Joker || Fracture

| Bits & Pieces |

Art © Kim Joon

Three words, ladies and gentlemen of the Internet.

Hit. Me. Up.

Please and Thank You

Always yours, always welcoming to your questions, comments and requests.

Even though I’m not a Fan Fic author, as such, I am a writer and a professional. I encourage conversation and exchange of ideas. I am currently invested in content-creating for the John Wick fandom and will accept commissions and inquiries about what on earth all that writing I’m doing is related to.

There are incredible authors out there that can make your heart pound, melt and sizzle all at once.

My partners in crime are: @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat <- This is Liz. Talented, power-house author. John Wick actor extraordinaire! Specializes in fully immersive, adult related, sincere and heartfelt materials. Currently Tumblr’s premiere John Wick writer/Role Play Actor. Please read the lady’s rules and send a polite Ask request to engage her. She may have her writing quota full for the moment. 

@lalienna-dementriento <- Miss Lali is everything a classy young, street-smart author should be. Raw, unrestrained, dynamic and fearless. She approaches hard topics openly and without pre-amble. This includes soul-searching, broken families, abortion and sex. Another rising star to the world of immersive role-play authors. Again, be polite. Send a nice Ask and enquire on her terms and conditions. It’s always worth it!

You’re all very special to me, ladies and gents of the Internet. You may not have met me yet, but I need you to know, I’m thinking about you! No matter what your fandom is. No matter what your jam is, I’m right beside you.

Peace and Love

Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut

Reblog this if you want readers to come into your ask box and ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines. 

Or, send in a ⭐star⭐  to have the author select a section they’ve been dying to talk about!

Build Your Warrior

Keanu Reeves training for ‘John Wick’

People keep asking if I’m back and I haven’t really had an answer. But now, yeah, I’m thinkin’ I’m back. — John Wick (2014)

Pain changes people.

Chronic pain does more than debilitate the body.

It slowly eats away at the mind. It's many jewel-like facets.

Reason, tolerance, patience, prudence, humility.

It is something else entirely, when you are immobilized by unrelenting agony, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, four weeks to the month, twelve months to the year. On and on and on.

So as you become nothing more than a screaming, crying, wretched mess, trapped in your own skin. Conscious, breathing, suffering without relent.

No longer human.

Just pain.

It is quite a feat; to experience visceral pain so agonizingly profound; that all your fears, past, present and future terrors become entirely inconsequential in the wake of these horrific moments.

The moment when you hear yourself beg for oblivion as a merciful, rational release from this endless suffering.

Where once you took freedom of movement for granted, now, in the bloom of youth, you are sedated, managed yet dysfunctional.

Unable to eat, sleep, walk, sit, stand or bathe without, searing, mindless agony.

One looses many things when in pain.

Fear, primarily.

One could lose the will to live in these moments.

Or.

One could live through it.

Come out the other side.

Invincible.

Art © Alexander Fedosov

Words / Small Fortunes / (Exert) A Treatise on Chronic Pain

By Yaroslav Lotsmanov #starwars #thedarkside #sith #darthmaul #maul #apprentice #fanmade #fanart #MoonsithIG https://www.instagram.com/p/BrI8_D2H4L-/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=2okdrpuqoqs8

"He found himself wondering if he'd been set up for this fall..... It wasn't supposed to end like this."

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​

Mark

My

Words