Post by Jackal Kennedy on Jan 16, 2021 23:34:37 GMT -5
Joke.
Hello. Did you miss me, dear?
It’s been terribly long since we’ve spoken, I know.
Oh, I know it was just yesterday, but I really do think we should talk more.
Unfortunately, I must away for a few days. Duty calls, you know.
Now, now, don’t look at me that way. You do provide for me well, but a little extra won’t hurt. Plus, you know how I love the thrill of combat. You also know that… alas, the local operations won’t touch me with a ten foot pole. One’s reputation does get around, I’m afraid.
Will I do it again?
That depends, my lovely. If the situation calls for it, I may. I know you don’t like it, but I’m afraid my methods are a tad beyond you.
You didn’t understand then. I don’t expect you to understand now. But so far away, you won’t have to worry that lovely head of yours about it at all, will you? Out of sight, out of mind.
Are you angry? Do you not want me to go?
Don’t be so upset. I have words for my… amusing opponent before I depart. I will record here. I do know how you so love to listen.
The Christmas finery has long been put away, and the black and white apartment overlooking the Scioto is completely devoid of the tiniest scrap of festivity, back to its classy but cold normal state. A fine crystal glass of merlot sits on the coffee table. Jackal Kennedy himself, well, seems preoccupied. His nose is buried in a copy of ‘The Killing Joke’.
“...do you know what started World War II? An argument over how many telegraph poles that Germany owed its war debt creditors. Telegraph poles! Hahahaha!”
Deep brown eyes peered over the book, the corners crinkling in a smiling sort of way.
“It’s all a joke. Anything anybody ever valued or struggled for- it’s all a demented, monstrous gag! So why can’t you see the funny side?”
Slowly, he lowered the book, closing it, and setting it on the table, picking up the wine glass in its stead.
“Why aren’t you laughing?”
Chuckling richly, Jackal took a long sip from the glass, sighing softly.
“I admit I find a certain charm in the Joker’s philosophy- that the course of human events is naught but a darkly hilarious prank played on the whole of mankind. I wonder if, were the Clown Prince of Crime real, he would find the fact that he had become a cliche part of the grand jest as well.”
Looking up at the ceiling, Jackal swirled his wine thoughtfully.
“But, as much of a cliche as the Joker is, he is not real. Fiction, created in the 40’s by Jerry Robinson, Bob Kane and Bill Finger, doomed to die in his very first appearance but saved by the editors, to live on and torment Batman and be the poster boy for the faux-oppressed for decades to come.”
Another sip. His free hand tapped at his chin. Licking at his lips, he gave a rich laugh, as if finding the whole of this just as amusing as Joker himself might.
“But here is the rub. If there is no Joker, and he is a mere fictional figment born upon now yellowed pages, then there is also no Batman. And there the thread unravels- no Batman, or Robin, or loyal old Alfred Pennyworth. And outward we go- no Superman or Wonder Woman, no Flash or Green Lantern. And out further still- no Justice League entire, no Avengers, Defenders, X-Men… all of it, imaginary. The fancies of the young and young at heart, spawn of pen and ink and nothing more.”
He sat up, eyes alight in the ambient apartment.
“Superheroes do not exist. They only escape from page and cel and screen by means of delusion. To believe in such things, in superhuman gifted folk- mutants or aliens or the technologically or even magically advanced- flitting about and solving other people’s problems for no reward is the same as believing in angels, or benevolent spirits. The state of the world speaks to this fact- if there were superheroes, why does so much wrong happen? Murders, kidnappings, rapes, suicides, terrorism- are these all not the work of superheroes to put right?”
Tisk tisk tisk. Jackal shook his head, brow furrowed. The wine is finished, the glass set aside, empty fingers steepling.
“Ergo, I do not fight a superhero or anything of the sort. I fight a sad, deluded man wrapped up in fantasy. It’s almost unfair, and I beseech any friends or family of Mr… ‘Avenger’... keep him from the arena. Because I am not here to play children’s games. I am not a pretend supervillain come to be vanquished.”
Leaning forward, his dark eyes bored a hole in the camera, and past, as if to cut a hole in the very psyche of his opponent.
“I am quite possibly the most dangerous person you have ever met. If you come to the arena for Chaos, Avenger, pray. Pray that you find my disposition one of amusement and one of annoyance. It very well could be the difference between you walking off with a loss…”
He smiled then. His teeth were perfect white daggers amongst a military cemetery.
“...or never walking again.”
Reaching up, he gave a sharp snap of his fingers, and the picture went black.
