Super Caricatures

Had this awesome Father and Daughter who wanted to be #WonderWoman and #Deadpool combining the #dccomics and #marvelcomics Universe. This is what I came up with... #caricatures #art

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.”

The Red Hood: Chapter 5

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 5

     Though not one of his best performances, the gig at Thomas Wayne’s agriculture fundraiser banquet in Newtown would stand the test of time in Jack’s mind as one of the most memorable events of his life. It wasn’t long after he had stepped off stage that the prestigious gentleman that was responsible for it all, would meet him in person to thank him for his time. Thomas was honest enough to admit that his sense of humor was a bit offputtingly crude for his taste. However, so too did he applaud him for his unique approach, claiming that much of what he had said turned out to be quite inspiring. Respectfully Jack smiled and thanked the man, giving him a firm handshake to solidify his appreciation. He only wanted to end the encounter as quickly as possible so that he could be on his way.

     Breaking free from the grasp of the clinging media as they gathered around the Wayne family, he made his way for the gorgeous couple he had noticed when on stage. The blond flashed a blushing smile at him as he approached, abandoning her redheaded friend in midsentence on a topic about how the city smog was choking the Earth. Oblivious, she yammered on, her eyes wondering as she spoke, her friend no longer paying any mind.

     Jack returned a smile to the woman with the golden hair and the bright blue eyes, and said, “Forgive me for the intrusion.”

     The redhead suddenly fell silent, turning to find the suitor making his move upon her friend. Soft music lilted in the silence from the band that was playing nearby.

     “But my dear lady, I must ask of you a favor…” He said.

     She sat back and crossed her arms, feigning sore amusement. “Go on.”

     Lost in the exchange, her friend could only watch with an excited grin upon her face. Enthralled, her eyes turned now to Jack, awaiting his response as she took a long swig from her glass of wine.

     Unctuously, he offered his hand and said, “Will you be ever so kind as to humor a lonesome jester by taking his hand and joining him in a dance?”

     Reluctant, she glanced at her friend, her tongue twirling ambivalently in her mouth. She only laughed and said in return, “Have at it, Harley! Your gentlemen caller awaits.”

     Harley scowled at her. Uncrossing her legs to stand, she took Jack’s hand and followed him to the dance floor. His hand placed firmly on her back and their hips close, they began to dance, her cheeks turning even pinker than before.

     “So, Harley, is it?” He asked.

     “Indeed it is, and you?”

     “Jack Quinzel.”

     There was silence for a moment, the heat of his breath on her neck made her heart flutter. “Well Mr. Quinzel…” She said at last. “As an answer to your favor, I shall be expecting a reward in return. Therefore I must ask: what is it that you can offer me?”

     Smiling he said, “Well, I can make you laugh.”

     “I just sat through your entire performance and I must say…,” She pulled back to give him a teasing grin. “That has yet to be seen.”

     “Perhaps you need a moment to allow the joke settle in.” He said, giving her a wink. “In due time, I think you’ll get it.”

     “We shall see.” She said sinking back into his arms.

     “That we shall.” He agreed

     The cry of the bedside phone tore him back to the present. In a deep gasp of the dry motel air, heavy with dust and languor, he arose in a bewildered panic. Like fog lifting from the surface of his mind his dream vanished, and the daunting world of reality began to set back in. Nary a day had past where he had not awoken taking inventory of all of the haunting memories that have come to past since the day he had retrieved the mysterious super genome formula for the Falcone family. As if to convince him all over again that all of his nightmares were indeed true and not just another dream he had somehow slipped into, he tormented himself recalling every misstep that had taken place on that fateful night; the killing of the Wayne family, the shooting of his wife, the incessant detective at his every turn with an all new list of curious questions, and The Falcones’ too watching his every move. Jack knew his days were numbered, and with a bottle of whisky by his bed he often drank himself into a quiescent state, praying to fall into a blissful coma when his demons had finally come to claim what was left of his soul.

     His swimming head spun, as he turned to search for the phone. His hand raked in the darkness, missing at first, and then clumsily smashing into the receiver the second try. He retrieved the phone, and placing it to his ear he answered in a shallow voice, “Hello…”

     Suddenly his eyes widened, and the vigor returned to his haggard face. Something the woman had said on the other line had him back to his feet, alert and vigilant.

     “Is she alright? Does she remember anything?” He asked.

     The voice replied, the answer uncertain.

     “Okay… Thank you.” He hung up.

     She was awake. He thought grimly.

He was partially relieved to find that his wife had survived his attack, however he feared now that his demons would be arriving much sooner than he had initially anticipated. He knew that if Harley was to survive, he would have to stop the Falcones’ before they learn of her current condition, and he would have to do so fast; for if she has come to with her memory intact, the GCPD would soon be hard on his heels. Donning his jacket and collecting what little he had claimed before abandoning his home, he fled the motel, peeling out of the parking lot in his old sedan.

#

At Gotham University just South of The Knights Football Stadium in the Otisburg District, a man was studying in the dark of his laboratory at his computer. Bathed in the blue glow of his monitor, he cautiously checked his surroundings before he inserted the flash drive that Falcone’s men had brought him into his desktop. Satisfied that he was alone, he opened the file on the screen and explored its contents with rapt astonishment.

Thomas Wayne had indeed paid well to save his son. He admired, skimming through the pages upon pages of information.

“What have you found?” a voice boomed from somewhere in the darkness of the lab.

Startled he spun from his chair allowing the luminous from the screen to pour onto the empty desks that filled the room. Seated alone at one table in the far back was a tall gentleman clad in a black suit and tie. He arose, his prodigious height only matched by his shadow that was cast upon the wall behind as he approached. Vincent Falcone walked right for the computer, interested only in the information that was on display there.

Fixing his glasses, Dr. Jason Woodrue exhaled slowly to calm his racing heart and then joined him in his wonder at the computer. “Well, Mr. Falcone... What I have found here may be a plot of unfathomable proportion.” He began hammering away at the keyboard as he continued. “Not only has Thomas Wayne provided us with the formula he has been working on for the government, but he had also been so generous as to add more classified information on projects set forth by Wayne Enterprises and Lucius Fox. Projects also funded by the government.” He shot him a grave look as a schematic appeared on the screen.

It was the blue print of a heavily armored vehicle with weapons attached to its hull, and at its rear a rocket booster that could send the massive tank-like machine into a powerful acceleration; perfect for plowing through solid obstacles as such could stall it from reaching it’s intended target. Another portion of the drawing unveiled how the machine could separate into two parts, using the front wheels to transform it into a high-speed motorcycle and potential escape pod for the operator.

“It would appear as though…” The doctor continued. “The government was preparing an operation to bring about some sort of Police State here in Gotham, and Wayne Enterprises was chosen to provide them with their tools.”

Another image appeared; a drawing of a potential aircraft too heavily armed, with the ability to fly in ways no other military craft short of a mini drone could ever possibly achieve.

“These schematics are designed for mass crowd control, and the soldiers destined to mount them…” He opened the file showing the genetic formula that Falcone so desired, and said, “Would not be human.”

“Dear God…” He uttered.

Scarcely had Dr. Jason Woodrue (whom has worked with the Family many times before) ever seen such a dreadful look in Vincent Falcone’s eye.

“Debug this formula.” He demanded. “Use whatever resources you should need, I care not of the cost. I want this power, and I want it now.”

“Ill do what I can.” The doctor replied, still gazing at the remarkable code before him in awe.

#

     James Gordon sat at his cubical pondering the facts that he and his investigation had uncovered on the Wayne family murders. Weeks had past since he had first spoken to the distraught young boy who was collected at the docks only a few yards away from where the bodies of his mother and father were found. So frightened he was, the boy did not speak to him for hours, and when he finally had he would wail in sorrow for hours more. No leads were yet uncovered, though forensics had found tire tracks and bullet shells on the scene. The shells possessed no traceable fingerprints, and they had yet to find a match for the tracks. Currently he found himself at a dead end; accept for one curious detail... a mysterious red blazer.

Over and over he read one line in the report; a testimony from the boy himself,

“The man in the Red Hood then turned and shot my mom…”

He remembered the boy breaking down in tears after he had spoken that, as though reliving it all over again in his mind. It pained him to see someone so young battling such inner conflict. In him he saw not only loss and mourning, but a fire growing so fierce he feared what burning scars it would leave upon his heart. He feared for his future, and he had feared he would never find the one who had kindled the flame, but now he was sure he found his suspect.

As I took my leave, His notes had read from the Quinzel case. I had taken notice to what appeared to be a red blazer ensconced beneath Mrs. Quinzel’s gurney. Mr. Jack Quinzel had apparently stashed it there upon my entry.

      

      A robust officer then entered his cubical and peered over his shoulder. He finished the remainder of a glazed doughnut that was no doubt much prettier inside the box it came in, rather than the sprinkled mess that was left of it caught in his thick mustache. Though aware of his presence Detective Gordon never turned away from his work, as to cozen his guest with the element of surprise. When the crumbs found his shoulder, he could not pretend any longer.

     “Can I help you Detective Bullock?”

     His tone startled the clumsy officer, causing him to stagger back in shock. He then shoved the last piece of pastry into his mouth and laughed. “Gordon! Are you still going over that Quinzel file? I was to understand that one was open and shut.” He said, still chewing.

     Gordon returned to the file as he answered mockingly, “Poor girl is shot in her home at Crime Alley and it is an open and shut case. For your information, I am reviewing the Wayne case.”

     “Then why are you reading up on Mr. Jack Quinzel?” He questioned, taking note that the detective’s computer was on and Jack’s information was poured all over the screen.

     “Because, Detective Bullock, He is my suspect.”

     Officer Bullock gave him a curious look and said, “May I ask, how you have drawn that conclusion?”

     He read a piece of information that was highlighted on the screen, “Jack Quinzel, a comedic live performer who also goes by the alias, The Red Hood, Jackie Quinn.” He returned his eyes to the curious detective and continued, “There is a mention of a red hooded jacket in both cases.”

     Bewildered, the officer could only give him a nonplussed blank stare for many moments. Then he said, “I have a red jacket; should I be expecting a search warrant into my home anytime soon.”

     Gordon said nothing to that.

     “Look Jim, we all wish we could be that super hero with the ability to always prevail against every monster that should bare its ugly face in this city, but the truth is, we can’t. We have rules; we live in the real world. This isn’t some kind of Detective Comic. In the real world you can’t just point at the nearest person with a red jacket and say that’s the guy, lets get him. We need more evidence than that.”

     Flustered, Gordon gave him a long vacant look for a moment. Then he said, “I will find the evidence, and I will take this bastard down.”

     Suddenly his phone rang. He picked it up, listened, said a few words to confirm what he was hearing was accurate, and then hung up. Collecting his things, he quickly arose from his desk and hurried past Detective Bullock.

     “Where are you going?” He asked.

     Jim Gordon never looked back as he answered, “Gotham General, to collect my evidence.”

#

     “Perhaps you need a moment to allow the joke to settle in”

     The voice echoed in the inky blackness of her thoughts. 

     “In due time, I think you’ll get it.”

     A shot rang. Blinding light exploded, burning her mind’s eye. Harley sprung from her coma, sitting up straight and tearing the wires and tubes from the devices that surrounded her gurney. Her lungs heaved, as to reclaim the breath she had lost from her drowning sleep. She knew not where she was; she could recall nothing of her past. She had awoken to a nightmare, without reason, without an identity. She was no one. She was scared.

     Her detached heart monitor flat-lined and screamed. The sound of chaos closed in, as strange voices barked muffled commands on the other side of the closed door before her. Hurried footfalls drew near, and her heartbeat climbed in her chest. Rising and falling, rising and falling, quicker now, her breath came.

     I’m sorry… A man’s voice had once said. But this must be done.

     “No…” She breathed, utterly afraid. She did not understand why, but she knew she had to escape.

     Suddenly there were men and women in her room. They wore white and blue gowns, and worrisome frowns upon their faces. Some spoke to her in soft tones, as one would have to earn the trust of a lost child. They moved in with caution. Others retreated with orders to send word of her current condition. Still she did not understand.

     I must get out of here… She told herself, her toes hanging off the gurney and slowly reaching toward the floor. I must go home…

     The pull of tender flesh at her midsection seized her. There was a sickening pain there, but her adrenaline neutralized it, and before she could fully grasp what she was doing, she was on her feet, holding the IV pole as a weapon; she remembered holding a baseball bat in such a way, though she could not quite recall when or why.

     Soon the men and women cleared from her path. Cautiously she made her way out of the room, but a nurse’s hand attempted to reach for the pole. When she felt the restriction, as the nurse pulled on the end of it, she saw the flash of a woman’s face smeared in black and white paint. It was her face, she knew, and she was grinning a sadistic smile.

     That instant, she felt herself turn, she saw her fist swing, and she sent all of her rage through the swollen striations of the muscles in her arm as her knuckles collided with the woman’s open jaw, sending her to the hard tiled floor with blood spraying from her hanging bottom lip. Now all eyes were on her, and all the doctors, nurses, and patients recoiled. She then fled the hospital, her gown hanging loose at her back side as she ran through the parking lot, across the busy streets, and disappeared into the woods that surrounded Gotham General.

     Night was on the horizon by the time she reached her old apartment and pushed through the caution tape that crossed the doorway where she had once fallen. She saw the baseball bat still lying where she had dropped it, though still she could not remember how it had gotten there. Something was calling her toward the bedroom closet. Strange voices echoed in her mind, but she did not know what they were saying. As she slid open the door, she found there hanging a beautiful red white and black wedding gown, next to a peculiar purple and green tuxedo. As she gazed at the dress she heard a man’s voice asking to take her hand, asking to marry him, asking her a favor…

     She collapsed to her knees, tears welling at her eyes. She slipped her slender frame out of her hospital garb, and looked down. There, naked and gruesome were three scars; two bullet wounds just over her navel, and one long crescent shaped infliction left from a C-section. She ran her tremulous fingers over the scabbing wounds and cried. Collectively they formed the shape of a smiling face at her navel, as though to mock her.

     In due time, A man had told her. I think you’ll get it…

     Suddenly she began laughing. Suddenly she was on her feet. Suddenly she found a pair of scissors. Suddenly she was cutting into her old wedding gown.

     It wasn’t long before Detective Jim Gordon had learned of Harley Quinzel’s outburst at the hospital, and lead a unit to her apartment where they met a crazed woman dressed in a tattered, halfheartedly sewn dress that was once a wedding gown, standing there with a bat in one hand and a pair of rusty scissors in the other. Her face was smeared in white powder, and her eyes bordered with dripping, deep black eyeshadow makeup. Stark red lipstick lined her lips, and her once long flowing blond hair had been hacked off, and what remained of it was tied together at either side of her scalp in rubber bands. Upon her crown she wore a torn white bridal veil, its frayed ends flagging in the breeze.

     Guns were drawn all around her, though Gordon approached unarmed. With a megaphone he called out to her, “Harley Quinzel, please, I beg you…, Lower your weapon, and surrender. I know you are afraid, but perhaps I can help you.”

     “Who is that?” She cried out.

     In the silence, the red and blue lights of the surrounding police cruisers lit up the area, as Jim Gordon answered, “Harley?… That is your name.”

     “I get it now.” She said, laughing. “I finally get it.”

     “What is that?” He asked, confused.

     “The joke.” She said. “Don’t you get the joke? I’m Harley… Harley Quinn.”

TO BE CONTINUED…