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More reposts are fun Sunday, 05-Sep-1999 15:19:33
Hunter and Knight- Tag Team “Of Clowns and Knights” For those who follow Continuity: This story takes place roughly twenty years before the formation of the LL. By story’s end, it’ll be ten years before the formation of the LL… but then, you’ll see what I mean. You might want to read it a couple times… ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You’re just outside the window. HER window. God, she’s wonderful. She knows just what’s going on inside your head… knows what you’re thinking, and how you’re feeling just by looking at you. There’s nothing that could attract you to her more- you find it so wonderfully sexy that she knows what you’re thinking without having to ask. If she WERE to ask, you’d find it an invasion of your privacy. Moreover, she knows so very well how jealously you guard your privacy. She knows just how you like to be held. Her emerald, dazzling eyes- probably the only thing on the planet that can pacify you. You’re positive that ancient songs were written about her ethereal, sun-dyed blonde hair. If angels do exist, and if they do visit the Earth, HER wings are follicle-based. Any other angel, compared to her, is an atrocious sinner. Long night fighting crime. She knows who you are, who you truly are, and unlike most women, loves you even more for it. She looks forward to you coming home… while she loves your heroic nature, she hates seeing you battered, bruised, and yet never quite broken. Tears of worry are then traded for kisses of joy… You want so much to throw the cowl and cape into the chair. Apartments are notorious for not being disturbed by proprietors, so you have all the time in the world. Seeing her graceful form slumber makes you want to do nothing but hold her while she sleeps, knowing the peace and wonder that comes from the deepest of love, the most wonderful commitment. You’re just about to take off the costume, leap inside the building, when the whole thing pops like a champagne cork. Hundreds of people die by fire…in front of your face… ash and burning flesh assault your nostrils with ferocity unleashed from Hell’s most bitter pit. And she’s…. Your wife… She’s one who doesn’t make it. Sharon. God, why? For the first time, EVER, in your life, you’d trusted someone utterly. Completely. You were HAPPY, goddamn it. She made you forget about everything that ever bothered you. She gave you self-confidence when your days absolutely sucked. And now… Now some prick killed her. You never even got to say “I love you” one final time. You never even got to comfort her in her final moments of fear and confusion. Whoever the bastard was that killed her, he/she raped you of your trust. Startled, you sit up… Realizing that the coldness you feel isn’t just in your gut. GothamMetropolisYork isn’t well known for its balmy nights… and winter nights are worst of all when the one you love is dead. You stand, realizing that sidewalks aren’t warm places to sleep, wanting just to end everything, impale yourself on a pitchfork, knife, whatever, just make the pain go away. Her death replays itself millions of ways in your head, every night. You’ve never found out who killed her. All you know is that he’s one sick bastard. You’re damn sure he blew up your apartment to get to you. You just don’t know who, or why. You will. If it takes until the End of Time, you will. May God have mercy on the bastard’s soul. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- GOTHAMETROPOLISYORK SQUIRE. Wednesday, August 4 Two months ago, one of the greatest catastrophes our city has ever experienced occurred when the love of my life perished, along with nearly three hundred other people, in the apartment building we shared. You’re reading this column and asking yourselves, “Why should WE care about some scum journalist’s wife? All he does is rip on us weekly about being ‘scared little maggots, too afraid to stand up for our own civil rights’, and ‘financial whores, ready to bend over for the most powerful political pimp.’ I’m here to tell you that this was a personal attack on me. I have no proof. You cannot prove things like that when there’s little left of the ‘crime scene.’ But three hundred people died in that goddamn blaze. In addition, if it takes everything I have, every penny I own, I’m bringing the bastard to justice. Because Sharon Lynn Burch (formerly Rogers) deserved better than being burnt to death. And I’m not resting until her murderer’s brought to justice. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- After the above column appeared in GothamMetropolisYork’s most popular newspaper, the Squire, things of an unusually violent nature began happening. More arsons sprang to life like dangerous wildflowers, and unexplained, bizarre murders began popping up… the victims would suffer from unidentified poisons, rendering their facial structures into a kind of crying/pouting, rigid state. As Gregory Burch, the Squire’s Pulitzer-Prize winning journalist, made his way to his new apartment, he stopped near the cemetery and placed a single white rose on the grave of his wife. In a pathetic fit of irony, the weather seemed to enjoy mocking him… making it the most beautiful summer day that many have ever seen. It rivaled their wedding day… “In the interests of purity… and the interests of peace. I’ll get him, love. Even though I failed you, I’ll get him.” Physically scarred from the blaze of the apartment, the journalist returned to his apartment… noting that the security teams had been briefed about his state of mind and carried tranquilizers so powerful they could stop a bull elephant in heat… all the while keeping a respectful distance from him. Greg barely noticed. He opened the door to his apartment, noticing that although his newspaper earnings had gone into stocks and bonds, he’d never made much of an effort to make it fancy or rich-seeming. He had his tools of justice. He wore her picture around his neck. That was all the class he could need, or afford. She was gone-without her, he couldn’t, didn’t need, to feel classy. All he wanted was revenge. He wanted, needed to carry around her murderer’s teeth on his key chain. Strategically located on the outskirts of GothamMetropolisYork, his apartment had a unique financial situation. Using money he’d invested in computer corporations, he’d created dummy companies… enough so that he could rent the apartment from himself. Under the apartment was where he truly worked… the newspaper gig was just a farce, just a way to earn enough money to buy better equipment and keep tabs on his sources. For in crime fighting, even more so than in journalism, a good vigilante needs good sources. Originally, the Dark Knight was conceived as a way for him to make the world a better, safer place to live. After Sharon’s death, the Knight of Darkness became darker. Envisioning his new mission to be like that of a vengeful demon unleashed upon sinners, he modified his costume, losing its ‘bat-ears’ and bat-themed weaponry and insignias, only needing and only wanting fear and pain as his weaponry. It is said that a desperate man is difficult to fight, as he has nothing to lose. The Dark Knight had lost everything. He had nothing ELSE to lose. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Crying Clown smiled. He knew far more about the Dark Knight than the Dark Knight would expect. The Clown had, indeed, slain the Knight’s fair lady out of a sort of personal vendetta. Because the Knight’s own anarchistic vendetta against organized crime had cost the Clown millions… so the disfigured beast had had the Knight followed to his apartment, staked out at the Squire, and even had his wife followed. The Clown knew the Knight better than the Knight knew himself. The Crying Clown had for thirty years been the major reason why GothamMetropolisYork still survived… While controlling the city through a Mafia that Al Capone could only dream of, the Clown’s iron grip decided what GothamMetropolisYork ate and drank, or didn’t eat and drink. Then, the self-proclaimed ‘nebulous force of Justice that things like MURDER and RAPE just can’t quite seem to quench’ arose… and the Clown’s life became much less easy. The Crying Clown didn’t seem to lay claim to ever having parents… all records of his childhood and school behaviors didn’t seem to exist. All that was known about him was that to cross him was to lose. Moreover, to lose against the Crying Clown was the surest form of death known to man, easily more lethal than the AIDS virus. Clad in a puritanical white business suit, hair whiter than that of angels’ garb, and top hat seemingly crafted from Miracle Whip, the Crying Clown fooled onlookers with his cheerful dress. Surely, someone who always seemed to be smiling, and wearing brighter clothing than Britney Spears couldn’t be dangerous… -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Greg knew that revenge against the Clown would have to be well thought out… it would have to be meticulously planned… and it would have to be thorough. His ruthless newspaper articles against crooked attorneys and the apathy of GothamMetYork’s citizens bought him time… and weapons. Fear was for the enemy. Fear, and bullets. For Greg, there was only a lifetime of regret, memory, and pain. What concentration he wasn’t using on his work, he was using to try and forget about Sharon… but forgetting about someone who’d touched him so deeply was like trying to forget how to breathe. However, people began listening to his columns. Arrests started happening… some of the Clown’s top enforcers got to experience life behind those vaunted iron bars… The Dark Knight found fewer super criminals willing to test his mettle, in HIS city… However, the Crying Clown upped the ante. He had the Dark Knight followed to his own apartment, one final time. But this time, the Clown did the tailing himself. He’d accept no failures. He’d have the Knight’s head on his cane. The Knight knew, all along, that he was being followed. He’d had ten years to plan for this day. Ten years… he and Sharon would have had kids by now. Ten years… ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Crying Clown surprised even himself with his acrobatic/fighting prowess. When the Dark Knight lunged towards him, he more than easily sidestepped the tackle and kicked the cowled man in the ribs. It was then that the Clown realized that he’d been suckered… the Knight had thrown a dummy at him. So enraged was he, the Clown realized, at the Knight, that he’d not realized that night had fallen. That the Knight’s apartment had no light. With his white suit, he may as well have been a deer trapped in headlights. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Don’t kill him. Don’t. It’s not worth it. It’s too easy. There are other, more painful ways to make him suffer. And I know them all. Sharon. Sharon. I found him. He’ll pay. I won’t fail you again. I won’t fail you ever. Forever. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Dark Knight leapt from the shadows, a demon in his own private corner of Hell, and tackled the bastard who’d taken the best part of him, the kind part, the gentle, caring part, away from him. “Welcome to Hell. You’ve been enrolled in the torture sessions. Prepare for pain. You’ll become quite acquainted with it…” The Dark Knight calmed himself, forced himself to fight past the rage and anger and pain of ten years. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Just the pressure points. Make him feel everything. Hit him in the spine. Break his ribs. Shatter the leg bones. Slice his ears. A little acid for the eyes. Hoist him like a worthless sack of bread. The ultimate indignity… the personification of crime in GothamMetropolisYork, hung like the Flag of Iniquity, in full view of all. And he’s so battered that he may as well be dead. But he won’t die. You bandaged his wounds before hanging him on the flagpole. Humiliation. Fear. Pain. Retribution. Sharon. He wanted to play your game. YOU. ARE. THE. GAME. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Welcome to the Insanitarium, Mr. Clown. Hope you enjoy your stay.” -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dark Knight. You haven’t defeated me. You’ll never beat me. You think beating me within an inch of my life’ll stop me? You’re wrong. You’re DEAD wrong. Just like your little bitch wife was. Miss her? Don’t. You’ll see her again, before too long. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Crying Clown’s first night in the Insanitarium doesn’t go well. He dreams of his childhood, where his father beat his mother to death, in front of him, with a hammer. Cursing and drunk, the Clown’s father then disfigured his own son, his only heir, with a gasoline-induced fireball. The Crying Clown soon learned that everything in life that was good, pure, and holy was evil. Dressing up as a morbid clown seemed to help his frustrations and bitterness. But the noteworthy thing he keeps dreaming about is the death of his mother. How powerless he was to stop it… ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hunter Victorious stood, a little cautiously, on the rooftop of the GothamMetropolisYork ‘Squire’… “You certainly didn’t give me much of a chance to help you take him out.” The Dark Knight back-flipped onto the rooftop, taking a precautionary crouch beside Victorious. “You told him where I lived, as I asked you to. You aided in taking him down. But him going down was all MINE. He stole something from me, and I got payback for it.” Hunter disappeared in a ball of magic and disgust. “Jerk. Don’t expect me to fall for your team-ups ever again…” The Dark Knight left the rooftop, needing to hit the cemetery. He had a special goodbye to give… The Dark Knight- No, Sharon isn’t based on anyone in ‘real life.’ Think of her as my ‘dream-woman’, if such a thing even exists anymore… The Dark Knight |
| Reposts are fun. (The Dark Knight) (05-Sep-1999 15:12:12) |
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