18968/Prop Comedy

Prop Comedy
Date of Scene:	02 September 2024
Location:	Lower East Gotham
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	The Joker, Bruce Wayne

---

The Joker has posed:
Someone's trying to copy Joker Venom.

A few weeks ago, Joker found a dead body trapped in a rictus grin. The sign of the Joker! Like any comedian, Joker has absolutely no patience for his act being infringed on. HE'LL steal from anyone he wants, but Joker's gags are sacrosanct. Unless it's funny. Joker hasn't decided if it's funny yet.

So like any good Gothamite, when Joker runs into any given problem whatsoever he immediately decides to launch a vigilante investigation into the problem. He's on 3rd and Loeb, at one of the brave comedy clubs still running in Gotham: the reality is that Joker has been giving the clubs a break lately for fear of Gotham's comedy scene totally dying. What would he do if people went to Central City for a laugh? Disgraceful. But this is where his old friend Trout Gillano hangs his hat, so this is where Joker needs to go.

Red Card is half comedy club, half smokey jazz lounge, and half relic. Old men in thick suits like to go here and remember when they were the coolest people on earth. It pays well, and doesn't stiff the talent so it's considered a good place for the young and hungry in Gotham's art circuit regardless. The building has three floors: a main lounge, an attic-office second floor, and a basement where the drugs and talent are kept. They call it a green room but it's a lie.

Joker steps in, looking at a young woman doing a tight five minutes about her mother's hangups being a second generation Gothamite, and ignores the stares. He's wearing a cloak and a deerstalker cap, after all, which is a little ridiculous, but the woman on stage isn't half bad and brave enough to keep going when the room is consumed by the kind of animal silence that preludes something dying in the woods.

"Hello." Joker says, smiling pleasantly at the young man at the counter, ignoring his desperately pressing a silent alarm. He's got Johnny Frost in a fast car out the back if it comes to that. "I'm looking for someone." Joker says, holding his magnifing glass up in the clerk's face. "Fat mobster with a face like a fish. Not. Not literally. I keep forgetting what year it is. A metaphorical fish, we're not New York here. I want to talk to him about dangerous illegal chemicals."

Bruce Wayne has posed:
Bruce had read Tim's report on this faux Joker venom, but had been consumed with the matters of galaxy. Where he would have pushed all his attention on the Joker being active in Gotham before, the possibility of the world being devoured has diverted him away from this ignoble goal.

The longer the Clown has to operate, the worse things inevitably get, however.

The silent alarm at one of the few remaining Comedy Clubs is as obvious a beacon as the Bat-signal in the air and it's convenience alone that put Batman in proximity of this club. Convenience and the Batwing whistling through the air above Gotham, but it's still a convenience.

His landing is silent upon the roof, black cape folding around him as he bends his knees to absorb the weakened impact of his aerial descent. As he stands, he's already stalking towards the roof entrance that leads into a stairwell that'll land outside the office on the top floor. A black figure in the flickering dim lights of the old Gotham building with old Gotham wiring.

The Joker has posed:
One of the great benefits of being the Joker is not having to care about giant planet eating space farts. At least unless Luthor calls, obviously. Joker can handle space shit but almost entirely because he understands how inherently ridiculous every other space wizard is. Seriously folks there is a guy with a giant baby head who walks around in a toga called the Watcher who talks like Cicero, you can't make this shit up.

Batman, the Red Card is a pretty standard Gotham club designed to handle mob life in Gotham without being specifically ALIGNED to anyone. There are quick escape doors in the back and the top floor, a hidden fire escape, and an alley where an almost certainly stolen BMW is sitting. A man dressed like Miami Vice was a religion is grabbing a smoke and checking his phone, and there's a second man in the back who you can't quite make out. Tinted windows. Big fellow though.

Inside the room is undergoing a Rogue Protocol. Joker is hardly the only violent costumed maniac who'll just pop into anywhere like he owns the place. Batman. Men with guns move into position, quietly standing in front of obvious exits while the performer is quietly encouraged to keep pretending like nothing is wrong. Important people are putting their heads down and the young, those new to the Gotham scene are either getting scared or angry. They're not used to this, they don't know how to surf the mad waves of Gotham's night life.

If Joker's provoked by some young tough with a switchblade who knows how this ends. The man in question, Bruce, Trout Gillano, is hanging out back stage, sweating.

"I swear to God." Trout tells a few angry looking workers, "I have done nothing to set off the clown. You know how he is, he might just be mad about fish tonight."

Meanwhile, in the front, things are getting antsy. "Young man." Joker says, leaning in. "I don't think you heard me. This is Gotham City. Anyone has the God given right to call themselves a secret ninja detective crime buster and get cooperation from everyone else on the planet. I need to know." Joker leans even closer, towering over the young man. "Where my drugs are."

"Have you tried Two-Face's?" The front kid wheezes out, stumbling over his own stool.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
There is always a time for subtlety in matters of Gotham Vigilantism, but it rarely makes much of a difference with the Joker. He's not swayed by Batman's parlor deception tactics and he unafraid of the shadows. He's probably one of a very few people in Gotham, possibly the world, who Bruce dismisses the theatrics entirely. They're tools, just like everything on his utility belt, meant to bring about a response when implimented and virtually useless in this scenario.

So the Batman stalks with a methodical deliberateness down the interior stairs from the roof access. The cloth of his cape weighs down the front of his chest and though he walks heavily, his steps are without much sound, until he comes face to face with one of the goons tasked with ushering some of the talent away from the front stage area into the lower green room where they'll be 'safer'.

Bruce sees him long before they're standing nose to nose, but the theatrics still play very favorably against mobster goons. One moment he's peering over his shoulder at the clown and the next he's face to face with the bat. Cold blue eyes staring from behind the granite mask. "Move." Tony Brisco. Batman knows this button man. On any other night he'd already be kissing the brick and mortor wall at the business end of Batman's elbow.

He stumbles backwards, back into the foyer of the first floor, away from Batman.. but not out of his way. A massive hand lands upon the big brutes shoulder, bodily adjusting him out of the Dark Knights path as he steps out from the stairwell into the dingy dark hallway. The cowl tips forward, Bruce angling towards the back entrance of the stage.

The Joker has posed:
"Look man do you think they tell me a damn thing about the kind of chemicals YOU use?!" The door guy says, finally, sheer fear loosening his tongue.

Joker pauses. No. He goes quiet. Utterly quiet. Like an animal trying to pick up the minute vibrations another predator makes in the wild. A thousand years passes between clown and uniformed employee.

Joker reaches into his cape and pulls a roll of bills out of it, stuffing the whole thing into the tip jar. There's about a thousand in cash, there. "I appreciate you respecting my time, citizen."

Turning around at a nintey degree angle, the Clown Prince of Crime walks further into the building, listening to the sudden hush amid the bedlam of a panicking room of people. "Goin fishing!" Joker exclaims, walking towards the stage, "Trouuut fishin! Someone called the better business bureau, friend!"

Trout makes a run for it, deciding his good name and genuinely being blameless mean nothing. The fat man scrabbles for the secret exit, panting, eyes wide.

He walks directly into Batman's chest. "Oh god." Trout swallows, his jowls flopping like a dead fish. "Oh God both of you!"

Bruce Wayne has posed:
The collision hardly disturbs Batman, who brings a hand up to push the unfortunately named mobster an inch away from his chest. The cold blue of his eyes stare through him, then around him with a tilt of his cowled head at the sliver opening betwixt dingy red curtains where dozens of patrons are watching the Joker parade amongst them in a hunt for the man now a few inches from Bruce's pointed stare.

Without actually answering, Bruce moves Trout around him. He's a big enough fish that he 'will' come under intense scrutiny at some point, but minor league in comparison to the Clown who hunts him. "Lucky night. Tomorrow wont be. Enjoy it." Bruce shoves Trout towards the back entrance and steps out towards the break in the curtains.

The fins of his gauntleted arm pass through the folded cloth barrier and brush it aside, ducking the raised points of his cowl to step out onto the stage where he's suddenly bathed in the bright (ish) lights of the comedy club. The juxtaposition of Batman standing on stage with Joker skulking, relatively anyways, in the darkness that lulls over the audience is certainly not lost on the Dark Knight.

It's almost comical seeing Batman, in his deceptively armored dark gray on black costume under the intensity of stage lights. With his cowl turning to track the Joker with the slightest turn of his head. It's a dangerous play, stepping right out infront of him, with so many people still in the audience. A calculated play... but still a dangerous one.

The Joker has posed:
Trout does not need telling twice. He does cough out, "Listen, Batman, I have NO idea what he's on about. I don't even sell him anything dangerous! Just rubber! Industrial rubber!" Trout pauses, perhaps remembering the time Joker buried Babyface Laroux in a vulcanized rubber tomb to slowly suffocate and just runs for the exit. Maybe Batman won't hit him as hard tomorrow.

As for the crowd, well. Batman just stepped out on stage while Joker is flouncing through the floor, covered in a cape that could be hiding ANYTHING under there.

"I remember when he robbed the Diamond District with a rocket launcher he hid in a pair of trick pants." A moll says, hiding under an upturned table. "He might have a fuckin' helicopter under there! He's got a helicopter! With his face on it!"

"Tiktok gold." One of the kids says, trying to record the whole thing on his phone.

As for Joker, he looks up as Batman literally walks out on stage, lights framing the two of them as if God demanded this clash between good and evil in a third rate comedy club that mostly sells Aderall to college students. Joker just takes it all in, ignoring the people running the hell away from him. "So." Joker starts, chewing his lip.

He smiles like the end of the world. "Are you going to sing a little song, or is that just for Wonder Woman?"

Bruce Wayne has posed:
The phone turns towards Batman and suddenly the screen goes black when Bruce pushes a small device in his thumb that sends out a micro-EMP pulse powerful enough to fry the computers in a typical handheld device without causing much more than flickering lights in the electrical grid. Targetted. While he's no longer the myth he use to be, there is exactly zero chance he'll be showing up on Tiktok.

Not with Joker standing in the audience.

There's no telling how this is going to go. If the Clown decides to gas the whole joint just so 'someone' is laughing at a joke tonight... or if they'll have a beer. The latter is unlikely, but Bruce long ago gave up trying to predict what the Joker's intent actually is.

Some people have madness.

    Sometimes there's method to it.

        The Joker is just chaos.

Batman steps towards the edge of the stage until he's literally staring down at the Joker in what remains of the crowd. "I don't have time for two of you." Playing at Joker's ego by suggesting this copy cat is on par with the Clown Prince of Crime is almost as dangerous as turning your back on a hungry lion.

The Joker has posed:
"My e-cred!" The phone guy wails, before being dragged back under the table by his date. "My e-cred."

"Sometimes." Joker says, "I feel like this town is ridiculous enough without me." Joker pulls a cigarette out of his cloak, lighting it. "I know, I know, he smoked a pipe. GOD you're pedantic. Tell me how many Halloweens did you go to as this heroin-addicted autist? Captain Smallet? Ivanho?"

Joker snaps a finger. "Scarlet Pimpernel. You'd absolutely dream about saving French aristocrats from the consequences of their actions."

When Joker lights his cigarette, Johnny Frost gets a signal. The wheelman jumps into the BMW, revving the car up. "We're waiting." Frost tells the man in the back.

"He's going to get pinched again." Boffo the Berserker says, sighing. "How'm I gonna get Christmas gifts working for Riddler money?"

Inside, again,
Joker puffs the harmless looking cigarette, half expecting a batarang. And then Batman surprises him. Always goddamn surprises him. That's what's so infuriating about the Dark Knight, the pretension to sanity, to order. Like HE isn't the maniac in the room. "You know, I know you're playing me. You're hoping I'll lose my temper and give you a little clue because my ego's the only button you've figured out how to push."

"But it worked." Joker's other hand flashes with terrible speed: three playing cards, razor edged and backed with a thin steel polymer that makes them solid enough to smash through flesh and bone if they connect, go flying at Batman's position as Joker runs for cover.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
It always works, but Batman is convinced that Joker just plays along to keep up pretenses himself. The cards fly in his direction, but with a graceful furiosity of motion, Batman is no longer in their path. Hurling a pair of high powered magnets out from his left hand to pull the steel polymer when they should have connected to his chest. Not completely towards the balls rolling across the floor, but just enough off the intended course that all he needs do is duck his shoulder down in the bare hint of a flench. Razor sharp playing cards cut through the curtain behind him and Batman takes a step down off the stage into what remains of the crowd.

A black clad hand grabs the edge of a turned over table and hurls it out of his way, stalking towards Joker with such determined purpose. The only person on Earth to whom the Dark Knight would betray the careful crusade. Turn his attention blindly towards stopping the lunatic before someone in this room gets hurt.

No jokes.

    No quips.

Just the sound of shattering glasses as another table is shoved out of his path. Moving like a predator through the gloom of darkened house lights, cutting off angles, herding the Clown away from the pedestrians who didn't have the good sense to take advantage of Batman's distraction to depart the comedy club. Poking at the Joker's ego isn't Batman's only ace... it's not even the most effective.

Not playing along, has always been far more productive.

A dozen times Bruce could have hurled a batarang. Closed the distances and started throwing punches. The danger to everyone around them grows exponentially, however, and he's always careful to put himself between the dangerous psychopath and potential victims meant to get a rise out of him.

The Joker has posed:
Joker just smiles as Batman dodges the attack, giggling to himself as he pulls back towards the window. He can't be pinched tonight, he has a copycat to murder.

The good news is the vast majority of the civilians have bailed. Joker's reputation precedes itself, and a Joker Batman fight is never not messy. Even the phone guy was dragged out by his date, and the club is nearly empty. The bad news is that Joker's trying not to laugh.

"Oh my God you're herding me like a collie." Joker says, and can't keep a chortle out. "A hoo HOO. Hoo. Oh excuse me. The ringwraith thing never gets old." Joker is cornered, up against the wall. "God wouldn't this be funny? If this is how it happens? Neither of us even wants to fight, we want the copycat, but we can't help ourselves, can we? You're just standing there. So punchable."

Joker takes a puff of his cigarette, filling his lungs with smoke and gas, while he hurls his Sherlock Holmes cloak at Batman, hoping to get the weighted fabric around the Dark Knight, or at least lure him close enough to breathe in his face.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
They've done this dance so many times it could be choreagraphed.

Batman has played out the tricks in his mind and isn't stupid enough to think Joker is stupid enough not to see it. There's no delight from the Dark Knight in the game, only acceptance that it's always being played. Rather than acknowledge the question of whether they can help themselves, Bruce just grunts and shoves another table out of his way to clear his path to the Clown Prince. Palm swiping a glass from the table before the others shatter on the dirty hard wood floor.

The muscles in his jaw tense.

Whatever trick is going to come, he'll have to capitalize on it. Neither of them walk away without a scar. The art of fighting Joker is trying the art of wrestling long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs. Every single movement has to count.

Sudden and sharp.

Batman comes at Joker and ducks beneath the cape flailing out at him, putting him well within range of whatever is about to be spewed in his face, but also well within range of swinging his armored fist around the top of the cape with the glass clutched in his grip.

The definition of immovable object vs unstoppable force.