An Interesting Juxtaposition

John Wick.The man.The myth.The legend.

What I heard on the radio…

Fracture | One | Two | Three | Four

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

Know Your Roots

Honest Hungers

Death does not terrify me— the permanence of it does. One moment you're alive and full of everything the world offers you, and then for the rest of eternity, you're nothing. The permanence of death shatters me. To lay deep within the earth until the only one to remember your name is time itself. And we can promise to remember their name forever, but we too will one day become the void that they left behind in our hearts.

The Fucking Liberty

Wait...

Just wait a bit...

Cool down.

Cool off.

He'd set down the phone on the sofa beside him. Reluctant to throw it in his temper. He'd burned through quite a few new phones in his aggression. These devices weren't cheap. Product warranty wouldn't cover willful and malicious damage. He's information was always hosted on private central servers. There was no fear of losing important information and even so he never kept anything important enough on the phone that could be considered incriminating. He'd learned discretion. Not trusting securities breeches that happened with anything that was connected online, to the internet. For all intents and purposes the contents of his phone simply looked like a wealthy Italian business man that dabbled in a considerable amount of foreign trade and international exchange. Stocks, land, financial lending. Art trade. Designer goods and products. Car import and export. The world didn't have to know the truth. That he was the son of Rome's most powerful organized Crime Lord. Footwear. Women's designer luxury shoes. He had a lot of that on his phone. He enjoyed buying footwear for Lalienna. Her tiny frame and dainty feet drove him wild. He could spend hours alone just worshiping her heels, sucking, licking, massaging her feet until she relaxed... until she came. He'd come with her. Incredible. He'd not even touched himself but the act of attending her feet, it was.... mind blowing. Those releases of tension and pressure had been amongst his favorite. The way she made him feel.

Now he watched her, as she kneeled on the floor, black lace hugging her curves and his white Pierre Cardin dress shirt. Fuck! She looked incredible wearing his clothes. Sleeves rolled, those fucking collarbones, the swell of her cleavage. Those eyes... she could get him off with those eyes alone. Her hair was wet. Combed neatly away from her face. He forgot what he was angry about. His cock throbbed painfully between his legs, reminding him he was a man and she was a woman. A potent, powerful women. The instinct to breed was... impulsive. His caress found her cheek, her jaw line. So warm. Droplets of her hair fell against her ear, across his fingertips. She was so sensual. She stole his breath. Those lips.... those eyes...

"Jesucristo, eres jodidamente hermosa." (Jesus Christ you're fucking beautiful.) He breathed.

"What have I done in my life to deserve someone as gorgeous as you, amore mio?" He took her in his arms, raising her gently from the floor. It didn't feel right, having her on his knees to him. Though the position was suggestive and he would have paid tremendous amounts of money just to have her suck down his length the way she did when she was between his thighs. This line of thoughts wasn't helping. She was warm and heavy against his thighs. He embraced her, hugging her to him. She'd seen the tension in his face and misread it for something else. He comforted her. Breathing her in. Placing his nose against her neck and just inhaling deeply. As if he could smell, like a dog, the intrinsic  olfactory patterns that made up her genetic makeup and decode her as his...property. No. She wasn't property. Not like this. Not when she held him, talked to him. Loved him the way she did. And he knew it, that it was true. It wasn't about the money, the prestige, the power. It was the feeling he got when she was in his arms. That he could take on the world and nothing could stop him because he was doing it for her.

His lover... his warrior... his dancer.... Mistress.

"I'm so owned by you..." He whispered into her shoulder. Smiling against the fabric. His rusty curls falling across her skin as he caressed her hips and back.

"There's nothing I wouldn't do to keep you with me... Safe... Forever... Contra el mundo, Lalienna." ( Against the world.)

His kiss found the hollow of her throat. He'd missed her. Missed being inside her. Missed her company. He needed it. Craved it, constantly. He was so obsessed. He looked at her now, his docile, loving green eyes absorbing her warmth.

"But your mother....tesoro... Your fucking mother... Vaffanculo!" (Fuck me!) He laughed, taking hold her delicate hand from his shoulder and bringing her fingers to his lips. He kissed her... The ring of the Camorra that Gianna had given her. He lapped at it. Hotly. Like a dog's kiss.

"I called her, like you told me to. And she had words for me, alright. Do you know she called me a slave trader? And a peasant? Me... My family owns this city, my father speaks for all of Italy on The High Table and she called me a fucking peasant. Me!" He said, indignant. The rage starting to burn through him again as he gestured to the luxury of the office that surrounded them. The sofa they sat on alone was made of finest Italian kid leather and valued well into the five digit figures.

Lalienna's brows furrowed in concern. She knew Judeth well. Her diplomacy and temper were often as sharp and direct as a knife blade. It didn't surprise her in the least to learn that her lover had receiving a hefty verbal beating from her adoptive mother. It was all so much, so soon. Uprooting her from one country where she barely had the time to find herself and now put her in another strange gilded cage with other dangerous and vicious birds. Even if they were intrinsically beautiful. She tried to diffuse the  gathering heat in his eyes, pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

"She's just being protective, Papi. We left London so quickly. We didn't even call her to say good bye. Of course she was going to be pissed. How would you feel if someone eloped with your daughter?"

Her reasoning was sound. She was young yes, but not without intelligence and the ability to rationalize and reflect clearly. She was much more focused at twenty-one that he had ever been. Mature. That was impressive. He nodded, sighing and leaning back against the leather, taking her with him to rest against his chest. She felt good. Heavy, female. He felt complete. He didn't give a wild fuck about Judeth or her English whores. They could all burn as far as he was concerned. He was still seething internally from the beating she'd given him. He tsked angrily.

"She wants me to test your employment for the Camorra by giving you a probationary period of three months service. That means she controls your finances and upkeep under The Continental London; keeps you neutral, employed as a contractor. She won't hand me your accounts. And she intends to make my father sign a contract to the same tune. She's.... smart. I'll give her that. She wants to control you, even though you're not Iron Fortuna anymore. Independents with Continental memberships are valuable," He didn't add expendable. She didn't need to hear that right now. "I told her there would be no probation, that I would commit you fully to my care and absorb the cost of your upkeep. You'd be paid a monthly salary that would exclude boarding costs for the estate just like the rest of the High Guard. She's like a dog with a bone... the bitch won't let go."

"Papi!" His dancer complained. She didn't like the insult. Again he clicked his tongue, frustrated. She'd likely already contacted Lorenzo. He'd speak to his father later about this mess.

"Bambina mi dispiace." (Sorry baby girl.) He returned kissing her cheeks. "Business... It's boring. More than you can handle right now. Hey... you look incredible in my clothes.... That shirt suits you..." He tugged at the buttons, one after the other. Revealing a little more of her cleavage. Distracted again by her flesh. His free hand found the swell of her rear and squeezed it. Making her smile. He smiled in return.

"How are you feeling, tesoro? We missed you at breakfast.... again at lunch. Ares' been a good girl and taking care of you eh? She said you were playing video games with her huh? She's good. Very good. What she can't say with her mouth she says with her hands. Games are good. They focus and enrich the mind. You should get her drunk and try play something from the Tekken series with her. That's worth paying for. She always picks Marshall Law because he reminds her of Bruce Lee. She lacks technique. If I want to own her I pick Nina Williams. If I want to tease her I pick Kuma, the bear. You should see how she loses her shit! It's very funny to watch." He brightened considerably now. This was fun, talking about something so innocent.

"Oh, I miss playing Final Fantasy. They are long games but the Japanese have such rich stories and worlds. I don't have the time anymore, but I used to love it. Too much work. Too many other distractions. You're far better than a game... I get to complete sensory overload without having to pick up a controller. Mmmh?" He nipped her ear and listened as she recounted her morning playing Halo again with Ares.

"It was fun, Papi! I really like Ares. She's sweet and tender. She looked after me... I'm sorry for not coming down to eat. Are you mad?"

"Not mad, amore... just.. A little put off. You know me darling, I'm Italian. This is Rome now, not England. There are few if any formalities that will be placed upon you, but sharing meals with your family is amongst one of the most important things you can attend. Sharing food is the way Italians show their love. It marks the history and culture of the region, the depth of our devotion to one another. Even if no one says a word at the table, at least we're together. Grateful, thankful of each other. It's a prayer. Eating with one another. Being with them. I understand, you've been through a lot, we both have. We both need time to adjust. London has not been kind to us. It's been especially unkind to you, amore, so you'll forgive me if I arch up over the White Women. I mean your mother no disrespect but she's fucking with the wrong wolf if she thinks she can push me around in my own house. Bah! Don't worry about that." He shook his head and pushed the thought away. Judeth.... she fucking irritated him something awful. He was smarting from the burn of her voice. In his rage he imagined dispatching his men and just... having her brutalized... raped... again. By Italians. So she could feel the depth of his hold. She had nothing to turn against him. Clutching at straws. This thing about controlling her contract was a farce. He'd wipe his balls with it. It wasn't worth further acknowledgement. So what!

"I'll let you off today. If you don't feel like sitting at table with us for the next few days while you bleed and rest, I'll forgive you without offense. But come next week, I expect you to do your duty and eat with us. We're the High Guard, amore. It's important we spend this time together. I'm going to rest the crew for a week to adjust back to Roman life but then we return to field. We have shit to get done and The High Table doesn't conform to our ideas of relaxation. They're a machine. Faceless Gods and my father is one of them. He says jump, we ask how high. That simple. We want to live in peace and luxury, we want to sleep at night with each other's bodies around us, without the fear of being shot in the head, then we do what we're told.... For now.

He let the ominous slip. Let it hang in the air. Then patted her rump adoringly.

"You look unsettled baby girl.. Uncomfortable. A little stung out. Are you high? Ares keeping you loaded? Hm?" He smiled at her darkly. Not entirely minding the idea of having his lover stoned.

"Look, when you're working I need you to keep clean. No drugs. No dope, no booze. You need to stay sharp on the field when you're dispatched. But you've got down time now babe. You're allowed to spread your wings a little. Talk to Curtis if you want something to take the edge off. Him and Hector may have a few lines of Columbian blow that might make you feel good. Mind you, you they won't give you more than a quarter gram. If you've never touched it before, it could have an adverse affect. And I don't want to rush you to hospital over a bad trip. Okay? They'll take care of you..." He thought he'd let it slip now.

"Christov and Hector seem to be guarding something intimate about you. Like they know something I don't. I'm probably imagining it. You've had a rather deep impression on them. All of them these past few months. I know you two and Ares are tight together. Curtis, Marcus and Tony may not be so clingy, but they're for you babe.... always for you. You saw them in London. Your personal attack squad. They would have gunned me down in cold blood if I didn't yield. That's my boys!" He smiled warmly, his eyes glittering in mirth. He loved his crew. His Italian Silk Mafia.

"Amore... I think... if you're feeling up to it... you should speak to Chris, about getting a new tattoo. Our tattoo. The Camorra crown... somewhere on your body. You've seen mine, I have it on my back. Gianna has hers on her hip, the others wear theirs on different places one their bodies. It doesn't have to be large. But it has to be there. I want it there. It's a sign of our brotherhood. Our creed. It marks us as a unit. Together. ... And... skin art is sexy. I think you'd look good with a tattoo... Something I can run my tongue over when we fuck... And I wanna.... fuck..."  Now his lips found her throat again... Feeling the pulsing vein under his tongue. His hands rolled over her hips... caressed her breasts. Were they sensitive? Some women complained that their brests ached during their cycle. This was the first time in the months he'd loved this woman that he'd been present for hers. He wanted to ask her intimate questions. He'd been away in Austria missing the opportunity to probe her. Now he did. Gentle, lovingly.

"How does that feel? When I touch you like this?" His warm palm cupped her breast over his shirt, rolling against her nipple.

"Hurt?" She bit her lower lip. Not pulling away from the contact but not quite leaning into it either. So he respected her reluctance and let go of her breast.

"Do you want to be loved? During your cycle?" Oh! That was direct. The words sensual, like silk, whispered in his dulcet baritone against her earlobe. He found it erotic. Switched back to Italian she could understand.  

"Non c'è pressione, nessuna aspettativa tra di noi. Quando mi vuoi, sono qui per servirti. Sai che ho sempre fame. Voglio sempre ... amore ... sesso ... con te." (There's no pressure, no expectations between us. When you want me, I'm here to serve you. You know I'm always hungry. I always want...love... sex... with you.)

"It might make you feel good. Orgasm releases hormones that fight pain. Endorphins. Better than any artificial high. I like it when you're stung out on a good fuck rather than stoned on pills. " His lips found her throat again... hot... a deep, sensual roll of his tongue before he pulled away with a groan. Meeting her eyes with his. Sinful.

"You know where my bed is now. If not mine... yours... If not yours... Then any other surface you desire. The windows, the spa, the walls. In the bath... against the shower... In front of Ares on the hood of a car for all I care... Anything... anything to make you cum for me... Mistress." He smirked. Content, Italian charm as he licked his lower lip, catching the swell between his teeth. That's it... he wanted her to be uncomfortable. On edge. If he could keep her horny she'd come to him of her own accord. He wouldn't have to push, to egg or her on or seek her out. He always got what he wanted. From the day he met her he made her do what he wanted. And it felt good. Really good. He swelled under the rush of power that flooded his veins and made his balls throb. Because she was that kind of girl... She did that to him. Made him feel incredible.

 "Go on bella... Go get some rest. You're beautiful, but you look fucked. Not the way I want you to be. You're tired. Make sure Ares brings you something to eat. She didn't bring you a plate and hasn't eaten herself she's so worried about you. That's not good baby, I don't like my girls hungry. I can deal with almost anything but self harm and eating disorders scare the fuck out of me. When a girl stops eating, I panic. It's not natural. Even if it's just biscotti and cafe, you need something. You can't survive on water alone. Understand? I'll have one of the maids prepare some plates and bring them up to your rooms if you don't want to join me for dinner. We eat at 7 usually. Our chef is incredible. But on Sunday I'll cook for you personally. I love cooking for my family. We might even invite Gianna over, if she's not too busy hitting people with her enormous cock."

That got a laugh from his dancer. He was happy. He pulled her off his lap gently and stood up, crossing the room to open the door for her. "Go on, bella... go. Papi has work to do for you. The sooner I can finish the sooner I can relax with everyone else. Why don't you get the boys, or Ares to tour you around the house and gardens? You won't get bored here. There's a beautiful library with a window seat. You can sleep in the Roman sunlight, like a cat. Just be mindful of the boys. They're big dogs and they like to chase pretty things. You'll know where to find me if you need me. I'm usually always here in the office or upstairs in the study. Ask the maids for anything you might need. If you want to go for a drive around town, you're welcome to it. But let the boys take you first. I'll need to organize an Italian license for you and then we can talk about getting you your own car. Or picking something from the garage. Marcus is our resident rev head. He'll tell you the difference between Maserati and Audi.

"You spoil me Papi! You already bought me a car in Austria!" She chirped brightly, clinging to his neck and kissing his cheek. He hugged her back, completely removing the distance between them, he held her. Warm. Tender. Pressing her to his chest. Cheeky, he teased her.

"It's only because I want to get into your garage..."

Tears formed in her jade eyes, lip quivering slightly. She held back a sob, taking a breath.

“You…you never wanted me?” It felt as though her heart was breaking. Literally. The strings of her cardiac muscles were snapping, leaving her in the worst pain she’s ever felt… and she’s felt a lot of shit. She’s been through the worst, through hell. But this…this was worse. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs wouldn’t produce the oxygen needed to stay alive. God, make it stop. Stop it! She couldn’t handle it. She clutched her heart, squeezing the fabric of her shirt in her fists. Her eyes broke. They relayed how she felt. So so so so ruined. So torn. So…worthless. Thrown away.

————

@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat // here is your angst. Do with it what you will. ;) have fun, my angel of sadness.

May God Bless Our Queen

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​

....Not Quite Right.

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                 Know Your Roots

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