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Description
"What is it this time?" Grayson muttered to himself.  He was in his office, working, when one of his employees came in and informed him the Joke was here to see him.  The clown had been doing good work for him that last week, and his gang has made more headway in becoming the rulers of the city than they had in the previous few years.  Grayson was a businessman; he knew the worth of that.  But on the other hand, the clown was unpredictable.  Grayson would give him a job, and then have no idea how the job would be carried out.  And the Joke had surprised him more often than not that last week.  He knit his brows.  That kidnapping…that had come completely out of left field.  Grayson had told the Joke to get that senator under control.  He had been expecting a good old-fashioned threat, but no.  The Joke had decided to kidnap the senator's youngest son.  He could only imagine what the clown wanted now.

In he strolled, looking for all the world like he owned the place.  He wore the same basic suit as always, but his tie this time was an awful hot pink and orange thing in a pattern resembling flames.  Grayson just didn't know what to make of this guy.  Everyone he'd had in his employ he could figure out.  He knew what made them tick, what they valued, what pissed them off, what their pressure points were.  But this guy.  He was completely unreadable.  Smart, skilled, and undeniably psychotic, the Joke was everything Grayson never wanted to have working against him, and quite a few things he'd rather not deal with at all.  He didn't have much of a choice, though, and that was what really bothered him.  He waited patiently for the Joke to speak, wondering what he wanted.

"Nice view from here," the Joke finally stated.  "You can see straight to your mansion on the hill.  Doesn't look like anyone's home, though."

Grayson sighed, forced to ask the question.  "What can I do for you, Mr. Joke?"

"I been thinking.  I'm liking the crime, but I'm not so much liking the status," the Joke began.  Grayson already didn't like where this was going.

"And?"

"How's your job?  Is it fun?  Lots of great perks, like shiny mansions on hills?"  Now Grayson really wasn't happy, which he let show with a mighty scowl.  This same scowl had terrified men bigger and more experienced into submission.  The Joke was unimpressed.  "Ever thought of retiring?"  His smile turned sinister.  "A man like you, with family to think about, should really consider leaving this dangerous life of crime behind.  You have so much to lose."  At this point, Grayson shot to his feet, and the two bodyguards he had in the office with him stepped forward with their hands in their coats, ready for action.

"Are you threatening me?" Grayson asked with barely controlled anger.

"Goodness, no," the Joke laughed.  "Threats are for people who have no intention of backing them up.  I don't threaten.  Consider that more of an overture.  Here's the main act."  He pointed to himself.  "This town belongs to me now.  Tell your men they're mine."

Grayson managed a dry laugh.  "Oh, really?  And how do you plan to back that up?"

The Joke smiled, an eerie, evil smile that made the hair on the back of Grayson's neck stand up.  "I'm glad you asked."  He pulled a switch out of a coat pocket and pressed the button.  In the background, Grayson's mansion exploded in an impressive fireball.  Grayson stared, transfixed, at the burning remnants of his home, doing rapid mental checks on where everyone was.  The staff was probably done for, his daughter was at a friend's…  "Don't worry, I had everyone clear out," the Joke suddenly said.  Grayson spun back around, wondering for a split second why his men had permitted the Joke to live.  He didn't have to wonder long.  Both bodyguards were slumped against the wall with knives in their throats.  Grayson himself was now covered by a glock, pointed steadily at his chest by the clown.  "Ready to tell your men who's in charge now?"

"You won't get away with this," Grayson spat out through clenched teeth.

"Pff!  Now I know where your goons get all their cheezy mobster lines."

Grayson's men busted in.  "Boss!  What's—"

"Kill him!" Grayson shouted at them, but two of them were already down with gunshot wounds, and the Joke was out the door, laughing.  The chase was on.

--------------

The Joke recognizes that that could have gone better, but he's chuckling anyway.  My god, that explosion!  And Grayson's face!  Priceless!  This is going great, as far as he's concerned.  So maybe it'll take a little effort to get Grayson's men to accept their new boss, but that's alright.  At this point, they have to be scared.  Grayson himself was terrified, and he's the boss.  Yup, it's all down hill from here.  Except for the running for his life thing.  That was a little unforeseen.  Good thing he's come well armed.  He has a few handguns secreted around his person, plenty of extra ammo, his usual assortment of knives, and a grenade, just in case.  He's pleasantly surprised by his natural proficiency with firearms, and his good stamina is really coming in handy as he hauls ass down the stairs of Grayson's office building, swinging around the central column to go flying over the last several steps of every flight.  He eventually makes it to the ground floor and busts out into the evening.  Where to now?  He has hostile goons closing in from right and left as he keeps right on trucking across the parking lot.  Let's see.  He's on the edge of the city, in the heart of Grayson's territory, there has to be something around he can use.  Straight ahead.  A warehouse.  Trust Grayson to keep one close for the really sensitive stuff.  He heads for it, a gun in each hand, covering himself with steady fire on both sides.  He shoots the lock off the door (with a few tries) and breaks into the warehouse, immediately finding a room to use for a moment to reload.  Not wanting to get cornered there, as soon as he hears goons outside the door getting ready to look inside, he saves them the trouble by coming out, bullets flying.  He makes his way into the warehouse proper, a cavernous room filled with shipping crates that contain who-knows-what.  The perfect place for a firefight.  The Joke grins.  It's just like the movies.  He books over to the far end of the room and waits for the enemy forces to come in on his tail.  The only other entrance is an exterior door to the side of him, and he keeps one eye on it.

Time for some serious action movie stunts.  Just to amuse himself, he tries a fancy dive roll between crates.  It doesn't quite go as planned.  He feels a searing pain in his side, and when he stops behind a fresh crate he sees he's been grazed by a bullet.  This is almost enough to kill his good mood, and, for a moment, he realizes the danger he's in.  But then he notices something else abruptly.  He's no longer alone behind his crate.  Someone else has ducked in for cover without looking first to see if they were alone.  This someone must have come in through the side door while the Joke was distracted by being shot.  Indeed, this someone has been right behind the Joke throughout his entire career in crime so far.  He barely manages to contain his laughter.  The someone is Inspector Gates.

--------------

Gates wondered how, when he was supposed to be off duty, he had ended up in the middle of a gunfight.  He'd heard through his private police scanner that Big Boss Grayson's mansion on the edge of town had blown up, and that was all he needed.  He'd been out the door in minutes.  While in the squad car heading for the mansion, it had come in through the scanner in the car that gunshots had been heard at Grayson's near-by office/warehouse complex, and Gates had squealed around a corner to get there instead.  Now he found himself taking cover behind a crate in the warehouse, bullets flying everywhere.  What had possessed him to charge in here without waiting for back up?

His thoughts were interrupted by a laugh behind him.  "Hahaha, fancy meeting you here, Inspector."  Gates whipped around and came face to face with a well-dressed clown.  He wore a dark blue suit and jacket and a lime green vest, which may have worked if not for the awful hot pink and orange tie.  He also wore a black trench that was probably filled with god-knows-what weapons.  His black hair famed a face that perfectly matched the descriptions Gates had of the Joke.  He was, of course, smiling, close-lipped and quietly amused.  Gates swung his gun around to cover the clown while reaching for his handcuffs, which he suddenly discovered weren't there.

"…the hell?" Gates mumbled, and the clown lifted his left hand from the floor to hold up Gates' cuffs.

"Sorry for the pocket-picking," he apologized.  "But I really don't think being cuffed would help me in this situation.  So at last we meet.  Back to back on one end of a good old-fashioned shoot out."

"I'm not here to help you," Gates snapped.

"Then why are you here?" the Joke asked slyly.  "You're in plain clothes; you're not on the clock.  I've felt since the beginning we had something in common, Inspector.  I think we share a love of…Situations."  Gates could hear the capital S on that last word.

"The only thing I'd love is to arrest you," Gates informed him.

"Sorry.  Not today.  I'm in the middle of some sensitive business negotiations with these chuckleheads."  He gestured over his shoulder at the shooters with his right hand, which had been grasping his side, and Gates noticed something.

"You've been shot," he exclaimed.

"Oh.  Um…yup.  Tried something fancy without practicing it first.  Heh.  Live and learn, right?"

"You need medical attention.  If you—"

"I'm not turning myself in in exchange for a doctor.  It's just a graze, anyway.  Thanks for caring, though."

"Ch."  Gates took a moment to look more closely at his companion.  This might be his only chance to really get to know this freak.  Unfortunately, at the moment, even smiling grimly through the certain pain, Gates only saw an ordinary person.  He was pretty sure the clown was young, maybe even less than twenty, and probably good-looking under the makeup.  What had happened to make this young man so twisted?

"Please stop," the Joke said suddenly, looking Gates in the eye.  "I really don't feel comfortable with you undressing me with your eyes."  He grinned.  "In fact, I think it's about time to wrap this little soirée up.  I should get this cut attended to."  He abruptly went serious again.  "You're a great cop, Inspector.  I look forward to playing with you for a long time."  He stopped gripping his side and pulled a hand grenade out of the interior of his coat.

"Jesus!" Gates exclaimed, scooting back a little.  The Joke laughed and popped the pin.

"Later, Inspector!"  He chucked the grenade and ran.  The explosion tore through the other half of the warehouse, and chaos reigned for a few moments, during which the Joke disappeared.  A few moments after that, the rest of the police force arrived, and Gates was rescued from the firefight.  Jacobs found him a little later outside as all the gun-toting gangsters were rounded up.  She waved a hand in front of his face as she walked up, and Gates blinked.

"You okay, sir?" she asked.

"Huh?  Yeah, I'm fine."  This was a bit of a lie.  He was trying to process his encounter with the clown.

Jacobs nodded, unconvinced.  "You met him, didn't you?  The clown?"

Gates sighed.  "Yeah.  I did."  She didn't say anything more, understanding completely the source of his fogginess.  "Playing with me, huh?" Gates muttered, then laughed sharply.  "I am not looking forward to writing this report."

--------------

Stella Grayson was in a state on shock.  As if coming home and seeing her house burned to the ground wasn't bad enough, her dad and a bunch of his best men had been arrested in connection to some big hairy shootout at his nearby warehouse.  She knew who was responsible.  Both her and her dad had known from the start that doing business with that creepy clown was a bad idea.  And now it had come around and bit them in the ass.  She had never been so angry in her life, and if she had had the slightest idea how to find the clown she'd have tracked him down and done God-knows-what.  That was she wanted to do.  But her dad told her very clearly when she visited him that she had to go to school and put on a brave face, show everyone that nothing got the Graysons down.  As much as she hated this idea, there was one upside to it.  School was where her favorite whipping boy was.  She'd learned from her dad's business that the abused kick downward, and she had someone to kick.  Even better, one of her dad's not arrested employees was driving her to school that day, for protection.  Kasling wouldn't even know what hit him today.

--------------

Joe dreamed he was drowning in blood, then woke up covered in it.  For a moment, he couldn't decide if he was still dreaming or not.  Eventually, the outrageous pain in his side made it clear he was fully conscious.  "What the hell?" he gurgled.  His sheets were a mess, and his bed shirt completely ruined.  He very, very carefully got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom.  It looked like someone had used it as a makeshift operating room to stitch up a serious wound.  He took off his shirt and stared at the bandages around his torso, now soaked through with blood.  Apparently that was exactly what the bathroom had been used for.  "What happened to me?" he asked himself, but couldn't come up with an answer.  Gingerly he took off the bandages; it looked like he had been shot.  He started to think about how it had happened, but then mentally shook himself.  First thing's first.  With a lot of swearing he got into the shower and cleaned himself off.  Then he took what was left of the roll of bandages and, with a healthy amount of Neosporin, rewrapped the wound.  What should he do next?  School was definitely out; it was already afternoon.  Probably go to the hospital.

He actually drove all the way to the emergency room parking lot before stopping to think.  What was he going to tell them?  He had no idea how he'd gotten himself shot?  That was suspicious.  They'd likely call the police, and he really didn't want to deal with them.  So much for the hospital.  If he was going to take care of it himself he'd better get more medical supplies.  He drove to the nearest drug store and stocked up on bandages and disinfectant.  He barely noticed the look the cashier gave him.  As he climbed back into his car he finally started to think about how he had gotten hurt so bad.  He should remember something like that.  What about that bruise on his chest from last week?  In fact, he suddenly realized that entire Sunday evening was a blank.  What had he done that night?  Or the day before?  There were whole nights he abruptly couldn't account for, and he knew somehow he hadn't been sleeping.  Afternoons too.  "What's going on?"  He needed somewhere to stop and think.  He realized he had driven himself to school, even though it was long out for the day.  He pulled into the parking lot anyway and turned off the car.  Huge chunks of his life were just missing from his memory, and he'd never noticed before.  He needed air; he climbed out of his car and leaned against it with a sigh.  He felt so close to an answer, if he only pushed a little harder.

"Look who finally showed up," a familiar female voice said behind him.  "I was shocked perfect-student Joe Kasling missed school."

He turned with some under-the-breath swearing.  "Stella.  What the hell are you still doing here?"

"I can be wherever I want," she shot back with that air of superiority he hated so much.

Hell with it.  He was bleeding, confused, in pain, and apparently an amnesiac.  He wasn't in the mood to play nice.  A small tickle he couldn't explain went through his stomach at the thought of the gloves coming off with her.  "Not like your poor arrested daddy.  How's jail treating him so far?  Is he making friends with the other inmates?"  There was movement behind her in the growing twilight, and he noticed she had a very large and imposing man with her.  Probably one of her dad's goons.  Strangely, this didn't frighten him.  Even more strangely, he could feel himself begin to smile.  "Psh!  You need some seven foot linebacker just to deal with little ol' me?"

"Hey!" shouted the goon.  "You show some respect!"

"Sorry, I only respect people who respect me.  To you she may be the big boss' daughter, but to me she's just a bully, and I've been putting up with her for four years, and I'm done."

"What a coincidence," Stella cut in sweetly.  "But I've had enough of your stupid face too."  She motioned to the goon, who started advancing toward Joe, and Joe backed away, remembering his wounded torso.

"Hey, I get you're all upset at your dad's humiliating defeat, but really?  This is immature."

"What do you know about my dad?" Stella demanded.  Joe decided that was a good question.  What defeat did he think he knew about?

"Um…saw it on the news?" he tried.  The goon finally backed him against his car and, with a nod of encouragement from Stella, socked him in the gut.  Joe now thought he knew where those bruises last week had come from.  He dropped to one knee, wondering if it had been the same goon.  That would be funny.  He starts to laugh.

"What's so funny, Kasling?" Stella demanded.

"I-I don't know," Joe forced out between chuckles.  "I think I just got something.  Hang on a moment."

"No!" she shouted, kicking him herself in the side opposite the gunshot wound.  This still hurt immensely, but Joe only laughed harder.  Memories are flooding in.  He remembers seeing some really gaudy clothes in his closet and thinking about situations in which he could wear them.  He remembers looking at the posters of the Joker around his room and wondering what it would be like to wield that kind of power, and have that much fun doing it.  He remembers the first time he put on some of those crazy clothes and looked at himself in the mirror, thinking all he needed was some face paint.  And now, growing clearer and clearer, he remembers the first time with the face paint, and the subsequent effort to break into the world of crime, and his childish response to being told to go home.  He remembers a bunch of huge stuffed animals crashing to the floor and trapping mobsters beneath them.  He remembers tricking an arms dealer out of a bunch of weapons.  He remembers using those weapons.  As his laughter escalates, Joe Kasling and the Joke collide, and the months of lying to himself are over.  Time to wake up and start things for real.

"You know," he finally manages, forcing himself to his feet, "Little Boss, your dad would be proud.  You're really learning how to be a mobster.  Though, if you don't mind my saying, your command of the cheesy bad guy lines needs some work."  As if she could see the change in look in his eyes, Stella takes a step back.  "Oh?'  I'm not making you nervous, am I?  What happened to your earlier bravado?"

"Sh-shut up!  What are you just standing there for?" she shouts at the goon.  He snaps to attention and comes at Joe again.  But he's ready.  He grabs the goon's arm as it punches forward, steps around behind him, and trips the goon to the ground.  Then, using the trunk of the car as leverage, he snaps the goon's arm with a nasty crunch.  Unfortunately, this abrupt movement reopens the gash in his side, so he's forced to join the whimpering goon in some down time, leaning against the car.  "Oh my god," Stella whispers.

"Heheheh," the Joke chuckles.  "So is this going not quite as planned yet?  I have to admit, the whole experience has been a little surprising for me too."  She can only make inarticulate noises as she backs away.  "Run away, Stella Grayson," he advises her suddenly.  "Before I catch my breath and apply my newfound psychosis to all the years of unwarranted torture."  She turns to go.  "Oh!  But apologize first," he stops her.  "That way, now that I rule this city's underworld by merit of having defeated your dad, I won't be tempted to send guys like this sap to your penthouse for a little well-deserved vengeance."  She stares at him.  "That's right.  Fear me.  And apologize."

She makes sounds like she's choking on the force of his charisma.  "I'm…I'm sorry…"

"Awwww," the Joke explodes.  "That was the cutest thing I've ever seen you do!  Apology accepted.  Now you can run."  She wastes no time.  He looks down at the goon, who's been watching the whole exchange.  "How 'bout, you, Linebacker?  Ready to work for me now?"

"…you're the clown?" the goon confirms.

"Yes.  Yes I am.  I am The Clown."

The goon shrugs the best he can with a broken arm.  "I guess so."

The Joke smiles.  "Excellent!  You can go home then.  You'll be hearing from me soon.  I assume your contact info is in Grayson's office right?"

"You gonna take Grayson's office?"

"Sure.  After all, it's got a great view."  The goon shrugs again with a show of indifference, struggles to his feet, and shuffles off.  The Joke has to pause for a moment to take it all in.  He's awake finally, he has a new office, and he's just gotten his first employee.  Yes.  Tomorrow will be another fun day.

Description
"What is it this time?" Grayson muttered to himself.  He was in his office, working, when one of his employees came in and informed him the Joke was here to see him.  The clown had been doing good work for him that last week, and his gang has made more headway in becoming the rulers of the city than they had in the previous few years.  Grayson was a businessman; he knew the worth of that.  But on the other hand, the clown was unpredictable.  Grayson would give him a job, and then have no idea how the job would be carried out.  And the Joke had surprised him more often than not that last week.  He knit his brows.  That kidnapping…that had come completely out of left field.  Grayson had told the Joke to get that senator under control.  He had been expecting a good old-fashioned threat, but no.  The Joke had decided to kidnap the senator's youngest son.  He could only imagine what the clown wanted now.

In he strolled, looking for all the world like he owned the place.  He wore the same basic suit as always, but his tie this time was an awful hot pink and orange thing in a pattern resembling flames.  Grayson just didn't know what to make of this guy.  Everyone he'd had in his employ he could figure out.  He knew what made them tick, what they valued, what pissed them off, what their pressure points were.  But this guy.  He was completely unreadable.  Smart, skilled, and undeniably psychotic, the Joke was everything Grayson never wanted to have working against him, and quite a few things he'd rather not deal with at all.  He didn't have much of a choice, though, and that was what really bothered him.  He waited patiently for the Joke to speak, wondering what he wanted.

"Nice view from here," the Joke finally stated.  "You can see straight to your mansion on the hill.  Doesn't look like anyone's home, though."

Grayson sighed, forced to ask the question.  "What can I do for you, Mr. Joke?"

"I been thinking.  I'm liking the crime, but I'm not so much liking the status," the Joke began.  Grayson already didn't like where this was going.

"And?"

"How's your job?  Is it fun?  Lots of great perks, like shiny mansions on hills?"  Now Grayson really wasn't happy, which he let show with a mighty scowl.  This same scowl had terrified men bigger and more experienced into submission.  The Joke was unimpressed.  "Ever thought of retiring?"  His smile turned sinister.  "A man like you, with family to think about, should really consider leaving this dangerous life of crime behind.  You have so much to lose."  At this point, Grayson shot to his feet, and the two bodyguards he had in the office with him stepped forward with their hands in their coats, ready for action.

"Are you threatening me?" Grayson asked with barely controlled anger.

"Goodness, no," the Joke laughed.  "Threats are for people who have no intention of backing them up.  I don't threaten.  Consider that more of an overture.  Here's the main act."  He pointed to himself.  "This town belongs to me now.  Tell your men they're mine."

Grayson managed a dry laugh.  "Oh, really?  And how do you plan to back that up?"

The Joke smiled, an eerie, evil smile that made the hair on the back of Grayson's neck stand up.  "I'm glad you asked."  He pulled a switch out of a coat pocket and pressed the button.  In the background, Grayson's mansion exploded in an impressive fireball.  Grayson stared, transfixed, at the burning remnants of his home, doing rapid mental checks on where everyone was.  The staff was probably done for, his daughter was at a friend's…  "Don't worry, I had everyone clear out," the Joke suddenly said.  Grayson spun back around, wondering for a split second why his men had permitted the Joke to live.  He didn't have to wonder long.  Both bodyguards were slumped against the wall with knives in their throats.  Grayson himself was now covered by a glock, pointed steadily at his chest by the clown.  "Ready to tell your men who's in charge now?"

"You won't get away with this," Grayson spat out through clenched teeth.

"Pff!  Now I know where your goons get all their cheezy mobster lines."

Grayson's men busted in.  "Boss!  What's—"

"Kill him!" Grayson shouted at them, but two of them were already down with gunshot wounds, and the Joke was out the door, laughing.  The chase was on.

--------------

The Joke recognizes that that could have gone better, but he's chuckling anyway.  My god, that explosion!  And Grayson's face!  Priceless!  This is going great, as far as he's concerned.  So maybe it'll take a little effort to get Grayson's men to accept their new boss, but that's alright.  At this point, they have to be scared.  Grayson himself was terrified, and he's the boss.  Yup, it's all down hill from here.  Except for the running for his life thing.  That was a little unforeseen.  Good thing he's come well armed.  He has a few handguns secreted around his person, plenty of extra ammo, his usual assortment of knives, and a grenade, just in case.  He's pleasantly surprised by his natural proficiency with firearms, and his good stamina is really coming in handy as he hauls ass down the stairs of Grayson's office building, swinging around the central column to go flying over the last several steps of every flight.  He eventually makes it to the ground floor and busts out into the evening.  Where to now?  He has hostile goons closing in from right and left as he keeps right on trucking across the parking lot.  Let's see.  He's on the edge of the city, in the heart of Grayson's territory, there has to be something around he can use.  Straight ahead.  A warehouse.  Trust Grayson to keep one close for the really sensitive stuff.  He heads for it, a gun in each hand, covering himself with steady fire on both sides.  He shoots the lock off the door (with a few tries) and breaks into the warehouse, immediately finding a room to use for a moment to reload.  Not wanting to get cornered there, as soon as he hears goons outside the door getting ready to look inside, he saves them the trouble by coming out, bullets flying.  He makes his way into the warehouse proper, a cavernous room filled with shipping crates that contain who-knows-what.  The perfect place for a firefight.  The Joke grins.  It's just like the movies.  He books over to the far end of the room and waits for the enemy forces to come in on his tail.  The only other entrance is an exterior door to the side of him, and he keeps one eye on it.

Time for some serious action movie stunts.  Just to amuse himself, he tries a fancy dive roll between crates.  It doesn't quite go as planned.  He feels a searing pain in his side, and when he stops behind a fresh crate he sees he's been grazed by a bullet.  This is almost enough to kill his good mood, and, for a moment, he realizes the danger he's in.  But then he notices something else abruptly.  He's no longer alone behind his crate.  Someone else has ducked in for cover without looking first to see if they were alone.  This someone must have come in through the side door while the Joke was distracted by being shot.  Indeed, this someone has been right behind the Joke throughout his entire career in crime so far.  He barely manages to contain his laughter.  The someone is Inspector Gates.

--------------

Gates wondered how, when he was supposed to be off duty, he had ended up in the middle of a gunfight.  He'd heard through his private police scanner that Big Boss Grayson's mansion on the edge of town had blown up, and that was all he needed.  He'd been out the door in minutes.  While in the squad car heading for the mansion, it had come in through the scanner in the car that gunshots had been heard at Grayson's near-by office/warehouse complex, and Gates had squealed around a corner to get there instead.  Now he found himself taking cover behind a crate in the warehouse, bullets flying everywhere.  What had possessed him to charge in here without waiting for back up?

His thoughts were interrupted by a laugh behind him.  "Hahaha, fancy meeting you here, Inspector."  Gates whipped around and came face to face with a well-dressed clown.  He wore a dark blue suit and jacket and a lime green vest, which may have worked if not for the awful hot pink and orange tie.  He also wore a black trench that was probably filled with god-knows-what weapons.  His black hair famed a face that perfectly matched the descriptions Gates had of the Joke.  He was, of course, smiling, close-lipped and quietly amused.  Gates swung his gun around to cover the clown while reaching for his handcuffs, which he suddenly discovered weren't there.

"…the hell?" Gates mumbled, and the clown lifted his left hand from the floor to hold up Gates' cuffs.

"Sorry for the pocket-picking," he apologized.  "But I really don't think being cuffed would help me in this situation.  So at last we meet.  Back to back on one end of a good old-fashioned shoot out."

"I'm not here to help you," Gates snapped.

"Then why are you here?" the Joke asked slyly.  "You're in plain clothes; you're not on the clock.  I've felt since the beginning we had something in common, Inspector.  I think we share a love of…Situations."  Gates could hear the capital S on that last word.

"The only thing I'd love is to arrest you," Gates informed him.

"Sorry.  Not today.  I'm in the middle of some sensitive business negotiations with these chuckleheads."  He gestured over his shoulder at the shooters with his right hand, which had been grasping his side, and Gates noticed something.

"You've been shot," he exclaimed.

"Oh.  Um…yup.  Tried something fancy without practicing it first.  Heh.  Live and learn, right?"

"You need medical attention.  If you—"

"I'm not turning myself in in exchange for a doctor.  It's just a graze, anyway.  Thanks for caring, though."

"Ch."  Gates took a moment to look more closely at his companion.  This might be his only chance to really get to know this freak.  Unfortunately, at the moment, even smiling grimly through the certain pain, Gates only saw an ordinary person.  He was pretty sure the clown was young, maybe even less than twenty, and probably good-looking under the makeup.  What had happened to make this young man so twisted?

"Please stop," the Joke said suddenly, looking Gates in the eye.  "I really don't feel comfortable with you undressing me with your eyes."  He grinned.  "In fact, I think it's about time to wrap this little soirée up.  I should get this cut attended to."  He abruptly went serious again.  "You're a great cop, Inspector.  I look forward to playing with you for a long time."  He stopped gripping his side and pulled a hand grenade out of the interior of his coat.

"Jesus!" Gates exclaimed, scooting back a little.  The Joke laughed and popped the pin.

"Later, Inspector!"  He chucked the grenade and ran.  The explosion tore through the other half of the warehouse, and chaos reigned for a few moments, during which the Joke disappeared.  A few moments after that, the rest of the police force arrived, and Gates was rescued from the firefight.  Jacobs found him a little later outside as all the gun-toting gangsters were rounded up.  She waved a hand in front of his face as she walked up, and Gates blinked.

"You okay, sir?" she asked.

"Huh?  Yeah, I'm fine."  This was a bit of a lie.  He was trying to process his encounter with the clown.

Jacobs nodded, unconvinced.  "You met him, didn't you?  The clown?"

Gates sighed.  "Yeah.  I did."  She didn't say anything more, understanding completely the source of his fogginess.  "Playing with me, huh?" Gates muttered, then laughed sharply.  "I am not looking forward to writing this report."

--------------

Stella Grayson was in a state on shock.  As if coming home and seeing her house burned to the ground wasn't bad enough, her dad and a bunch of his best men had been arrested in connection to some big hairy shootout at his nearby warehouse.  She knew who was responsible.  Both her and her dad had known from the start that doing business with that creepy clown was a bad idea.  And now it had come around and bit them in the ass.  She had never been so angry in her life, and if she had had the slightest idea how to find the clown she'd have tracked him down and done God-knows-what.  That was she wanted to do.  But her dad told her very clearly when she visited him that she had to go to school and put on a brave face, show everyone that nothing got the Graysons down.  As much as she hated this idea, there was one upside to it.  School was where her favorite whipping boy was.  She'd learned from her dad's business that the abused kick downward, and she had someone to kick.  Even better, one of her dad's not arrested employees was driving her to school that day, for protection.  Kasling wouldn't even know what hit him today.

--------------

Joe dreamed he was drowning in blood, then woke up covered in it.  For a moment, he couldn't decide if he was still dreaming or not.  Eventually, the outrageous pain in his side made it clear he was fully conscious.  "What the hell?" he gurgled.  His sheets were a mess, and his bed shirt completely ruined.  He very, very carefully got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom.  It looked like someone had used it as a makeshift operating room to stitch up a serious wound.  He took off his shirt and stared at the bandages around his torso, now soaked through with blood.  Apparently that was exactly what the bathroom had been used for.  "What happened to me?" he asked himself, but couldn't come up with an answer.  Gingerly he took off the bandages; it looked like he had been shot.  He started to think about how it had happened, but then mentally shook himself.  First thing's first.  With a lot of swearing he got into the shower and cleaned himself off.  Then he took what was left of the roll of bandages and, with a healthy amount of Neosporin, rewrapped the wound.  What should he do next?  School was definitely out; it was already afternoon.  Probably go to the hospital.

He actually drove all the way to the emergency room parking lot before stopping to think.  What was he going to tell them?  He had no idea how he'd gotten himself shot?  That was suspicious.  They'd likely call the police, and he really didn't want to deal with them.  So much for the hospital.  If he was going to take care of it himself he'd better get more medical supplies.  He drove to the nearest drug store and stocked up on bandages and disinfectant.  He barely noticed the look the cashier gave him.  As he climbed back into his car he finally started to think about how he had gotten hurt so bad.  He should remember something like that.  What about that bruise on his chest from last week?  In fact, he suddenly realized that entire Sunday evening was a blank.  What had he done that night?  Or the day before?  There were whole nights he abruptly couldn't account for, and he knew somehow he hadn't been sleeping.  Afternoons too.  "What's going on?"  He needed somewhere to stop and think.  He realized he had driven himself to school, even though it was long out for the day.  He pulled into the parking lot anyway and turned off the car.  Huge chunks of his life were just missing from his memory, and he'd never noticed before.  He needed air; he climbed out of his car and leaned against it with a sigh.  He felt so close to an answer, if he only pushed a little harder.

"Look who finally showed up," a familiar female voice said behind him.  "I was shocked perfect-student Joe Kasling missed school."

He turned with some under-the-breath swearing.  "Stella.  What the hell are you still doing here?"

"I can be wherever I want," she shot back with that air of superiority he hated so much.

Hell with it.  He was bleeding, confused, in pain, and apparently an amnesiac.  He wasn't in the mood to play nice.  A small tickle he couldn't explain went through his stomach at the thought of the gloves coming off with her.  "Not like your poor arrested daddy.  How's jail treating him so far?  Is he making friends with the other inmates?"  There was movement behind her in the growing twilight, and he noticed she had a very large and imposing man with her.  Probably one of her dad's goons.  Strangely, this didn't frighten him.  Even more strangely, he could feel himself begin to smile.  "Psh!  You need some seven foot linebacker just to deal with little ol' me?"

"Hey!" shouted the goon.  "You show some respect!"

"Sorry, I only respect people who respect me.  To you she may be the big boss' daughter, but to me she's just a bully, and I've been putting up with her for four years, and I'm done."

"What a coincidence," Stella cut in sweetly.  "But I've had enough of your stupid face too."  She motioned to the goon, who started advancing toward Joe, and Joe backed away, remembering his wounded torso.

"Hey, I get you're all upset at your dad's humiliating defeat, but really?  This is immature."

"What do you know about my dad?" Stella demanded.  Joe decided that was a good question.  What defeat did he think he knew about?

"Um…saw it on the news?" he tried.  The goon finally backed him against his car and, with a nod of encouragement from Stella, socked him in the gut.  Joe now thought he knew where those bruises last week had come from.  He dropped to one knee, wondering if it had been the same goon.  That would be funny.  He starts to laugh.

"What's so funny, Kasling?" Stella demanded.

"I-I don't know," Joe forced out between chuckles.  "I think I just got something.  Hang on a moment."

"No!" she shouted, kicking him herself in the side opposite the gunshot wound.  This still hurt immensely, but Joe only laughed harder.  Memories are flooding in.  He remembers seeing some really gaudy clothes in his closet and thinking about situations in which he could wear them.  He remembers looking at the posters of the Joker around his room and wondering what it would be like to wield that kind of power, and have that much fun doing it.  He remembers the first time he put on some of those crazy clothes and looked at himself in the mirror, thinking all he needed was some face paint.  And now, growing clearer and clearer, he remembers the first time with the face paint, and the subsequent effort to break into the world of crime, and his childish response to being told to go home.  He remembers a bunch of huge stuffed animals crashing to the floor and trapping mobsters beneath them.  He remembers tricking an arms dealer out of a bunch of weapons.  He remembers using those weapons.  As his laughter escalates, Joe Kasling and the Joke collide, and the months of lying to himself are over.  Time to wake up and start things for real.

"You know," he finally manages, forcing himself to his feet, "Little Boss, your dad would be proud.  You're really learning how to be a mobster.  Though, if you don't mind my saying, your command of the cheesy bad guy lines needs some work."  As if she could see the change in look in his eyes, Stella takes a step back.  "Oh?'  I'm not making you nervous, am I?  What happened to your earlier bravado?"

"Sh-shut up!  What are you just standing there for?" she shouts at the goon.  He snaps to attention and comes at Joe again.  But he's ready.  He grabs the goon's arm as it punches forward, steps around behind him, and trips the goon to the ground.  Then, using the trunk of the car as leverage, he snaps the goon's arm with a nasty crunch.  Unfortunately, this abrupt movement reopens the gash in his side, so he's forced to join the whimpering goon in some down time, leaning against the car.  "Oh my god," Stella whispers.

"Heheheh," the Joke chuckles.  "So is this going not quite as planned yet?  I have to admit, the whole experience has been a little surprising for me too."  She can only make inarticulate noises as she backs away.  "Run away, Stella Grayson," he advises her suddenly.  "Before I catch my breath and apply my newfound psychosis to all the years of unwarranted torture."  She turns to go.  "Oh!  But apologize first," he stops her.  "That way, now that I rule this city's underworld by merit of having defeated your dad, I won't be tempted to send guys like this sap to your penthouse for a little well-deserved vengeance."  She stares at him.  "That's right.  Fear me.  And apologize."

She makes sounds like she's choking on the force of his charisma.  "I'm…I'm sorry…"

"Awwww," the Joke explodes.  "That was the cutest thing I've ever seen you do!  Apology accepted.  Now you can run."  She wastes no time.  He looks down at the goon, who's been watching the whole exchange.  "How 'bout, you, Linebacker?  Ready to work for me now?"

"…you're the clown?" the goon confirms.

"Yes.  Yes I am.  I am The Clown."

The goon shrugs the best he can with a broken arm.  "I guess so."

The Joke smiles.  "Excellent!  You can go home then.  You'll be hearing from me soon.  I assume your contact info is in Grayson's office right?"

"You gonna take Grayson's office?"

"Sure.  After all, it's got a great view."  The goon shrugs again with a show of indifference, struggles to his feet, and shuffles off.  The Joke has to pause for a moment to take it all in.  He's awake finally, he has a new office, and he's just gotten his first employee.  Yes.  Tomorrow will be another fun day.