Giggles Among Sadists

I do not own any aspect of Batman Begins or The Dark Knight films, or Batman, or the Joker, etc. This is a fanfiction of the Nolanverse, hence not mine and based on Chris Nolan's adaptations of The Batman and his universe. I do not make any money from this, nor do I profit in any other manner. The Batman is a creation of DC comics, as if I needed to tell anyone that, but ok. Oh, btw, I don't own Batman or the Joker, or Gotham City, nor do I have a patent on sadism. Enough said? No? Well shit lol ALL I OWN IN THIS STORY IS THE FANGIRL GLEE THAT SPAWNS IT! Peace, and ENJOY!!!


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Chapter 2: A String-less Marionette Behind the Window

His capture and incarceration had been negligible. After all, he was a man with a gift for creating options; options that got many maimed or incinerated under normal circumstances. To his credit, he wasn’t a typical man, and he exuded that with every flick of his tongue and flaring glance, but his psychological attributes seemed to earn him more attention than even his jagged glasgow did as of yet. This was especially true in his present abode, Arkham.

Ah, the place seemed to be the attraction of the decade, thanks to Dr. Crane’s tutelage, but the Joker didn’t consider his stay very permanent. He gave his arrangements a few weeks to fall into place, and while the gears chugged into motion, he figured he’d enjoy his stay. The ride to the asylum had been one fraught with amusement, for him only sadly, since the Gotham police detail to his armored transport caused more terror and anxiety as it caravanned from the courthouse to the imposing and morose asylum edifice than his little hospital ransom had a few days earlier.

Surrounded by heavily-armed cops, he was led in handcuffs and ankle shackles into the building and immediately into inmate processing. Chuckling at the gun barrels pointed on him, he’d extended his wrists to the trembling orderly in charge of undoing his handcuffs so that he could be subject to his oh-so-invasive routine strip search. The room was tense with asylum staff and SWAT members, leaving him alone in his maniacal humor, but he didn’t mind it much, until the same orderly got too secure and went for his face.

It’d been an innocent reflex shattering the fellow’s jaw against the stainless steel table he’d been leaning against with mocking boredom; the dutiful dope had tried to wipe his clown paint off, but he’d immediately seen the humor in his flare up when a few guards had slammed him into the tiled stall used to wash off incoming patients with the fire hose, landing several blows that earned guffaws of hysterical hilarity than grunts of pain. His peel of laughter had irked the guards quickly back, leaving him with his arms curled around to hold his aching and bruised sides as he cackled at the crowd in front of him.

His nudity was jarring and impressive all at once, but in the presence of so many prying eyes, it—as well as the cavity search—had failed to humble and humiliate the sociopathic clown that had marred Gotham City with its own weakness and terror.

The burst of icy water had only pried a whoop of grunts and unintelligible catcalls from the Joker, who proceeded to raise each arm to scrub down his sides and along his taut belly, gargling a silly tune as he sloshed the water that he slurped noisily into his mouth before spitting it out and hopping from foot to foot as the water blasted against his sun-kissed body.

He’d chuckled to himself as he toweled off in front of the tense audience, relishing the fact that they had pointedly avoided blasting water at his face; a lovely sign that spoke volumes of their opposition towards exploiting his fall from grace just so they wouldn’t incur his swift wrath.

They knew he was still to be feared. Jail, Arkham, or in his custom-made suit, he was still the harbinger of terror.

He savored the fear as if it was a sweet taste that lingered on his tongue and lips; savored it as they led him down the austere corridors and along the walkways to his quarters in the maximum security wing of Arkham Asylum. Maximum security. Hah, hahahah…People invested sooo much into that word. It was the most goddamned funniest concept; one he worked mighty hard to flip on its head. Even at this very moment, as he sits in his Spartan-styled cell, he twiddles his thumbs and chuckles at the thought that his city was being lulled into a false sense of security, one begging to be pulled out from under it’s feet.

All in good time…

“Yo! Freak show! Time for your recreation hour” the harsh voice rasped through the intercom of the glass wall that revealed his quarters to plain view, nestled in the corner adjacent to the elevator used to escort high-level inmates to every floor of the asylum. Slapping his wet lips together, the Joker glanced up at the orderly and two guards from the corner of his smeared black-rimmed eyes, his greasy green and streaky hair dangling into his face as he tilted his head comically at the crew. “You heard me! On your feet, walk to the door with your hands behind your head and your legs spread” ordered the orderly, Gary, he remembered, as he dangled the handcuffs and shackles up in impatience.

Slowly getting to his feet, the Joker crookedly swaggered towards the door, dusting invisible lint off his plain white hospital shirt before assuming the stance he’d been ordered.

The door was unlocked with a security code, the reinforced glass sliding to the side to allow access into the cramped cell. One of Arkham’s new upgrades after Crane’s little stunt the year before. As they secured him, the Joker looked mockingly concerned before leaning towards the orderly and drawling, “Hi Gair-uh, long time no see—tell me! How’s the little woman doing?”

“Shut the hell up, asshole!” growled the orderly, shoving him out of his cell to begin the shuffle down towards the recreation hall of the asylum.

“Ah-ta-ta-taaaah, now Gary ol’ buddy, ol’ pal” he paused, wetting his red-smeared lips and fixing the man with a comical glint in his eye before adding, “yah gotta take hold of that resentment-uh, yah got against me. It wouldn’t kill you to be a little more…friendly.”

“It’s going to earn you a mouthful of blood if you don’t shut the fuck up, clown” was the terse reply he earned along with the shove into the elevator before being flanked by the guards on each side of him.

Whistling a sigh, the Joker knew his lack of retaliation as of late was helping his case, or more importantly, setting the trap of compliance that would make his coup the more fun…but in all honesty, the only entertainment he had of late was the instigation of these lunk-headed drones and the crusading docs that tried to either condemn him into permanent solitaire or coddle him into scapegoats for his unique and innate genius, to justify and rationalize a mind with no equal or mold to copy. The latter had been a funny surprise at his hearing, as a butting Arkham liaison and junior psychiatrist had mounted a public defense for him—to his public defenders harried chagrin, even going as far as lobbying that forcefully medicating him without sufficient time to diagnose and treat him was an infringement to his constitutional right to refuse medication, and the judge had actually bought the argument! Hah, it was probably the reason why he wasn’t strung out of his mind, or more out of his mind, depending on who you asked…

But that was going to change once the head of the asylum appointed a psychiatrist to his case. He wondered why the little firecracker from the hearing hadn’t rallied to be appointed to his case, but his musings drifted to more interesting things, such as the special glass media room he was now ushered into.

“You got one hour in here. Start any trouble, and its back into your cell for another 72 hours straight, clear?” Gary grumbled as he unshackled the clown, who rubbed at his wrists for show as he scowled around the sparse room.

Once he was unbound, the Joker flicked the tip of his tongue to tug at the corner of his mouth before sardonically replying: “Crysssstaall.”

With that, his detail backed out of the room, slamming the heavy steel door shut and leaving him to his devices, which in his current surroundings weren’t much, even for a resourceful maniac like him.

Plopping into the bolted chair, he swiveled around almost childlike, humming to himself before allowing the chair to stop in front of the thick glass pane that looked out at the large recreation hall filled with his fellow Akham-ites. He had felt the weight of their stares from the second he stepped into the little room, and now took great pleasure in ignoring the gossip-spewing anchorwoman on the bolted ceiling TV at his far off corner to clasp his tapered fingers over his thighs, thrumming sporadically to a haphazard beat as he glared out at his spectators.

He raised a brow at them, as if silently saying, ‘is there something on my face???’, before his attention was directed to the buzzing of the door that led in and out of the hall just beyond his enclosed media room. He followed the other inmates’ glances with the corner of his eyes, absentmindedly rubbing the tip of his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip.

Now, this was one in-tri-ging Arkham-ite!

The first thing he saw was a mane of mussed brown hair that dangled down to the small of her back and flowed over her shoulders to brush against the side of her face—was that a muzzle? Hah! And a straightjacket?! He internally snorted, wondering why he hadn’t ever donned one yet…well well well…what a pair of legs. Too bad the rest of her curves were bound up…didn’t know Arkham allowed for short shorts, especially soooo exquisitely short.

Then, as if finally aware of where the tension in the room was riveted to, she turned towards him, and oohh-lightmyfire—those are some crazy-beautiful eyes. Emphasis on the crazy, but still, one hell of a shame the rest of her is so packaged up.

Her stare was so intensely focused, so intent on scanning him as if for interest sake…or was it appreciation? He chuckled to himself, boring his dark gaze into the earthy auburn stare framed by the mussed brown hair as he watched a burly inmate approach her the way a thug sizes up a plaything. She buffed the man, stepping closer towards his little chamber without ever pulling her eyes away from his. Wiggling his fingers, he tapped them erratically against his knees and hunched forward into his chair, a stray melody from a long-forgotten concerto thrumming into his mind to fit the scene that was going to play out.

She wasn’t laden with overtly murderous intent, but as one killer looking into the eyes of another, he knew that glint that brightened her eyes when she threatened the thug with a shank to the jugular. That glint was a familiar feature that greeted him in the mirror, but her’s was very unique.

He licked his lips and hapharzardly clasped his hands over his knees, sitting back in his chair as he pursed his lips in interest, chuckling a restrained wave of mirth that caused his Glasgow scar to pucker and squint his black-rimmed eyes. The crowd in the hall was building into a frenzy just as the hulking thug lunged a punch at the girl, who contorted in such a way that he actually sat up in his chair, watching as she did a handless cartwheel to maneuver out of the way and simultaneously kicked the dumb bastard in the jaw hard enough to stun him. Well well well…

Finally some entertainment!

It seemed the wildfire thought the same thing, as she fixed the Joker in the most burning glance he’d ever received from another human being; a glance that brought to life a force he admired in himself.

The joy of utter sadism.

This little sadist in the straightjacket and muzzle was relishing the violence, the odds of inflicting pain versus suffering pain. And he watched her dance along both lines, like a string-less marionette propelled by inherent rage and lust.

Now, he figured the spunky doll would be clocked out by the group of nuts that surrounded her like easy prey, but even a mad mind like him was surprised by the turn of events.

The thug dizzily reached to his flip flop, removing the shank embedded in the sole and extending it out like a switchblade. Bad form, baaad form! What a goddamned amateur-!

The fit of giggles that began to emanate from the string-less marionette crept up from the very depth of her soul, her shoulders shaking as her peels grew in pitch. The sound was as jarring as metal grinding against concrete, but still ever-so-delectable.

“Lessee how much you’ll laugh with this shank in your belly and my dick in your mouth, you fucking whore!” growled the thug before lunging at her, shank extended to rip into her belly.

“Here we go…” muttered the Joker under his breath, similar to a spectator on the edge of their seat, anticipating the final outcome.

He hadn’t expected an improvised ballet. That was what came to mind when he watched the wildfire jerk out of the way just as the tip of the shank sunk into the thick hem of the jacket, spinning on her tip toes and propelling the shank to cut a gouging tear into her straightjacket the way a can opener slices through the top of a can. Risky, albeit resourceful, but risky when any more narrowly aimed could’ve cost her to slit her wrist, not to mention puncture her side. As a result, however, she only earned a raised graze to mar her arm and back, but, her arms where unbound and her smirk was squinting her eyes maniacally above her muzzle.

“Ahhhh” rolling her shoulders, she cracked her neck and rolled her hips. “Thankssss buddy!” she drawled lazily, as if she was stretching after a long nap. Then, the ballet continued, as she leapt in the air and bashed one of the other thugs in the head with roundhouse kick before driving her fist to smash another inmate in the throat.

Internally enthralled, the Joker cocked an eyebrow as she effortlessly killed one of the thugs with an up-thrust palm-hit that drove the cartilage in his nose up into his brain. The unlucky fellow dropped to the floor dead as a Bat-fake before she whirled around and went on the defensive from the shank-wielding thug. The other Arkham-ites were shouting, squealing, and wailing in the chaos, the intercom exploding into protocols and sirens that alerted the rest of the floor of the commotion. Sirens…he loved everything associated with them, but who would’ve thought such a crazy little siren would be the source of his most-appreciated sound.

And what a siren she was.

Growing impatient, the thug roared a shout as he slashed at the air around her, desperately trying to land a blow that would crumble her to the ground, but instead, he found himself back against the glass that divided the Joker from the rest of the fun. Then, in the most precise motion, the muzzled ballerina kicked the shank out of his hand to fly up into the air, where she caught it in mid spin and thrust, driving it into the aghast thug’s jugular.

The gushing spray of blood hit her in the face and misted all over glass as he clutched at her hand, gasping and thrashing convulsively against the pressure of the plunging weapon. Ruthlessly, she twisted the shank into his windpipe, and watched him gurgle and gargle his final scream before letting him slide down the glass wall in his death throws.

Then, in the glow of crimson, he saw the siren’s real beauty. She stood, covered in blood, her eyes foggy and drunk with bloodlust, staring into a faraway place locked in her head just as the riot guards burst past the blockade against the door and began filing into the room to subdue all the crazies.

Sitting in his chair, the Joker’s tongue tugged at the corner of his mouth, his expression darkly riveted on the bloody marionette on the other side of the window. And then her eyes focused on him, as if noticing again. Her eyes brightened, and they were oh-sooo-brilliant framed by the blood smears and wild hair.

Guards were shouting at her back, shotguns armed with rubber bullets pointed at her back as they roared at her to put her hands up. And her hands did go up, splaying against the glass as she leaned her forehead against it and gazed at him with such longing.

That stare sent a delicious tingle down his spine and tickled into his loins, earning a primal grumble to work its way up into his chest as he clawed his fingers up and down his thighs before sitting up the chair. Smacking his lips together, he absentmindedly grazed his teeth over his lower lip before dragging his tongue to wet the cracked and dry flesh.

“Well, daahrling…don’t you look fuuun-uh” he stated in a husky and mischievous tone, dragging ‘fun’ out before clenching his jaw tight down on the word.

Her head snapped up at his statement, the first time ever hearing his voice, enthralling and new to her, as she brightened from head to toe more so than when she had been in her state of bloodlust; the detail slightly shocked him, having figured this whole time that she knew who he was and had been admiring him as The Crown Prince of Crime, but now he realized her appreciation was on some other level that he couldn’t even guess.

The guards were growing antsy behind her, but were too scared to take her in for some reason. Was she a lifer? Had to be with such tension held in the mugs of the yelling guards.

“I heard you, Chris, Nolan…Just, relaaaax” she spoke up in a hissed drawl, her eyes fluttering in irritation as she stopped leaning against the glass. The guards immediately grew tenser, and unsurely lowered their weapons.

Her eyes focused on him even more than before, becoming hooded with something he couldn’t read as she raised her long fingers to the glass and framed his face in a trail of blood before pushing off and whirling around to face the guards. The guards flinched slightly before advancing and securing her hands behind her back with handcuffs, only doing so however when she folded her hands behind her back.

The chaos in the room was replaced with asylum staff and guards taking heed of the patients, but all paused in their tracks to allow the bloody marionette and her escorts to walk towards the doors.

He watched avidly as she was whisked out the doors, his humor straining under his skin for release. Not since his last altercation with the Batman had he felt so manic with glee and intrigue.

Curiosity was always his favorite muse, but it didn’t hold a candle to his love for Sadism. And by the godsssss, that feisty doll had plenty of it herself. Definitely wouldn’t mind watching her dance again…or tying some strings on her and playing with her himself.

He’d have to think about it some more…not too hard with how hard up he was for excitement, and excite him she did…

The Joker was uncharacteristically mum all the way back to his cell, a blessing Gary thanked and chose to appreciate as he secured the terrorist clown back into his cell, not knowing that compliance and security were the furthest things from the truth for the near future as far as the glasgowed mastermind plotting to himself was concerned.

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THANKS FOR REEADING!

This chapter was tons of fun to write. It’s my first time really writing 3rd person within the character’s head, and I just hope I did it justice. I also hope I carried the Heath’s Joker as authentically as a fangirl can lol Please review and let me know!!