A Three Jokers Orgin story. So there's been a lot of Joker in the news lately. Lots of debate about giving him an origin story. Should he have one? Should it be multiple choice? Should it be a mystery? Well I'm curious by nature. I love the origin s...
I awoke to a splitting headache. This was nothing new since my shock therapy incident in Arkham. I had hoped that the headaches were merely a byproduct of not eating the Arkham cuisine, and basically starving. Guess that's not the case. I roll onto my side. I'm surprised to see Ivy still asleep in my bed. But then, she's probably still exhausted from our seven hour fuck fest that didn't end till dawn. I'll just let her rest. She earned it.
I sit up on the side of the bed. My hands go to my head and I close my eyes until the throbbing plateaus.
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In addition to psychiatric drugs, conventional pain relievers are lost on me. I sigh and raise my aching head. I stand and the throbbing increases for another moment. I go in the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror. If it's possible, I think I look worse than normal. The red of my lips seems muted. The blackened skin around my eyes was much darker. Maybe I could use some sun, I don't tan, but I don't burn either, but apparently I still need vitamin A like everyone else.
I look at my tattoos. They were all important. They were things I didn't want to forget. Since the chemicals my memory has been on the fritz. And since the electrical volts straight to my brain, it's gotten worse. Noticeably worse. I know who I am, I know the people around me. But certain details are just gone, such as my birthday. Perhaps I have it written down. And maybe I should write down all the things I can remember, who knows, tomorrow they could be gone.
Then my eyes focus on the reflection staring back at me. I stare at the face of a murderer. A man who has stabbed, shot, and blown up people. Innocent people who did nothing except be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sure, throwing away millions made the general public like me, but the press was another story. The press made its money with tragedy and fear. So naturally, they really exploit me. But, I knew I was the monster they claimed me to be in the press. But if they had lived the life I had, they might not have thought so harshly of me. Funny, isn't it, that the bat was the only one to actually understand that. He places a lot of blame on himself for my crimes, a blame he didn't fully deserve. I know what I do is wrong, but I still do it. If you know your psychology, that's classic sociopathic behavior.
I've always known that I was different. Different from every last breathing thing on this whole god forsaken planet. Unique to everyone, its just, I'm the only one who can see that. Maybe I'm that one unique soul that uses 11% of my brain instead of 10% like everyone else. I never have thought the way most people do. Not even when I was a child. And even though I do happen to fit the characteristics of many psychiatric disorders, I'm not fucking crazy.
I can't really explain it. When most people look at the world, they think it's a good place and that everyone in it is good deep down. But when I look at the world, all I see is slaves. Slaves controlled by "society". Society is nothing more than a group of people with power, power they use to control everyone else. Laws. Judicial systems. Military. Democracy. Monarchy. Dictatorship. And let's not forget about the greed. The only thing in this world that was truly free and not taxable, was the air we breath. But give them time, they'll find a way to tax that too. It was all a big fat joke and I'm the only one that gets it. So, in my book, that makes me the sanest man on the planet, because I get it. I see it all so clearly when most are so blind. I'm gifted, but nobody understands. And what people can't understand, they either fear or they hate. It was simple human nature.
