Post by The Joker on Jul 29, 2014 3:25:13 GMT
THE JOKER
Canon or Original
"Cannon!" ("No, it's 'cano-'" "I KNOW WHAT I'M SAYING.")
Gender
Male
Age
"24! 42! 51! BINGO!"
Occupation
"Bringing Laughter To The Hearts Of Children..."
Base of Operations:
Varies, But Most Frequently Amusement Mile
Canon or Original
"Cannon!" ("No, it's 'cano-'" "I KNOW WHAT I'M SAYING.")
Gender
Male
Age
"24! 42! 51! BINGO!"
Occupation
"Bringing Laughter To The Hearts Of Children..."
Base of Operations:
Varies, But Most Frequently Amusement Mile
Appearance
With a thin, nearly anorexic frame, lanky limbs, and slim shoulders, the Joker seems like the last person who could be considered intimidating; his lack of musculature doesn't seem to to impede his movements, however, as he seems ever-tense, springing and running about with the energy of ten men. By far, however, the most immediately noticeable feature are his colors; his skin is pale, pasty white in fact, lacking any signs of blemishes or veins at any point in his skin. His hair ranges from bright green to a dulled bluish tint at times, which may be a result of either his repeated uses of disguise, or perhaps an instability in his genes, and his eyes are uncommonly dark, the red, bloodshot whites scarcely a sliver against the black of his pupils, and the near-black brown of his irises.
The grin for which is he infamous seems almost hewn into his face, his cheeks bulging grotesquely as the muscles and tendons that control it leave his face frozen in a sickening rictus. The same grin leaves his eyes perpetually narrowed, and his brows twisted down in an expression of almost perpetual malice... even when he doesn't seem to be in a murderous mood, at no time does he look truly 'Relaxed,' or even particularly friendly. His lips are a deep red, a startling contrast to his pale skin, though it isn't certain whether he uses some form of make-up (the color remains consistent even when he's been locked away for months at a time,) or if it is just another by-product of his transformation. His teeth are yellowed tombstones, seeming somehow larger and thicker than those of a normal human... although it may simply be the fact that they are almost always exposed by his wide grin. Despite the poor dental hygiene, his teeth seem completely intact, and indeed pack a very nasty bite.
For someone who is so chaotic in actions and mentality, the Joker does actually seem to have a neat, if bizarre, sense of style; green and purple apparently his favorite color, he has a wide variety of custom-made suits done up in that scheme, ranging from muted, dark tones, to eye-meltingly bright shades. Although extensive exertion- dodging, running, killing- can leave his suit rumpled, torn, covered in soot, dust and blood, he will always seem to begin his newest escapade with a brand new outfit. When he's out on the town, and trying to hide himself from view, his laziest disguise will be a long, brown overcoat, a wide-brimmed hat tugged down over his head, and some flesh-colored makeup to hide his distinctive pale skin.
Personality
The Joker is... insane. Cracked. Crazy. He is a truly dazzling mix of psychopathy, nihilism and narcissism, a cocktail that makes him perhaps one of the most volatile human beings on the planet. One moment, he may be a harmless, giggling clown, far more interested in playing irritating, but harmless pranks on anyone near by... and the next, he becomes a vicious killer, cutting, stabbing and shooting his way through a line of corpses. There is no apparent transition between those two states, and his motivations behind each are all but impossible to determine; so aggressive his insanity is, psychologists seeking to treat him will often find their own mental well-being in jeopardy, as after prolonged theraputic contact with the clown, they will often feel as if he is trying to reform them.
Even though his plans will sometimes have a mundane benefit- be it money, influence, or some component he needs for a larger scheme- he will just as often wreak mayhem for no reason other than he finds it amusing. This can make it frustrating for those trying to guess the Joker's 'end goal,' as sometimes he simply won't have one... and sometimes, it will be a plot of such vast scope and dire intentions, half of Gotham will be left in flames because of it.
Despite his brilliant mind, and his ability to plot elaborate, intricate schemes that put those of many of Gotham's other criminals to shame, the Joker is not the sort of man that other villains feel comfortable... including. This is in no small part due to the aforementioned unpredictability of the clown, as he will often go back on established plans on a whim, even betray those he is working with for little or no reason at all. On the other hand, deliberately excluding him can sometimes be even worse, as if slighted, he will sometimes laugh it off as a joke... and sometimes wage a bloody, destructive vendetta against whomever spurned him. Getting on the Joker's bad side is an almost legendarily dangerous prospect, and the handful of villains who have been brave, or foolish, enough to do so often end up regretting it.
More than anything, however, the Joker is driven, inspired even, by the Batman. whether it was because of some element in his past, or simply because the dour Dark Knight has given his many neuroses a sort of obsessive focus, most of Joker's plots, plans and schemes will inevitably revolve around Batman... be it trying to draw him into a direct conflict, or simply putting Gotham in jeopardy to watch the vigilante run around trying to stop him. It could be argued that this obsession actually serves to the benefit of the city. Rather than simply planting a bomb somewhere and letting it go off, killing dozens of people, Joker will usually drop hints, get the public's attention, all to try and coax Batman into showing his pointy-eared head. Rather than try to blow his brains out with a sniper rifle, the Clown will use a variety of flashy, colorful, and ultimately ineffective gadgets and tools to try and kill the Dark Knight. This warning, and roundabout way of setting up crimes, often gives Batman the time he needs to thwart the Joker's plots... even so, the clown will often leave a disturbing body count in his wake.
Abilities
Pain Resistance: Whether due to the effect of the chemicals that turned him into what he was, or perhaps simply because he is a complete masochist, the Joker doesn't generally seem to be deterred by pain. Though he might give an 'Ouch,' or other sign when he's injured, suffice to say he seems capable of taking an almost sickening beating without giving in, meaning a straight-up pummeling is rarely the best way to deal with him.
Toxic Blood And Toxin Immunity: As a result of the same chemicals that altered his appearance, and perhaps due to the fact that the Joker will often experiment with all manner of illicit substance, the Joker's blood is extraordinarily toxic. In the event it is transfused into another, it will slowly, but inevitably poison them, although the amount required for a fatal dose is quite high. As a result of his blood's existing toxicity, he has an extremely high tolerance to a wide variety of drugs, and complete immunity to the toxins of his own creation, such as Joker Gas.
Crazy Fighter: Even though he doesn't have anywhere near the pure fighting prowess as his favorite nemesis, the Joker's very nature makes him an extremely unpredictable fighter. Despite his long, thin limbs and apparently frailty, he can pack quite a whallop, move with deceptive speed, and his fighting style is so bizzare and unexpected, even even Batman has had difficulty anticipating and defending against it, let alone common guards or thugs.
Genius: Whether it's chemistry, engineering, or even computer use, the Joker has been able to build, hack and brew innovations and inventions that, more often than not, are varying ways to kill, maim, or forcibly cheer folks up. He also seems to have a keen criminal and strategic mind (when not stark-raving bonkers,) as even many of his most bizarre and fanciful plots will eventually have an undercurrent of hard cunning behind them.
Disguise: Even though, God knows, his face is distinctiveness, the Joker does have considerable skill at disguising himself, whether it's make-up, prosthetic or altering his voice. Of course, his frozen grin is significantly harder to hide, often requiring full facial prosthesis to conceal.
Escapologist: Good luck trying to keep him locked anywhere, for any length of time. Handcuffs, straightjackets, shackles, even control holds, he always seems to find infuriating ways of getting out of traps, prisons, etc. Even the times he has been successfully contained, it isn't certain whether it is due to effective security... or because he considers his cell to be a sort of 'vacation' between crimes.
Insane: This has actually made telepathic intrusions difficult, as his mind is about as welcoming and stable as a howling abyss, and in comic continuity, the Joker has even avoided the wrath of the Spectre, as it was determined that he literally held no sense of 'Right and Wrong,' therefore hadn't knowingly committed evil acts.
Equipment
Although the Joker can, and has, used conventional knives and guns, as time goes on he will develop other, more thematically appropriate tools; various ways to dispense 'Joker gas,' a million-volt joy buzzer, chattering-teeth explosives, and other kooky and deadly items. His brilliance, coupled with his unpredictable nature, means that even though he has a few 'old reliable' standbys, he will regularly haul out brand new weapons, vehicles and other oddities, ranging from an anti-tank gun to a rubber chicken doused in napalm.
Weaknesses
Despite the Joker's high pain tolerance, he is still human, no less susceptible to injury than anyone else; though he might need a fair bit more of a beating to knock unconscious than most, and be able to drag his way through severe injuries without losing mobility, he can still be shot, burned and bludgeoned.
As mentioned, his obsession with the Batman can definitely be considered a weakness, as it has kept the bulk of the Joker's destructive tendencies from spilling out to the rest of Gotham. Where, if he had just intended to murder people in secret, he could likely achieve truly staggering body counts with little difficulty, his compulsive need to involve the Dark Knight in his schemes- often calling the vigilante out before he's even begun his latest crime spree- remains perhaps one of the key reasons he is caught so frequently.
Background
The history of the Joker is difficult to pin back, in no small part because the man himself loves nothing more than to make up new iterations as he goes. In fact, whenever he meets a new psychologist, he will often consider it the perfect time to create a new-
"STORYTIME?!"
...what?
"I LOVE STORYTIME!"
Right, that's... um... anyway, the Joker's given many different accounts on his-
"I WANNA TELL IT!"
I don't think that's-
BANG
"Whine, whine, whine, whine! Ugh. Now! Your humble, dashing, debonair master of ceremonies has by far the most interesting of all the histories, a tale of woe, worry and cake! So let's get this doo-hickey-ma-bob on the road! I came to Earth in a spaceship sent by my loving parents, when my planet was subject to the dangers of an idiotic bureaucratic insitution who said to themselves 'Oh, no, let's ignore the giant looming sun that's about to devour our entire planet, I'm sure we'll be fiiiine'... wait, no, wrong one.
Heere we are! My parents! MURDERED! All because they decided that a horrible neighborhood filled with cutthroats was the ideal place to bring their infant son for a stroll and were too cheap to bother with bodygua- wait, wait, that isn't it either.
Rich prissy blond boy stranded in one big rehash of Lost? Don't think so.
The ultimate pottery project raised on an island best seen in lesbian porn? Nope.
Intergalactic namby pamby goodie-two-shoes force with secret decoder rings? Nuh uh.
Oh, who caaaares where I came from, amirite? Unless its those Docs in the padded rooms lookin to write a book on the subject- and oh boy, I'm more've a best-seller guarantee than Oprah!- the only questions I tend to hear from folks range along the lines of 'Why are you doing this,' 'Won't anyone help me,' 'Dear God my eyes,' so on and sooo forth. Bunch of nosy Nancys! All you folks need to know is I drifted back into Gotham a liiiittle while ago, with my visage all rakish and splendid like it is now, and decided, 'Y'know, Jokes (I call myself Jokes) ((You may not call me Jokes)) (((I will maim you))) this here town ain't big enough for the both of us!' Then I realized I was talking to myself, and it didn't make any sense, so what the hell, let's take over Gotham!!!
But we can't jump the gun! Well, we can, unless we're talking about fifty-caliber machine guns- and, frankly, the more one talks about fifty-caliber machine guns, the better, but we shouldn't! So rather than put a crown on my head and do a goose-step down main street, I decided that I should be subtle! Strategic! Sneaky! So I shot people. In my defense, pretty sure they were from the groups of hooligans trying to rule the city- though a nun mighta snuck in there at some point- and it scared the rest of em into line. I figured to make my secret headquarters Amusement Miles, for two strategic, cunning reasons; firstly! Not a soul was anywhere near by, aside from the occasional hobo that offered splendid target practice.
Secondly, it afforded me the chance to sit on a trashcan lid and slide down the rollar coaster tracks going 'WHEEEEEEEEE!'
But why play by yourself when it's so much more fun to play with others? And when I start my little game, oh my... that's when history is going to be made.
Sample Post
Born to a wealthy banker and first (of five) wives, Trevor McKain was a handsome, athletic, and wealthy young man who, by all measure, should have been completely satisfied with his life. Should have been being the operative words, as right now, the one thing Trevor wanted more than anything was to be respected, not for his money or his family, but for himself. He wanted people to look up to him, like him... maybe even be a little afraid of him. So, in the same line of thought that so many others seemed to follow- yet without even the thought of monetary reward- he had decided to join a gang.
Trevor had gone to public school- he parents believing that rubbing elbows with the middle and lower class would instill some good values in him- and during the last couple of years had made tenuous friends with a street tough by the name of Mitch. Even a year after graduation, they still kept in touch occasionally, enough so for Trevor to know that his friend- for whom 'family' consisted of one persistently drunk dad- had been running with one of Gotham's many street-level gangs, a group of thugs that liked to call themselves Python. So he'd given Mitch a call, asked him about maybe... joining the group. For awhile, at least.
Not wanting to talk about it over the phone, or anywhere the cops might be listening, Mitch had insisted on a secluded place; the old, abandoned Amusement Mile on the outskirts of town. The two were speaking now, in one of the mirror-lined funhouses, voices lowered to murmurs despite the fact that there wasn't a soul living within a mile of the place.
"I mean, yeah..." Trevor coughed a little; even though nobody was around to see them, he had his hood up, a shadow over his face. "Been thinking about it, and I'd like to roll with you guys... I mean, if you folks don't mind..."
"Nawh, man, no problem..." Mitch chuckled a little, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. "Get you in with the fellas, maybe you spread round some green, they'll warm right up t'ya. Makin a good choice, we Pythons, we're goin' straight to the top, no goddamn Boogeyman bat gonna be scarin' us off. Can ya just believe the kinda shit they're tryin' to spr-"
"'Scuse me!"
Both of the young men spun around to find someone shambling towards them, walking gingerly with a cane... he wore a long trenchcoat, and a wide-brimmed hat was tugged low, concealing most of his face.
"Young squires!" he announced, voice wavering, aristocratic, "I am seeking a place where I might acquire illicit products for the purposes of both intoxication, titillation, and possibly hallucination."
"The hell you talkin' about?" Mitch snapped.
"Oh, I guess I have to try speaking native..." Clearing his throat, the man tried again; "Hey there, hep cats! I'm, er, ballin, and lookin fo' some sick... um... sick is what you say for 'good,' right? Or is that 'tubular?' Does that only apply to tubes?"
"You get the hell outta here," Mitch snarled, starting to advance slowly, chest puffed out and in full swagger mode, "or we'll mess you up, old man!"
"Such backtalk!" the man scoffed, sounding offended as he stopped only a few feet from the pair; leaning the cane up against the wall; there was a large section of mirror, once part of the funhouse wall, but since yanked from its foundation. Despite some spiderweb cracks, it was still more or less intact, and the man seemed to take great interest in it, picking it up with both hands and peering into it.
Holding the mirror aloft, seemingly uncaring of the furious punk near him, the man proclaiming with great, rolled 'r's, "Mirrror, mirrror, on this prick..."
"I'm gonna-!"
A sudden spin, with no signs of frailty, and the mirror came crashing down on the thug's head, the sound of shattering glass and a roar of pain filling the air. The mirror's frame hanging around his shoulders, bald scalp bleeding from a dozen or more small cuts, the thug tried swinging a dazed, clumsy punch, but the man was ducking away, scooping up a large chunk of reddish stone. Before the thug could recover his balance, the piece of debris smashed him across the jaw, sending teeth flying and dropping him into a heap on the ground.
"...didn't hurt as much as the brick!" The voice wasn't quavering, not anymore. It was high-pitched, young, and strong, and the sudden laugh he gave all rattled the walls; "BAAAAHhahahahahaha..."
Caught up in a mix of shock and terror, Trevor froze... he didn't know whether to fight, whether to run. Finally, common sense kicked in, and he turned to flee, but that hesitation was a second too long; he felt something close around his neck, recognizing it only at the last second at the curved end of the man's cane, and a vicious yank had him stumbling back, choking. The back of his hoodie stretched as the man grabbed him by it, and before he knew it, he was being swung around like a pendulum; there was a brief glimpse of a wall-to-wall mirror soaring in to meet him, and then everything went black.
--
When Trevor awoke, he was sprawled on his stomach, face aching dully; he could taste blood, and felt a faint ringing in his ears. Groaning, he tried to get up, or even roll over, but he realized belatedly that there was this great weight on his back... and when the back of a foot booted him in the ribs, he realized what that weight was. Paling, Trevor strained to look over his shoulder; the strange man was seated on top of him, an expanse of pale neck and jaw visible in the shadows. He had something in his hand... a wallet.
A wallet... no, no. Not just a wallet. Trevor's wallet.
"Glooorious!" the pale stranger cooed, the sickening grin, if anything, widening even further as he shifted on his human seat, making the youth groan in pain, "A Gotham Heights address! Oh, Trevvie, you've been a nastily naughty ninny, haven't you? First-world problems indeed! Decided daddy didn't dispense enough hugs, and so here you are, trying to wear the big boy pants and rrrrrRRROOOOLLL in the Big Leagues! Only, Trevvie, you're still more've a Little Leaguer, the sort who stands in the Outfield picking his nose and daydreaming about dinosaurs. You need a coach!"
"So, here's what..." a groan from across the corridor, as Mitch was starting to stir. "One second."
Tugging a pistol from the inner pocket of his overcoat, muffled giggles rumbling in his chest, the pale man took aim; with a BANG that echoed through the room, and a spray of blood, the other man and didn't move again. Trevor screamed, and was rewarded with a pistol whip to the top of the head that left him groaning groggily.
"Don't interrupt, m'lad!" the man scolded, tucking the pistol back into his jacket pocket. "Where was I? Oh, yes! Now, as I mention, you're about as useful on this Earth, from a criminal standpoint, as a boat on the Moon, but- you still with me, Trevvie?!" A sharp rap of the knuckles on Trevor's now-bleeding skull drew a whimper of pain, and frantic nods, "Thatta boy! But your position as a useless, trust-fund sapping Reality-Show-Waiting-To-Happen could be very useful, for my, hmm, short-term goals, so here's what'll happen. I'm going to let you go, you're going to tell the police and the hospital that that man-" he pointed at the newly made corpse, "did aaaaall these mean things to you... and then you're going to go back to living your life. But we'll be the closest, and bestest, of friends, and sooner or later, I'm going to come calling. And when I do, Trevvie, you'll have to do a few, teensy weensy 'favors' for me, mkay?"
A long moment passed before the prone youth nodded, slowly, too frightened to even make a sound; the gesture seemed enough to satisfy the man, however, and he slapped his knees before climbing to his feet. He even helped Trevor up, the young man teetering a little, obviously still dazed from the blow to the head, hair and face matted with blood... when the stranger offered a hand to shake, Trevor looked at it dumbly before, gingerly, reaching out to take it.
Suddenly, still gripping that hand, the man whirled Trevor around and shoved him, facefirst, into the broken mirror, eliciting a strangled cry from the young man.
"Oh, and I knooow what is going through your head right now, Trevvie," the man murmured in the youth's ear, breath foul as his voice lifted to a mocking falsetto as he shoved harder on the boy's back, crunching glass mingling with Trevor's whimpers. "'Hey, I'm filthy rich! I can have daddy fly me away to Candy Land!'" He grabbed the youth's arm, forcing it up behind his back and drawing a strangled groan. "If you want to hop a jet, feel free, but you'd better make sure you scrub that identity clean as a whistle... cause if you don't, I'll track you down faster'n an angry ex, and you'll get to play my most favorite game..." A vicious wrench upwards, and Trevor screamed as something in his arm 'snapped.' "Twister!"
Trevor finally spoke, for the first time in awhile; "I PROMISE! OH GOD I PROMISE!"
"Well, RUN FORREST, RUN!"
When he released the youth, who staggered off, and then began to run as best as he could, sobbing and clutching his broken arm to his chest. Hands sliding into his pockets, the man watched him go, seeming curiously quiet for a long moment... it wasn't until Trevor was gone, and his cries had faded away, that a sound finally passed the stranger's lips.
"Heh..." Adjusting the brim of his hat, the man began to make his way out of the hall of mirrors, murmuring to himself; "Born to filthy rich parents, raised in a filthy rich neighborhood, and now working for a handsome and educated employer. Some people just get all the breaks. Heh. Breaks. Heh heh... hee hee... hehehaHAHeeHAHAheGWAHHAHAHAHA!"
Name: What would you like us to call you, the player? (So we can keep track of who plays who.)