The Red Hood: Chapter 1

Author’s note

     This is a work of fiction inspired by characters created by Bob Kane, Bill Finger, Paul Dini, Bruce Timm, Robert Kanigher, Sheldon Moldoff, and published by DC Comics. It is a retelling of the origins of the Batman Universe, which is copyrighted and should not be considered a true part of the mythology. I have created this project purely for the joy of dictating the actions of characters that I have grown to love over the years, and to suggest scenarios that I have often wondered myself would happen if those said actions were to have occurred in the mythos. Basically, its me being a kid and playing with my favorite toys again. That said, this story will never be published, nor distributed as an original idea, for it is not. It began as a writing exercise that at some point, transformed into an exciting unofficial chapter in the Batman series, that which is just too awesome to keep to myself. Therefore, here it is. Hope you enjoy my interpretation of the origin of one of the most iconic villains in comic book history. 

Chapter 1

     Not quite a venue, yet not quite a bar; it was merely a hole in the ground where people could gather to drink away their dreams, and laugh away their sorrow. The Joker’s Jinx was just another city pub lost along the decrepit streets of the lesser-known parts of Gotham. The smog from her rich core filtered to these areas, choking the poor with a plague of filthy air and acid rain. This underground layer of bad jokes, cheap performers, and corner market quality booze was one of the very few outlets the locals had left to escape from their poverty stricken woes.

The Jinx, like all other toxic waterholes of its kind, had it’s Notorious Three in attendance that night. Roco, Hans, and Stephan; they were the type that one would often find sitting at the end corner of a no-mans’-land bar sucking down the cheapest rum in stock, the first to take notice to an outsider, and the last to leave. Amongst them were several other hopeless souls waiting in vane for the entertainment to begin. The sparse audience was as thick as ever for Wrath of Laugh Thursday, a half-hearted open-mic event sponsored by the owners to draw in business that never was, nor ever will be. Their drunken eyes marveled toward the dimly lit makeshift stage that would otherwise had been swallowed by the shadows if not for the hot spot lights that poured on to it like a heat lamp threatening to cook the under-classed performers alive. It was designed with used factory pallets covered by a stretch of worn carpet, equipped with a backdrop of frail-edged crimson brick wallpaper, to mimic the illusion of an inner-city comedy club, an illusion dubiously burlesque with its negligent display of hanging wires and cables that hovered above. Nevertheless the spectators gathered, their minds swimming with blissful toxins, and eager to watch as the modern day jesters coaxed them free of their miseries.

It was a night reserved for napkin jokes and mischievous wordplay that was tainted with anger and dripping vulgarity; exactly what the doctor ordered for this sort of crowd, and non more qualified to administer such a dose of nonsensical banter than local star Jack Quinzel, better known as,

“…The Red Hood, Jackie Quinn!” Announced the overly rambunctious bar owner.

A man in a hooded blazer to match his acclaimed title then sat his beer down and departed from the patrons, receiving an ovation as best the roomful of alcoholics could possibly muster. He took the stage with a solemn bow, a reverent approach to the absurdity that was sure to follow.

Leaving the hood hanging over his brow, he added an element of gimmicky mysteriousness to his act. His sharp blue eyes peering at the crowd, revealing only his thin lips and strong jaw—flanked with ashy stubble that reached to the point of his dimpled chin—he grinned sinisterly, showing his brilliantly white teeth.

“Thank you.” He said in a raspy tone. “It’s good to be back…, and by good, I of course mean, I hate all of you.”

The crowd laughed, mildly amused.

Jack then began his act with, “There were once these two guys in a lunatic asylum… and one night, one fateful night, they decided they don’t like living in an asylum anymore. They decided they’re going to escape…”

#

     POW!! POP!POP!!...

     CLAP! CLAP!

     Those sounds would forever haunt him until the end of his days. It was the thunderous blast of sudden gunfire that reverberated off of the brick walls of the alleyway, and for eternity in his mind, in his nightmares. A dreadful mistake made by a psychopath with a hair-trigger finger, and a rapacious urge to kill. A hasty action that would only lead to more blood, that he would have to draw himself; Blood of his own, Blood he could never wash from his hands.

     He thought of his abusive father as he raced his sedan through traffic. Weaving in and out of the lanes that ran like streams of steel and light through West Burnley, he recalled how he had been forced to endure the horrid screams of his mother in the next room, as his father beat on her mercilessly. Often he would return home from the bar in a fit of rage, however none hath fury than the many times he had lost his hand at poker, and thus blamed his bad fortune on his nuisance of a wife, and pestilent child. Living his life by example of his father, he long vowed to forever avoid the poisonous taste of liquor upon his tongue, of playing cards upon his hand, and fowl intent upon his fists. However, like a bad joke come true, he has discovered how much like his father he really was. Having grown quite fond of the drink he so despised as a child, along with his misfortunes that drove him toward a life of crime, which by default led him to gamble with the lives of his family, he had indeed played himself a bad hand, just as his father had done so many times before. It was a fateful act, paid for with fowl intent.

     The wipers worked tirelessly as the rain washed the windshield clean of the grime left from bug guts, and bird droppings, but no amount of rain could cleanse Jack Quinzel of his sins. His piling debts ate away at his dreams of one day becoming a hit comedian, and a proposition from a drug lord introduced him to a solution for his poverty that would only cost him everything he had ever loved. Now he was pushing the petal to the floor, nearly running other unknowing travelers into the medium, as he hurried toward his destination. Gotham General was on the horizon, and he needed to get there as fast as he could. He needed to be there before they could find out what had happened. He needed to protect her from the sins he had committed.

     The radio was blaring breaking news; Something about the death of a billionaire doctor and his wife; something about a gun shot heard round the world; something about a surviving child heir to the throne of Wayne Enterprises, but nothing about the poor pregnant woman who too had been shot and left to die in the slums of Crime Alley. If they had only known how they were linked, then surely they would care. However, they did not, and therefore she was nothing more to the media than another bleeding girl in a place where so many bleeding girls are found and so too ignored.

     When Jack pulled into the parking lot of Gotham General, he was met with a phalanx of police, news reporters, and curious onlookers, all gathered before the façade of the hospital. He abandoned his vehicle, donned his red blazer, and threw the hood over his head. The rain dribbled upon the fabric over his crown like drumming fingers as he made his way through the crowd. The line of police that stood before the front entrance stalled him at first, but after he explained that his wife had been shot and brought to this hospital, they cleared him through.

     Compared to the chaotic world just outside, the lobby was unnervingly quiet. A few curious patience sat in the waiting room, whispering amongst themselves as they all stared toward an office across from the way where a very familiar boy was wailing with sorrow. A young detective knelt to the boy’s level, to offer him solace and to pull him into his embrace, as another officer taking notice to the eyes that were now on them, walked toward the window and drew the shades.

     Jack then paused at the entrance, suddenly aware of his chosen attire, and quickly removed the red jacket, fearing that the boy might recognize it if they were so destined to cross paths again. When he reached the counter, he told the nurse there that his wife had been shot, and had been notified that the ambulance would deliver her to this facility. After an exchange of identification, followed by a few swift keystrokes, and grieving sighs, he had been informed that she was indeed there, in critical condition, and was lost in a coma from the damage she had received to her skull. She then led him to the room where she was being treated.

     A visitor was there, sitting alone in the shadows. Jack’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the waiting figure, but when the light poured into the room as he opened the door, revealing her long curly red hair, he knew his wife was safe. Lillian Rose had been a close friend to Harley for as long as he had known the woman he has grown accustomed to calling his wife. A bookworm, hippie in her second year at Gotham University since her transfer from a school in Seattle, she has become quite close to the newly wed couple. Harley had first introduced him to her only a few weeks before he’d decided to ask her hand in marriage, and he had always loved Lillian’s outgoing nature. To see her there in that room with tears flowing down her cheeks, he could not deny the guilt that tore at his heart when she came throwing herself into his arms, unknowingly embracing the very source of all of her hurt.

     “Lillian…” He breathed with remorse.

     “Ill leave you alone with her.” The nurse said as she took her leave.

     “Somebody shot Harley, Jack.” She said, sniffling, and wheezing in his arms. “What kind of heartless soul would shoot a pregnant woman?”

     He let her feel the warmth of his face on her head, as he squeezed her tight and said, “I don’t know, Lilly.”

     Then she looked up into his eyes, and said, “My God… Haven’t they told you?”

     The news of the death of his unborn child struck him hard, though he half expected it after the fall she had taken, and the wounds she’d endured. The last he’d seen of her was a sprawling of wavy blond hair that spread over her unconscious face just before he felt for her pulse. But to see her now strapped to the gurney with an oxygen mask attached to her face sent chills down his spine; the slow rhythm of her heart monitor beeping only adding to the chorus of sounds from that day that would go on to haunt his dreams. He held her hand; it was cold to his touch. He rested in the chair next to her, staring at her in silence for many hours. Lillian left before sundown, claiming she had her botanist class in the morning, to which she sought to be well rested for. Jack never spoke a word after she had gone.

     The television in the room was on, though the sound was set to low volume. He caught a glimpse of the Wayne story, before returning his eyes back to his unconscious wife. Later he caught a few words on another report going on somewhere in a rural town in Kansas; some queer sighting that had turned a few heads over a farm. He wasn’t quite sure on the details, for all he could see in his head was the last look he saw upon his wife’s face just before she had fallen. It was a look of terror; the look he had often seen in his mother’s eyes when his father came after her.

     His eyelids chased a tear away as he gazed at his wife and said, “Harley… I am so sorry.”

     Just then a knock came at the door, and a young officer stepped into the room. Gripping the red jacket in his palm that hung out of sight beside the bed, he looked up at the detective and said, “Can I help you, sir?”

     “My apologies.” The young detective said. He had seen him comforting the Wayne boy in the office, and he feared what the boy may have told him… what he may have recalled. Tucking the blazer under the bed, Jack sat back in his chair and tried to hold back the sweat that was currently breaking at his brow.

     Noting the fret he saw in the man’s eyes, the detective held up pleading hands and said, “If this is a bad time, I could schedule to meet with you later, Mr. Quinzel.”

     Jack then rose to his feet and said, “No. Please come in, officer…?

     “Detective…” the visitor corrected. “Gordon, Jim Gordon.” He said, offering his hand.

     He reluctantly took it, as the detective continued, “I have been assigned to investigate your case, and I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”

     Jack gave a curious nod to the television, and Detective Gordon pushed a grin as he confirmed, “The very same. Seems I am a busy man to have a homicide and attempted homicide fall into my lap on the very same night.”

     “I’m sorry.”

     Gordon shook his head. “I am sorry for you, and that poor child out there.” He said pointing toward the door.

     Jack couldn’t help but to see the irony in his words as he chuckled and said, “Bruce Wayne is hardly poor.”

     The detective dropped his eyes, as he withdrew his notebook and pen. “No he is not. But a boy he is nonetheless, and no child should have to endure such loss. That said, I can speak no more on the matter, as it is confidential.”

     “Forgive me.” Jack said feigning guilt.

     He then found his eyes on the television once more. News on the ongoing case of the Wayne family shooting ran in text along the bottom of the screen reading, …BOY BECOMES HEIR TO WAYNE ENTERPRISES AS INVESTIGATIONS CONTINUE ON THE SHOOTING OF DR. THOMAS WAYNE AND HIS WIFE… Meanwhile the screen showed eyewitness footage of what appeared as a blazing asteroid that disappeared beyond the horizon of acres upon acres of cornfields, silos, and a water tower, which read Welcome to Smallville! Bold words reading, UFO IN Kansas hovered over a picture of a reporter who was apparently on the scene, and babbling about how the locals refuse to comment.

     Detective Gordon followed his gaze and laughed. “What a night. While monsters reek havoc in some parts of the world, Aliens fall from the sky in others.”

     Appalled, Jack shot him a cold narrow look as he said, “Is that some kind of joke?”

     Nonplussed, the detective again lowered his eyes and apologized. When he returned his attention to the man, he asked solemnly, “If you don’t mind, perhaps we can begin.”

     Jack nodded and took a seat at a table across from the gurney. The detective joined him at the table as he asked, “What can you tell me about your wife?”

     He signed and said, “Where to begin? I met her a few years ago at a gig I was doing..., Standup comedy, at some Wayne fundraiser up in Newtown.”

     The detective made note of that. Jack’s eyes met his pen with scrutiny.

     “Go on.”

     He swallowed hard as he continued his story. “Well, needless to say, we hit it off pretty well and have been together ever since.” He smiled recalling the sweet memories. “I remember the wedding. She had a thing for purple and green and demanded I where this ridiculous tuxedo that she thought was so lovely. I still have it in my closet.”

     Again the detective was writing. “The things we do for them.” He said grinning as well.

     “I told her I would under one condition; if she would do me the honor of wearing the colors red, white, and black in her gown. She asked me why, and I told her that the ancients saw them as the colors of The Goddess. I told her that she was a Goddess to me.” He felt the tears coming again, and he quickly wiped them away with the sleeve of his tousled shirt.

     There was a pause, and then Detective Gordon asked, “In your time together, have you ever noticed anything suspicious about her actions? Perhaps a personality change, or participation in activities out of the norm, such as being out at odd hours of the night?”

     “No.” Jack said shaking his head.

     He wrote something. “And you? Have you been involved in anything that could warrant such a heinous act upon you and your loved ones?”

     A memory flashed before his eyes. His hands reached out from the long sleeves of his read blazer to seize a child from behind. He covered his nose and mouth with a chloroformed rag, and heaved his limp body into the dark cargo of a van that drifted next to him.

     “No.” He answered again, more aggressively than he had intended.

     Another awkward pause.

     The detective eyed him for a long moment, and then said, “Anything you can tell me will help. If you are in deep with the wrong people… I cannot protect you if you refuse to cooperate.”

     Vexed, Jack began massaging his temples as he said, “Look, I am just overwhelmed right now. My thoughts are clouded with emotion, and…, I really just need some time.”

     Jim Gordon was quiet for many moments, eyeing him with a calculating stare. Then he offered his card and told him to call if he should remember anything that could aid him in his case. He made his leave, though he did so reluctantly as he turned to notice at the corner of his eye the bundled red blazer hiding under the gurney. When he was on the other side of the door, he made sure to take note of that little detail as well.

To be continued…