Post by Tagliagole on Jul 3, 2013 0:44:02 GMT
Down a dark alley on a forgotten street, deep within the narrows teeming with unsavory life, a harlequin beast strode. Steam curled up in wisps from the streets like tendrils of dense fog. A fresh, warm rain had swept across the chilled city, clashing harshly against the unforgiving pavement. From the sewer grates and manholes came particularly thick puffs of the smoke, pressurized and condensed through small openings. The scent of the city grew more pungent with the brief shower. Instead of cleaning the narrows, perhaps as Mother Nature intended to do, it only slathered the filth that much more finely into each and every crevice of these God forsaken lands. A cacophony of ambulance and police sirens wailed in the background, creating the perfect score of music for this comedic tragedy. Not many dared tread on these dangerous streets, especially at night. Not many at all, except, that is, for.....
Him.
Duo-hued eyes clipped each street corner and hideout with a manic gleam. A complete sense of chaos and anarchy slithered from this being in such dense waves, one could very well choke on the nihilism. A permanent grin contorted his already deranged features. Scars, hideous and red against his ivory mug, stretched up from each end of his mouth in a Jester's smile. Only, he was not so harmless as to amuse a court. No, he is no Jester. He is the Joker and he entertains crowds beyond belief. They often find themselves laughing themselves to death. Sandpaper-like sanguine tongue slipped from between sets of jagged and yellowing teeth, licking up the sides of his scars, feeling the ridges and indents caused by a night so long ago. When? When was that night? He could not recall, did not want to. What had happened? He was certain it's what made him into who he is, excuse me, what he is. Still, he refused to remember, refused to stick to one story. A rasping, demented chuckle escaped his throat. Words dripped from smiling lips. They were ranging in pitch, but baritone low and oh-so toxic. "Now, uh, why would I stick with just ONE bor-or-ing past when I can, hehe, have so many interesting ones! I ah, like to keep my options open, ya know?"
He was talking to no one in particular, as he's known to do quite often. Who needs an audience when one can simply create one? It was true, though. Joker did not like simply sticking to one past. He had a new origin for every day and every victim, though occasionally he'd retell one, alter it a bit, if he particularly liked it. But it all began the same: 'Do you like the scars?' And all ended the same: 'I know! How about I put a big ol' smile on your face?!' The method and the story, however, was never quite the same. He was a creature of surprise and spontaneity. Redundancy and repetition was not only tedious to him, but it actually made anger rise so swiftly in his being, he'd feel as if he'd explode. Many had lost life and limb do to his rage.
The patches over his mismatched eyes only added to the clown-like appearance he exuded. There was nothing funny about this clown. Nothing at all. His gait was odd, almost ataxic as one leg or another would spasm and his skull would twitch, only adding to the grotesque aura around him. His skull was kept low, neck elongated out, as he looked around with an unnerving laugh. His body would sway in an almost drunken way with each new step. One would mistake him for being clumsy or uncouth, but they would be horribly wrong. When he so wished and when the purpose served him well-enough, he could act with quite a bit of grace and aptitude. That is, when it served him. He hardly found such times. See, he's a being of simple taste, enjoying little things as chaos, anarchy, destruction, giving and receiving pain. Little things. He could not care less about territory, about who has more bitches or food. No, but he'd love to tear them all down from their high horses and show them how real he is and how petty their lives are. What is a life of materialism? He has gotten past that stage and reached a stage of total clarity, superior sanity. Of course, most refer to that as insanity. He likes to think of it as 'being ahead of the curve'. One day, they'll learn. They just need a great shock, just one bad day like he had. One bad day to make them like him.
Just.
One.
Bad.
Day.
A rattling in an alley caught his attention, springing him from his musings. His head cocked, a delirious look on his features, eyes slightly glazed. He paused mid-stride, one large, painted leg stuck midair. There, a thin, scrappy looking tan dog had knocked over a trash can and was sifting through it for food. Oh how disgustingly weak. Joker, yes, he was a bit malnourished, but that was not because he could not find food. Please, he could get food any time he wanted. If he wanted something, there's nothing anyone would be able to do to stop him. No, he was a bit too thin because he was just too damn busy to stop and do something useless like eat! There's work to be down, stages to be set, curtains to draw, and fireworks to set off. This pathetic thing before him had no excuse. Now, he wouldn't attack over something petty like that. Ha! How utterly wrong. Oh, Joker would simply like to cheer up this unhappy looking being. He is, after all, the Ace of Knaves, the Clown Prince of Crime, the Harlequin of Hate! He was meant to entertain. Alright, subtract those last titles, and there you go.
Licking his chops, tongue etching the beginnings of his scars, he turned and made his way toward the emaciated pooch. A low, long whistle hit the airwaves, capturing the scavenging dog's attention. He looked up with surprised, slightly dazed eyes, a growl working its way toward the apparent intruder, only to die on the tip of his tongue. Joker was a fearsome sight. One brilliantly bright azure eye glared from a silver-patched socket, while the left was a deep, suffocating muddy brown, ringed with black. That horrible, sickening grin seemed to stretch on endlessly, irritated red with the constant prodding and licking, only added on by his natural, teeth-baring smile. He stood tall, thirty-six inches at the withers, the size of a wolf. The lower half of him was black while the upper half of him was white. Spots of those colors, along with gray, splattered across him intermittently. He was thin, horribly thin, but with a large, broad chest, seeming to through his appearance far off balance. The jerking motions and deranged laughter only added to the horrific sight. He had Dane in him, obviously, though his features were muddled by some many breeds, none could truly pinpoint just what he was.
The smaller dog backed up a pace or two at the demonic looking creature. With surprising ease, Joker jumped two paces ahead, much nearer to the dog than before. "Now didn't your mother ever teach you it's rude to run away from strangers? No? Well damn, guess I better teach you some manners! You are in luck. Be a good little boy and sit. Class is in sess- I SAID SIT!" His sporadic talking, almost teasing in a way, held such a sense of malice, it was as if hearing your death sentence. Which, in a way, one was. The last part was roared out with a shocking ripple of anger. A large paw swatting the dog down. As the dog cringed, afraid to move, Joker grinned, obviously pleased with the actions. "There's a, heh, good boy. One more step outta line 'n I might just have to, ah, bring back uh, corporal punishment!" He drug the last word out, elucidating on his glee of the violent reprimanding. With a sharp look, he spoke again. "Where to be-gin. Hmm...Lesson one: Clowns are scary." He paced back and forth, his eyes constantly flicking about as if distracted. "Lesson tw-' The dog whimpered out a plea. Joker paused mid-sentence, his face twisting to stare at the small being, an indescribable look on his features. "My, you look a bit, hah, shaken. Now now, settle down. This is a very important lesson. Huh? Please don't what? Ahh, please don't hurt you. That's right. I forgot you lot like to beg. No. No no no. NO. NEVER beg. And NEVER ask for something. You TAKE it. It, it gains more attention. Attention is good. It's good. Which reminds me..." He whipped around, a hideous grin masking his features."Do you have, uh, coulrophobia?"
And so it began. The horrific screaming would forever echo through empty corridors. The blood would forever stain that alley. A corpse, sufficiently mangled with a horrific grin ripped up its mouth would never heal. In death, with a hideous face, that carcass would forever be grinning. That night, the residents could hear his mangled laugh screeching through the air like a siren of damnation. A new being of horror arrived in the streets and it would never be the same again. That laugh, that smile, those scars, they would forever haunt any unfortunate enough to catch them. Not that they'd live long enough afterward. Then again, Joker did enjoy his theatrics. What better way than to leave a few guests to spread the word of his wonderful performances?
Words: 1,606
Tagged: Open
Muse: Good
Notes: Recycled. Because I'm an environmentalist like that >.>
Him.
Duo-hued eyes clipped each street corner and hideout with a manic gleam. A complete sense of chaos and anarchy slithered from this being in such dense waves, one could very well choke on the nihilism. A permanent grin contorted his already deranged features. Scars, hideous and red against his ivory mug, stretched up from each end of his mouth in a Jester's smile. Only, he was not so harmless as to amuse a court. No, he is no Jester. He is the Joker and he entertains crowds beyond belief. They often find themselves laughing themselves to death. Sandpaper-like sanguine tongue slipped from between sets of jagged and yellowing teeth, licking up the sides of his scars, feeling the ridges and indents caused by a night so long ago. When? When was that night? He could not recall, did not want to. What had happened? He was certain it's what made him into who he is, excuse me, what he is. Still, he refused to remember, refused to stick to one story. A rasping, demented chuckle escaped his throat. Words dripped from smiling lips. They were ranging in pitch, but baritone low and oh-so toxic. "Now, uh, why would I stick with just ONE bor-or-ing past when I can, hehe, have so many interesting ones! I ah, like to keep my options open, ya know?"
He was talking to no one in particular, as he's known to do quite often. Who needs an audience when one can simply create one? It was true, though. Joker did not like simply sticking to one past. He had a new origin for every day and every victim, though occasionally he'd retell one, alter it a bit, if he particularly liked it. But it all began the same: 'Do you like the scars?' And all ended the same: 'I know! How about I put a big ol' smile on your face?!' The method and the story, however, was never quite the same. He was a creature of surprise and spontaneity. Redundancy and repetition was not only tedious to him, but it actually made anger rise so swiftly in his being, he'd feel as if he'd explode. Many had lost life and limb do to his rage.
The patches over his mismatched eyes only added to the clown-like appearance he exuded. There was nothing funny about this clown. Nothing at all. His gait was odd, almost ataxic as one leg or another would spasm and his skull would twitch, only adding to the grotesque aura around him. His skull was kept low, neck elongated out, as he looked around with an unnerving laugh. His body would sway in an almost drunken way with each new step. One would mistake him for being clumsy or uncouth, but they would be horribly wrong. When he so wished and when the purpose served him well-enough, he could act with quite a bit of grace and aptitude. That is, when it served him. He hardly found such times. See, he's a being of simple taste, enjoying little things as chaos, anarchy, destruction, giving and receiving pain. Little things. He could not care less about territory, about who has more bitches or food. No, but he'd love to tear them all down from their high horses and show them how real he is and how petty their lives are. What is a life of materialism? He has gotten past that stage and reached a stage of total clarity, superior sanity. Of course, most refer to that as insanity. He likes to think of it as 'being ahead of the curve'. One day, they'll learn. They just need a great shock, just one bad day like he had. One bad day to make them like him.
Just.
One.
Bad.
Day.
A rattling in an alley caught his attention, springing him from his musings. His head cocked, a delirious look on his features, eyes slightly glazed. He paused mid-stride, one large, painted leg stuck midair. There, a thin, scrappy looking tan dog had knocked over a trash can and was sifting through it for food. Oh how disgustingly weak. Joker, yes, he was a bit malnourished, but that was not because he could not find food. Please, he could get food any time he wanted. If he wanted something, there's nothing anyone would be able to do to stop him. No, he was a bit too thin because he was just too damn busy to stop and do something useless like eat! There's work to be down, stages to be set, curtains to draw, and fireworks to set off. This pathetic thing before him had no excuse. Now, he wouldn't attack over something petty like that. Ha! How utterly wrong. Oh, Joker would simply like to cheer up this unhappy looking being. He is, after all, the Ace of Knaves, the Clown Prince of Crime, the Harlequin of Hate! He was meant to entertain. Alright, subtract those last titles, and there you go.
Licking his chops, tongue etching the beginnings of his scars, he turned and made his way toward the emaciated pooch. A low, long whistle hit the airwaves, capturing the scavenging dog's attention. He looked up with surprised, slightly dazed eyes, a growl working its way toward the apparent intruder, only to die on the tip of his tongue. Joker was a fearsome sight. One brilliantly bright azure eye glared from a silver-patched socket, while the left was a deep, suffocating muddy brown, ringed with black. That horrible, sickening grin seemed to stretch on endlessly, irritated red with the constant prodding and licking, only added on by his natural, teeth-baring smile. He stood tall, thirty-six inches at the withers, the size of a wolf. The lower half of him was black while the upper half of him was white. Spots of those colors, along with gray, splattered across him intermittently. He was thin, horribly thin, but with a large, broad chest, seeming to through his appearance far off balance. The jerking motions and deranged laughter only added to the horrific sight. He had Dane in him, obviously, though his features were muddled by some many breeds, none could truly pinpoint just what he was.
The smaller dog backed up a pace or two at the demonic looking creature. With surprising ease, Joker jumped two paces ahead, much nearer to the dog than before. "Now didn't your mother ever teach you it's rude to run away from strangers? No? Well damn, guess I better teach you some manners! You are in luck. Be a good little boy and sit. Class is in sess- I SAID SIT!" His sporadic talking, almost teasing in a way, held such a sense of malice, it was as if hearing your death sentence. Which, in a way, one was. The last part was roared out with a shocking ripple of anger. A large paw swatting the dog down. As the dog cringed, afraid to move, Joker grinned, obviously pleased with the actions. "There's a, heh, good boy. One more step outta line 'n I might just have to, ah, bring back uh, corporal punishment!" He drug the last word out, elucidating on his glee of the violent reprimanding. With a sharp look, he spoke again. "Where to be-gin. Hmm...Lesson one: Clowns are scary." He paced back and forth, his eyes constantly flicking about as if distracted. "Lesson tw-' The dog whimpered out a plea. Joker paused mid-sentence, his face twisting to stare at the small being, an indescribable look on his features. "My, you look a bit, hah, shaken. Now now, settle down. This is a very important lesson. Huh? Please don't what? Ahh, please don't hurt you. That's right. I forgot you lot like to beg. No. No no no. NO. NEVER beg. And NEVER ask for something. You TAKE it. It, it gains more attention. Attention is good. It's good. Which reminds me..." He whipped around, a hideous grin masking his features."Do you have, uh, coulrophobia?"
And so it began. The horrific screaming would forever echo through empty corridors. The blood would forever stain that alley. A corpse, sufficiently mangled with a horrific grin ripped up its mouth would never heal. In death, with a hideous face, that carcass would forever be grinning. That night, the residents could hear his mangled laugh screeching through the air like a siren of damnation. A new being of horror arrived in the streets and it would never be the same again. That laugh, that smile, those scars, they would forever haunt any unfortunate enough to catch them. Not that they'd live long enough afterward. Then again, Joker did enjoy his theatrics. What better way than to leave a few guests to spread the word of his wonderful performances?
Words: 1,606
Tagged: Open
Muse: Good
Notes: Recycled. Because I'm an environmentalist like that >.>
