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…
