Fic: Chance in Hell, Part 4
Title: Chance in Hell, Part 4
Author: ehmaz
Rating: R
Characters: Patrick/Joker
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me.
Warnings: [ violence, bloodplay, angst, hurt/comfort ]
Summary: A turbulent night after the events at the Maroni house.
Notes: ~3900 words. Unbeta'ed as usual.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
“Your place or mine?” the Joker had asked him. When Patrick hadn't seemed capable of answering, the Joker took off down winding streets and alleyways at top speed, to some destination unknown. Patrick was quiet during the ride, thoughtful, introspective even. The Joker was singing at the top of his lungs to some song Pat had never heard before, and while at first he'd been tuning it out in favor of recalling the events they had just shared at the Maroni house, he couldn't just ignore the caterwauling going on next to him.
The song was, evidently, about a disturbed boy whose increasingly odd behavior was always written off as the child just being an “Excitable Boy” which Patrick guessed was also the name of the song. When the Joker sang the next verse, about the boy raping and killing his prom date, he looked over and winked a devilish green eye at Patrick.
Pat couldn't help it, he chuckled. The Joker grinned and began singing along with renewed vigor, practically bouncing in the squeaky driver's seat, as he barreled down a cramped alley and finally pulled to a stop. Patrick pulled off the itchy baseball cap and looked around at the neighborhood they were in. It looked like one of those sections of town that had once been middle-class but its proximity to the Narrows slowly ate away all the joy and normalcy from it. It was now just a step above the slums and Pat made a face.
“Stop your mopin', rich boy. Come along.” The Joker hopped out of the beat-up old truck and didn't bother locking it. He stopped next to a rusty fire escape ladder that trailed its way up what looked to be a ten-or-so story building. The Joker jumped up and grabbed the bottom rung of the ladder and hauled himself up, leaving Patrick gaping at him, still sitting in the truck. Not wanting to be left behind, Pat struggled with the door for a second before he managed to get out as well.
He tossed the baseball cap aside and jumped up, catching the rung on the second attempt, and he climbed up after the Joker. The other man didn't have nearly the muscle definition Patrick did, but he was up and through a fourth-story window before Pat had even started on the second. The Joker had at least left the window open for him, and as the serial killer mounted the sill and ungracefully wiggled inside, he grumbled out, “Does this place not have a front door?”
The Joker laughed at him, then gave an incredulous stare. “Well I don't exactly have the keys and I wouldn't want to leave the front door unlocked... someone unscrupulous might get in!”
Pat made an aggravated huff and dusted himself off, then shook his head wondering why he bothered, being as he was still in the horrible, ill-fitting jeans and t-shirt the Joker had dressed him in that morning.
“Food, food, food... let's see what we got, huh?” said the Joker as he made long strides into an adjacent room. He came back out a second later “Oops, that was the T.V. room. Ah, here we go!”
Patrick's suspicions were confirmed that this was not the Joker's home at all. Feeling a bit peckish himself, especially after all the exertion of earlier in the Maroni house, Pat followed the Joker into a tidy, quaint kitchen. It was unexceptional and looked regularly used. The Joker was poking around in the refrigerator and Pat opened a few cupboards, finding fare such as canned soups and boxes of Hamburger Helper. Pat wrinkled his nose.
“You cook, Patsy?”
“No,” he answered. He had never cooked himself a real meal before and wouldn't pretend to know the first thing about it.
“Well, now you getta learn, here ya go.”
Patrick looked up right as the Joker tossed him a pound of raw hamburger wrapped in plastic wrap. Pat made a disgusted noise and promptly threw the thing on the counter. “I'm not your fucking maid, Joker!”
The Joker tilted his head and considered Patrick for a moment. “No, but you're my cook.” He flashed a grin and sauntered past a bewildered Pat before he suddenly half turned, and Pat found himself staring down the barrel of a large pistol he hadn't even even seen the clown draw. “And the last person that took that tone of voice with me got real well acquainted with this baby. Mind yourself, Patsy, eh?”
With a laugh, the Joker winked and gave the gun a twirl before plopping it into a pocket of his coveralls. He walked out of the kitchen and after a few moments, Pat heard the sound of the television being turned on.
The banker look at the package of hamburger and gave an exasperated, silent scream before he started rummaging around in the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, listening to the Joker laugh almost constantly at whatever T.V. program he was watching, Pat had some rather lame looking hamburgers prepared. He'd found buns in a cupboard and the usual fixings. He just hoped that the Joker didn't mind rare meat because he'd lost patience waiting for them to cook any further.
With a plate in each hand, a hamburger on each, Pat went to the T.V. room. The Joker had unzipped his coveralls and taken his arms out of the sleeves, but left it bunched around his waist and hadn't taken off the pant legs. His blue hexagon-patterned shirt looked white from the glare off the television, and he was slouched so low in the La-Z-Boy recliner his butt was barely on the cushion.
“Here, bon appetit,” said Pat sarcastically and handed the plate over as he sat on the well-used sofa next to the Joker's chair.
The harlequin took a big bite of the hamburger, not even acknowledging Patrick. He promptly spit the bite back out onto his plate and looked from it to Patrick. “Mustard?”
Patrick had been just about to bite into his own meal but he paused and snapped his mouth shut.
“I hate mustard,” said the Joker, before he threw his plate right at the man who had just cooked it for him. The plate Patrick in the shoulder, making him grunt, and the burger itself splattered on his shirt and slid down onto his lap, making Pat drop his own plate out of surprise.
He looked down at himself then glared at the Joker, but was only given a moment to before he suddenly found himself on his knees in front of his chair. The Joker had stood and grabbed his neck painfully tight and forced him to his knees on the carpet. The burgers and their condiments were on the floor.
Just as suddenly, Patrick felt the hand on his neck push even harder and Pat was forced to the floor, right down to the (now dirty) food. Patrick got his hands underneath him and tried to push up.”Sto--”
The Joker just pushed harder, kicking Patrick in the ass at the same time, and the confused serial killer clenched his eyes closed as his face was forced on to the hot food. He felt the hamburger meat squash against his face and ketchup and mustard stick to his chin and nose. He made a groan of protest and tried to push up as hard as he could, but the Joker just pushed harder, grinding Patrick's face hard into the food and the floor.
When the commercial break was over, the murderous anarchist finally let up and he returned to his chair. “Make me another one,” he growled.
Patrick slowly got to his knees and just stared at the Joker for a minute, but the unpredictable man was already chuckling at his television program. Pat looked over for the first time to see what it was. It looked like a show about wild animals that had been caught on video attacking people. It sounded like something that The Patty Winters show would showcase as a topic. Pat got to his feet and used his hands to pick up as much of the food as he could and scooped it onto the plates which he took to the kitchen.
No longer hungry himself, Patrick made only one hamburger and he took it into the Joker. Again, the curly-haired clown didn't even acknowledge him. Pat waited a few minutes to make sure the Joker wasn't going to protest this try, and then he went in search of a washroom. On his way through the house, he came upon a room that looked like Patrick himself could have visited. There were limbs and organs smeared all over the bed amongst the blood soaked sheets. It all looked dried and stale, like it had been there a few days. There were about a dozen air fresheners of various kinds throughout the room which explained the lack of stench.
Patrick could smell it as he walked to the bed though. He looked down on what appeared to be the remains of an elderly couple. There was a spot down the middle of the bed, amongst the body parts, that looked as if it had been disturbed after the murders. Pat could almost imagine the Joker settling in there, looking pleased with himself.
The adjoining bathroom looked like something a Grandma would put together. Patrick used the facilities to relieve his bladder and then he carefully washed his face of all traces of the spurned food. He also used the old man's comb on his hair, and the old woman's facial moisturizer on his forehead, cheeks and nose. When he finally turned off the tap, he noticed the house was quiet. A sense of unease settled over him as he left the washroom and master bedroom. The T.V. had been turned off and the apartment was empty. Outside, Pat could hear the rickety old truck start up and drive away. Patrick went over to the window but he'd been too slow to watch it. He stood there for a long time, wondering if it was going to come back or not.
It didn't. He watched the small T.V. until he fell asleep in the chair that had still been slightly warm.
~ ~ ~
Something wet and slimy in his ear woke him up, and Patrick startled away from it. A hazy blur of white and black came in and out of his vision and he heard low-toned chuckles. Pat brought his hands up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinking a few times.
The Harlequin of Hate stood crouched next to the chair Patrick had fallen asleep in, his heavily painted face swimming before Patrick's vision before it cleared up. The Joker was grinning, chuckling at Patrick, before he leaned in and stuck his tongue in Pat's ear again.
“Eunngh!” Patrick let out the disgusted noise and pulled away. He winced as a pain in his back voiced its protest at moving after having been in the same position in the chair for so long. Pat wondered what time it was. He also noticed that the Joker had ditched the coveralls and was wearing his usual blue shirt, green vest, purple pants and everything except the thick trench coat. He also was in full make-up, which looked like it had been on for a few hours.
“Is that any way to greet your lover... lover?” teased the Joker, looking at Patrick askance with an almost playful expression, his lips smacking together as he waited for a response.
“Is that what we are?” Pat asked testily.
The Joker froze and just stared at him for a second before Pat heard the sound of something being hit hard and pain blossoming in his head. He blinked his eyes open to find himself slumped over the arm rest of the chair and the Joker was gone. He could only assume that he'd been hit so hard he'd blacked out.
Patrick tried to stand but his legs, he found, had been tied together with rope like a ballerina shoe ribbon, criss-crossed up to the knee. His head was also pounding and he had a hard time even focusing on the room.
“Joker?” he called out, and movement from the corner of the living room caught his eye.
The Joker stepped out of the shadows and eyed Patrick curiously. “So, Pat... we seem to have... a misunderstanding between us. You seem to have developed, je nai say what, an attitude over the past day. Care to explain?”
“What are you talking about?” Patrick asked. For some reason, the Joker hadn't tied his arms up at all, so he bend over to start undoing the rope.
“Nuh-uh, Pat. No touchy. This is what the couple councilors call a game of trust. We gotta learn to trust each other if we're ever gonna move on from this upset. Don't you agree? Now then, explain to me...” The Joker took a few steps closer to Patrick and lightly slapped him across the face, the purple leather glove making a loud smacking noise against his skin. “... why you're being a prissy little bitch, huh?”
“My head's all fuzzy,” Patrick said in defense of himself, and he brought his hands up to cradle his face. It was true. He didn't know what the hell the Joker had hit him with, but his brains felt rattled around and he got the impression it had been a good few minutes he'd been unconscious.
“Lemme help then, Pat. It takes two to tango as they say and I will point out I'm doing my part to make this all work out. I come home from a hard day's work... I want to get a little,” here the Joker cleared his throat and gesticulated wildly with his hands, “you know, iinnntimate, and you act like you don't owe me nothin'. I don't ah-ppreciate not being ah-ppreciated - get it?”
Pat was a little dumbstruck. He blinked at the Joker and narrowed his eye in confusion. “Well, I just... I just... I dunno...”
“'I just, I just!'” the Joker mocked, his red-painted mouth turning to an ugly, mean sneer. “Come on, spit it out, Pat! You don't love me anymore? Is that it?"
The serial killer really didn't know what to say to that and he sat there gaping like a fish for a few seconds. The Joker started laughing, but then the next second he was across the room and growling right in Patrick's face.
"You're the one who sent me that little, ah, calling-card, as you'll recall. You think I couldn't hang out with just any ol' body I wanted to? Huh? You think I need to stick around your sorry little ass? Well I don't. So what's it going to be, Patrick?"
"I'm sorry," Patrick whispered. His heart felt like it was burning up it was pounding so hard, and freezing as his chest clenched so tight at the same time. The thought that the Joker would leave and never come back was too much. Pat needed him. The insatiable urges for killing were no longer satisfied simply by his hands alone. If the Joker left him...
"Tell me how sorry you are," the Joker commanded as he took a step back and kept his eyes trained on Patrick.
Never had Patrick been in this kind of situation before. Usually he was the one that had some ugly hangers-on trying to get his attention, some dumpy broad that was madly in love with him that wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Pat licked his lips nervously and searched for something to say, something truthful but that wouldn't make him look so desperate. That's precisely how he felt, desperate.
"I'm very sorry, I didn't know I was making you so mad, I didn't know what you wanted. Please, don't leave me." Pat started to lower his gaze to his lap when a finger in purple leather gloves tilted his chin back up.
The Joker was grinning, and Pat gripped the armrests of the chair hard.
"Tell you want, my boy. I'm in a generous mood, and I'm not really such a monster after all, am I?" The Joker waited for a moment and narrowed his eyes. "Am I?" he asked again.
Patrick quickly murmured an agreement.
"Good. Stand up," the Joker commanded.
Pat managed to get to a standing position despite his legs being tied tightly together. The Joker moved behind him and took the seat the investment banker had just been occupying. Pat looked over his shoulder and watched as the murderous clown undid his pants and shoved them down enough to expose himself completely. "Push your jeans down."
Again, Patrick quickly complied. The room was cold and the stench from the bedroom was becoming too much for the air freshners to handle. Pat couldn't really say he was too terribly in the mood, especially since his ass still hurt from the last time -- he supposed technically that was yesterday by this point. He still didn't know what time it was, though he guessed three or four in the morning.
The Joker pulled him down, unbalancing him, so Patrick landed hard on his lap. The Joker was surprisingly warm and Patrick immediately relaxed. It felt good, in some weird way, to sit on the other man's lap.
"Like I said, this is a game of trust. Do you trust me, Pat?" the Joker asked, settling Patrick on his lap so the dark-haired man's ass cheeks were firmly framing his slowly hardening length.
"Yes," Patrick whispered. It was true, he didn't know why he trusted the Joker, but he did. Maybe, he thought, because he had little other choice. He was as addicted to the Joker as he was to the feel of a bleeding girl in his hands.
"Good, good boy," the Joker whispered, his voice barely more than a growl as he pulled a switchblade from his sleeve and moved it between Patrick's thighs.
Patrick tried not to flinch but he couldn't help it. The blade was cold, and it was moving higher up between his legs, right in his groin, and Patrick made an instinctive gasp. His hands hand been resting on either side of the man below him, and he clenched his hands in the blue shirt as his body tensed.
"Shh, shhh," the Joker comforted as he looked around Pat's shoulder so he could see better what he was doing. The blade moved higher yet and the tip disappeared under the curve of Patrick's tight scrotal sac. Pat was trembling now on the Joker's lap, and the man behind him was chuckling with a deep, amused timbre. "Thatta boy."
The cut to Patrick's perineum was small but so intense he cried out, clenching his eyes shut and dropping his head back on the Joker's broad shoulder. The Joker hissed as if he'd been the one cut, and he quickly tossed the knife onto the floor. He reached down between Patrick's legs with his gloved hand and smoothed the blood around. "Go ahead and untie your legs now, Pat."
"Okay," he practically whimpered. The pain was excruciating, especially when the Joker moved his finger over the fresh wound. With shaking hands he unlaced the ropes from his legs. No sooner had this been done than the Joker used his free hand to pull Patrick back against him and then used his legs to spread Patrick's legs. The finger that had been working the wound, placed in such a sensitive place, dipped lower and began preparing Pat's entrance using the blood as a lubricant.
Patrick was still trembling. He didn't want to be the bottom again. He didn't want to feel ripped apart and taken, used, especially with his own blood and with his groin burning with pain. He squirmed and the Joker just held him tighter. Pat knew he would never speak up though. The threat of the Joker leaving him was too painful, more painful than anything the man could do to him physically. He kept telling himself that even as the Joker breached him with little more than a perfunctory fingering beforehand.
Behind him, the Joker was grunting and huffing, obviously enjoying the usage of Pat's body. Patrick himself was in too much pain to be much aroused. He didn't really like the feeling of being filled up like this, and it hurt. He told himself it would be over soon and just kept a tight grip on the Joker's shirt beneath him. When one of the Joker's gloved hands came around to grip his limp prick, Patrick clenched his eyes shut. Sure enough, the Joker had to comment.
"What's wrong, lover boy? Not enjoying yourself anymore?"
"Hurts," was all he said.
"Mmm, poor baby..."
Pat thought maybe the Joker would jerk him off or something at that point, but all he did was hold Patrick's uninterested cock while he finished up. Pat sighed with relief at the same time the Joker sighed with completion.
The Joker did up his pants before helping Patrick pull up his jeans and doing them up as well. Patrick stood there awkwardly as the Joker kicked off his shoes, peeled off his vest and tossed his gloves aside. The clown pushed the coffee table aside and tossed the couch cushions aside, which revealed it to be a hide-away bed. Pat just stood there hugging himself while the Joker made up the sofabed and tossed a blanket from the back of the chair onto it. He sprawled himself out on it looking entirely comfortable and content, looking up at Patrick.
"Come to bed," he ordered, and Patrick complied. The businessman noticed the sofabed had sheets on it and he wondered if the Joker had been sleeping there or if the former owners always kept it made up for company.
He laid down stiffly next to his... whatever the Joker was. 'Lover' was the word the other man had used. Pat figured that worked as well as anything. Patrick didn't even know what that meant. He was sore all over, and tired, and hungry, and felt like shit.
Almost as if reading his mind, the Joker pulled Patrick close to him and whispered, "Aww... what's the matter, Patsy? Don't you love me anymore? Are you mad?"
"I'm tired," he answered truthfully in a small voice.
The Joker watched him for a minute before moving their bodies so they were on their sides, face to face. He pulled the blanket up over Patrick and cradled him close, tucking Pat's head to his chest and running his purple gloved fingers through the man's hair.
As he fell asleep, Patrick heard the Joker whisper in his ear: "'Sleep... Oh! How I loathe those little slices of death.'"
On to Part 5!
"Excitable Boy" by Warren Zevon, lyrics here -- dark subject matter turned into a really catchy upbeat song. When I first heard it it immediately reminded me of Patrick Bateman. The only YouTube I could find of it was made by someone using The Sims 2 of all things O_o http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xFrpmJb-sFI
The quote at the end the Joker says is by an unknown source but often attributed to Longfellow or Poe.
Author: ehmaz
Rating: R
Characters: Patrick/Joker
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me.
Warnings: [ violence, bloodplay, angst, hurt/comfort ]
Summary: A turbulent night after the events at the Maroni house.
Notes: ~3900 words. Unbeta'ed as usual.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
“Your place or mine?” the Joker had asked him. When Patrick hadn't seemed capable of answering, the Joker took off down winding streets and alleyways at top speed, to some destination unknown. Patrick was quiet during the ride, thoughtful, introspective even. The Joker was singing at the top of his lungs to some song Pat had never heard before, and while at first he'd been tuning it out in favor of recalling the events they had just shared at the Maroni house, he couldn't just ignore the caterwauling going on next to him.
The song was, evidently, about a disturbed boy whose increasingly odd behavior was always written off as the child just being an “Excitable Boy” which Patrick guessed was also the name of the song. When the Joker sang the next verse, about the boy raping and killing his prom date, he looked over and winked a devilish green eye at Patrick.
Pat couldn't help it, he chuckled. The Joker grinned and began singing along with renewed vigor, practically bouncing in the squeaky driver's seat, as he barreled down a cramped alley and finally pulled to a stop. Patrick pulled off the itchy baseball cap and looked around at the neighborhood they were in. It looked like one of those sections of town that had once been middle-class but its proximity to the Narrows slowly ate away all the joy and normalcy from it. It was now just a step above the slums and Pat made a face.
“Stop your mopin', rich boy. Come along.” The Joker hopped out of the beat-up old truck and didn't bother locking it. He stopped next to a rusty fire escape ladder that trailed its way up what looked to be a ten-or-so story building. The Joker jumped up and grabbed the bottom rung of the ladder and hauled himself up, leaving Patrick gaping at him, still sitting in the truck. Not wanting to be left behind, Pat struggled with the door for a second before he managed to get out as well.
He tossed the baseball cap aside and jumped up, catching the rung on the second attempt, and he climbed up after the Joker. The other man didn't have nearly the muscle definition Patrick did, but he was up and through a fourth-story window before Pat had even started on the second. The Joker had at least left the window open for him, and as the serial killer mounted the sill and ungracefully wiggled inside, he grumbled out, “Does this place not have a front door?”
The Joker laughed at him, then gave an incredulous stare. “Well I don't exactly have the keys and I wouldn't want to leave the front door unlocked... someone unscrupulous might get in!”
Pat made an aggravated huff and dusted himself off, then shook his head wondering why he bothered, being as he was still in the horrible, ill-fitting jeans and t-shirt the Joker had dressed him in that morning.
“Food, food, food... let's see what we got, huh?” said the Joker as he made long strides into an adjacent room. He came back out a second later “Oops, that was the T.V. room. Ah, here we go!”
Patrick's suspicions were confirmed that this was not the Joker's home at all. Feeling a bit peckish himself, especially after all the exertion of earlier in the Maroni house, Pat followed the Joker into a tidy, quaint kitchen. It was unexceptional and looked regularly used. The Joker was poking around in the refrigerator and Pat opened a few cupboards, finding fare such as canned soups and boxes of Hamburger Helper. Pat wrinkled his nose.
“You cook, Patsy?”
“No,” he answered. He had never cooked himself a real meal before and wouldn't pretend to know the first thing about it.
“Well, now you getta learn, here ya go.”
Patrick looked up right as the Joker tossed him a pound of raw hamburger wrapped in plastic wrap. Pat made a disgusted noise and promptly threw the thing on the counter. “I'm not your fucking maid, Joker!”
The Joker tilted his head and considered Patrick for a moment. “No, but you're my cook.” He flashed a grin and sauntered past a bewildered Pat before he suddenly half turned, and Pat found himself staring down the barrel of a large pistol he hadn't even even seen the clown draw. “And the last person that took that tone of voice with me got real well acquainted with this baby. Mind yourself, Patsy, eh?”
With a laugh, the Joker winked and gave the gun a twirl before plopping it into a pocket of his coveralls. He walked out of the kitchen and after a few moments, Pat heard the sound of the television being turned on.
The banker look at the package of hamburger and gave an exasperated, silent scream before he started rummaging around in the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, listening to the Joker laugh almost constantly at whatever T.V. program he was watching, Pat had some rather lame looking hamburgers prepared. He'd found buns in a cupboard and the usual fixings. He just hoped that the Joker didn't mind rare meat because he'd lost patience waiting for them to cook any further.
With a plate in each hand, a hamburger on each, Pat went to the T.V. room. The Joker had unzipped his coveralls and taken his arms out of the sleeves, but left it bunched around his waist and hadn't taken off the pant legs. His blue hexagon-patterned shirt looked white from the glare off the television, and he was slouched so low in the La-Z-Boy recliner his butt was barely on the cushion.
“Here, bon appetit,” said Pat sarcastically and handed the plate over as he sat on the well-used sofa next to the Joker's chair.
The harlequin took a big bite of the hamburger, not even acknowledging Patrick. He promptly spit the bite back out onto his plate and looked from it to Patrick. “Mustard?”
Patrick had been just about to bite into his own meal but he paused and snapped his mouth shut.
“I hate mustard,” said the Joker, before he threw his plate right at the man who had just cooked it for him. The plate Patrick in the shoulder, making him grunt, and the burger itself splattered on his shirt and slid down onto his lap, making Pat drop his own plate out of surprise.
He looked down at himself then glared at the Joker, but was only given a moment to before he suddenly found himself on his knees in front of his chair. The Joker had stood and grabbed his neck painfully tight and forced him to his knees on the carpet. The burgers and their condiments were on the floor.
Just as suddenly, Patrick felt the hand on his neck push even harder and Pat was forced to the floor, right down to the (now dirty) food. Patrick got his hands underneath him and tried to push up.”Sto--”
The Joker just pushed harder, kicking Patrick in the ass at the same time, and the confused serial killer clenched his eyes closed as his face was forced on to the hot food. He felt the hamburger meat squash against his face and ketchup and mustard stick to his chin and nose. He made a groan of protest and tried to push up as hard as he could, but the Joker just pushed harder, grinding Patrick's face hard into the food and the floor.
When the commercial break was over, the murderous anarchist finally let up and he returned to his chair. “Make me another one,” he growled.
Patrick slowly got to his knees and just stared at the Joker for a minute, but the unpredictable man was already chuckling at his television program. Pat looked over for the first time to see what it was. It looked like a show about wild animals that had been caught on video attacking people. It sounded like something that The Patty Winters show would showcase as a topic. Pat got to his feet and used his hands to pick up as much of the food as he could and scooped it onto the plates which he took to the kitchen.
No longer hungry himself, Patrick made only one hamburger and he took it into the Joker. Again, the curly-haired clown didn't even acknowledge him. Pat waited a few minutes to make sure the Joker wasn't going to protest this try, and then he went in search of a washroom. On his way through the house, he came upon a room that looked like Patrick himself could have visited. There were limbs and organs smeared all over the bed amongst the blood soaked sheets. It all looked dried and stale, like it had been there a few days. There were about a dozen air fresheners of various kinds throughout the room which explained the lack of stench.
Patrick could smell it as he walked to the bed though. He looked down on what appeared to be the remains of an elderly couple. There was a spot down the middle of the bed, amongst the body parts, that looked as if it had been disturbed after the murders. Pat could almost imagine the Joker settling in there, looking pleased with himself.
The adjoining bathroom looked like something a Grandma would put together. Patrick used the facilities to relieve his bladder and then he carefully washed his face of all traces of the spurned food. He also used the old man's comb on his hair, and the old woman's facial moisturizer on his forehead, cheeks and nose. When he finally turned off the tap, he noticed the house was quiet. A sense of unease settled over him as he left the washroom and master bedroom. The T.V. had been turned off and the apartment was empty. Outside, Pat could hear the rickety old truck start up and drive away. Patrick went over to the window but he'd been too slow to watch it. He stood there for a long time, wondering if it was going to come back or not.
It didn't. He watched the small T.V. until he fell asleep in the chair that had still been slightly warm.
~ ~ ~
Something wet and slimy in his ear woke him up, and Patrick startled away from it. A hazy blur of white and black came in and out of his vision and he heard low-toned chuckles. Pat brought his hands up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinking a few times.
The Harlequin of Hate stood crouched next to the chair Patrick had fallen asleep in, his heavily painted face swimming before Patrick's vision before it cleared up. The Joker was grinning, chuckling at Patrick, before he leaned in and stuck his tongue in Pat's ear again.
“Eunngh!” Patrick let out the disgusted noise and pulled away. He winced as a pain in his back voiced its protest at moving after having been in the same position in the chair for so long. Pat wondered what time it was. He also noticed that the Joker had ditched the coveralls and was wearing his usual blue shirt, green vest, purple pants and everything except the thick trench coat. He also was in full make-up, which looked like it had been on for a few hours.
“Is that any way to greet your lover... lover?” teased the Joker, looking at Patrick askance with an almost playful expression, his lips smacking together as he waited for a response.
“Is that what we are?” Pat asked testily.
The Joker froze and just stared at him for a second before Pat heard the sound of something being hit hard and pain blossoming in his head. He blinked his eyes open to find himself slumped over the arm rest of the chair and the Joker was gone. He could only assume that he'd been hit so hard he'd blacked out.
Patrick tried to stand but his legs, he found, had been tied together with rope like a ballerina shoe ribbon, criss-crossed up to the knee. His head was also pounding and he had a hard time even focusing on the room.
“Joker?” he called out, and movement from the corner of the living room caught his eye.
The Joker stepped out of the shadows and eyed Patrick curiously. “So, Pat... we seem to have... a misunderstanding between us. You seem to have developed, je nai say what, an attitude over the past day. Care to explain?”
“What are you talking about?” Patrick asked. For some reason, the Joker hadn't tied his arms up at all, so he bend over to start undoing the rope.
“Nuh-uh, Pat. No touchy. This is what the couple councilors call a game of trust. We gotta learn to trust each other if we're ever gonna move on from this upset. Don't you agree? Now then, explain to me...” The Joker took a few steps closer to Patrick and lightly slapped him across the face, the purple leather glove making a loud smacking noise against his skin. “... why you're being a prissy little bitch, huh?”
“My head's all fuzzy,” Patrick said in defense of himself, and he brought his hands up to cradle his face. It was true. He didn't know what the hell the Joker had hit him with, but his brains felt rattled around and he got the impression it had been a good few minutes he'd been unconscious.
“Lemme help then, Pat. It takes two to tango as they say and I will point out I'm doing my part to make this all work out. I come home from a hard day's work... I want to get a little,” here the Joker cleared his throat and gesticulated wildly with his hands, “you know, iinnntimate, and you act like you don't owe me nothin'. I don't ah-ppreciate not being ah-ppreciated - get it?”
Pat was a little dumbstruck. He blinked at the Joker and narrowed his eye in confusion. “Well, I just... I just... I dunno...”
“'I just, I just!'” the Joker mocked, his red-painted mouth turning to an ugly, mean sneer. “Come on, spit it out, Pat! You don't love me anymore? Is that it?"
The serial killer really didn't know what to say to that and he sat there gaping like a fish for a few seconds. The Joker started laughing, but then the next second he was across the room and growling right in Patrick's face.
"You're the one who sent me that little, ah, calling-card, as you'll recall. You think I couldn't hang out with just any ol' body I wanted to? Huh? You think I need to stick around your sorry little ass? Well I don't. So what's it going to be, Patrick?"
"I'm sorry," Patrick whispered. His heart felt like it was burning up it was pounding so hard, and freezing as his chest clenched so tight at the same time. The thought that the Joker would leave and never come back was too much. Pat needed him. The insatiable urges for killing were no longer satisfied simply by his hands alone. If the Joker left him...
"Tell me how sorry you are," the Joker commanded as he took a step back and kept his eyes trained on Patrick.
Never had Patrick been in this kind of situation before. Usually he was the one that had some ugly hangers-on trying to get his attention, some dumpy broad that was madly in love with him that wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Pat licked his lips nervously and searched for something to say, something truthful but that wouldn't make him look so desperate. That's precisely how he felt, desperate.
"I'm very sorry, I didn't know I was making you so mad, I didn't know what you wanted. Please, don't leave me." Pat started to lower his gaze to his lap when a finger in purple leather gloves tilted his chin back up.
The Joker was grinning, and Pat gripped the armrests of the chair hard.
"Tell you want, my boy. I'm in a generous mood, and I'm not really such a monster after all, am I?" The Joker waited for a moment and narrowed his eyes. "Am I?" he asked again.
Patrick quickly murmured an agreement.
"Good. Stand up," the Joker commanded.
Pat managed to get to a standing position despite his legs being tied tightly together. The Joker moved behind him and took the seat the investment banker had just been occupying. Pat looked over his shoulder and watched as the murderous clown undid his pants and shoved them down enough to expose himself completely. "Push your jeans down."
Again, Patrick quickly complied. The room was cold and the stench from the bedroom was becoming too much for the air freshners to handle. Pat couldn't really say he was too terribly in the mood, especially since his ass still hurt from the last time -- he supposed technically that was yesterday by this point. He still didn't know what time it was, though he guessed three or four in the morning.
The Joker pulled him down, unbalancing him, so Patrick landed hard on his lap. The Joker was surprisingly warm and Patrick immediately relaxed. It felt good, in some weird way, to sit on the other man's lap.
"Like I said, this is a game of trust. Do you trust me, Pat?" the Joker asked, settling Patrick on his lap so the dark-haired man's ass cheeks were firmly framing his slowly hardening length.
"Yes," Patrick whispered. It was true, he didn't know why he trusted the Joker, but he did. Maybe, he thought, because he had little other choice. He was as addicted to the Joker as he was to the feel of a bleeding girl in his hands.
"Good, good boy," the Joker whispered, his voice barely more than a growl as he pulled a switchblade from his sleeve and moved it between Patrick's thighs.
Patrick tried not to flinch but he couldn't help it. The blade was cold, and it was moving higher up between his legs, right in his groin, and Patrick made an instinctive gasp. His hands hand been resting on either side of the man below him, and he clenched his hands in the blue shirt as his body tensed.
"Shh, shhh," the Joker comforted as he looked around Pat's shoulder so he could see better what he was doing. The blade moved higher yet and the tip disappeared under the curve of Patrick's tight scrotal sac. Pat was trembling now on the Joker's lap, and the man behind him was chuckling with a deep, amused timbre. "Thatta boy."
The cut to Patrick's perineum was small but so intense he cried out, clenching his eyes shut and dropping his head back on the Joker's broad shoulder. The Joker hissed as if he'd been the one cut, and he quickly tossed the knife onto the floor. He reached down between Patrick's legs with his gloved hand and smoothed the blood around. "Go ahead and untie your legs now, Pat."
"Okay," he practically whimpered. The pain was excruciating, especially when the Joker moved his finger over the fresh wound. With shaking hands he unlaced the ropes from his legs. No sooner had this been done than the Joker used his free hand to pull Patrick back against him and then used his legs to spread Patrick's legs. The finger that had been working the wound, placed in such a sensitive place, dipped lower and began preparing Pat's entrance using the blood as a lubricant.
Patrick was still trembling. He didn't want to be the bottom again. He didn't want to feel ripped apart and taken, used, especially with his own blood and with his groin burning with pain. He squirmed and the Joker just held him tighter. Pat knew he would never speak up though. The threat of the Joker leaving him was too painful, more painful than anything the man could do to him physically. He kept telling himself that even as the Joker breached him with little more than a perfunctory fingering beforehand.
Behind him, the Joker was grunting and huffing, obviously enjoying the usage of Pat's body. Patrick himself was in too much pain to be much aroused. He didn't really like the feeling of being filled up like this, and it hurt. He told himself it would be over soon and just kept a tight grip on the Joker's shirt beneath him. When one of the Joker's gloved hands came around to grip his limp prick, Patrick clenched his eyes shut. Sure enough, the Joker had to comment.
"What's wrong, lover boy? Not enjoying yourself anymore?"
"Hurts," was all he said.
"Mmm, poor baby..."
Pat thought maybe the Joker would jerk him off or something at that point, but all he did was hold Patrick's uninterested cock while he finished up. Pat sighed with relief at the same time the Joker sighed with completion.
The Joker did up his pants before helping Patrick pull up his jeans and doing them up as well. Patrick stood there awkwardly as the Joker kicked off his shoes, peeled off his vest and tossed his gloves aside. The clown pushed the coffee table aside and tossed the couch cushions aside, which revealed it to be a hide-away bed. Pat just stood there hugging himself while the Joker made up the sofabed and tossed a blanket from the back of the chair onto it. He sprawled himself out on it looking entirely comfortable and content, looking up at Patrick.
"Come to bed," he ordered, and Patrick complied. The businessman noticed the sofabed had sheets on it and he wondered if the Joker had been sleeping there or if the former owners always kept it made up for company.
He laid down stiffly next to his... whatever the Joker was. 'Lover' was the word the other man had used. Pat figured that worked as well as anything. Patrick didn't even know what that meant. He was sore all over, and tired, and hungry, and felt like shit.
Almost as if reading his mind, the Joker pulled Patrick close to him and whispered, "Aww... what's the matter, Patsy? Don't you love me anymore? Are you mad?"
"I'm tired," he answered truthfully in a small voice.
The Joker watched him for a minute before moving their bodies so they were on their sides, face to face. He pulled the blanket up over Patrick and cradled him close, tucking Pat's head to his chest and running his purple gloved fingers through the man's hair.
As he fell asleep, Patrick heard the Joker whisper in his ear: "'Sleep... Oh! How I loathe those little slices of death.'"
On to Part 5!
"Excitable Boy" by Warren Zevon, lyrics here -- dark subject matter turned into a really catchy upbeat song. When I first heard it it immediately reminded me of Patrick Bateman. The only YouTube I could find of it was made by someone using The Sims 2 of all things O_o http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xFrpmJb-sFI
The quote at the end the Joker says is by an unknown source but often attributed to Longfellow or Poe.