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.”
