Hey Man, Nice Shot

Hey man, nice Shot

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

Weekly Writer’s Prompt

Language is a beautiful thing. It enables us to share emotions, ideas and stories.

As a public artistic experiment, I have decided to present the: Weekly Writer’s Prompt.

The concept is simple. Once a week I will select a work of multimedia, like a film or television series, a novel or artwork and write a few lines that fit the theme of that work as a starting prompt. I challenge whoever might be interested to write a short story, poem, conversation ect to continue from the lines I have prompted.

There are no word limits or restrictions. Simply look at the topic and the prompt and write from there, then tag your completed work (#weekly writer’s prompt) and mention this account: @small-fortunes so I can collect your entry.

You have 7 days to craft a submission and challenge yourself to create something beautiful with words.

If you’d like to take up the challenge but aren’t familiar with the media selected, simply Wiki or YouTube some information to get you inspired and work from there. By the end of the month, I’m hopeful that we might amalgamate a collection of interesting modern literature together and showcase it.

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