The Joker: Origins

Reads: 486  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 3

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fan Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
--The original idea for this was presented to me by my good friend Carlos Gutierrez, this is my take on his idea.
--Prepare to be taken back in time as The Joker tells the young Gotham University intern, Harleen Quinzel, all about his dark past and how young Bruce Wayne unknowingly influenced his life's path.
**There are 2 scenes which include non-explicit references to sexual body parts and/or sexual acts; reader discretion is advised.

Submitted: June 17, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 17, 2015

A A A

A A A


A thin, sickly looking man in an orange jumpsuit is occupying an unsightly metal chair whose twin sits on the opposite end of the thick steel table bolted to the floor between them. The white walls seem to enhance the bleakness of the man’s pale painted face as he shuffles a lightly used deck of playing cards. Splitting the deck between each hand, he slams them both down on the sturdy table, leveling out the cards. His skinny pale fingers grip the bottom of each half and his long bony thumbs clamp down on the top end, making the cards bend in agony before slipping off the tips of his thumbs and bashing their faces on the unforgiving table with a surge of loud impacts. Ratatatatt!

The room’s lonely door groans under its own weight as it is slowly pulled open from the outside. The man continues to shuffle his cards, unfazed by the young blonde woman intruding on his privacy. She pulls the door closed and turns to see the man still has his hunched back turned toward her, she watches as he continues to shuffle his cards. He does it with such passion. As one would sing a lover’s ballad.

The woman is a Gotham University undergraduate of 22. She has been working as an intern at the asylum for 4 years, developing the undergrad thesis required for graduation with honors. She steps closer to the man and begins to analyze his unkempt physical appearance. She studies the most revolting head of shoulder length hair she’s ever seen, concluding that sweat and oil had saturated each glimmering strand long before his arrival here at Arkham Asylum. She wonders about the color, reminiscent of dirty, dried-up, rock-moss. One day, she thinks, it might have been the brightest and most beautiful emerald headpiece. If that day ever was, it most certainly was not anymore.

She walks around front of the green-haired man and decides to stand in front of his chair’s equally uncomfortable twin. She realizes the reason for his excessive make-up; his face is severely scarred. She wonders what could have caused the unsightly tears that cascaded from each corner of his mouth, up through his cheeks, and landed at the hinge of his jaw. Why would he emphasize the scars with red paint? It's all just so mysterious to her.

The disfigured prisoner remains focused on his intricate shuffling technique, his head hangs in compliance with his hunched back, and his gaze penetrates his noisy repetitive ritual. The woman assertively places her sparsely populated, patient information folder on the rough tabletop and is momentarily immobilized by intimidation when the man ceases his methodical shuffling, but remains in place, perfectly still.

The man is careful to remain absolutely motionless while lifting only his piercing gaze up from his now silent half-decks and focusing on the emaciated file-folder that had been oh-so-defiantly placed before him.

The label reads: ARKHAM PATIENT: J. 

Immediately recognizing this particularly slim file as his own, the dirty shuffler fixes his unchanged leer on the young woman's face, raising his bowed head ever-so-slightly and staring at her past his own protruding brow. The girl's ravishing appearance forces his cracked lips apart to reveal two rows of severely stained teeth, sparsely speckled with green and brown splotches.
The lady has a perfectly symmetrical oval face with a gently pointed chin. Her skin is the smoothest of royal ivory and her eyes are round aquamarine tide pools with vibrant emeralds resting beneath the surface, surrounded by long, thick eyelashes that flutter with every swift blink. Her mouth is small, accentuating the fullness of her smooth, hydrated lips. Her nose, a button, slightly upturned at the perfect angle. 

Her silky golden locks shine magnificently, gently framing her lovely face, hiding her ears, then cascading down past her slender neck, down her petite torso and landing abruptly atop her plump and proudly presented breasts, like a waterfall onto the infinitely smooth rocks below. The tank top she is wearing reveals the topside of her tightly pressed bust, allowing her hair to wander far into the depths of their crevasse.

Under the snug, crimson cotton, her skin rests smoothly over her ribcage, tapering inward to form the narrow centerpiece of an hourglass. Her belly button is visible through the fabric and rests gracefully, perfectly centered, high on her flat stomach, at the thinnest part of her waist. Descending past her waist, sheer femininity is displayed with confidence by widening hips.
The snug red cotton gives way to dark stretchy spandex, caressing her thighs even tighter still. A small space is visible between her upper thighs. The thickness of her love pushes downward into the gap forming a heart shape as her thighs begin to thicken, bringing the bottom of the vacancy to a point.

The smiling man admires the sheer beauty standing before him. He watches, mesmerized, as the goddess places her perfectly petite hands firmly on the heavy grounded surface where his own ugly mitts remain, still motionless.

“Hey,” she says, hoping for him to move more than just his eyes. His inhuman stillness makes her uncomfortable.

He remains a perfect statue. Ugh, another creep! Great.

“My name is --,” the wonderful young lady is interrupted.

“I know who you are,” suddenly, a breath of life finds the statue and he is instantly erect in his bitter metal throne. Basking in the panic he forced, momentarily, upon the intruding goddess’ perfect face, his lips part even further, practically ripping apart his already mangled face.

“I can see it right there,” he extends an unwashed finger at her valiant breastplate.

My name tag… She looks down at the plastic Intern’s Identification Card dangling from her extra-low neckline. Harleen Quinzel. She looks back up at the painfully pleased face and instinctually cringes, seeing his dry lips splitting open further with every smiling second.

The observant, dry-lipped grinner notices this and his expression disappears.

“Well,” thoroughly creeped-out by this, Harleen holds her composure, “since you know who I am,” with an exhale and a gorgeous smile, she cocks her head and continues in her sweetest voice, “maybe you could tell me a little bit about you?”

Unfazed, the grubby man squints.

Harleen responds by bending over the grey barrier between them, shortening the distance between the two, then propping up her unflawed head with her forearm. She showcases her mesmerizing eyelashes with a couple well spaced blinks, sweetly coaxing cooperation from the skeptical surveyor.

“What about your name? You can tell me that, can’t you?”

Silently, the stubborn subject begins to shuffle his cards once again. This time he stops after the deck has been twice flawlessly disarranged, then cuts the deck and flips the top card to reveal a traditional looking court jester with a 3-tipped headpiece and painted face wearing an oversized grin. Underneath the caricature, in bold black letters reads JOKER.

Harleen looks down at the overturned card, then back up at the curious character before her. “Your name is ‘Joker’?” she inquires.

“Bingo!” The Joker blurts out loudly along with an amused giggle, “now, since it seems you are so interested in learning about little ‘ol me...” he runs dirty fingers through his slimy hair, “and you clearly never learned that staring is rude...” he pushes a dry tongue through dry lips, trying in vain for a trace of moisture, “perhaps you’d like to know just exactly how I got these here scars?” Joker waits patiently for a response.

Harleen can’t help but feel embarrassed for staring, she hadn’t even realized how long she was looking. Must have been long enough for him to have taken offense. Partially out of guilty obligation and partly out of curiosity, Harleen consented to hearing The Joker’s story.

 

Little Jack Napier is only eight years old, living with his father in a rural town smack in the middle of the continental United States. They live and work at the biggest tourist attraction within 100 miles in any direction; a rundown carnival-circus hybrid setup with all the classic attractions attributed to the two.

Jack’s father is a performance clown. He juggles and squirts and slaps and falls, all to make the disproportionately well-off patrons laugh. He works with several other clowns who perform routines entirely choreographed by the group itself. They have some acts that are brilliant which always coerce a large compliment from the audience, but the majority of their self-produced skits are uninteresting and lackluster at best. Desperate to revive the relevance of the group, Jack’s father decides to include his son in their act. Surely they’ll love a cute little mini -clown doing adorable things with the rest of us.

One evening over dinner, Jack is surprised by his usually silent father's announcement of their need to talk. Jack listens as his father explains to him that he is going to be a clown and perform under the big tent just like his daddy. It’ll be fantastic, so much fun! Trust me you'll love it. In reality Jack already hated the idea. He had always been scared of being in front of people, even if he wasn’t performing. Plus, he was never fond of clowns and always tried to avoid seeing his dad in costume if he could. Jack can tell that his father is genuinely excited about this opportunity, so he doesn't protest.

The next day Jack accompanies his father to the daily practice session. He cringes, seeing the white faced men with red lips and black, diamond eyes dressing up in their oversized frilly jumpsuits. He realizes in that moment he really doesn't want to be there. One man is naked in front of a mirror, carefully applying white makeup to his pink face with a triangle wedge piece of sponge. Why doesn’t he put his clothes on first so he isn’t naked in front of everybody? Jack looks away, scanning the room for his father. He locates his target rummaging through an old metal locker, the kind you’d probably see in a high school locker room. Walking up behind the familiar man, he can only imagine the travesty his father is about to produce from the decrepit metal box.

“Here we go. This will fit you fantastically,” Jack’s father declares, his head still buried inside the dented steel rectangle. “Why don’t you go ahead over there to the port-a-potty and put this little gem on?” He turns around, outstretching his arms.

Jack is left momentarily immobilized at the sight of the tiny pink, green, white and orange piece of cloth. He is certain he can see several blood stains and at least two poorly sewn on cream colored patches.

“Well, go on. Hop to it, son.”

Jack snaps out of his bewildered trance at the sound of his father’s encouragement. Without question, the boy obliges, grabs the costume from his father’s outstretched hands and turns toward the dirty old port-a-potty. After pulling on the pungent and slightly damp jumpsuit, he returns to his father.

“Stupendous, boy. Absolutely magnificent!”

Jack is certain his father’s compliments are genuine. He had always wanted to see Jack carry on the ‘ol family tradition of being an entertainer. Of course, that's what he’d done himself. In line with his father and his father before him. Jack nearly surrenders his urge to protest this ridiculousness, but he knows his father works so hard and he sees the happiness leaking from his proud eyes, so he remains silent.

 

An amused smirk pulls her small mouth tight across her face, stretching her lustful lips and making them appear thinner than they were. Harleen is amazed at how the man before her is able to seamlessly tell this story from his childhood with such grace. It's almost like he's rehearsed it.

The story's vivid details are a film inside of her head being projected by her imagination into her mind as she relives little Jack's experiences in a daydream. She notices, after a pause in the narrative, that Joker has his eyes closed as he recounts the events of oh so long ago.

Harleen decides to close her eyes too. Each of her senses are stimulated by the masterful storytelling of the shuffler. She is little Jack Napier.

 

Not long after becoming acquainted with his snug new onzie, Jack finds himself surrounded by eight overweight and tired looking men. They had just spent some time discussing something amongst themselves and finally began migrating toward where Jack is sitting by himself. 

“Okay Jack. Paul here, is going to toss you in the air and you have to grab onto the trapeze. Then you’ll swing over top of Randy and Joe, who will be juggling some torches..”

Jack looks at his father with fear and disbelief. His father senses this and quickly adds.

“Don’t worry though, you’ll be well above the flames,”

Jack hates this idea already.

“When you get all the way to the other end of the stage, you’ll have to jump down and you’ll land safely in Dick’s arms.”

Jack looks toward Dick. He’s a fat, sweaty man who seems to have trouble keeping his breath, even while at rest.

“Can you do that?”

Jack really doesn't want to go through with this insanity, but he looks at his father and nods obediently.

Jack and the eight clowns spend a few hours practicing until his father announces his need to attend matters elsewhere. He instructs Jack to continue working on the routine with the men and walks away. Jack is immediately overcome with a strange anxiety. He looks around at the men surrounding him, fat lumps of worn out flesh. As he moves toward the routine's starting position he sees that the fat, sweaty clowns are glaring at him. They can't hear what I'm thinking, can they?

Instinctively, Jack slowly begins to retreat, but the comic performers seem to be stalking him as a lion stalks a gazelle. What's going on here? Jack is terrified. He turns to look for an exit, but just before he can find an escape route a thick, hairy, smelly hand clamps firmly down on his shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going kid? No no no no no. You just had to beg dear 'ol daddy to tag along with the big boys,"

Jack tries to protest, but is paralyzed with fear.

"Look at us, kid. Do we look like we need a stupid little boy to enhance our routine? Huh?" The hand shakes his torso violently, "Well, tell me, kid. Do we need a little twerp like you to help us?"

Jack averts his eyes. "N-no you guys are j-just swell on your own. I suppose I just w-wanted to--"

"Wrong answer, you little shit! We do need your stupid cutesy little stunts to keep our show."

Jack can feel the front of his tiny onzie start to get warm.

"Think that makes you better than us?"

Jack doesn't answer, instead he focuses on the moist dirt beneath his shoes.

"Well you're not, and we're gonna show you you're not, so you don't ever get mixed up by mistake." The face connected to the hand still crushing Jack's shoulder turned to address its twins, contorting into a deranged grin in anticipation of what was to come. "Aren't we?" It growls to them.

Jack is still staring directly downward, hoping for his father to return. He notices the puddle he's standing in, then closes his eyes. He trembles as he feels their huge and powerful paws pulling painfully at his already dilapidated costume. It begins to tear. Slowly at first, then all at once. He feels the saturated fabric being removed from his body, followed by the cold Autumn breeze blowing over his damp skin. This isn't real. What are they gonna do to me? Where's my daddy? Why would they do this? This isn't happening. But it is happening.

He felt the first strike, an open heavy hand against his soft and unbraced stomach. His breath flees from his chest, somewhere far away. Desperately trying in vain to fill his lungs again, he finds himself wishing he could go to wherever his air had gone. It's probably better than here. He squeezes his eyes closed, begging whatever force could hear him to make it stop. His hearing suddenly abandons him. He guesses it must have went to hide with his breath, along with his balance. He can't feel himself falling until he slams hard onto the wet ground.

He hears angels singing to him in his ears and becomes hopeful. I'm saved! He starts to open his eyes just as the angels' song starts to deepen, morphing hellishly into the overlapping voices of evil clowns deciding what they're going to do with him. He looks up at the nearest monster and they lock eyes.

"Now now, boy, no need to be afraid," Its disgusting hand stroked his outer thigh softly as he lay on his side, "We're gonna show you a good time. Make you feel real good, just as long as you don't cause any trouble. Alright?"

Jack swallowed and looked down at the ugly, rough hand now sliding gently back up his thigh and planting itself on his left buttock with a painful squeeze. He squeals weakly and slams his eyes closed once again. By now his wind had come back out of hiding, but couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to go in or out his chest.

Another pair of large mitts scoops him up from under his arms, lifting him up quickly, then dropping him abruptly. He can feel his feet touch the ground and instinctively stands on them. His eyes stay welded shut, but he can hear the men all around him moving about and deciding his fate. 

"Go ahead, show him how it tastes to be someone's bitch. See if he likes it. See if he ever thinks he's better than us again, huh?"

Jack can hear metal jingling as the group harmoniously vocalizes their encouragement. His face is crushed by a giant thumb and finger, forcing his mouth open and his cheeks together. He distorts his face with all his might so his eyes will not open.

"Open wide, you little shit."

He feels something at his lips, the fattest finger of them all. The oversized finger powers it's way past his lips, between his teeth, over his tongue, and to the back of his mouth. He gags and heaves, shoving the finger further down his throat. He isn't able to breathe and his eyes are beginning to dampen. He tries to yell, but his full mouth stops any voice from escaping. Tears begin to squeeze through his clenched eyelids just as the man starts to remove his finger.

Thinking the worst is over, Jack begins to feel the faintest bit of relief. The feeling vanishes as he feels the finger violently being smashed back into his throat over and over again, each time slightly harder than the last. He gags and tries to pull away but someone has a giant palm firmly behind his head making the finger smash even deeper down his throat. He feels he is about to vomit and begins again to gag and heave. Thick, warm liquid fills his throat as he's strangled by the finger in his mouth. He can feel his vomit being forced back down his gullet, suddenly the finger is removed. Jack empties his stomach onto the already wet dirt, creating a smelly, muddy mess.

Sobbing, he falls to his knees and feels himself splashed with muddy vomit. He can't help but listen to the band of monsters commending each other on the success of their most recent act. That'll show him. Yeah, the little twerp.

Keeping his eyes closed and continuing to weep, Jack hears the voices receding. He is able to calm his crying and decides to open his eyes. Horrible decision. He watches as the cracked lips before him reveal yellow stained teeth and unleash rancid smelling words.

"If you ever say a word about this to anybody, it's going to happen again, and it's gonna be much worse next time. You hear?"

Jack is trembling violently, but manages a nod. At that, he is alone.

After kneeling motionless for some time, allowing the shock to slowly fade, Jack begins to stand up. His feet slosh around in the puddle of bodily fluids beneath him. His mind begins to clear and he starts to be able to hear the familiar voice in his head. You have to tell dad! He hesitates, thinking back to the skunky words in the dry, lemon coated mouth. It’s going to happen again, and it’s gonna be much worse next time. You hear?

He knows he has to tell his dad. He’s the only one who could possibly know what to do after something like this. Shivering, Jack sets out to find his father.

He wanders to the most likely place to find his father, the accounting room. An old, rounded, silver trailer with a single flimsy door and two mangled windows. Inside he finds his father sitting on a broken folding chair that looked like it had been used to clobber somebody in a fight. He is counting a modest stack of cash over a small plastic picnic table. This is the matters that needed tending to? You let me get beaten up by your buddies so you could count your precious cash? Jack stands silently in the doorway, staring at his father who seems oblivious to his presence. Finally, he’s noticed.

“My God, son! What happened to you? Why are you covered in mud? Where are your clothes?”

Jack is glad to see his father’s concern. He’ll keep me safe. He’ll know what to do. Jack looks at the ground, ashamed, and begins to tell his father about the events that unraveled following his departure. When he’s finished recalling the assault he looks up at his father with hopeful eyes. His father is silent for an exceedingly long while.

“No.” Jack’s father shatters the silence with a single powerful word, leering at the young battered boy.


What do you mean no? You can’t say no! You have to help me! Protect me from those men! Jack stares blankly back at his father.

“I can’t believe this, Jack. I’m disgusted that you would make up such a lie! You know I’m busy.” 

He couldn’t figure out why his father was cross.

“Now, go to the house, clean yourself up, and put on some clothes. I want you to stay in your room for the rest of the night, you hear?”

Those last two words echo through his mind. You hear? It’s gonna be much worse next time. You hear? Jack, unwilling to protest, obeys the command and starts home. As he makes the moderately long walk, he has time to think. He notices the familiar voice inside of his head, it’s different. There are more now and instead of being helpful and guiding like the familiar one, these voices are mean. You little shit! You think you could just tell your daddy and it would be all better? Well think again! You weren’t supposed to tell anyone! Now they’re going to find out you’re a naughty little boy and they’re going to do it again, but it’s gonna be much worse next time. You hear? Jack starts to run, trying to escape the voices, but no matter how fast or how far he goes, they follow like a shadow.

 

The storyteller pauses, needing to regain his composure after reviving suppressed emotions. He opens his eyes to peek at the woman sitting across from him and is intrigued by her expression. Her eyes were closed and leaking. Her eyebrows were raised and forced together, wrinkling the space between them and the forehead above. Her nostrils flared and her full lips were pressed together, turning sharply downward at the edges. Empathy.

Forgetting the horrible experience, he lets out a smile and admires his work. Proud of himself and his skill, he closes his eyes, returns to his childhood, and continues his tale. 

 

Little Jack, defeated by the relentless voices in his head, begins to cry and sits down underneath a tree behind some of the carnival attractions, pondering his fate. Are they gonna choke me again? Maybe they’ll hit me some more. What if they try to kill me? With each passing second, fear grows within the young boy.

“Hey, are you okay?” Jack hears a small friendly voice just above his lowly hung head. He looks up to see who this comforting voice was coming from. He sees before him a properly primped young boy, about the same age as he. The boy is wearing very clean expensive looking clothes, his hair is slicked back and a bowtie is fastened around his neck making him look much older and wiser than he likely was.

“Are you alright?” The boy repeats himself.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” not wanting to cause any more trouble, Jack tries to change the subject, “Who are you?”

“I’m Bruce. Are you sure you’re okay? You look really scared. I might be able to help.”

Jack thinks the boy sounded genuine and decides to let his guard down; just a little.

“Well, I guess I’m a little scared. There were these clowns,” Jack pauses and looks down, unable to relive the story yet another time.

“It’s alright,” Bruce reassures the terrified boy, “My dad taught me how to overcome my fears. I could tell you if you’d like.”
Jack nods timidly.

“Well, he told me instead of running from your fears, you have to face them head on. Learn how they work, learn why they scare you, learn how they scare you.

Jack gives his full attention to the dashing young boy’s advice, soaking in every word like a sponge.

“Once you learn about your fears,” the boy confidently recites, “You must become them. You must become the very thing you fear most. Then, and only then, will your fear stop having power over you.”

Jack stares, dumbfounded, as the instructions penetrate his understanding.

“Instead, you will have the power. Your fears will be scared of you.”

Bruce, having finished his monologue, looks down at the dirty, naked boy and sees that he understands. He smiles a tiny smile to himself, proud he’s helped someone all by himself.

Jack lets the words sink in even further. You must become the very thing you fear most. Then, and only then, your fears will be scared of you.

“Master Bruce!” A hoarse voice echoes from the main fairgrounds.

Jack is momentarily distracted by the thick British accent of the disembodied voice.

“Master Bruce! Come now, boy. You know your parents have been planning to see this play for months now. We must be on our way now. We mustn't be tardy.” The owner of the voices comes slowly walking toward the two boys. He is a short older man wearing a finely pressed tuxedo, he holds his head highly and it almost looks uncomfortable.

Jack can’t help but to notice his jolly belly protruding outward from under his suit, at first he wants to smile, but then he thinks of the fat clowns.

“What in the world are you doing back here Master Br--” The portly, British tuxedo man stops dead in his tracks at the sight of Jack’s dirty, naked body sitting on the ground in front of Bruce. Lifting his head even higher, he peers down his nose at the bare young boy and stares for a few seconds.

Jack looks back at the odd little man, confused, and blinks several times as if to try and clear blurry vision. He can see the tuxedo man staring back, and notices his expression of utter perplexity. The expression is so profound, it leaves Jack baffled. What’s wrong with me? Does he know what happened? Why is he staring for so long?

The short and stout man diverts his attention to focus on young Bruce. “Come now, Master Wayne. We mustn't be tardy. The play starts in two hours, and you’re hardly in any condition to attend such an event.” The urgency in his voice is much more pronounced this time.

Bruce looks down at Jack’s naked, muddy body sitting on the grass underneath the large tree shading the trio. He catches the shaken boy’s gaze, squinting ever so slightly and giving him a half nod, sending a clear message. Remember, you need to learn your fears inside and out. Once you learn them, you must become them. Once you become them, they will never, ever have any power over you.

Jack understands the unspoken vote of confidence and watches as young Bruce walks away with the easily bewildered British man. Become your fears. They will never, ever have any power over you. Immediately, he knows what has to be done.
The grubby boy gets up and begins to walk to his trailer. When he arrives, he is relieved to find it empty. Perfect. He cleans himself up and gets dressed, sitting down afterward to contemplate Bruce’s instructions. Learn. Become. Overpower.

For the next few days, Jack watches the men practice their routines. Luckily, his father hadn't asked him to join since that traumatic day. He watches as the clowns comically hurt one another. Unexpected slaps, burns while juggling torches, one even gets shot by a little white flag with the word Bang! on it. A week after receiving little Bruce's words of wisdom. It is time. 

Herleen is on the edge of her seat. What was it time for? How did he get the scars? How did he end up in the Asylum? She opens her eyes and looks straight ahead at the twin black diamonds floating above the ragged crimson line in the painted whiteness before her. She no longer sees an insane monster, the colorful face now belongs to the little boy whose childhood was so violently stripped from him. How could she blame him for his crimes? He needed help; rehabilitation, not incarceration.

The diamonds split horizontally down the center and opened up to reveal two brunswick eyes. Just a split second prior, a shrill high-pithed beep cut through the room followed by a booming voice.

"Time's up, Miss Quinzel. We have to get this basket case back to solitary and it's time for you to go home." With a loud click, the massive door is unlocked and propped open about an inch.

She blinks her wonderful eyelashes and looks down in disbelief. She can't stay; she knows that, but she has to hear the rest of his story. Eyes still fixed on the table, she starts to stand up. After pushing in her chair she glances at the fine, but shattered, man sitting before her. She translates his expression. 

Of course! That was almost too convenient, now wasn't it? Don't worry though, beautiful, come back and visit me soon. I'll finish telling you my story.

She returns his telepathic look. We aren't done here, I'll be back for you. Just before starting for the thick steel door across the room, she flashes a smile. Don't you go running off anywhere, okay?

Joker lets a touch of yellow show through a split-second grin, then focuses his attention on the playing cards as the goddess vacates herself from his presence. As the door closes firmly and locks him inside the barren room, he begins to pick up the deck of cards. He grins, chuckles quietly to himself, and begins to effortlessly shuffle the old deck of cards, loving every loud smack of each card whipping the table with its face. Ratatatatt!

The End. 


© Copyright 2019 mmusiqq. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments