. How far away are you?”

“I can be there in half an hour.”

“Good enough. Roxy should be here by then. Toodles, Ned!” Again, she hung up without waiting for Ned to say anything. He wondered how the Joker knew this strange girl. At least Ned would be able to fulfill his mission, thanks to Annie and her friend Roxy. Bringing the Joker two women just as he requested would surely put Ned Kelly in the Joker’s inner circle, or at least closer to it. Ned puffed up with pride as he drove to the Pagoda at the corner of Andrews and Partridge.

As with every other Joker-fic I've written, save for the scar story around which I wrote "The Singer's Date," I have no idea where this is going. I'd like to say I'm literally channeling the Joker, but that's absurd, since he only really exists in the creative aether. Every story I've written is initially saved as "The Uh Date" because I'm as clueless as everyone else who may read the beginning of one of my fanfictions. It's like "uh....so where's this going?" "Uh...I don't know. He hasn't told me yet."

It's different than when I channel Cadmus because Cadmus isn't channeled in the same way; rather, he's a possessive sort of character, possessing my writing rather than channeling so that I can write. It's pretty much an unpleasant experience, but one that I've grown to need over the years. He's my psychic heroin, I guess you could say. The Joker is more like appearing when he needs to and giving me nudges in the direction I need to go to make him happy with the story. The only time he reminded me of Cadmus was when I was writing "The Nun's Date." I guess that's why I'm not as fond of that one.

My current intent is to write my thirteenth, and last, Date Night story. It doesn't necessarily mean that I won't be writing more Joker stories, though. Just no more Date Nights. This is merely my intent. That doesn't necessarily mean that my intent will be listened to or adhered to by my personal Joker, and that's okay. Writing J is tons more fun than writing Cadmus, or even Maul, for that matter. It's liking writing either one of them holding a big bag of slinkies or juggling a couple of jack-in-the-boxes. A bit hard or surreal to imagine, but it's like that, just like that.

I get in a double whammy with what I've written so far. I get my Heath reference (Ned Kelly) and a nod to the Joker Blogs Dude ("Kelly? That's...that's a girl's a name) all in one tiny scene. I'm proud of that. So here's the beginning of the final Date Night. Where it goes, only Mister J knows. Oh, and apologies to those who had grown to love Sidney. Sorry. It's J's world and nobody lives very long in Joker-land, unless you're a hedgehog.

---

It was hot. Interminably so. The Joker hated heat and Gotham was hot, so he hated Gotham too. He peered out of the abandoned building in which he was currently holed up, cursing the loss of the posh mill house to which he’d grown accustomed. Hell, Arkham was more comfortable than this dump. He was barefaced, wearing nothing but boxer shorts. He’d used a popsicle stick and a paper plate to make a fan with some scotch tape he’d found. Sitting by the broken window, hoping for a breeze, the Joker fanned himself with his makeshift fan and cursed his bad luck.

There’d been no sign of the Batman, even after all the Joker’s personal gifts and messages, but home base was raided by a pack of blue shirts led by Commissioner Gordon himself in the middle of the night. They barely made it out, but not without some losses, the worst of which was Sidney and the Joker’s new Gordon Ramsay. He was without good food and a trusted good, thanks to Gotham’s Finest. And now there was this godawful heatwave. He scowled, the corners of his mouth turned downward, despite the scars constantly pulling upward in an incessant grin. Just once, the Joker would like to really frown and it not look like a parody. His scowl deepened. Turning away from the window, he walked over to his computer, which was set up next to Leopold’s habitat. Leopold had been in a ball for the past 24 hours, as freaked out by the hustled move as everyone else had been. He looked over at his hedgehog and said, “Mammalian pill bug, that’s what you arrrre Leopold.”

Leopold ignored him in his self-protection mode. The Joker shrugged his shoulders and fanned his face. Things looked bleak, what with losing most of the cash and his closest henchman. He tried to look on the bright side, though: at least he didn’t have to kill Sidney himself now! The Joker sighed and juggled his iPod carefully into the air in front of him in between bouts of fanning. What was this any way, the fucking Deep South? Fucking miserable weather. It was enough to make him go on a killing spree.

They say that heat causes acts of violence to rise. And god makes heat, so thank god!

Ever since the untimely death of Sophia Carteres and the raid on the Joker’s lair, things had been hanging on a precipice in Gotham. Just one little push and everything would fall into the Abyss that is pure madness, or pure enlightenment, depending on one’s point of view. The Joker liked to consider himself enlightened, like a mad wandering shaman who’d just soon rip your head off as give you the secret to Life, the Universe, and Everything. He was Zaphod and Deep Thought all rolled into one. And, right now, he was a fucking sweltering Zaphod. Maybe he should ditch this dig, move to the Deep South, and kill everybody. It’d could be chalked up to euthanasia. He may even be proclaimed a hero.

The Joker blew forcefully through his lips. He needed some fun. Once the sun began to go down, he’d don his outfit and apply his war paint. He’d then go out on a date. But what sort of girl was he in the mood for? He’d had nurses, singers, crazy punk rock girls, even a nun. Who else out there could he woo to his chamber? The Joker thought, listening to his music the entire time. Nobody that really seemed extremely palatable came to mind. Again, the Joker blew through his mouth, stretching the scars on his face. When he did this, their presence was made even more apparent to him. They no longer hurt him, but he was well aware that they were there….forever. A long-tended rage surged freshly through the Joker’s solar plexus and he was determined to reclaim what was his and staple the make-shift fan he was forced to use to the forehead of whomever was responsible for losing him his mill house.

A knock at the door.

“Come in…” the Joker mumbled.

It was a henchmen he’d never seen before. “Mister J, any plans for tonight?”

“Yes, I’m going into town tonight. What’s your name?”

“Kelly.”

“Kelly?” The Joker raised his dark blonde eyebrows at the criminal in his service. “-That’s…That’s a girl’s a name.”

“That’s my last name, sir. My first is Ned.”

The Joker looked at him for a minute. “You’re Ned Kelly.”

“Yessir.”

“Helluva name, Ned-d. Do we have a car yet?”

“Just stolen. An Oldsmobile.”

The beginning of the end (or so Ozzy said back in 1994).

( My first name is Ned )

The third, and final, part of this sordid tale. If you're rape triggery, go no further. There's also some pretty gnarly violence and gore, so be wary. K? K.

( cut for all manner of dreadful words )

Orright, here's story number 12. And I'm thinking this is my 2nd to last story, giving me a baker's dozen or a coven of Joker stories. Sure as I say that, I'll either be unable to write my 13th story or I'll be inspired to write #14 and break the juju. Either way, that's the goal here. Some things about this story I'd like to say before proceeding.

• 
  
• First, massive props go out to my homegirl paisleydaze, who suggested that the Joker date an investment banker. Sophia "Sweet Sophie" Carteres is for her.
• Pop Rocks actually were called Space Dust back in the 70s. I know this because I am old.
• The account the Joker tells about his friend wanting his girlfriend to just shut up and look good actually happened. A coworker of mine in the Pit was lamenting that his girlfriend was always telling him what to do, where to do it, how to do it, etc. He continued on with his hoof in mouth disease by saying that all he wanted her to do was to shut up and look good. This caused all manner of strife between myself and him, fueled by numero uno Devil's Advocate green_goblin7t, with whom we both worked at the time. Those were good times, so I had to include some sort of reference that hearkened back to happier days for me. Just tryin' to put a smiiiile on that face o'mine. It gets harder and harder to do each day.
• The Joker's hatred of Mick Engel mirrors my own dislike for Anthony Michael Hall. I was always mildly fond of him until I saw him in Edward Scissorhands. From then on, I've hated him. Shallow of me, I know, but that movie hit me every wrong way it could and I'm still not over it. I couldn't look at Johnny Depp for two years after seeing the film. Glad I got over that.
• All the songs featured in this story are real songs by real artists and exist on my real iPod, Son of iGor. Just so's ya know.
• GFNB is patterned after my wonderful experiences with Bank of America. Take that however you wish. If you live in America and didn't vote for Dubya, I'm sure you have your own lovely bank experiences you can transfer the Joker's derision onto. Feel free. It's cathartic. Trust me.
• Some of the mannerisms displayed by J in this fic are post TDK and influenced by The Joker Blogs Joker. Like he says in the first installment, "I get to people." He's certainly gotten to me. That's not to say I'm disloyal to Heath's interpretation or anything like that. I'm enamoured of the Joker character as portrayed by Heath Ledger, but the JB dude comes in a close second and provides an extended inspiration for those of us open to his particular brand of madness. I respect those who don't cotton to him, but I also would like that respect returned to me in my choice to play along with this talented soul and his team of malcontents. Just sayin'...
• And, finally, I found out today that the mother_unit has been reading and approves of my Date Series. I'm very gratified by this. It's not often you find out that your mum is reading your smutfic and digging every word of it. But I would like to make it very clear that it's her fault I'm writing the Date Series. If she hadn't shown me The Dark Knight during her ChristmaHanukKwanzaYule visit, I wouldn't have been struck down by the Power that is the Joker.
• 
  

So that's that. In the words of our mischievous hero: "And here...we...go..."

( Great Googily Moogily! )

Part, the second. This is the real explicit part, so please click the cut with caution.

( Sparkle Motion! )

I couldn't leave it alone. Just couldn't. Besides, looks like I'll have more time on my hands to write hoo-ha like this anyway, so why the hell not? It lifts what few spirits I have left. Oh, and this is definitely written with the fangirls in mind. I think more dancing Joker could do every fan a little good.

( And - I - like - the way you move it smoothly, Now why - don't - you move that booty - to - me, I'm tryna come up with some thoughts of attack )

I've been thinking about a time line for the Date Series, just to put things in perspective, not that any of it is of any real importance. I guess it's just fun to ponder. Anyway, here's what I came up with, it being based primarily on J's possession of the infamous evil iPod of Dread. For those who've read them all and see any glaring flaws in this time line, please let me know. In the meantime, I'll continue to see where this latest scary bit of hilarity takes me with my funky, groovy Mad Hatter.

The Date Series Time Line

1. The Nurse's Date aka How the Joker Got His Hospital Uniform


2. The Hippie's Date


3. The Groupie's Date


4. The Actress' Date


5. The Professor's Date


6. The Dentist's Date


7. The Goth Chick's Date aka The One that Got away


8. The Pet Shop Clerk's Date


9. The Asylum Attendant's Date


10. The Nun's Date

Now, I may change this time line to suit whatever freakish needs I have at any time, so don't carve this into some Rosetta Stone or anything.

"Devil, pour me another shot!"

Part deux.

( cut for length, silly! )

I've changed the nun's given name from Caitlin to Eileen. It's more of an Irish-American name and it pays homage to one of my all-time favourite songs, "Come on Eileen." I think it fits better. I'm not cutting, because I'm an evil byotch. Deal.

"Come on Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runners
Poor old Johnny Ray sounded sad upon the radio
He moved a million hearts in mono
Our mothers cried,
And sang along who'd blame them?
You've grown, so grown
Now I must say more than ever
(Come on Eileen) Toora Loora Toora Loo-Rye Aye
And we can sing just like our fathers
Come on Eileen, I swear (well he means)
At this moment, you mean everything
You in that dress, my thoughts I confess
Verge on dirty
Ah come on Eileen
These people round here, wear beaten down eyes
Sunk in smoke dried faces, so resigned to what their fate is
But not us, no not us, we are far too young and clever
(Remember) Toora Loora Toora Loo-Rye-Aye
Eileen I'll hum this tune forever
Come on Eileen, I swear, well he means
Ah come on let's, take off everything
Pretty red dress Eileen (Tell him yes)
Ah come on let's, ah come on Eileen
Pretty red dress Eileen (Tell him yes)
Ah come on let's, ah come on Eileen, please
Come on, Eileen taloo-rye-aye
Come on, Eileen taloo-rye-aye
(Now you have grown, now you have shown, oh, Eileen)
Said Come on, Eileen taloo-rye-aye (repeat in background)
You've grown...
So grown (Show, how you feel)
Now I must say more than ever
Things 'round here have changed
I said too-ra-loo-ra-too-ra-loo-rye-aye
Come on Eileen, I swear (well he means)
At this moment, you mean everything
You in that dress, my thoughts I confess
Verge on dirty
Ah come on Eileen
Come on Eileen, I swear (well he means)
At this moment, you mean everything
You in that dress, my thoughts I confess
Well, they're dirty
Come on Eileen

I'm reading parts of the story to her in dribs and drabs. Her response is, "It's very well-written, but I'm not all that sure about it being about a nun of all people, especially one who hasn't taken all her vows yet. It just seems a little...."

"Ohhhhh," I interrupted, "Get that corncob outta yer arse!"

Sure, I may be pushing the envelope with this one, but that's what being a writer is all about sometimes, pushing that proverbial envelope, and push it I so do enjoy so very very terribly.

I've been home for an hour and have been writing for about 30 minutes. This is what I have so far. For anyone interested, the two songs referenced in the intro to this new tale are "Rock Steady" by Aretha Franklin (a MUST-HAVE for any-damned-body) and an Acid Jazz song by the name of "Rebirth of Slick (Cool Like Dat)" by Digable Planets. This song has one of the best basslines evar because they're using a real upright on this song. This is a personal MUST-HAVE, but I strongly suggest it to the masses who haven't yet been blessed with the sound of Digable Planets. The line from the song in question is: "The rebirth of slick like my gangsta stroll, the lyrics just like loot come in stacks and rolls." So, now that you have the musical history to the beginning of this story, here's what I have so far. I hope you enjoy it half as much as I enjoyed writing "Everyone who was anyone, even though most everyone was a no one, knew that when the Joker emerged from Arkham, it was truly and indeed the 'Rebirth of Slick,' because that’s how J rolled."

( Rock Steady, Mister J, rock steady! )

I try not to be narcissistic but, sometimes, I fail miserably. My own cleverness in my latest Joker fic has me bubbling with over-inflated glee. I can't help it, I just think it's spiff in the spiffiest way. To set this up, I try to make a Heath Ledger reference or give Heath a nod in each Joker fic I write. Some are obvious (like the Joker not wanting to be called 'Heathcliff' by the professor) and some are really enigmatic (like the Joker 'roaring' during his time with Annie). This Heath nod is as "in-your-face" as an acknowledgment can be and I think it's pretty bloody clever and amusing. I could be wrong, but I'm enjoying tooting my own horn here, so indulge me just this once. K? K.

( 'Wha?� Frank?� The bunny?' )

::titter:: Please somebody tell me I'm not the only one who finds this hootacious.

It took me some time to write this one because I couldn't keep my mind on what I was doing, thanks to the toothache from hell. I'm cutting the story for length and triggery whatnot, like violence against children, rape, kidnapping, and cheesecake.

( The Dentist's Date, part 1 )

Duncan is safe from the riot I was going to precipitate down its street because the Academy chose to honour Heath Ledger's brilliance. I'm going to bed now.

Wahey! It's finished! Any glaring grammatical or spelling errors are my fault entirely, as I haven't even proofread this. Please let me know if you find anything or if something just doesn't work. I'm having to split this up because the file is too big to post in one lump.  Dammit.  Anyway, of course, all the usual disclaimers apply.  I own nothing, I am nothing, blabbityblab.  I hope you like.

( here be foul language, extreme sexual situations, violence, and misanthropy on steroids )