Concept Writing - Blog Posts

This is so yum!!

In His Arms, At Last — Grizzy x Reader

f!reader, first time, pussy eating, intimate sex, request🦋

The quiet hum of Grizzy’s house felt foreign but comforting. It was your first time staying the night at his place, and your nerves hadn’t settled since you walked through the door hours ago. The two of you had been dating for a while now, but sharing a bed was uncharted territory. Now, as the clock ticked past midnight, you found yourself curled up under his warm, oversized comforter, the dim glow of his bedside lamp casting a soft light across the room. Grizzy lay beside you, his large frame taking up more than half the bed, but he still managed to leave plenty of space for you. His arm rested behind his head, his other hand casually grazing the edge of your thigh over the blanket. You couldn’t stop fidgeting, the fabric of your borrowed t-shirt—a piece of his clothing—clinging to your skin in a way that made your heart race. “You okay?” His deep voice broke through the silence, laced with genuine concern. You nodded quickly, biting your lip. “Yeah, just…nervous.” He let out a soft chuckle, leaning on his side to face you. His brown eyes studied your face, tender and reassuring. “Nervous about what, baby? It’s just me.” “That’s the thing,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s you.” Grizzy’s expression softened, and he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to be nervous around me,” he said, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “I’ve got you. Always.”

The sincerity in his voice melted a fraction of your unease, and you managed a small smile. “I know. I just…I don’t want to mess this up.” “Mess what up?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “You’re perfect. You couldn’t mess this up even if you tried.” His words sent a warmth spreading through your chest, and you exhaled slowly, your body relaxing just a bit. Grizzy noticed the shift and took it as his cue to inch closer, his hand trailing down your arm. “Can I make you feel good?” he asked, his voice low, almost reverent. Your breath hitched at the question, and you nodded shyly, your heart pounding in anticipation. Grizzy leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. His movements were unhurried, his touch gentle as he coaxed you to relax further. The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. He pulled back slightly, his lips hovering just above yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” “Okay,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of nerves and desire. Grizzy’s hands moved to your waist, his fingers slipping under the hem of the t-shirt you wore. He trailed kisses down your jawline, then your neck, his lips soft and warm against your skin. Your breathing grew heavier as his hands roamed, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He gently guided you onto your back, his weight settling between your legs as he continued his descent.

With every kiss, every brush of his lips against your skin, he seemed to unravel you bit by bit. When his lips reached the edge of your shirt, he glanced up at you, his eyes searching yours for permission. You nodded, your cheeks burning as he lifted the fabric, revealing more of your skin to his gaze. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His lips pressed to your stomach, then lower, his hands gripping your thighs as he spread them gently. The intimacy of the moment left you breathless, your nerves now replaced with a growing anticipation. Grizzy’s tongue flicked out, testing your reaction, and the soft moan that escaped your lips seemed to spur him on. He moved with purpose, his mouth and hands working in perfect tandem to draw pleasure from you. You couldn’t hold back the sounds that spilled from your lips, your fingers tangling in his hair as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. Every movement was deliberate, every touch filled with an unspoken promise. When you finally came undone beneath him, your body trembling with the force of your release, he didn’t stop. He rode the waves with you, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. Grizzy hovered above you, his lips still slick and glistening with the aftermath of your release, and his grin had a mix of smugness and adoration that left you breathless. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was softer than you expected.

The taste of yourself on his tongue sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through you. “You good?” he asked again, his voice deep and tender as he brushed a thumb along your cheek. You nodded, your hands sliding up his broad shoulders and pulling him closer. “More than good,” you whispered, voice still shaky. “Good,” he murmured, his lips trailing along your jawline and down to your neck, “because I’m not done with you yet.” The weight of his words sent a jolt of anticipation straight to your core, and you arched into him as his hands slid under your thighs, spreading you further. The cool air against your skin only heightened the warmth radiating between the two of you. Grizzy shifted slightly, sitting back to pull his shirt over his head. The sight of his toned chest and the way his muscles flexed with every movement had you biting your lip. You reached out instinctively, your fingers grazing his skin, and he let out a low groan at the contact. “Like what you see?” he teased, his voice a touch deeper now, more primal. You nodded again, too entranced to form words, and he leaned down to kiss you again, his hands exploring every inch of your body. His fingers danced along your sides, tracing the curves of your hips before gripping them firmly. Grizzy’s lips moved to your ear, his voice low and breathy. “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long. You have no idea.” The confession sent your heart racing, and you couldn’t help but tug him closer, craving the connection only he could provide.

As he settled between your thighs again, his hardness pressed against your sensitive core, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. He grinned against your skin. “You feel that?” he murmured, grinding against you just enough to make your head spin. “That’s what you do to me, baby.” Your hands found his hair, tugging gently as you tried to close the distance, desperate for more. He took his time, though, savoring every reaction he pulled from you. With one hand, he reached down to line himself up, the other cupping your cheek as he gazed into your eyes. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said softly, his thumb brushing along your lower lip. You nodded, breath hitching as he began to push inside, slow and deliberate. The stretch was intense but not painful, and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped as he filled you inch by inch. “Fuck,” he groaned, his voice strained as he buried himself fully. “You feel so good, baby. So perfect.” You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as he began to move. His thrusts were slow at first, each one measured, as if he wanted to memorize the way you felt around him. But soon, his restraint began to falter, and his pace quickened, each thrust deeper and more deliberate than the last. Your moans mixed with his, the room filled with the sounds of your shared pleasure. His hands gripped your hips tightly, anchoring you as he drove into you, his movements becoming more erratic as he lost himself in you.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasped, his lips finding yours in a messy, desperate kiss. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”The intensity of his words sent you spiraling, your body tightening around him as he groaned your name, his pace faltering for a moment. He shifted, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to angle himself deeper, and the new position had you crying out, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice rough and thick with lust. “Let me hear you, baby.” You couldn’t hold back even if you tried. Every thrust, every graze of his skin against yours, sent you closer to the edge, and Grizzy seemed determined to take you there. When your release hit, it was like a tidal wave, crashing over you and leaving you trembling in his arms. He followed shortly after, his moan deep and guttural as he buried himself one last time, his body tensing before collapsing onto you. The two of you stayed tangled together, your breaths mingling as you came down from the high. Grizzy rolled to his side, pulling you with him and holding you close. His hand stroked your hair as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You okay?” he asked again, his voice soft and full of concern. You nodded, a small, satisfied smile spreading across your lips. “More than okay,” you murmured, nuzzling into his chest. Grizzy chuckled, his chest rumbling beneath you. “Good. Because I don’t plan on letting you go anytime soon.” You smiled, your heart full as you drifted off in his arms, feeling more at home than you ever had before.

Devour mercifully, without remorse.

Dinner is Served

This Christmas, dinner will be to die for.

Summary:

The chemical processes of love are transformative and comparatively terminal. Can you forgive the beast that eats you alive whilst you look him in the eyes?

Special Agent Will Graham finds himself acquitted of criminal charges whilst The Chesapeake Ripper is still at large. In the midst of this cruel battle of minds, Dr. Hannibal Lecter receives a letter from an old friend. A decade of history between them sets the foundations for a devastating web of manipulation, seduction and murder.

Join the dinner table. This original novella invites the audience to experience a sumptuous and brutal cascade of erotica and violence.

Hannibal | Nel Sangue

Prologue

Unique are the twists and turns of our lives.

So much of our reality is based upon perception; and perception being differential between individuals is objectively dependent on events occurring through space and time. Thus, their interpretation is as varied as the imagination of the individual.

There are individuals whom walk among us capable of magnificent scope of imagination. For better or worse. Both a gift and a curse comparatively.

Thus, our story begins paying respects to two of the most exceptional individuals of the modern era.

Residing in Baltimore, Maryland, the singular Doctor Hannibal Lecter; decorated surgeon, retired, now known to possess elegant rooms wherein he spends his practicing days engrossed in the miracle of the human mind. Pondering its magnitude in all its kaleidoscopic possibility as a renowned psychiatrist whose credentials and curious litany of referred patients precede him.

And his proportional muse, Special Agent, FBI consultant, lecturer on criminology and forensic analogy. Hailing from Wolf Trap, Virginia, Mister William Graham. Dog lover, capable of empathy to incontestable standards. An equally intelligent, highly educated and internally fractured young man whose intrinsic ability to distil down to the wire, the brutality of the human condition that would burst forward to commit heinous acts of unspeakable violence to mankind. All in a moment’s rage.

These two remarkable men, differing in age, appearance, ethnicity and psychological structure have been known through tales past, to be thrown together by a web of circumstance and situation most tenuous and utterly insidious.

It can be said in some regard that these men have adapted together to bolster each other as much as destroy one another. The very nature of their relationship is a multi-faceted jewel of complexity and to some extent, co-dependence. They are present in this moment together and apart. Lost in a veil of consideration to their true nature; they flourish within an endless cycle of death and rebirth. Their paths upon the mortal plane of existence forever entwined by the fabric of situation and circumstance.

They know each other. Intimately. Beneath the flesh and blood of humanity’s tenuous grasp of life, they are one in mind though not of the same mind and certainly not at the same time.

Our dramatis personae extends to another character of equal intrigue and perhaps ill-repute. Divided by the singularity of the mind and body, leading to an emotional intelligence that may be perceived as questionable if not very brave. The nature of their being remains to be seen in this sphere. However, we open upon a new chapter and leave you, dear reader to draw your own conclusions.

------------------------------------|| Want more? Follow the viper.....

"What do you have in mind?"

|| COMING SOON ||

Very little was left unconsumed. And that which she did not say in words, she gave in blood.

"I think, if we work together we can make a great pair!" He exclaimed. Glitter in his eyes. That tension on the verge of breaking point so unique to his manipulative personality. And beneath that vaneer of false bravado and egomaniacal self superiority lay something deeper.

Insecurity.

His just shone that much brighter.

Fractions in Rain

It didn’t matter what was being said anymore.

He’d stopped listening a long time ago.  Instead, his attention was being held by the street lamp outside the sitting room window. As it stood on the sidewalk below the restored Victorian era townhouse he’d been renting. Its metal shade had an enchanting way of dispersing the pouring rain in a perfect arc as it sheeted down in cold passes that angled slightly with the bluster of the wind. The lamp’s light caught in a shimmering halo of electric beauty that made every droplet appear a perfect gem against the backdrop of the early evening.

 He didn’t relish the idea of going out in the rain.

Even so, those eyes looked back at him, reflected against the pane of glass. Catching a smile that wasn’t his. His hands refuting a tremor as he worked on thin emerald leather gloves.

Her last words revolving in the back of his mind; unsilenced by the bottle of Merlot he had swallowed in hopes of dulling the articulation of his conscience. Numbers, patterns, concussive poetry of impossible questions.

The weight of the flick knife in his coat pocket was reassuring.

It was going to cost him dearly, facing down Greek gods in the midst of a storm.

He’d make her watch, reflected in an antique mirror.

So as she might remember him.  

So that he might remember himself.

[ [ More? Send an Ask. ] ]

[ [ @nygmaticreport - In which I find a brother in arms.] ]

What I heard on the radio…

Fracture | One | Two | Three | Four

|| @smilewhatstheuseofcrying @daily-joker @arthur-j-fleck​ ||

Joker || Fracture

Readers Please Note: Joker || Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion.

|| FOUR ||

Three months, two weeks and four days.

Arthur had been keeping a log of the passing time in the staff sign-in book where he was taught to autograph his name and the date for every morning as he clocked in and every evening before clocking out. The theatre director, the enigmatic and somewhat eccentric Lauretta Styl proved to be a regimented woman who ran her staff both cast and crew strictly, but fairly.  With the exception of the performance personnel, theatre crew were worked on a two week rotating roster over a nine hour day. Staff began at either 7AM, 9AM or 11AM and worked through to 4PM, 6PM or 8PM respectively. They were afforded an hour’s lunch break, unpaid and two coffee breaks spaced evenly throughout their shifts ensuring the floors were never kept unmanned and always evenly staffed.

Arthur’s first fortnight in the theatre saw him on the 9AM shift and he was mindful to take an early bus into town to avoid being late. The weekend leading up his first Monday on duty found him to be a veritable ball of kinetic excitement. He could hardly sit still his anticipation was so great.  That evening after the interview, found him bolting home on jubilant footfalls. A new sense of purpose filled him. Opportunity did wonders for a man’s self-confidence. Divesting himself of keys and coat, he called for his mother who was reading in the warm lamplight of the living room. She fixed her son with a cursory glance and nodded approvingly. He furnished her with every detail he could recall, bustling into the kitchen, intent on cooking a celebratory dinner. He’d make pasta sauce from scratch tonight!

“This is why I named you, Happy.” Penny murmured fondly as she sat upon a stool at their kitchen counter drinking sweet, hot tea and watching her son chop onions and sing to himself contentedly.

“Are they going to pay your better at this new job?”

“I dunno, Ma. It’s not right to ask about money during the interview. I’m sure it’ll be okay. We’ve always gotten by before even when things were tight. You should see this place, Ma, really. They have these beautiful purple curtains and gold fittings on the ceilings. They’re so high! You’d strain your neck looking up. And the stage is beautiful. The lady who runs the place, Lauretta, she said one day I might be able to perform on it, with my comedy act.”

“You’ll have to write some better jokes then. Something funny.” Penny replied absently. A shockingly loud clatter jolted her abruptly upright. Her son dropped the cooking knife he was handling to the sink.

“Jesus, Happy, do you have to be so clumsy? And loud? And did you check the letter box on your way up? I’m waiting for a letter.”

“They are funny.” Arthur murmured indistinctly beneath his breath. His voice quiet and his gaze unfocused upon the middle-distance. His elation deflating as suddenly as it had swelled. Penny’s ears were sharp though.

“What?”

“I said no, Ma. There wasn’t any letters today. There never is.”

“Oh… Well, I’m going to watch some television for a while, leave you to cook in peace.”

He waited for a few moments. Listening to the shuffling slippered foot-falls of his mother as she groaned, rising from her seat and padding away.

Through the kitchen window and across the street, Arthur’s sight fell upon his neighbor’s drab, old brick building. His kitchen window regrettably afforded a view of the neighbor’s living room on occasion when the curtains weren’t drawn.

The tenants were never of any interest to him directly. There was something impolite about looking into their living room. For his sake as much as theirs he sought to avert his gaze or draw the kitchen curtains whilst he cooked.

What drew his attention on this night was their great ginger tom cat with white paws and striking yellow eyes. The animal wore a red collar with a tiny silver bell around its neck and perched regally atop the window sill, watching him. Seemingly never moving. He’d lept upon the peeling sill at some point during the conversation with his mother and proceeded to lick at his left paw watching Arthur with feline interest all the while. He wondered at the cat’s name.

Come Monday morning, Arthur made sure he was at the stage door early. Martha answered his knock and offered him a polite compliment over his neat attire for which he was grateful. He’d spent the night before agonizing over the state of his wardrobe, ensuring his shirt was ironed and his shoes were polished. He wished he had a better bag rather than his worn brown leather satchel. It would do however. He made certain he had copies of his resume and ID in his wallet. Money was tight this week, he’d have to eat when he got home. Just as well, he couldn’t stomach anything right now. He was far too nervous. 

“Pleased to have you, dear. Follow me to the break room. There are lockers were you can put your belongings and the coffee and tea is complimentary. You can help yourself before your shift starts. We take turns bringing in fresh milk. I’ll mark your name on the roster pinned to the fridge door. Mind you don’t forget it when it’s your turn hmm?” Martha began briskly as she lead Arthur around the box office, up a stair well, into a corridor and out into a large and airy breakout room with unfurnished windows that looked down into the bustling city below. The stage manager checked her watch and continued.

“Now, be mindful of the time. Laura’s called a meeting downstairs in front of the stage at 9am sharp. Take care you’re not late. She’s very particular about punctuality and famous for keeping us honest about it. I expect she’ll be wanting to introduce you to your crew mates formally and assign you some duties, you follow?”

Arthur nodded his head yes. He’d been listening intently as he followed Martha and her rapid footsteps to a row of tidy grey and white lockers that were set against the wall on the opposite end of the room. To Arthur’s surprise, number 11 had been assigned to him, his name written neatly upon a white label in black marker pressed upon the locker door. 

“This one’s for you, Arthur. You’ll need to bring your own padlock but I’ll loan you this one for today.” Said Martha producing a small mail lock and its key from her jacket pocket. Arthur took the lock in hand, nodding his thanks. Martha continued her preamble intently,

“Now, if you bring your lunch, make sure you label it clearly when you put it in the fridge, food will mysteriously disappear otherwise. And where possible, don’t keep clothes or shoes in your locker over the weekend. Take them home to be aired and laundered save you copping unwanted flack.” 

“Sure. I mean, of course, Mrs?”

“Martha, is perfectly alright, dear. You’ll find most staff will tolerate a first name. But be mindful, some of the actors are sensitive whilst performing or rehearsing. It’s best to keep out of their way. And for heaven’s sake don’t let yourself be caught near the women’s dressing rooms unless you’re expressly asked or you’ll catch hell for it, clear?”

“Crystal clear, Martha. Thank you. For everything, really.” Replied Arthur quietly. His gratitude welling in his eyes. He offered a docile, slightly lop-sided smile.

“Well, see if you make it through the first fortnight before giving me any thanks. Stage front in fifteen dear, yes? Ciao for now.”

And just so, Martha bustled away on a brisk footfalls, adjusting a pen in her tightly rolled bun, leaving Arthur to his own devices in the empty break room. A number of round timber tables and chairs waited quietly giving the room the impression of an unoccupied café.

With little left to do, Arthur set about putting his satchel away in his new locker, helping himself to some instant coffee and lighting up another cigarette to pass the time. Once the clock above the door read five to nine, he was quick to leave the large breakroom behind, retracting his steps downstairs until he came to the open theatre doors where a congregation of some fifteen people were standing at the foot of the stage.

Martha was among them, speaking hurriedly with Lauretta who seemed to acknowledge what was being said and taking notes on a clip board.

Oh, she was splendid today. Dressed in fitted, black high-waisted slacks and a peach blouse. Her sleeves rolled back and her hair gathered in a French braid. Around her stood an array of staff dressed in various states of uniformed workwear. Arthur gathered his wits and strode in what he hoped was a confident fashion to Lauretta’s shoulder.

She turned fixing him with a dazzling smile.

“And here he is. Alright, everyone!” The theatre director clapped her hands sharply, the crowd quieted and listened.

“For months now you’ve told me this production has taken a toll on each of you. I thank you for patience. As it stands, I’d like to introduce you all to our latest crew member, progressive comedian and practiced harlequin, formally of Ha Ha’s Entertainment, Mr. Arthur Fleck.”

All at once a dozen smiling faces broke into hoots and hollers. A round of applause was had and Arthur offered a heartfelt smile. A little shy beneath the heat of so much fresh attention.

“Hey, welcome aboard buddy!” Called a particularly sharp dressed young man. African American, lanky of limb and distinctly possessing the style of a pop-star.

“You’re gonna love it here. Hey, you wanna see your future? Look at that guy over there. That’s Greg, he’s what we all gotta look forward to lookin’ like, even the ladies, yeaooow!”  

This seemed to draw laughs from the gathering, even from the unfortunate Greg who was weighty, balding and sucking on a partially lit Cuban cigar. He waved off the sly remark with good humor.

“Enough from you Freddie, you’ll give Arthur the wrong impression.” Lauretta corrected playfully before continuing.

“Now, Arthur will join us as a stage hand over the next two weeks, shadowing Freddie and Fay respectively. I ask you all mind your manners and be patient whilst he learns the ropes. Stagecraft takes time to come into, but if we can work collaboratively we’ll find opening week to our musical runs a great deal smoother.”

The next twenty minutes were spent exchanging handshakes whilst Lauretta introduced Arthur to each of the theatre staff individually. Freddie was finally introduced as the theatre manager, holder of all the keys. Whilst Fay, a sharp eyed, pretty brunette advised she was the stage assistant and understudy to Martha.

“Together, we’re your ‘A’ team, my man.  Get ready, because we’re gonna work you to the bone.” Freddie began, shaking Arthur’s hand with a dazzling smile. Arthur could not help but feel this young man reminded him strongly of the pop star, Prince. He moved with musical grace and had a habit of adding a “yeeoow” to the end of his sentences when making a humorous quip.

“Don’t let him scare you off, Arthur, can we call you Art, or Artie? And what size shirt do you wear? We’ll have to work out some uniform shirts for you now that you’re part of the crew.” Fay announced, gesturing for Freddie to give them some space. Arthur could not help but smile radiantly. His other employers and colleagues were never so welcoming.

“Artie is fine,” He replied finally, “and I wear a medium dress shirt, if that helps any.”

Fay made a note in her log book signaling a thumbs up as Lauretta once again clapped sharply and drew the attention of her team. For the next few minutes she took feedback about the state of the up-coming production, making notes and giving a great deal many directions. Arthur stood by, smiling and noting how pretty her small drop pearl earrings were and the way the rest of the team seemed content if not a little stressed. She addressed each problem and complaint individually and earnestly. The team seemed at their ease around her. In time the crew dispersed to their individual tasks in groups of twos and threes.

“Freddie, I’m going to borrow Arthur a minute. I’ll send him backstage with you shortly.”

“You got it boss lady!” Freddie exclaimed, turning smoothly and strutting away in time with a melody in his head.

The theatre crew finally out of ear-shot, Lauretta turned to Arthur with her characteristic warm smile.

“So, how are we holding up, so far? All good?”

“Oh, yeah! I haven’t done anything for you yet. I’ll work very hard though.” Arthur replied sincerely.

“It’s not about working hard so much as it is about working smart. Relying on your team mates to support you and more than anything, not taking anything personally. You’ll see staff lose their temper more than once and sometimes it may appear directed toward you. It shouldn’t be. But if it is, remember, you’re in your rights to just shake it off and move onto the next task. We’re something of a family here, Arthur. Working a forty hour week means you’ll spend more time with us than you will your own flesh and blood. It’s important that you’re at your ease, even when you’re not. No matter what state you’re in or how busy we all look, I am here to listen to you.”

This sentiment seemed to bring some profound change to Arthur’s features. His smile slipped and his eyes began to sting. He looked away a moment, fumbling for his cigarettes as he whispered,

“Thank you. Really.”

“Of course.” She replied, reaching out her hand to caress his arm gently. Arthur’s smile returned, he lit up, breathed in deeply and exhaled sharply.

“Now, Arthur, I hope you don’t think this too forward of me, but, about your condition. I was giving it some thought over the weekend and I wanted to get your impression. Would you prefer I have a quiet word with the staff just to alert them or would you rather speak to them of your own accord during the breaks and such? What would make you most comfortable?”

Arthur coughed sharply, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“Oh, please, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t think I’m being rude?” Lauretta continued, concerned she’d said something off-key.

“No, no, not at all. I just got on with my cards in the past. I prefer to not draw attention to it if that’s okay with you, ma’am?” Arthur responded quietly.

“Of course, by all means. I just thought, if everyone was on the same page from the get go, it would make it easier for you. If people know what to expect.” Arthur’s eyes seemed to harden as he nodded, taking another pull of his cigarette and blowing the smoke sharply out of the corner of his mouth. Lauretta couldn’t help but feel she’d somehow overstepped herself.

“We just want you to feel comfortable, that’s all. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to find me. I’m almost always upstairs in the office. Have a great day ahead Arthur, I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Thank you, Lauretta. I appreciate it.” Arthur returned.

“Laura’s fine.”

“Laura then.” Answered Arthur with a smile.

The remainder of the day seemed to fly. Arthur diligently shadowed Freddie with a myriad of tasks. He was given a new pen, note book and clip board where he scribbled a range of instructions as he was toured around the theatre. After morning coffee break, Fay rushed to find him before he left the break room with a new walkie-talkie and a microphone head set in hand.

“Here you go honey, you’re on channel eighteen with stage hands. Push this button to call all crew and flick this switch to mute your mic. Try keep radio noise to a minimum during rehearsals. Actors lose their shit when they’re in the zone.” She punctuated the last word by gesturing inverted commas into the air, earning a laugh from Arthur who stifled himself by coughing. He wasn’t about to risk an attack in front of everyone in on his first day. He’d control this. He had to. Instead he thanked her and clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt whilst Fay rushed off taking an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter on her way out.

The evening came too soon. Arthur’s head was swimming with instructions. He’d managed to make notes of his latest directions and did a great deal of shifting, pushing and carrying of stage equipment on Freddie’s direction. The two men seemed to get on well and Freddie showed a sincere interest in asking a great deal many questions about Arthur’s personal interests that he took great pleasure in answering. Arthur was relieved come the end of the day. He’d found a friend in Freddie and Fay and looked forward to telling his mother all about it.

Come six o’clock, Lauretta found her way to the break room where she shook hands with the staff preparing to leave for the day, wishing them all the best and thanking them for their hard work. The same courtesy was applied to Arthur whom she lingered near a moment, whilst he made to take his satchel from his locker.

“Thank you, Arthur, for all your hard work today. I know there’s an awful lot to take in so quickly but your crew mates have nothing but praise for you. I’m thankful to have you in our team.”

“I’m grateful to be given the chance, honestly. It’s been a pleasure today. Are my papers okay?” Arthur replied with a questioning smile.

“Yes, they’re well in order. You can expect to pick up your first pay-cheque from my office next week. Now, go home and get some rest. Let’s see you back on deck bright and early tomorrow. Fay will have arranged some new crew shirts for you by the time you arrive.”

This was his chance. Arthur stepped forward,

“Laura, before I go, could you hold this for me?” He produced from his pocket an oversized match box and handed it to the director. She took it slowly with some trepidation.

“Arthur, this is not one of those prank boxes where if I open it I’ll be hit in the face with something, will I?”

“Haha! No, nothing like that, open it, go on.” Arthur urged, his eyes shining intently.

“Uh, okay.” Deft slender fingers gently pushed the large matchbox open to reveal within its depths a tiny pink rose bud.

“Oh how pretty!” She exclaimed lifting the flower gently and holding it to the light. Arthur furrowed his brows and clicked his tongue in exaggerated annoyance.

“Tsk, that’s not right at all. These boxes can be so unpredictable. Are you sure there’s nothing else in there?”

Perplexed, Lauretta opened out the match box fully affirming to Arthur that it was indeed empty

“May I?” He asked gently, taking the little rose bud from the lady’s fingers and shutting it back into the confines of the match box.

“Now, maybe if you blow on it, like a birthday candle?” Enchanted, Lauretta played along taking the box back into her waiting hands and blowing against it gently.

“Now try.” Arthur prompted. Nodding, the theatre director slid the match box open for a second time gasping with childlike surprise when within, where the tiny rose bud once lay was her light blue handkerchief folded into a neat little square.  With a gasp she lifted the cloth free of the matchbox looking up with stunned joy. The little rose bud was nowhere to be seen.

“Arthur! That’s remarkable! What a charming trick!” She gasped exuberantly.

“I’m glad you like it.” He breathed, deeply relieved and gently taking the box from her hand.

“Really Arthur, give yourself a little time to settle into your new role, then we’re going to have to talk about organizing some sort of show time on the side for you. How does that sound?”

“Oh! Wonderful, truly! Thank you!” Arthur exclaimed brightly.  

He left work that day and took the bus home in high spirits. He may have had little to offer, but his determination to succeed was great. He was tired now. Tired from a day’s solid physical and mental labor. He hoped to shower and maybe eat something. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to sleep tonight. He began to plan his next visit to Pogo’s that weekend on the bus ride home. He still wasn’t able to get a seat. But it didn’t matter so much now. He’d have a lot to tell his mother when he got home.

He’d made Lauretta smile.

Fracture 1 | Fracture 2 | Fracture 3

What I heard on the radio....

|| THREE ||

Fracture 1 ||  Fracture 2 ||   Fracture 3

@thejokers-thoughts​ @arthur-j-fleck​ @jokerous​ @daily-joker​

Joker || Fracture

Readers Please Note: Joker || Fracture may contain spoilers for the film.  Read at your own discretion.

|| Two ||

He'd arrived some forty five minutes early to his appointment. Well dressed and neatly groomed, he left his mother a hot breakfast and fresh coffee, too anxious to eat himself in spite of her complaints of his decreasing weight. He'd evaded her questions until Thursday, unsure of how to break the news of his job loss. He wasn't sure he was processing the information himself. He'd wake before the alarm and instinctively make for the bathroom catching his reflection in the mirror and suddenly being sickened by the lash of anxiety that  belted his heart into hammering painfully against his ribcage. He hated this ache. Feeling this insecure.

Breathe. 

Focus.

First breakfast.

Shower and dress.

Think it through and write it down. 

His therapist may have been virtually unresponsive but she had given him at least general advice to keep him functional. This, and a prescription for medication that kept him moving, the undertow of crushing depression dissipated by one more pill. 

Now, Arthur stood across the street from the theatre leaning against the glass window of a rundown aquarium where he was watching the crimson fanning tail of a Siamese fighter fish as it drifted, predatory and majestic in its tiny cubed tank. This miraculous creature was one of many housed in tiny plastic enclosures that made up the curious window display and reminded Arthur of little people each housed in their separate apartments.  Around him the city throbbed and bustled. Men and women in business attire, couriers, postal workers, laborers and the general population moved with purpose to and fro. An endless line of traffic rolled on up and down the road whilst he burned down his third cigarette that morning. It was almost time. 

He was welcomed through the stage door by a lady who answered his knock and introduced herself as Martha Kara. She was tall and thin, well into her 60s but spry and quick to smile. Her graying russet hair, rolled into a tight bun was beset by at least two pens. She led Arthur inside explaining that they were setting up for technical rehearsals later that morning, apologizing for the ladders, tools and timber. The carpenters were in adjusting the set and shouting instructions to one another on ladders whilst riggers were busy over head running cables for the stage lights. 

Martha advised she was the booking agent and stage manager during most seasons as she guided Arthur up a narrow winding staircase backstage, past well lit dressing rooms and open offices. The smell of fresh paint, cut timber and  old leather seemed comforting, if not a little overwhelming. It appeared as though the walls had their peeling wallpaper repaired far too often for it hung poorly in some places, frayed and aging. Punctuated with a history of live performance posters tacked haphazardly to the hallway walls. As they walked a narrow corridor above the stage, Arther's eyes wandered over the run of bill posters for performances that had been and gone. He would have liked to have lingered and read their titles and cast names, however Martha's brisk pace lead them promptly to the theatre director's door.  A name was painted upon the dark timber in faded gold lettering. 

It read: 'Dir. Lauretta Styl' 

His nervous tension elevated sharply as Martha knocked upon the door with the backs of her knuckles. 

A distinct voice could be heard closing the distance from the other side before the door was swung open to reveal a striking, slender woman in a duck blue blouse with its sleeves rolled to her elbows. A telephone receiver pressed between her ear and shoulder. She carried its base in her spare hand, motioning for her guests to join her within. Arthur hesitated a moment before following Martha's cue to enter the room. 

The pair were silent for a string of moments as Lauretta's brisk British accent negotiated the end of the call diplomatically before settling the receiver back into its cradle with a sharp click. She tugged at the cable and set the phone back upon a ledger and paper strewn desk that dominated the majority of the room before turning and fixing her guests with an apologetic smile.  

"Laura, this is Mister Arthur Fleck," Martha began by way of introduction. 

"Yes, of course. Welcome to the Regale, Mister Fleck. Thank you for coming down. You worked with Jimmy Parkelle at Ha Ha's I understand?" 

It took two beats or more for Arthur to process what was being said. He'd rarely been addressed by a lady with such directness. Her pale complexion and murky blue eyes were a stunning contrast. She appeared to be perhaps in her early forties. There were few lines on her face, save for three small furrows between her brows. Arthur noted the easy way in which she reclined against the edge of her desk before he quietly replied his accent, nodding and pressing his hands into his coat pockets. 

"I did," he explained, "until recently. It was Jimmy that introduced me to your roadie, Bill. He was good enough to arrange this meeting for me. He said if I were to talk to you, you might have some work available." 

Lauretta nodded gesturing to a tobacco coloured chesterfield sofa that sat in the far end of the uncluttered small room. 

"Sure, well, let's talk about it, shall we? Martha, can you be a darling and fix Arthur and I a cup of coffee? How do you take yours, Mister Fleck, milk and sugar?" 

"Uh...yeah...please and thank you." 

"Right you are, dear." Martha replied brightly, turning on her heel and promptly shutting the office door behind her, blocking out the general commotion of the theatre downstairs. 

"Take a seat with me, Arthur, tell me a little more about yourself. " Laura began, settling herself down into the well worn cushions. Arthur followed suit taking his slender strides around the timber coffee table and seating himself at the opposite end of the sofa. He smiled at his hostess, running a hand through his chocolate coloured curls self consciously. 

Aside from his mother and his therapist, Arthur rarely interacted with women in such an intimate setting, let alone within a professional context.. And being asked about himself outside of clinical regard was cause for nervousness. He stalled the conversation, pulling a cigarette pack from his coat pocket and asking for permission to light up. 

"By all means," Laura affirmed, reaching over and producing a clean glass ashtray from under a newspaper at her desk and placing it before her guest atop the coffee table. 

He gave his quiet thanks, offering the open Malboro reds packet to the director who thanked him for his kindness and advised she was in the process of cutting down herself. 

“It’s remarkably expensive to maintain a smoking habit in Gotham. Stress being such a fickle creature. I’ll accept this once. Thank you.” She said leaning forward as Arthur produced his lighter with a flourish, his slender fingers snapped a small flame, lighting the lady’s cigarette first, lingering a moment to admire the straight line of her nose and the subtle scent of her fresh, rose perfume, before leaning back to light his own.

The pair sat in appreciative silence enjoying the draw back into their lungs, two plumes of blue tinged smoke floated lazily into the air above them and Arthur found himself grateful of having a distraction for his hands. Lauretta was strikingly attractive and her accent was refreshing and different in this otherwise extremely American neighborhood. He’d never had much contact with foreigners and could only imagine their perceptions and attitudes from the films and programs he’d seen televised. On occasion his favorite talk show host, Murray Franklin would have an international artist or performer guest on his program, but that in itself was rare. 

“Now, don’t sit on ceremony, Arthur, tell me more about your situation and we’ll see if I can’t be of some use to you.” Lauretta prompted, noting that Arthur appeared inwardly uncomfortable and in the midst of trying to conceal it, though his eyes fixed upon hers for a few moments before darting away. She could not help but note their colour. In this light, they were a remarkable bluish green that was as clear as spring water. He smiled reservedly and crossed his legs leaning forward a moment as if he meant to say something very important, and then  thought better of it, snapping his mouth closed and leaning back away to drag off his cigarette. 

This interesting nuance of motion only drew Lauretta’s attention more profoundly. She didn’t wish to rush her guest, but at the same time, there were a number of pressing details that required her attention and were time critical in their proposed completion. 

Regardless, she was patient and rewarded for her resilience. Quietly, as though he meant only for Lauretta to hear, Arthur began to speak. 

“I had a professional misunderstanding with my employer recently. It...  ended with my contract being revoked.” His gaze became unfocused and turned inward as though he were reimagininting the details of that particular phone call and it's distasteful aftereffects. 

Laura furrowed her brows apologetically but remained quiet so as not to disturb his train of thought.

I’ve always been an entertainer at heart. I’m supporting my mother who isn’t entirely well. And I’m working on material, a show, to be a stand up comedian.” Here, his eyes brightened and became lucid once more. 

“Well, we’ve always got opportunity for roving stand-ups.” Lauretta replied brightly. It was at that moment that their conversation was briefly interrupted by Martha’s knock.  The stage manager did not await an answer, but saw herself into the office, a tray balanced single-handedly with such skill, it could be deduced that the woman had at some stage in her career served in a waitress’ capacity. She set two bright yellow coffee cups down upon the table with a small plate of biscuits and offered a smile before seeing herself out again to the call of Lauretta’s thanks. Authur mirrored this gratitude as he took his cup in his cold hands and was instantly soothed by its scolding surface. 

“And what was your role at Ha Ha’s exactly?” Laura prompted, helping herself to a biscuit.

“Oh, I was a performing clown!” Arther replied brightly, his eyes shining as he continued, “I performed at promotional events for sales on Maine Street, and I was called on for children’s parties and I even performed in hospitals...on occasion. For children. To… make them smile.” Here, he came to a stalling hold in his speech. He sipped at his cup, dropping his eyes, the light within fading somewhat as he recalled that disastrous and final hospital visitation where his newly acquired pistol had come free of his coat pocket and clattered onto the floor in full view of a ward full of children, parents and nursing staff. The evidence against him unaquitably damning in spite of his entreaty. The overwhelming waves of humiliation that engulfed him amid his frantic, panicked pleas that the weapon was a prop for another act he’d entirely forgotten he had with him did not earn him any remorse nor humility. His performance was instantly terminated and he found himself removed from the premises without hesitation. 

Inwardly, Arthur could only dare hope that word of his indiscretion had not escaped to the outside world, further jeopardizing his already unstable reputation. 

For a moment, he feared looking up into those eyes, feared a mirror of disparagement and rejection that he instinctively braced himself for. 

Such was his surprise when his fears were not realized. Lauretta continued to smile at him warmly, her eyes tender and inwardly thoughtful.

“It’s a noble goal, that of a clown. To smile outwardly to the world whilst within a great turmoil might be hidden by a layer of face paint and a colourful costume.” 

Arthur could not help himself. He smiled over the lip of his coffee cup, contemplating the depth of that comment and its infinite resonance given form in such a simple and direct elocution. 

“Have you ever read of the great Joseph Grimaldi?” Lauretta questioned.

Her guest shook his head regrettably. Arthur had a love/hate relationship with reading. He’d struggled to learn his letters until finally mastering them in the latter years of elementary school. It was then that reading had become a welcome escape from the world around him. Even so, he was at a loss to place the name Lauretta asked of him. She continued patiently.

“Grimaldi was a great Engish actor and comedian in the early eighteen hundreds. He was said to be the master of the modern clown and coined the classic white face paint so unique to a harlequin’s performance. It was recorded that when not in show, Grimaldi struggled with a deep depression. His first wife had died in childbirth,  his father was a tyrannical monster and his eldest son, also a gifted clown, drank himself to death by the age of thirty one. All of this tragedy, Mr. Fleck, and still, he managed to smile.” 

His pulse raced, pounding in his temples. Something, something in the tone of her voice, the look in her eyes. He felt it coming on, crashing, crushing him from all sides. He swallowed thickly, sipping from his cup and following on with a deep drag of his cigarette. He couldn’t trust himself to find his words without them falling haphazardly like so many brightly coloured balls. So he simply nodded, a sting that he ignored sparked in the corner of his eyes, weighing against his waterline. But he would not let it fall. He had to control this, he pleaded with himself to control it. 

Lauretta, feeling the change in the air, was merciful in pressing on. 

“So, you enjoy clowning and laughter. That’s always a good thing. Can you juggle or perform magic?”

“Yes, to both.”

“Hmm, and what of improv, slap-stick? Have you a quick wit? Are you sharp on your feet if you’re heckled? Can you return a jibe with one of your own?” 

“I think so. I’ve gotten better over the years.” 

Lauretta brightened, sitting up straight now, setting down her partially empty coffee cup and flicking her cigarette into the ashtray. This energy seemed to kindle well. She picked up the pace.

“Do you drive, Arthur? How do you transport yourself?”

“No, I take the bus, or the subway mostly.” 

“No matter.,” she returned, flicking her hand dismissively, “do you sing?” 

“Every nooow and theeen.” Arthur crooned sweetly, winking at his hostess. 

“Ooh! A smooth baritone, very nice. Instantly charming! And do you dance?”

“Whenever I can, so long as there’s nothing to trip on.” Enlivened, he tapped his feet restlessly, as though a melody was already making its way through his limbs. He would have risen then and there, taken the woman’s hand and spun her in a graceful pirouette across the worn threadbare rug underfoot. He thought better of it however. Dancing with a possible employer so soon in the game. Probably not the best idea. What if she didn’t dance? 

“Well there, you have much to your credit. A strong foundation. And you mentioned earlier you’re in the midst of writing an act for a stand up performance. How’s it coming on? Have you rehearsed it yet?” Lauretta questioned in anticipation.

“Uh, no, no, not yet. I’m still working on it…” He paused, uncertain of himself. And then, 

“Would you like to hear a joke?”

“Always in need of a good laugh. Go on.” 

“What’s black and white and white and white and black and white again?”

Lauretta chuckled, she’d heard almost twenty years of comedy material. His angle was unpredictable, though he smiled in anticipation, she found herself unable to place where the punchline might fall. Juvenile or adult? There were a dozen answers she could reply with.

“I really have no idea, Arthur. What is black and white and white and black and white again?”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Why, a penguin rolling down a snowy hill!” 

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Lauretta exclaimed chuckling behind her fingers and turning her head away momentarily before looking back with shining indigo eyes.

“What? You don’t think it’s funny?” 

“On the contrary, it's perfectly charming. I can see why you’d keep the children in stitches.” She made a mental note then and there, that the man’s humor was juvanline and likely heavily censored for a younger audience. 

“Would you like to hear another one?” 

“A thousand of them, and no doubt you have plenty and it would keep me entertained for hours on end. Have you ever visited ‘Pogo’s’ in Midtown? They have open mic nights that are perfect for trying your hand on new material, feeling the room.” 

“I’ve visited a few times after work. I like to listen to the other comedians whenever I can.” Arthur confirmed, smoking down the last of his cigarette and crushing the butt in the ashtray. This wasn’t so bad after all. Why couldn’t all interviews be like this? He was having fun for once.

“A strong work ethic, very admirable indeed. I commend you on your labours.”

“Well, I do what I can.” Arther replied, hopeful.

“I don’t doubt it. Regrettably, the Regale has no current opportunities befitting another performing clown at the present moment.” 

Arthur was crestfallen. The range of emotion showed plainly on his face. His smile vanished. 

Lauretta pressed on,

“That isn’t to say I don’t have need of stage hands and performing stand ins. If you’re not otherwise engaged, could I ask you start promptly at 9am on Monday morning?”

Well! The shift in the room was instantaneous. A thrill of joy flooded Arther’s chest. All at once, he was beside himself in delight! He shook his head vigorously and began to laugh. A short, sharp burst of chuckles erupted from his mouth in a weezing fit of merriment. 

“Well, I take it that’s a yes?” He nodded again, frantically. His features contorting in panic. It was happening again. And struggle as he might, he couldn’t control it. 

Quite suddenly, his joy constricted into vulgar dread. His chest tightened and his eyes began to tear. He laughed. A near maniacal barking peel that he struggled to suppress. His brow began to perspire and he covered his mouth frantically. He couldn’t stop himself. Damnit all! He couldn’t stop himself! What would she think of him?

“Arthur?” Lauretta probed quietly, alarmed at the wheezing fit of anguish that clouded his eyes. She tensed visibly as he shook his hand at her but appeared powerless to control the fit as another ringing peel of near squealing barks escaped him.

“Arthur, my goodness, I can imagine your happiness, but this is ridiculous, what on earth has come over you?” 

Again Arthur, panicking, waved at her almost dismissively. As though trying to find his words but clearly unable. His face colouring crimson. He nodded in agreement to her statement and began fumbling in his coat pockets. His cards, please, he had to have his cards. He did pack them, didn’t he? The more he panicked in fear of being misunderstood the sharper and higher the pitch his peels of laughter became. 

“Arthur… what on earth is wrong?” The alarm leaving her face, there was clearly something of a building consternation in her features. She composed herself, worried. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all. Should she call for Martha?

No sooner than the thought occurred, that Arther with some relief, finally produced a small laminated white business card and presented it to the lady whilst his struggled bodily to compose himself.

Lauretta took the card wordlessly and read the black print.

It explained concisely and apologetically that Arthur suffered from a condition that caused uncontrolled fits of laughter and begged that the reader not think badly of him if the episode did not match the mood or feelings of said person.. Lauetta nodded, looking up with warm, concerned eyes. Confused and at a loss for how to behave. 

“It’s okay...it’s okay. Just take your time to recover and compose yourself. You stay here a moment, I’m going to pop out and get you a glass of water. I’ll be right back.” She set the card back into his hand and rose, crossing the room on rapid footfalls. Arthur meant to tell her not to worry. He coughed out a ‘please’, but the lady had already left shutting the door quietly behind her, leaving the rattled Arthur to ride though the last of his strained laughter. Angry at himself. Of all times, why now? Why did this have to happen now?

Outside the office, Lauretta was met with Martha and the seamstress in the ladies’ dressing room where she rushed to fill a glass of water. 

“Everything alright in there? It sounds like a pack of hyenas with their tails on fire!” Martha exclaimed, her hands full with with a bustle skirt.

“Oh, yes, it couldn’t be better. I’ve just on-boarded Mr. Fleck and he seems a little over excited by the opportunity.” Martha might have asked another question but Lauretta rushed away with her water glass leaving the stage manager and her seamstress to wonder about the affairs that were taking place. 

Less than a minute later, Lauetta returned to the office where a stricken, but very much recovered Arthur Fleck sat looking forlorn, uncomfortable and extremely apologetic. The theatre director shut the office door behind her and resumed her seat beside her guest, setting the glass in front of him that he took gratefully and drank from in shaking gulps. His eyes were distinctly bloodshot and his cheeks tear-stained in embarassed shame. Cooing soothingly, Lauertta produced a small sky blue handkerchief from her trouser pocket and without a second’s forethought, came forward on the lounge to wipe away at the tears that trailed Arther’s cheek. 

The man reeled, tensing visibly, his eyes skittish, like a frightened animal.

“Shh, there now, its alright. No harm will come to you here my good man. You rest easy a moment and when you have your breath back we’ll talk.” Enchanted and set aback, Arthur reached to take hold the handkerchief and found his warm fingers brushing against hers. The contact was brief, a mere string of heartbeats, but Lauretta did not pull away. Rather, she remained close, watching the man’s eyes as he became lucid and murmured his apologies. So strong was his impulse to simply recline his face against her tender caress. She pulled away slowly however, leaving him holding her handkerchief against his cheek a moment. He wiped at his eyes and slowly found his voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Don’t apologise for circumstances clearly out of your control. Think nothing of it. Are you feeling alright? Is there anything I can do to ease you?” 

By God, this was something else. He sat, bewildered and grateful. The look of concern in her eyes was genuine and the warmth she’d held all this time did not leave her expression. 

“No,  no thank you, I’m alright, really. It just happens every now and then.”

“I see. My goodness, how unique. You had me rather taken aback there for a moment. Have you had this condition long?” 

“Oh, yeah. All my life, or at least, as long as I can remember. It seemed to get worse as I got older. My doctors haven’t really found a cure.” Arthur responded, draining his glass of water and setting it down upon the table. Lauretta merely nodded to this admission in silent contemplation before replying,

“A cure...for laughter….. My word, that is a unique thought now isn’t it? Can you imagine that? A world where laughter was considered an ailment instead of a release?”

For the next half hour, Lauetta and Arthur conversed quietly amongst themselves. The theatre director asked a great many questions of the performing clown. All of which he answered honestly, warmly. Apologetic and earnest. They shared another smoke and in the span of that morning, came to a sincere understanding with one another. Lauetta did not revoke her offer of employment, rather she explained the capacity in which she would charge Arthur with simple duties in the first week, giving him the opportunity to shadow the theatre staff and gain some new skills, bolster his confidence and work out his papers. 

At the conclusion of the interview, she invited Arthur to stay on for the technical rehearsal of the musical that was due to open in two weeks time. 

Arthur thanked her graciously and took a seat in the dress circle upstairs, overlooking the stage. He’d never been able to afford theatre tickets to a place this majestic. The seats wore plush red upholstery and the stage and walls were framed in 40s art deco luxury with gilded mouldings and bronze statues that held massive white globes. The stage was framed by an elegant royal purple curtain with shimmering gold fringing and the high ceilings gave the illusion of space. Arthur counted at least two hundred seats below him. 

For hours he watched as the actors came and left the stage, singing and speaking passages accompanied by a pianist. Lights were tested and costumes were worn in various states. The show stopped and started multiple times as the performance director, a tall thin fellow with a sharp voice, called directions and blocking stances cross the stage to staff that skittered to and fro. 

It was almost sunset by the time Arthur left the stage door through which he entered earlier that morning. His head a cacophony of thoughts and feelings, music and laughter. He’d have so much to tell his mother when he got home. 

He boarded the bus back to 42nd Street but was forced to stand in the cramped isle. The bus was full of tired looking business people returning home from their offices. They occupied the seats well before he’d boarded. 

It was then that Arthur realized, through it all, that he’d never once let go of Lauretta’s handkerchief.

@jokerous @arthur-j-fleck @thejokers-thoughts​ @joker2019confessions​ @daily-joker​

Joker || Fracture

Readers Please Note: Joker: Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion.

Joker: Fracture is a presented as an experimental speculative short story that will collaborate art and literature. If you would like to be added to the reader’s tag list, please make use of the Ask feature of this blog.

|| ONE ||

The chill of the September rain had promised nothing more if not the early coming of a frigid Winter haze that threatened downtown Gotham City. The people scattered beneath their black umbrellas, clutching newspapers and hot coffee cups on hurried footfalls, keen to get indoors. Into their offices and shop fronts where they might escape the cutting winds that sliced, unhindered through their layers of clothes. Traffic drove with their headlights on though it was mid-morning and heavily overcast under the sheeting torrent of water that collected in the gutters and soaked the stacked trash bags piled in the alleyways.

This sanitation workers strike was getting ridiculous. It was only a matter of time before private enterprise and public malcontent merged to a compromise. Nineteen-Eighty-One had lagged to become a grueling year across the nation.  The people were getting tired of having to burn their own refuse. Clean air in the city was getting harder to find without having to wrinkle your nose at some foul stench whilst walking down the street. 

And here they were. 

The glorious Eighties. 

Progressive freedom, entrepreneurship, education, industry. An endless stockade of possibility and expansion in the "land of the free".

Nineteen-Eighty-One had lagged to become a grueling year. 

But none so grueling as it was to forty-one year old Arthur Fleck. 

To think. 

Everything was going so well. More or less.

Arthur fashioned himself an up and coming comedian who spent countless hours filling a battered notebook with an array of satirical, observational comedy. A number of classic jokes and one-liners that he thought were particularly amusing, were scrawled in a careless, immature left hand. Occasionally punctuated with attention-grabbing images from magazines and newspapers that he found of interest. His index of jokes were far more entertaining than the notebook's conventional purpose. Arthur's state funded and overworked registered physiologist had suggested he use this book as a journal to record his thoughts and feelings. An outlet to assist in ordering his chaotic array of thoughts. From an early age Arthur had been diagnosed with a troubling cascade of mental illnesses. Amongst these clinical diagnoses were agitated depression, anxiety, physiological ticks that manifested themselves in the form of uncontrollable fits of laughter and borderline, low level schizophrenia, amongst other problems.

Arthur had, throughout his life, with the assistance of his equally dissociative and concerningly ill mother,  been taken to an array of doctors, specialists and clinicians that had connected him with an ever increasing roster of daily medications designed to tweak his unbalanced cerebral chemicals, allowing him to function in a less encumbered capacity. Currently, Arthur was on nine separate medications whose purpose was varying. Pills to fight depressive episodes, pills to regulate his anxiety. Pills of an anti-psychotic nature, pills to help him sleep. His prescriptions were filled fortnightly and increased or reduced depending on the outcome of his frequent visitations with his psychologist. 

There was little joy to be had in Arthur's life, for he lived as the man of a small two bedroom apartment on 42nd Street with his ailing mother, Penny. In her lucidity she had supported his dreams of entertainment, instilling in him the virtues of his existence being a blessing upon the world. That he was to be a ray of joy and happiness unto all. That his father, though very much estranged, would be proud of him, for he was a good boy. Kind-hearted, decent, soft spoken and gentle of nature.

And yet, Penny's deteriorating mental health and inability to function, meant Arthur was left with no choice but to quit his schooling in his mid-teens and take on the role of full-time carer. Cooking, cleaning, shopping and bill-paying were amongst his daily routine, removing him from the education system prematurely. This state of living had its own pitfalls. He'd lost contact with his friends, few if any, ever sought to write or call leaving Arthur regrettably alone. 

In spite of this, Arthur pressed on, finding employment where he may. Slightly difficult without a high-school or college certificate within his credentials. Not impossible however. He ran a series of local jobs across town that included working at a car wash, as a factory pick/packer and even at a local supermarket as overnight replenishment staff. These were but a few of the positions he held in his youth for several years. Often working two jobs in tandem with little respite in between. In spite of this, whenever possible, Arthur made it a habit of taking Sunday off duty so that he and his mother might take a stroll down the park to enjoy a cup of coffee and a nice sandwich at a quaint cafe. Permitting that Penny was feeling strong enough to leave the apartment. 

His love of spreading laughter and joy had eventually seen him to finding a contractual position with a small business known as Ha Ha's Entertainers. Ha Ha's specialized in loaning performing clowns, magicians, exotic dancers and roving MCs to businesses and events across town for everything, from children's parties, business promotions to charitable events. 

His contract at 'Ha Ha's Entertainers' had been a blessing. A means to segue into his dream career of stand-up stage performance. Financial stability, though meager as his pay-cheques were, seemed sufficient to maintain his mother along with her pension. At very least the bills were paid and there was food in the fridge. Their lifestyle was far from luxurious. Their apartment was a heavily dated decaying art deco building constructed in the late fifties for which building management was lax with general maintenance. That damn elevator had been on the fritz for longer than Arthur cared to remember despite how often the residents complained.  Even so, it was home. If nothing more. 

Now what would he do? 

In spite of his sincere pleading, his boss had dismissed him with callous words. Arthur swallowed his regret as he cleaned out his locker. His worldly possessions, magic props, theatre make up and his journal packed into a brown paper bag. 

He'd got on relatively well with his colleagues, or so he thought. The boss said he made them uncomfortable. 

Now he regretted ever accepting that pistol. 

That gentle favor had turned to ash. He found himself wondering if he'd been set up for this fall. Why did he bring the gun on shift? Protection yes, but it wasn't supposed to end like this. His ribs still ached where those cruel teenage thugs had knocked the wind out of him. And raising his right arm to comb his hair in the morning brought a shattering burn across his shoulder blade. He couldn't sleep on that side without whimpering. 

Even so those last angry words replayed themselves in his head. He made ready to leave 'Ha Ha's' for the last time. Punching out the tiime clock and vandalizing their stupid exiting sign was hardly enough. He had half a mind of going back and kicking the shit of the boss' car. Letting down the tires. Taking a crowbar to the windscreen. God! His head was pounding. His heart in his throat. He thought he heard his name as he marched down the street. He'd take the 32 bus downtown but stop at the newsagent on the corner first for a pack of smokes. 

"Arthur! Hey, Arthur, wait up man, c'mon!" His coat sleeve was tugged on. Aggravated, he ripped his arm away, noting Jimmy's profile. That hawk-like nose and slackened jaw-line of his colleague, well, ex-colleague now. 

"What?!" He bit out sharply, coming to a standstill and making the younger man wince and furrow his brows. The smell of greasepaint and cloves coming off Jimmy's sage green button down and corduroy jeans. 

"Jesus man, I'm sorry. Getting totaled like that just ain't right. What they sayin' 'bout that gun bein' real though-"

"It was just a prop, for an act." Arthur repeated for the third time that day, cutting Jimmy off cold.  He was starting to wish the lie was real. The tremor in his hands was more than the need for another hit of nicotine. The wind wasn't helping.

Jimmy however, nodded, searching Arthur's care worn face for a moment before pressing on. 

"Yeah well, listen. I got a buddy across town what works as a roadie for this place called the Regale Theatre Company. It's run by some overseas chick. I don't know if they're hiring any, but if you ask for Bill Tormey at the loading bay, he may know somethin'." Jimmy pressed a newspaper clipping where he'd scrawled the theatre's address and Bill's name in blue ballpoint across a show advert into Arthur's reluctant cold hand, explaining, "He's usually on shift till six on Thursdays through Saturdays. Tell 'em his ol' pal Jimmy sent you. I dunno. Maybe they might got somethin' for you. You never know."

Arthur stared at the clipping and its scrawled letters for a few lengthy heartbeats. His anger dissipating into an anxious ball that constricted in the top of his chest and forced him to swallow. He nodded slowly, muttering a 'thank you' as he folded the clipping in half and pushed it into his breast-coat pocket. 

"Yeah, all the best, pal. Maybe I'll see you 'round." Jimmy said with a nod, slapping his hand across Arthur's bruised back almost parentally. The gesture may have been awkward, but never forced. Jimmy wasn't a bad guy. Arthur shook his hand, exerting an undercurrent of his frustration into that handshake before muttering a final goodbye and turning away. 

He was pissed off, cold and hanging for a cigarette. 

@arthur-j-fleck​ | @jokerous​ | @daily-joker​ | @joker2019confessions​