Agent of Chaos: A Joker Story

          Click. Click. Click. Click.
          The rhythmic pattern of my wedged high heels was the first thing to enter my ears, but it was the last thing on my mind. This job, everyone had warned me not to take it. Warned me not to even consider. And when I told them I had, they said their goodbyes as if they wouldn’t see me again. It was just a job. I’m a shrink. That’s what I do. I deal with those who are mentally tormented, abused, and even deranged. But that’s all they are. Crazies, loons, people whose mind wheels don’t click the way they should. But most of them are harmless. So when I got the call from Commissioner Gordon, I figured, hey, what’s the worst it could be? But my out of control imagination is starting to run hog wild on me as the filth of Arkham howl at me from behind their reinforced Plexiglas cells.
          “Good luck,” they shout. “How many body bags you think she’ll come out in? I’m bettin’ at least three.” The mindless chatter and maniacal laughter sprays at me from every direction, like slaphappy children given a high-powered hose and a decently sized target. But I’m used to this. I spend every day listening to this. What I’m not used to is the whispers from the high-enders. The owner of this place, the medical personnel, even one small utterance from the Commissioner himself. “How’d you get her to take the job?” they say. “It’s a good thing she’s from out of town.” I could go on and on.
          Who is this guy anyway? How dangerous could he possibly be? And if he really is so dangerous, why wasn’t anyone stopping me? Questions, questions, questions. I’m a solver. I solve people’s problems. And when I can’t solve them, I prescribe something that can.
          “Hey sweetheart, what d’you say you slip on in here and make a lonely man happy. Trust me, at least you’ll live,” howled one of the inmates, pressing himself against his glass door and licking it.
          I rolled my eyes, and didn’t even turn to look at him. Never give them satisfaction. First rule of my line of work.
          “Hello. I suppose you’re Dr. Quinselle?” an enormous guard stated monotonously.
          I had been so entranced in trying to make it down the long, dark and dreary stone hallway that I hadn’t realized I’d reached the end.
          “Yes. Yes sir, I am,” I said, pushing my long blonde hair over my shoulder, and holding a hand out to shake his. He merely grunted in response, and turned to a second guard, who nodded.
          “Clear to open solitary confinement cell 3?” the large man yelled past me, causing me to jump, and my clipboard of papers to rattle to the ground.
          He raised an eyebrow at me, as if to say “They really hired you?”
          “Clear!” came a yell from the other end of the hall, the one I’d entered through.
          I looked to see what he meant, and saw that they had closed and latched the door on that end, and two more large men were now blocking it with their massive figures. Well, it thought as I gathered up my clipboard. At least the place is secure.
          The two men before me turned and heaved a giant iron bolt from across the door and heaved it open. From the looks of it, it was at least three inches thick. Like I said… secure. But instead of walking into what I thought would be my new patient’s cell, I was ushered into a smaller room, whose purpose I was unsure of. I turned questioningly toward the two men, who I now realized hadn’t followed me into the room. One of them handed me an identification card.
          “You’ll need this to get in,” his booming voice said, and he pointed to a card reader to the right of the door ahead of me.
          “Aren’t you,” I began to ask, pointing toward the door.
          “With all do respect ma’am, I don’t have a death wish,” he said, and began fumbling around in his leather-patented pockets. “And give this entire dose to him before you start your... uh, work.” He was handing me a syringe filled with some kind of tawny-tinted liquid.
          “What…” I began to ask as I took it from him and looked at it. Two milligrams. That’s a lot of whatever this is.
          “Sedation. I kinda like you. I want you to live,” he said, and heaved the door closed in my face, leaving me alone in the tiny, probably three foot by three foot room.
          “Alrighty then,” I replied to no one in particular, and turned toward the door. I hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and slipped the key card through the reader, and a hydraulic hiss gave way to a somewhat dark room, with a single figure in the center. I held my head high and entered.
          Directly to my right was a light switch, which I confidently flicked upward. I turned to examine my patient and let my eyes adjust to the brighter light.
          The man was in a full body straight jacket, which was reinforced with steel chains. These steel chains led from about six points on his body to the surrounding walls, where they were welded to steel plates which were protruding from the white padding that covered every inch of wall surface. It was clear by his limp legs that those chains were the only things holding him in place. The man’s head was bowed, his hair was unkempt and falling into his face. His breathing was irregular; it sounded more like wheezing to me.
          “Hello. My name is Harley Quinselle, and by court order of Gotham PD, I am your new shrink.
          He slowly started to look up, his green-tinted hair beginning to fall away from his face, and something new crawled through my body. As the light reached his face, I could see pale white skin, paler than the moon. No, no, now that I look, it’s white face paint. And he had black paint untidily smeared around his almond shaped auburn eyes. He had blood red paint smeared across his lips in a smile that portrayed everything but happiness. The paint that led up his cheeks covered what looked like terrible scars, but I’d have to get closer to tell. As I studied him, his lips began to spread into a true grin, and knives of ice stabbed at my spine.
          Animals have primal instincts, inborn fears that tell them what to run away from, what to fear. If I was any animal, I’d be long gone by now.
          As I tried to convey that I was a confident businesswoman, he did something that made my insides turn and lurch, and my mind scream for sanctuary from the fear; he licked his lips and started to giggle. It was pure lunacy, a malice that sent my stomach acid scrambling for my esophagus. And as I stared back at him, it escalated in a crescendo to a purely psychotic and mind-shattering laughter.
          Rule number two; never let them know you’re scared.