The Red Hood: Chapter 6

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 various other renowned writers 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 far 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 6

“Good morning class!” The exuberant and comely Dr. Jason Woodrue said as he stepped into his classroom. Marching directly for the massive blackboard at the front of the class, all commotion amongst his young audience instantly ceased; concluding with the flip of notebooks opening, and the occasional clearing of one’s throat that echoed across the quiet room.

     Lillian Rose had long earned her seat in the front row, joining four other exceptionally beautiful young ladies, all whom had begun their semester in the back row, yet by some unknown means made their way nearest to the professor’s desk. As he passed them, he took a moment to look her way. She met him with her bright green emerald eyes, gleaming with blissful euphoria. The other girls matched her gaze with a touch of lust hidden in the exchange.

     Smiling, the handsome professor continued his way to the chalkboard, erasing the genetic code there from the previous night: his work for Vincent Falcone well underway.

     “Today, I wish to talk about…” He said writing a word on the board. “Immortality.” He turned to his class. “When you see this word, what do you think?”

     “Invincible!” One student shouted.

     “God!” Another had said.

     “Me!” The jock in the center row exclaimed proudly. The students chuckled.

     Dr. Jason Woodrue however intrigued, pointed his way and asked, “And what are you.”

     Bewildered, the baby-faced brute answered, “Ummm… Human?”

     “Quite! Now, the question is, can a human be Immortal?”

     “No!” A few class members said in unison.

     “Right?” The professor tested them. “Wrong!” He returned to the board and wrote another word, “Telomerase.”

     Slamming the chalk down, he spun on his heel, turning like a mad man to again face his students. With fierce eyes on them now, he pointed to the word and asked, “Do you know what this is?” His students shrugged, their interest piqued. “This my young friends, is the enzyme that has grounded the race of Man from achieving the one thing we have sought after since the dawn of our existence; the holy grail of discovery; the ultimate treasure: the fountain of youth.” Again he smiled toward Lillian Rose in the front row, leaving her to blush. The other girls scowled at her, unveiling their jealousy.  

     Silence.

     He stepped in front of his desk, and rested his back upon it as he went on, “Like a knot at the end of a rope, Telomerase completes our DNA. It keeps us from unraveling, from falling apart. However, as our cells divide, our Telomerase slowly begins to diminish, therefore as we grow, as we heal, we slowly but surely kill ourselves. However, If we could reverse the effects of this deterioration, perhaps we Humans could finally be as the Gods we have so idolized for so many thousands of years. You may be asking yourself, how? And why are we talking about this in our Botany class? Will my friends, what if I told you the answer to these questions are hidden within the trees?”

     Again he was making way to the chalkboard as he said, “In 2008 it was discovered that a Picea Abies in Sweden had reached a bold age of ten thousand years, making it virtually the oldest living organism on planet Earth.” He wrote that information down. “It is said that its ability to regenerate a new trunk as the old dies is the source of its longevity. The Pinus Longaeva, a great Basin Bristlecone Pine found in the high mountains in the Southwest region of the United States has a reported lifespan of some five thousand years.” He wrote that as well, the chalk squealing and tapping against the board as he did so. Again the chalk was down, his eyes on his captivated audience. “How is this so? They are indeed living organisms, yet they outlive every other creature on Earth. The secret lies in their regenerating cells, and their ever-rejuvenating Telomerase enzymes. A genetic ability that if we could harness ourselves, may transform us into the ultimate beings the ancients have dreamt us to become throughout the history of our very being.”

     When his lesson had ended, he assigned some chapters to read in their textbooks, an essay to write on long living organisms, and asked Lillian to a private counsel after the students were gone. Met with sore eyes by all of the girls that so loved the beautiful Dr. Jason Woodrue, she did as she was told, and was soon left sitting all alone at her desk, her heart racing in her chest. As if to tease her, the professor took his time cleaning off the blackboard, jotting down a few notes in his journal, and sorting the papers at his desk before he looked toward her with his big dark brown eyes that had often clouded her mind with fantasies.

     The professor was tall, lean, and always impeccably dressed. His glasses only added to his allure, as did the power he exuded in his classroom. His jaw flanked with stubble made him appear as a man of knowledge, but with a dark side. He was as Lillian’s peers had put it, like rich creamy chocolate to the eyes, and a thousand orgasms to the mind. It took all of her will power to contain herself as he made his way toward her, though beneath her desk her knees touched, as to hide her exhilaration that which she feared would be clearly visible if she hadn’t.

     Standing before her, he placed his hand upon her desktop and leaned in. He breathed a single word; it was her name, “Lillian…” But to her, it felt as though he had just caressed a most tender area of her most private parts. She closed her eyes and shuttered.

     He reached a finger under her chin, lifting her head, demanding her attention. She gave it to him, her green eyes flashing a lustful hunger she has had for the man since the very first time she had lay eyes upon him.

     “I wish to share something with you.” He said.

     “W…what?” She stammered nervously.

     With a devilish grin, he answered, “The gift of immortality.”

     Soon he would take her hand and guide her to his private study. There he would withdraw from a hidden compartment in his desk a bottle of aged wine. He told her lovely stories of the ancients and their desire for fermented drinks. He poured himself a glass and spoke of how wine was his “favorite of poisons.” As he filled her glass, Lillian, so lost in the ecstasy of his lure, never took notice to the greenish liquid that he had added to hers from a vial that was hidden beyond the sleeve of his serving hand.  

     Offering Lillian the glass, he shot her an unctuous smile and said, “Though occasionally I have been known to fall victim for another lovely poison; that is, the lust of a woman.”

     Again she blushed, accepting the drink.

Moving in closer, his considerable height drawing her eyes upward, he raised his glass in a toast and said, “A libation to the flowering beauty of the toxicodendron Radicans that which I see when I look into your eyes; three leaves of power, love, and lust.” He winked at her.

She giggled, they tapped their glasses, and in the next moment the wine was gone. Dr. Jason Woodrue had stumbled upon a solution to Thomas Wayne’s Genome formula through the DNA of a number of exotic trees, and now he had found his first test subject. The next instant he sealed her fate with a long passionate kiss. Lillian’s blood was on fire, as the taste of him filled her mouth; little did she know, it was the foreign element entering into her veins that burned her so: it was his poison.

#

     Elizabeth Arkham Asylum resided just off Trigate Bridge, South Burnley, and North of Coventry. It was a desolate place that housed not only the most dangerous of the criminally insane, but maintained a most dreadful history of its own. As the legend goes, it was some time during the 1900’s when a doctor by the name of Amadeus Arkham had traveled from Metropolis to reclaim the old family hospital as a center to treat the clinically insane. His mother having fallen victim of a severe mental condition was said to have committed suicide, thus inspiring him to pursue the project in her name. It would later be discovered that it was by his own hand she had met her end, a course set as a euthanized action to free her from her anguish. Soon after he had begun remodeling, a patient he had treated long ago in Metropolis escaped from prison, and after learning of his whereabouts, he tracked his family down, and murdered them all. Despite the tragic loss of his loved ones, he carried on the plans to complete the new facility, and shortly after it’s grand opening he found the man responsible and killed him via electric shock therapy. He then went about the hospital on a brutal killing spree with an axe. So the legend claims.

     It was a dark gothic structure with a population in the several hundreds: all patients of an equally dark nature. Jim Gordon scarcely enjoyed his visits to this malign madhouse, and as he waited in the lobby along with his partner, Detective Bullock, he found a familiar chill at his spine that often tormented him when in the presence of evil.

     “This is bullshit!” Bullock whined, his pacing doing little to ease his partner’s stress. “We should be out tracking down this Jack Quinzel, not here in this squalid checking up on some crazy amnesic girl with personality issues.”

     Jim gave him a look of warning and said, “You will mind your tongue, detective,” his words stopping Harvey Bullock in his tracks. “She is a witness in our custody, and she may still be of use to out investigation. The doctors have reported she to possess some recollections of the shooting.”

     “She is a nutcase that thinks she is some sort of damn court jester.” He challenged.

     “Be that as it may, I still need her. She is all I have left to pin this guy down.”

     A well-dressed man then exited through the doors that lead into the hospital and approached them with a grim look upon his face. When he met with the detectives he offered his hand and greeted, “Detectives. I am Mrs. Quinzel’s lawyer, Geoffrey Hans.”

     They each shook his hand, as Jim Gordon introduced, “Detective Jim Gordon, and this is my partner Harvey Bullock.”

     “Pleasure.” Bullock lied.

     “How is she?” Jim asked.

     The man let out a grieving sigh and said, “She is a puzzle. She can recall only mere glimpses of the past, and often when she does, she falls into a state of paranoid shock that sometimes leads into convulsions. The doctors have her working with other patients now; it seems to keep her mind at ease… It gives her purpose. However, every time I make an attempt to talk to her about the events that lead her here, she has another episode.”

     “What drove her to attack the nurse at Gotham General, and how did she find her way home if she cant remember anything?” Jim asked, his frustration beginning to show.

     The lawyer simply shook his head, and said, “She has no recollection of any of it. When questioned on the matter, all she says in response is, The joker’s joke will make you laugh and choke until you croak.”

     Both Jim and Harvey exchanged puzzled glances. Then Jim returned his attention to Geoffrey and asked, “When can we talk to her?”

     “I’m sorry, sir, but I fear she may be too far gone.” He answered with a disconcerted grin. “The doctors are going to need some time with her before she is ready to speak with anyone. After her last outburst, they wont even permit me any further access until they can get her emotions under control.”

     “That could take forever!” Bullock snapped. “We need to speak with her as soon as possible.”

     “My sincerest apologies…” He said dolefully. “I wish there was more I could do to help, but unfortunately I cant. Now if you excuse me gentlemen, I am late for a meeting with another client.”

     That said he made his way for the exit when Detective Jim Gordon turned to him and said, “Mr. Hans, during your sessions with her, did she by chance make any mention of a red hood, or jacket?”

     The lawyer looked back at him and answered, “There is but one thing she cares to say on the matter, and I’m afraid it is just as bemusing as is that question.”

     Then he was gone, leaving the detectives alone in the dark lobby, without a lead: without hope.

     Frustrated, Jim charged toward the exit. Hurrying to catch up with the long strides of his tall partner, Harvey Bullock asked, “Where are you going?”

     “To find Mr. Quinzel.”

     “Jim, you can’t!” He argued. “You have no evidence, and no warrant.”

     Jim stopped and spun his way, intensity burning in his eyes. “I have my gut, and my gut tells me to stop him before another victim falls in the alleys by his doing.”

     Bullock studied him curiously for a moment, and then asked, “Why is this so important to you?”

     He thought a moment, remembering all the pain he saw in young Bruce Wayne’s eyes and said, “That boy… The Wayne child; I saw something inside him… I saw an illness growing; a hate unlike any foul soul I have ever encountered in all of my years as a police officer. Who ever did this to him, they took something away; they robbed him of his parents, and they implanted something dark inside his heart. Something far darker than any foe we have ever faced before. In this business, you get to know evil; you learn how to see it on people. I saw it in him. I seek the one responsible for planting such a vial seed.”

     “So what? Your plan is to put the law into your own hands, and risk everything on a hunch, just to give this a kid a piece of mind?” Bullock challenged. “Jim, the damage is done. There is nothing you can do to reverse that. You can kill every bad guy in this city, that boy will still grow to be whatever he is destined to become; you cannot undo his hurt by throwing your career away.”

     “That boy has just inherited the key to the city, after having his first taste of blood at an age far too young to understand the concept of forgive-and-let-live.” Jim snapped. “I may one day be powerless to stop whatever Bruce Wayne might become, but I can however stop this man from destroying anymore futures.”

     “By destroying yours.”

     His words were like an icy dagger to Jim’s heart, never-the-less, he went on about his business, leaving Bullock with his final plea echoing in the vacant lobby, “Jim, think of your family…, Think of your kids!”

#

     Geoffrey Hans drove his Mercedes to a quiet lot along Aparo Park, where a lone black limo was waiting. He parked, stepped out, adjusted his tie, and made way for the passenger side. The glimmer of the sun’s light beamed off the calm waters of Gotham River, it’s brilliants reflecting on the tinted glass of the window as he opened the door to enter. Inside sat Carmine Falcone; he was puffing on a Cuban as the lawyer took his seat across from him. His loyal thugs still joined him at either side; ever still, ever quiet, ever deadly.

     Geoffrey took note of the shattered glass of the rear window, still stained with human plasma from the dearly departed Joe Chill. He gave a stolid nod toward the back spatter and asked, “Trouble?”

     Carmine glanced at the damage and said with a sly grin, “No trouble, just thought to redecorate.”

     “As adorning as brain matter may be, it could draw some unwanted attention, and ought be removed as soon as possible.” The lawyer stressed.

     “Dully noted.” Carmine spat curtly. “What of our little bird? Has she a song to sing?”

     “She sings merely in riddles.” The lawyer answered, hardly amused. “Though I am pleased to report that her wit is gone from her. Mrs. Quinzel remembers nothing, and therefore should pose little threat to you and your father’s schemes… However, there is a detective on the case; he is clever, he is stubborn. He may be a problem.”

     “What’s his name?”

     “Gordon.”

     Carmine smiled knowingly. “Ahh, the shining knight of Gotham.” He mocked. “I know him well, as I know of nearly half of the officers in his department that currently sit on my payroll. We shall deal with him soon enough…” He then looked to his driver, who was watching him from his rearview mirror. The driver nodded, eyes grim. Carmine let out an exhausted sigh and said, “For now, I have other matters to attend to. You must be on your way, Mr. Hans. My sentry has reported an enemy on our tail, and so, I fear, we may have to complete our redecorating with his guts.” One of his men then opened the door to allow him leave. “If you will.”

     The lawyer nodded and was soon gone from the vehicle. The limo departed, followed closely by an old sedan. Jack Quinzel drove with a gun by his side, and his red hood drawn over his brow; his fierce eyes locked on the limo before him.

#

     Lillian Rose awoke, haunted by a dream of suffocating shrubs, of coiling, twisting vines with biting thorns. A vast field of Poison Ivy surrounded her, their stems growing rapidly. Claiming her from feet to crown they wrapped around her with greenery. Red roses bloomed at her scalp, punching through bone, tearing through flesh. Dr. Jason Woodrue stood before her laughing. Her love; he has betrayed her. He offered not a finger to her aid as the weeds consumed her whole. An outstretched hand was the last of her limbs to see the light before that too was claimed. After all was lost, she threw back open her eyes to find herself back in her empty apartment, alone in her bed. There was pain all over, but no weeds. She didn’t recall how she had returned home, and so little could she remember what had taken place between her and the professor after they had kissed.

     Her head swimming, she sluggishly rolled out of bed and stumbled to her bathroom across the way from her bed. She was cold, but was sweating immensely. When she reached the sink she turned on the faucet and drank. After quenching her thirst she looked at her haggard reflection in the mirror and shrieked. Her eyes were sunken and black, dark veins stretching from her sockets. Her hair, all of her flowing curly red hair, was near gone, so too were her eyebrows and lashes. She recoiled, holding a frail tremulous hand to her mouth. Staggering out of the bathroom she saw fragments of her hair everywhere, scattered across her tossed blankets, and coating the carpet like an animal’s lost fur.

     Never before had she screamed as she did in that dreadful moment.

     Still she collected her things, and made for class. At Gotham University, all of her fellow classmates looked to her with ridicule. They laughed, and teased, pointing at her bald scalp. The professor she so loved even scowled when he first saw her. She sat in the front row at the head of the class, all eyes on her, as he carried on with his lesson, though flustered he was by her presence.

     Suddenly Lillian’s glossy eyes began transforming; the irises were glowing green. The professor saw this and gaped. Before he could utter a word of warning, she collapsed out of her seat and fell silent on the floor. The class was suddenly ensued by panic, as Dr. Woodrue directed everyone out of the classroom as quickly as he could.

     When he was alone with her, he felt for a pulse, but she was cold, and there was nothing. He gasped in shock, and retreated to his study. There he found a green blanket, which he used to collect her remains. Dragging her body from the class, he made sure to gather all of his research on the Falcone Genome project before he was gone: never to be seen by his students again.

     That night he had dumped her body in a forest somewhere on the outskirts of town, leaving her for dead. That night her body would lay so quiet, so still. That night she’d awaken yet again, her nightmares realized.

     Her nails dug into the hard dirt, her hands balling into fistfuls of grass. A stabbing agony sent her arching at the back, her chest rising skyward as she gasped. She exhaled a blood-curdling scream that almost seemed to stir the quiet branches above her. At her scalp knots were forming, rippling through her flesh. The points of earthen green buds pushed and penetrated, spitting blood. Leaves seemed to grow at her brow, and her eyes were luminous in the night, glowing a yellow green.

By blind love she had fallen victim, and by her love’s poison she had been reborn once again: an irony that would drive her passions and fuel her rage for many years to come.   

#

     In her cell, Harley Quinzel pressed against the wall and gazed out the barred window that overlooked the neighboring D’Angelo Sewage Treatment facility, flanked by trees that aligned the squalid shores of Gotham River. The staff at Arkham Asylum thought it best to shave her head completely, alleviating her of the crippling memories that were attached to the hack-job she had done to her hair after her episode at the hospital. Now she lay there, a tear trailing down her cheek, quiescent, defeated, lost.

     “The joker’s joke…,” she chanted in a whisper. “will make you laugh and choke until you croak…”

     Suddenly a bubbling laughter poured from her throat as she dropped to her knees, her head still resting against the wall. “The Joker’s Joke!” She said with a thick city accent. “Oh, J… You’re so funny… It kills.”