Fic: Hollow Be Thy Name (Batman comics)
Jan. 17th, 2008 12:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficTitle: Hollow Be Thy Name
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: The Joker, Harley Quinn
Word Count: 1,023
Summary: The Joker has a talk with God.
The church’s vaulted ceiling was more intimidating than the rest of it put together, buttresses soaring up into darkness like they were holding up the weight of an inexorable crushing. The stained glass windows depicted scenes of sorrow, parallel rows of crucifixions overlooking the pews. The Joker walked the aisle like an usher, then broke into a handspring that was anything but somber. His high-pitched laughter echoed through the room as he scrambled up onto the sanctuary. The iconostasis, filled with scenes of bloody martyrdom, frowned down at him.
Nearby, Harley was dressed as a nun, her white face surrounded by a black apostolnik. She had the parish priest tied up and muted with a ball-gag. The red of the gag seemed to infect his corpulent face. Harley had him forced into a kneel, with herself vined around his back, the side of her head pressed between his shoulder blades so she could hear his heart quicken. Which it did, as she crossed them with her gun-hand. Blessing them both.
“Our father, who art in heaven,” Joker began, with all the solemnity he could muster. “Hollow be thy name. Thy kingdom gone, thy will undone, on Earth as it is in hell.” He leaned against the alter. “Whaddya think, padre? Big improvement, wouldn’t you say?”
The priest couldn’t say anything, but he tried. All it did was start him drooling.
“Hush hush hush, your holiness, this is a house of God.” The Joker leaped up onto the alter, crossing his legs. He spun around so that he was facing the crucifix, its waxen Christ lit only by votive candles. “I came here to talk.”
He was dressed in his best purple, dark like blood if people bled that way. The green of his undershirt was almost black and his shoes were freshly shone, with nary a spot of blood on heel or toe.
“I realize You’re a busy man… son of man… whatever. But judging by all the people who I’ve heard praying to You before I…” the Joker wheedled, pivoting his hands around. “Do what I do, I think I should get a little personal attention from the management for drumming up business. After all, we are in the same business. You hit New Orleans with a flood, I drop poison in Gotham’s water system. I take my cues from You! We’re like… Lucy and Ethel. Yes, to You I even agree to be Ethel.”
The Joker jumped down from his perch and began strolling around the apse, hands stuffed in his pockets like a huckster.
“I read this today.” He pulled a newspaper from his jacket pocket. “It’s about a little girl. Not one of those little girls. Apparently… I mostly skimmed over it on the way to the funnies… Batman saved her dad and she wants the city to have a Batman appreciation day. Give him the key to the city. I’ve seen how big those are; can you imagine finding a doormat to hide that under? Anyhoo, she seems like a sweet girl, sugar and spice and everything nice… so why is it the moment I read that, I had the overwhelming urge to string her up by her own intestines? Or her family’s intestines… someone’s intestines, it’s irrelevant who.”
He threw the newspaper aside and started pacing faster, turning quicker, now roaming like a caged tiger in front of the crucifix.
“So what I want to know is why is it that You put people like me along with people like her? And why am I the way I am? Don’t get me wrong, I love being the dashing, debonair, delicious ruffian that I am, but what’s the point? I know a joke isn’t funny if you explain it, but maybe… just this once… you could clue me into the punchline?”
He ran up and kicked the crucifix. “C’mon! Give me an answer! Why can’t I kill Batman? Why doesn’t he kill me? Why do we always go around and around and around like a shaggy dog story with no ending in sight? It’s like the story of our rivalry is being told by Dane Cook! I hate Dane Cook! I want to gag him with his own liver!”
The Joker calmed, leaning against the crucifix’s lower body and lazily rubbing its molded calf. “Why’d you have to set up someone like Bats as my straight man? He’s impossible to work with! Never gives me the punchline! I kill his sidekick, he lets me live. I cripple his best friend’s daughter, he lets me live. I kill his best friend’s wife, he lets me live. I maim and murder and massacre and he never cracks a smile! He’s supposed to be like me by now and he’s still a self-righteous, uptight… goodie two-shoes!”
With seemingly impossible strength, the Joker ripped the crucifix from its place and let it topple onto the altar. Votive candles scattered and rolled across the floor, bleeding melted wax. The statue was defaced by the impact; the altar cleaved nearly in two. Head bowed, hands together, the Joker walked up the fallen crucifix.
“I’d kinda like to be serious for a while. No one appreciates me but You, and You never give me any feedback. You keep me alive and keep letting me escape, but what’s that? Harley, back me up on this.”
The Joker sat down on the top of the fallen crucifix. Harley scooted under it so she was face to face with the Christ.
“You should be nicer to Mistah J. He puts so much work into his art and what does he get for it? Thirty-one life sentences. It’s a shame, ain’t it puddin’?”
The Joker hopped down next to her, grabbing Harley and the priest in a group hug. “Yeah. Well, I suppose it’s not for us to wonder why, just our lot to do…” he squeezed the priest’s neck tighter and tighter even as Harley nestled into his contact. “Or die.”
The priest stopped kicking and the Joker let him fall to the ground, a dark purple ring around his neck.
“C’mon, Harley. Let’s paint the town red.”
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: The Joker, Harley Quinn
Word Count: 1,023
Summary: The Joker has a talk with God.
The church’s vaulted ceiling was more intimidating than the rest of it put together, buttresses soaring up into darkness like they were holding up the weight of an inexorable crushing. The stained glass windows depicted scenes of sorrow, parallel rows of crucifixions overlooking the pews. The Joker walked the aisle like an usher, then broke into a handspring that was anything but somber. His high-pitched laughter echoed through the room as he scrambled up onto the sanctuary. The iconostasis, filled with scenes of bloody martyrdom, frowned down at him.
Nearby, Harley was dressed as a nun, her white face surrounded by a black apostolnik. She had the parish priest tied up and muted with a ball-gag. The red of the gag seemed to infect his corpulent face. Harley had him forced into a kneel, with herself vined around his back, the side of her head pressed between his shoulder blades so she could hear his heart quicken. Which it did, as she crossed them with her gun-hand. Blessing them both.
“Our father, who art in heaven,” Joker began, with all the solemnity he could muster. “Hollow be thy name. Thy kingdom gone, thy will undone, on Earth as it is in hell.” He leaned against the alter. “Whaddya think, padre? Big improvement, wouldn’t you say?”
The priest couldn’t say anything, but he tried. All it did was start him drooling.
“Hush hush hush, your holiness, this is a house of God.” The Joker leaped up onto the alter, crossing his legs. He spun around so that he was facing the crucifix, its waxen Christ lit only by votive candles. “I came here to talk.”
He was dressed in his best purple, dark like blood if people bled that way. The green of his undershirt was almost black and his shoes were freshly shone, with nary a spot of blood on heel or toe.
“I realize You’re a busy man… son of man… whatever. But judging by all the people who I’ve heard praying to You before I…” the Joker wheedled, pivoting his hands around. “Do what I do, I think I should get a little personal attention from the management for drumming up business. After all, we are in the same business. You hit New Orleans with a flood, I drop poison in Gotham’s water system. I take my cues from You! We’re like… Lucy and Ethel. Yes, to You I even agree to be Ethel.”
The Joker jumped down from his perch and began strolling around the apse, hands stuffed in his pockets like a huckster.
“I read this today.” He pulled a newspaper from his jacket pocket. “It’s about a little girl. Not one of those little girls. Apparently… I mostly skimmed over it on the way to the funnies… Batman saved her dad and she wants the city to have a Batman appreciation day. Give him the key to the city. I’ve seen how big those are; can you imagine finding a doormat to hide that under? Anyhoo, she seems like a sweet girl, sugar and spice and everything nice… so why is it the moment I read that, I had the overwhelming urge to string her up by her own intestines? Or her family’s intestines… someone’s intestines, it’s irrelevant who.”
He threw the newspaper aside and started pacing faster, turning quicker, now roaming like a caged tiger in front of the crucifix.
“So what I want to know is why is it that You put people like me along with people like her? And why am I the way I am? Don’t get me wrong, I love being the dashing, debonair, delicious ruffian that I am, but what’s the point? I know a joke isn’t funny if you explain it, but maybe… just this once… you could clue me into the punchline?”
He ran up and kicked the crucifix. “C’mon! Give me an answer! Why can’t I kill Batman? Why doesn’t he kill me? Why do we always go around and around and around like a shaggy dog story with no ending in sight? It’s like the story of our rivalry is being told by Dane Cook! I hate Dane Cook! I want to gag him with his own liver!”
The Joker calmed, leaning against the crucifix’s lower body and lazily rubbing its molded calf. “Why’d you have to set up someone like Bats as my straight man? He’s impossible to work with! Never gives me the punchline! I kill his sidekick, he lets me live. I cripple his best friend’s daughter, he lets me live. I kill his best friend’s wife, he lets me live. I maim and murder and massacre and he never cracks a smile! He’s supposed to be like me by now and he’s still a self-righteous, uptight… goodie two-shoes!”
With seemingly impossible strength, the Joker ripped the crucifix from its place and let it topple onto the altar. Votive candles scattered and rolled across the floor, bleeding melted wax. The statue was defaced by the impact; the altar cleaved nearly in two. Head bowed, hands together, the Joker walked up the fallen crucifix.
“I’d kinda like to be serious for a while. No one appreciates me but You, and You never give me any feedback. You keep me alive and keep letting me escape, but what’s that? Harley, back me up on this.”
The Joker sat down on the top of the fallen crucifix. Harley scooted under it so she was face to face with the Christ.
“You should be nicer to Mistah J. He puts so much work into his art and what does he get for it? Thirty-one life sentences. It’s a shame, ain’t it puddin’?”
The Joker hopped down next to her, grabbing Harley and the priest in a group hug. “Yeah. Well, I suppose it’s not for us to wonder why, just our lot to do…” he squeezed the priest’s neck tighter and tighter even as Harley nestled into his contact. “Or die.”
The priest stopped kicking and the Joker let him fall to the ground, a dark purple ring around his neck.
“C’mon, Harley. Let’s paint the town red.”
