Re: log: joker & bats at the funhouse
It often felt just ike yesterday that this torrid affair first began, but it'd really been years, decades. And lets face it, when one put that much commitment and effort into a downward spiral, there was no turning back. The Bat was his life sentence, his personalized mission, a black label envelope addressed specifically, precisely, the finest calligraphy spelling out his name. Not the name given to him at birth, but the name that he'd developed for himself. A name brewed out of chemicals in a dark room, a name that developed under red lights. A word so simple that without him, it was just a word. And for the Bat it was the same.
He howled with laughter, the cackle whooshed into cancellation when shadowy muscle attacked, slamming a wounded clown into the sour floor. Behind the paint, his wince was really more of a growl barely detained behind a cage of stained teeth. Blood bloomed, a gushing red garden that spread over his chest, and air found his lungs in little razor jabs.
"It almost seems like you dont want to be friends anymore..." The empty gun was tossed aside, and the Joker was still smiling when black ate away at his vision. Blood loss kissed him goodnight without worry, the Bat would see him taken care of. Like always.