The Further Adventures of The Joker

by Martin H. Greenberg

  This was not his face.

  His eyes widened. “This is not me,” he murmured in disbelief. A finger tentatively poked at the freshly shaven cheek, while another pushed down on his lower lip, pulling it back to reveal an even row of pearly white teeth.

  “Dear?” his wife called from the next room. “I said that supper was ready . . . Is everything okay in there?”

  “Is everything okay?” he muttered to himself incredulously. “Is everything OKAY?” Someone had done something to his FACE, for god’s sake! Someone had entered his kingdom and performed massive plastic surgery on him when he wasn’t looking! Someone has stolen his very identity out from under him! Who was this freak in the mirror? Certainly not HIM!

  He could feel his stomach begin to turn. A tightening sensation, down in the pit of his stomach. A rhythmic pulsating, an invisible hand squeezing at the bottom of his stomach, urging up the partially digested remains of his lunch. Despite it all, his eyes remained riveted to the horror that faced him in the mirror. Unable to turn away, he felt the hot acid rising up toward his throat. Nothing could stop it—

  “Honey?” the voice behind him said, startled. On the cusp of release, his lips pursed tight to contain himself, he spun around. His wife . . . his beautiful wife stood before him, a five pound meat loaf laid atop the serving platter in her hands. She had a quizzical look on her face. “Are you all right—”

  Something inside him clicked, and his world went green. He could feel his mouth open wide, feel his jaws unhinge, his face split, his body crack apart . . . and explode in a torrent of brilliant emerald bile . . .

  He awoke with a scream, his frail body jolting upright from the nightmare-soaked sheets. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, sliding down over his impossibly disfigured jawline. His lips trembled with fear. He felt his heartbeat thundering through his temples, and fearing his brain might suddenly explode from the pressure, gripped the sides of his head tightly. The strawlike texture of the hair there reassured him somewhat . . . but still, he had to be sure.

  Weakly, he rose from the bed, and wavered through the darkness of the flophouse room toward a sliver of light in the distance. Recently, he’d taken to leaving the bathroom light on during the night. It was a beacon of something . . . something he couldn’t quite pinpoint, but its presence had proved comforting to him of late.

  A moment, and he pushed open the door. The bathroom mirror was first to greet him. He sighed a sigh of relief. His complexion was chalk-white again. His hair was green again. His lips were a familiar blood-red hue. His teeth . . . oh, his teeth. How beautifully yellowed and rotting they were. He smiled. And the smile grew wider, and wider, his lips pulling taut against his teeth, his jaw, until what was once a smile was now a sneer of monstrous proportions, a gaping half-moon shaped wound.

  He turned the faucet on, splashed some cold water on his face to wash away the last lingering effects of his dream and turned back toward the bed outside.

  Refreshed, he lay down on his back, eyes open in the darkness. Soon—in a week or two, when the heat had died down, he’d get out of this fleabag hotel, reconsider his alternatives, and, inevitably, begin plotting the next round in his ongoing war with the Dark Knight and humanity itself. But until then, he was stuck here, with nothing to amuse himself but a deck of cards, a primitive black-and-white television set . . . and his dreams.

  God, it was depressing.

  An hour passed. At 3:00 A.M., he gave up on the idea of sleep and turned on the television. His fingers tapped on the remote-control changer buttons with increasing frequency as the moments wore on, the pictures becoming a montage, then a blur of rapidly evaporating images—snippets of commercials, videos, reruns, and ancient movies. In the midst of it all, though, something had caught his eye—something that spurred his imagination . . . He switched back and forth along the dial, searching for it. In a moment, he’d found it.

  “Lonely?” A woman’s voice said seductively. The screen showed a picture of a sinewy male yuppie sitting on a leather couch, his brow furrowed, eyes cast heavenward as he considered her question. “Meet interesting people just like you—right now!” The image was replaced by one of the same men dialing a telephone number. “Dial the Pleasure Line! Talk to men and women who want to talk to you! It’s a great way to make friends, meet new and interesting people . . . and it’s only one dollar a call! Don’t miss out on any of the fun! Call now!” A number flashed on the screen. He committed the number to memory and, after turning off the television, reached for the phone.

  Seven digits later, a tape-recorded female voice—one he recognized as the same as the voice on the television—came on the line. “Welcome to the Pleasure Line,” it said. “Prepare to let it all hang out. Nothing’s sacred, everything goes . . . for only twenty cents a minute.”

  The tape recording abruptly came to an end, and he found himself floating in an electronic void. There was no one else there . . . at least, no one else he could hear.

  “Hello?” he said, rather meekly. No answer. He cleared his throat and said the word again, and again, but was greeted only by silence. Another bad idea, he thought to himself. Another buck down the drain. He made a mental note to find and blow up the company that ran this particular phone service, and was about to hang up when he heard the woman speak.

  “Hi,” she said, her slightly nasal voice full of hope and smiles. And that was all he needed. From the tone of that single word, his mind instantly assembled a full psychological and physical profile of the woman. He knew how she looked, how she walked, how she dressed. He knew about her dreams, her hopes, her fantasies—and knew she would tell them all to him soon enough. He would listen patiently to the fantasy, and then mercilessly squeeze the ugly reality out of her. He’d make her beg for him to stop. And he wouldn’t.

  She was perfect . . . the perfect toy. The perfect mouse. Soon, he would pounce upon his prey. But until then, he reminded himself, to prolong his pleasure he had to be on his best behavior.

  “Why hello, young lady,” he answered coolly, not betraying an iota of his secret knowledge. “What’s your name?”

  “Uh . . . Cathy. What’s yours?”

  “Call me . . . Jerome.”

  “Jerome . . . Jerome . . . you don’t sound like a Jerome. Is that your real name?”

  “No. Should that matter?”

  “I dunno . . .” she said, thoughtfully. “But why not use your real name? It’s only a name, after all. Lots of people have the same first name.”

  “Not the same as mine, my dear,” he said, dropping in an element of mystery.

  “Oh,” she said, taking the hint. “Are you . . . famous? Are you not using your real name because I might recognize it?”

  “Recognize . . . ?” he answered, feigning surprise. “Why . . . yes. But it’s not you I’m worried about, dear Cathy. It’s the others. The silent ones—the ones who listen in on the conversation of others and never say a word. They’re out there, Cathy. I can feel them. What if I gave my real name and said some . . . personal things about myself. What if someone took down all those very personal facts of my life! It might very well ruin my career! Surely you can see the difficulty of my position here—”

  “I didn’t really think of it,” she said, almost apologetically. “I didn’t mean to force—”

  “Someday, perhaps, I’ll tell you who I really am. Perhaps. But until then, let’s keep this on a pseudo basis, shall we?”

  “Sure,” she said, with obvious disappointment. “Whatever you want.”

  “But enough about me. Tell me about yourself, Cathy. Tell me everything—and start with what you look like . . .”

  “Well, I’d rather talk about—”

  “Yes, yes . . . we’ll get to me. But you first. Please. I need to form a picture. Just to get a sense of who I’m talking to.”

  “Well . . . I guess I’m pretty. Most people tell me I am, anyway. I’m five foot six, weigh one hundred and fifteen pounds, I’ve got blonde hair and bl
ue eyes . . . and a pretty nice figure, I guess . . .” She paused, looking for something to cinch the visual impression. “There was this woman on the cover of last month’s Cosmo,” she said finally. “I guess I look like her . . . a little.”

  He took it all in for a long moment, savoring her mundane fantasy before beginning again. “Hmm . . .” he said. “You sound very attractive. Almost too good to be true, eh?”

  She tittered nervously, confirming that it was. “Now it’s your turn,” she said. “Tell me about yourself.”

  He cleared his throat and began, recalling the nightmare image in the mirror. “I’m six foot one. One hundred and eighty pounds. Blond hair. Blue eyes. I’ve got a good solid build. I work out.”

  For a moment there was silence. “Really?” she said breathlessly, anxious to believe him.

  “And . . . I wear glasses.” he said. Throw in an imperfection or two, just to keep it honest. “I’m a little nearsighted.”

  “Oh, wow,” she said. “I wear glasses, too! Isn’t that neat?” She waited for his reply, but there was none forthcoming, so she pressed on. “What do you do for a living? I bet you’re a doctor or a lawyer or something like that. You sound so smart.”

  “I’m a criminal, Cathy. A very smart criminal,” he said. “So smart,” he continued, “that you might say I’ve gotten away with murder.” He felt a gleeful snicker coming on, and bit his lip hard to keep it down.

  She began to laugh. “You’re so funny! I love it!” The laughter subsided. “Come on. Really. What do you do?”

  “Actually, I’m an entertainer,” he responded. “A comedian. Of sorts. One of the highest earning funnymen in the business, I’d guess.”

  “Really?” she said. He could hear the awe in her voice. “That sounds sooo exciting!”

  “It pays the bills,” he said nonchalantly. “After a while, it becomes a job like any other—though I must admit the element of danger continually refreshes the experience.”

  “Danger?” she said. “What kind of danger? Like people booing? Or throwing tomatoes? How dangerous can being a comedian be?”

  “It has its moments,” he answered. “I cater to a very unusual crowd. Even though I know they enjoy my act, down deep they’d like to see me dead.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, clearly mystified.

  “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now—except you and me,” he said, adding a little French twang to the last bit. God, he could be charming. He heard her giggle. She was flattered. “Now you tell me, Cathy—what do you do for a living?”

  “Well,” she said. “Nothing as exciting as all that. I work down in the financial district. I’m a receptionist at a stock brokerage company. Maybe you know it—Butz Brothers?”

  He did know it. He remembered robbing that particular company about five years before. A pretty good haul. He’d selected it because he thought the name was funny. Any company named Butz deserved to be cleaned out. “I think I’ve heard of it,” he said.

  “It’s pretty boring, and the pay isn’t great. But I’m going to steno school at night, because I’d like to become a court reporter . . .”

  “Ah . . . we all have our dreams . . .” he said wistfully. “Are those your dreams, Cathy? To become a stenographer?”

  “No, silly,” she answered, tittering. “What I’d really like to do is be a TV star. On the soaps. To have people know my face when they see me in the street. To have them ask for my autograph. To go to those parties you see on Entertainment Tonight. That would be cool.” She paused, sensing she might have revealed too much, not realizing he already knew it all. “I bet you get to go to those parties, huh?”

  It was time. He ignored the question. Instead, he posed another:

  “Are you lonely, Cathy?”

  “Me? No . . . of course not,” she said, a hint of nervousness in her voice. “I’ve got lots of friends. And I’m dating three different guys right now. Nothing serious yet, but . . .”

  “Cathy, why did you call this number?”

  “Because I’m bored,” she answered defensively. “Just for now. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “If you couldn’t sleep, why not call one of your friends? I’m sure THEY would understand your problem.”

  “But—”

  Time to lunge. “No, Cathy,” he said. “The simple truth of the matter is, you’re lying. About everything. Well, maybe not about the job—that seems mundane enough—but everything else is a lie. The boyfriends. The description. It’s all a load of crap . . . isn’t it?”

  Silence. “Isn’t it?” he roared. He could almost feel her jump on the other end of the line.

  “Yes,” she said. He could feel all her energy, all her enthusiasm, drain out of her with that single word. She was beaten.

  “You’re fat, aren’t you, Cathy?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was small. Almost inaudible.

  “You’re ugly, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have no boyfriends. No one pays any attention to you at all. You go to work everyday, ride the subways, walk the streets, take the elevator up to your office . . . but you’re invisible. No one notices you. No one sees.”

  “Yes.”

  “And afterwards, you go home to watch game shows and soap operas and eat chocolate and junk food and get deeper and deeper into the lonely pit you call a life.”

  “Yes.” She was whimpering now. Making soft snuffling noises as the despair took hold of her. He had her where he wanted her. Now it was time for the masterstroke.

  “And you ask yourself—is this life worth living? And you think about the knife in the kitchen. About the pilot light on the stove. About the gas in the oven. About the pills in the medicine cabinet.”

  The line was silent. He continued.

  “Go to the medicine cabinet. Get the pills and bring them back here. I’ll wait for you. And along the way, stop in the kitchen. Turn on the gas.”

  Silence.

  “It’s the only way, Cathy. You know it. I know it. At least you’ll have some company on the way down. Isn’t that what you want?”

  She cleared her throat. She was almost there. He clenched his fist in divine anticipation. One more insinuation—one more bit of gentle prodding—would send her toppling over the edge. Then she would be his. Then she would—

  “Yo’, dude!” a new voice suddenly interrupted. “Is this the party line or what?” It was a young voice—he couldn’t have been over eighteen years old. But it was enough. In the midst of this, the most delicate of psychological surgeries, some cretinous, addled-brained punk had knocked over his instrument tray, and scattered his scalpels all over the operating theater. He might still complete the surgery—but he had to be quick about it.

  “Get off the line, punk,” he growled.

  “You talkin’ to me, dude?” the kid said defiantly. “What’re you, king of the phone company, or what?”

  “Don’t push your luck, punk,” he answered. “Don’t make me angry. We’re in the middle of a conversation here. We don’t want to be interrupted.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the kid said. He could almost see him smirk. “A conversation. Right. Sure. That ain’t no conversation, man. You’re just playin’ with the babe’s head. Tryin’ to screw her up. Make her cry. Why’n’t you leave her alone, dude. Why’n’t you just kill yourself.”

  “I can trace this line, punk,” he said. He was bluffing and he prayed the punk wouldn’t know it. What else could he do? “I can find out where you live. I can kill you. And your parents. Burn your house to the ground. Don’t push me.”

  “You’re full of it, dude,” the kid answered. “Go ahead and trace it, if you can. I’m at a party right now, man—and I don’t even know who’s throwin’ it! You killing anyone, it’s gonna be the dudes who threw this bash!” The kid began to laugh, a slightly drunken hiccuping laugh. He was taunting him. It was infuriating.

  “Final warning,” he said, knowing that he’d already thrown down his last card.
“Get off the line, or I’ll—”

  “I ain’t talkin’ to you anymore, creep,” the kid said, dismissing him. “Where’s the babe? She still there?” He paused, waiting for her to respond. “Yo’, babe! You still out there? Come on—I wanna talk to you.”

  From somewhere far off, he heard her again, emerging from the despair-filled corner he had backed her into. Her white knight had arrived to save her, and she was rushing up to meet him. “Hi,” she said. Her voice was hoarse. She’d been crying.

  “Hi, babe,” the kid said. “My name’s Ronnie. What’s yours?”

  “Cathy. Nice to meet you, Ronnie.”

  “Likewise,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you that this dude is a psycho. A nut job. Any dude plays with someone’s head like that, they gotta be a freak. Know what I mean?”

  “I guess . . .” she said. She was coming back. It was over. He’d lost.

  “You don’t wanna even talk to a guy like him,” the kid said. “Scary dude. He’s probably sitting in some hotel somewhere, all by himself, like, gettin’ off on all this.”

  “You think?” she said. He could feel his anger reach a new level. He wanted to break in on the conversation, wanted to tear the both of them up into tiny pieces—but he knew his power was gone—and that, for tonight at least, he was totally, utterly impotent.

  “I know,” the kid said. “Guys like that—they’re losers.”

  “I guess you’re right,” she said.

  “Lissen. I’m at a party over on Northside right now. It’s pretty cool. Lots of beers, good music. We’ll probably go till dawn. Why’n’t you come on over? It’ll be fun.”

  “Really? You think it’d be okay?”

  “Sure. Got a pencil?” He was about to give her the address when she stopped him short.

  “Wait,” she said. “What about . . . him. I mean, he’s probably still listening—if he hears the address, he could come over and—”

  “Don’t worry about it. He tries anything, me ’n’ my buddies, we’ll kick his butt. Might even do this party some good—it could use a little excitement. Matter of fact,” he continued, “if the psycho dude is still out there, I’d like to extend a personal invitation to him. You come on over, we’ll give you a dose of some righteous hell.” After the kid gave the address to her, he prepared to sign off. “You’re sure you’re coming?” he said. She sensed he really wanted her to.