Fic: Psychology
Title: Psychology
Author: ehmaz
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me.
Warnings: [strong language, violence, mutilation] (no pr0n, sorry)
Summary: The Joker has a chance meeting with Patrick Bateman back in the '80s.
Notes: ~2700 words, unbeta'ed 'cause I'm too impatient >_>
Psychology
There's a big difference between the sociopath and the psychopath. True, they are both considered Anti-Social Behavior Disorders, but there's a fundamental difference between the two. Now, Americans have a big hard-on for the Anti-Social Behavior Disorder superstars. They're the biggest stars of all.
Americans are pros at hating people, you see. We hate Angelina Jolie because she has ugly knees and beautiful lips. We hate Doctor Phil because he knows more about us than we do and makes millions off our pain. We hate our neighbor because he has a cooler car and his dog shits on our lawn like he has a right to.
We hate them, but we know we're not really supposed to. People are people, even if they are annoying fucks with no purpose in life but to be dicks with too much money. But serial killers, now those we're allowed to hate. We're supposed to hate them, but, being the contrary pieces of shit humans are, we love them instead. We're fascinated by them. We read books and watch T.V. documentaries about them, we make films and even write them fan-mail.
Do you know why? There are lots of reasons, but I think the biggest reason of all is because we envy them. No, Americans don't really want to sit on death row for twenty years and then get gassed or electrocuted to death. But we do want to stomp our neighbor's dog to death and strangle Doctor Phil and rape Angelina Jolie until she's bleeding and you couldn't tell her cunt from a bowl of spaghetti.
And the most envious thing about the serial killers is that, while they don't exactly get away with it, they do manage to kill a half dozen people before they are caught. And when they are caught? They're instant celebrities. But, most of all, they don't feel badly about what they've done.
It boils down to this: Americans live in a constant state of fear and guilt. Serial killers? They have neither. Either it's been beaten out of them by their alcoholic father since they were three, or by some fucked up grace of God they never had any to begin with.
Wouldn't it be nice?
But, the psychologists won't tell you about a third class of Anti-Social Behavior Disorder. Those are the people like me. Let me first explain the two types you have heard about.
The sociopath: genetics, pre-disposition and environment aside, the basic description of the sociopath is that his childhood was messed up and he turned into a spiteful, rageful, hurtful fuck. They don't understand the basic concepts of morality and good versus bad or that it's not okay to break the neighbor boy's ankles just to hear them pop. That's not to say they don't have any compunctions or guilt, it's just that their ideas of guilt and ethics are different than the socially accepted ones. A sociopath, for example, could be a very loving, kind and gentle husband and father who also happens to enjoy hiring whores and sawing their hands off. The funny thing about sociopaths is there are a lot more of them out there than you think.
That stupid prick from accounting that skims off the employee fund and bangs everyone's wives? Yeah, he's a sociopath. He doesn't know any better and the simple fact he's screwing over his colleagues gives him a stiffy. Pretty much anyone you've ever met that doesn't seem to give a fuck and is only out for himself is a sociopath. Sound like half the people you meet? Yep. We only ever hear about the ones that beat their granny to death, but those are just the overachievers in the field.
The psychopath: these are the fun ones. They know right from wrong, they just don't care. The psychopaths are exactly the same as sociopaths except they don't have any remorse or empathy whatsoever. Now, I'm no psychiatrist, but this is whom I think of as your Jack the Rippers and Ed Geins. They kill because they enjoy it. They torture because it's entertaining. They don't really have an agenda beyond the fact that they can and it's fucking good. Sociopaths are the ones with agendas; they plan and scheme, they have explanations and excuses and reasons and causes they torture, kill and rape for. The psychopath strips away all the pretenses and bathes in blood for the sake of feeling the heat on their skin. Unlike the sociopath, they will never really fit into society nor have a normal relationship with another human being.
But there's a third kind: there's me. I'm not a sociopath or psychopath, as I know right from wrong, I understand the moral and ethical codes of today. I feel fear, and guilt, and I can empathize. As you can probably tell, psychology is very fascinating to me, and I think to be a good psychologist you have to be able to empathize with people. In fact, I'm really quite a normal person. While I'd like to refer to my condition as "Enlightened," I doubt you or any psychiatrist would agree.
In fact, my Arkham Asylum psychiatrist chuckled at that one. For once, I hadn't been telling a joke. Bitch.
Anyway, the only reason I would even admit that I have a so-called Anti-Social Behavior Disorder is that I'm anti-social. I think our society needs a good swift kick in the balls. It sucks. Just take a look at Gotham City. Something is going seriously wrong there, and you don't need to be a psychiatrist to see that. Then you have people like the Batman.
He and I, we're a lot alike. We understand that justice and the Police and courts and laws are flawed. We understand that humans are walking contradictions and given half a chance we'd all be sociopaths. The problem with the Batman is he has hope for the system. He thinks that with enough swooping around and flinging bat-shaped-shurikens he can fix Gotham City. What the idiot doesn't realize, is that doesn't fix the entire fucking system that's flawed in the first place. Order? Now there's a joke. Just look at America's government, our Supreme Court, and tell me you don't get a good laugh.
Me? Unlike a psychopath, I have an agenda: I want to tip the established system on its head. Unlike a sociopath, I'm not just out for myself. I think everyone should have the right to shoot their neighbors dog and then their neighbor for it shitting in their yard for the fifteenth time. I think corrupt judges should be strung up by their toes and flogged to death. I think ordinary citizens should be perfectly able to beat the piss out of the school bully.
See? Enlightened. No? You don't agree? If you're like my psychiatrist, no, you don't agree. You probably think I had some horrendous childhood, or that I like eating brains or have some complex about women. I didn't and I don't.
Ah, you say, with a knowing look in your eye... but your scars. That creepy Glasgow smile you paint with makeup. You had something horrible happen in your past, didn't you? You are crazy, after all, you say. There's pathology and history behind those scars that you use an excuse. I don't.
I'm not crazy.
Let me tell you about these scars.
I didn't grow up in Gotham City. I actually grew up in Manhattan. In 1984 I was eight years old. My parents weren't abusive, my papa didn't beat me up, my mama didn't drink excessively. Their only flaw was that they were moderately well off and they gave me enough freedom to pursue my own interests. When I was eight years old, my biggest interest was astronomy. I wanted to be an astronaut.
Shocking, I know. Ha ha.
1984 wasn't all that long ago, but it was long enough ago that a kid walking to the hill behind an apartment complex in the middle of a Saturday night wasn't worthy of calling child services over. Half the time, my parents didn't even lock the house up at night. Yeah, Manhattan had a hefty crime rate, but it was always someone else, some other neighborhood.
Anyway, the hill behind our apartment. The city lights were pretty bad, but it was the best spot I could find for my telescope. The moon was full and I talked my mom into letting me go by myself. That's where I met the man that gave me these scars.
He was high on something, my guess is cocaine. That was really big back then and didn't have some spunky name like today's drugs. That wasn't the first thing I noticed about him though. His suit was obviously really expensive, even to a dumbshit eight year old kid like me. His hair looked like earlier that night it had been styled, but was now free from its excessive gel.
He was holding a knife, and he had blood all over his hands. There was splatters of it on his face and on his three-piece suit. He started laughing at me, making fun of my telescope, but then he kind of sobered up and really looked at me.
"You look like a smart kid," he said to me.
I shrugged, trying to put myself between this nutjob and my precious telescope.
"Would you believe me if I told you I just killed a girl?" he asks me.
I shrug again, noticing that the blood on the knife is still wet. It's dripping on the ground and I have the sudden irrational urge to memorize the spot so I can come up in the daylight tomorrow to see if I can spot the blood on the blades of grass.
"I did," he continues. His eyes look shiny and black and he's staring a hole through me. He won't blink. "I actually killed two people tonight. A homeless guy and this blonde hooker with blue eyes." He just stares at me when I don't respond. I'm starting to wonder why he's telling me this. Doesn't he know I can go to the police?
"What color eyes do you have?" he asks me, and now I'm getting a little concerned.
"Green," I answer. I don't really see a reason not to answer him.
"Oh, green," he says, like it's really interesting I have green fucking eyes. And then he tells me, "I told my lawyer, you know. I told him I killed all these people. And I have, I've killed a lot. I really like it. I even killed some policemen but they didn't chase me, and my lawyer didn't believe me, and my psychiatrist won't tell anybody. So I keep killing people. What do you think about that?"
I'm really surprised he's telling me this, but mostly that he's asking my opinion. Being a kid, I assume he's genuine when he asks what I think, so I tell him: "You'll get caught eventually."
He looks closer at me like what I said was interesting. He takes a step closer and looks me over. "You really think I'll get caught? I don't think so." He pauses a moment and looks down at the knife in his hand. "And even if I do, I'm rich, you know. I can afford the best lawyers and I can probably even pay off the judges or whatever. I doubt I'd do any jail time. Then, I can keep doing it."
"You're full of shit," I say, thinking if I use a curse-word it will make my point more legitimate.
He laughs at me again, and takes another step closer.
"The police will catch up with you and you'll be in jail forever," I say in my prepubescent squeak, too naive to even know about the death penalty or parole or time off for good behavior.
"I don't want to kill you though, kid, don't worry." I don't find this reassuring for some reason. Ha! He grabs me and we struggle to the damp grass. He's lying on top of me, and he has this gut-covered blade to my throat.
"No, I'm going to prove my point," he says, still in that calm and slightly mocking tone of voice. "After confessing to you, I'm going to fuck you up, and you can tell your parents and the police and whoever you want, and still I won't be caught. My confessions mean nothing."
We struggle some more and he has a death grip on my head that leaves finger-shaped bruises for weeks afterwards. I get little nicks and cuts along my mouth and chin as he tries to get the knife between my lips. He sticks the wet knife in the corner of my mouth and jerks it. The cut ends up being uneven because I'm struggling so hard, but the pain of it puts me almost immediately in shock. The cut on the other side is more even as he takes his time.
He doesn't tell me why he gives me this mutilation in particular, but tells me that my telescope is nice, and then he walks away. My jaw feels like it's hanging off my face as I walk home.
I tell my parents what has happened. I tell the police, and give a description of the businessman. I give reports and fill out paperwork and talk to psychiatrists and lawyers. The scars get infected easily because they're in my mouth and despite the neat little rows of stitches, I wind up with deep crevices and uneven healing, and what could have been a few roguish scars turn into freakish mutilations.
The guy's never caught that I'm aware of. I never saw anything on the news about him or about any of the murders he supposedly did. When I graduate from high school I move to Gotham City, intent on going to college.
See? It didn't fuck me up. I didn't have some atrocious childhood after getting attacked like that. I wasn't suddenly crazy or anything. I probably got made fun of a lot more than the average kid, but that's it.
So I move to Gotham city and I see what it's like here, how fucked up it is, and then it hits me. All the stuff that guy said: it's true. There's no justice. There's no order in the "Established Order." There's some psychopath running around cutting up kids' faces because he enjoys it, and no one does a fucking thing.
And you know what? Good for him. I surround myself with people like him now. They're real, they don't pretend. They don't sit at home on their fat asses watching true crime documentaries pretending to be sickened by guys like my businessman. Courts and laws and jurisdiction and subpoenas and fairness -- what a laugh.
Author: ehmaz
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me.
Warnings: [strong language, violence, mutilation] (no pr0n, sorry)
Summary: The Joker has a chance meeting with Patrick Bateman back in the '80s.
Notes: ~2700 words, unbeta'ed 'cause I'm too impatient >_>
Psychology
There's a big difference between the sociopath and the psychopath. True, they are both considered Anti-Social Behavior Disorders, but there's a fundamental difference between the two. Now, Americans have a big hard-on for the Anti-Social Behavior Disorder superstars. They're the biggest stars of all.
Americans are pros at hating people, you see. We hate Angelina Jolie because she has ugly knees and beautiful lips. We hate Doctor Phil because he knows more about us than we do and makes millions off our pain. We hate our neighbor because he has a cooler car and his dog shits on our lawn like he has a right to.
We hate them, but we know we're not really supposed to. People are people, even if they are annoying fucks with no purpose in life but to be dicks with too much money. But serial killers, now those we're allowed to hate. We're supposed to hate them, but, being the contrary pieces of shit humans are, we love them instead. We're fascinated by them. We read books and watch T.V. documentaries about them, we make films and even write them fan-mail.
Do you know why? There are lots of reasons, but I think the biggest reason of all is because we envy them. No, Americans don't really want to sit on death row for twenty years and then get gassed or electrocuted to death. But we do want to stomp our neighbor's dog to death and strangle Doctor Phil and rape Angelina Jolie until she's bleeding and you couldn't tell her cunt from a bowl of spaghetti.
And the most envious thing about the serial killers is that, while they don't exactly get away with it, they do manage to kill a half dozen people before they are caught. And when they are caught? They're instant celebrities. But, most of all, they don't feel badly about what they've done.
It boils down to this: Americans live in a constant state of fear and guilt. Serial killers? They have neither. Either it's been beaten out of them by their alcoholic father since they were three, or by some fucked up grace of God they never had any to begin with.
Wouldn't it be nice?
But, the psychologists won't tell you about a third class of Anti-Social Behavior Disorder. Those are the people like me. Let me first explain the two types you have heard about.
The sociopath: genetics, pre-disposition and environment aside, the basic description of the sociopath is that his childhood was messed up and he turned into a spiteful, rageful, hurtful fuck. They don't understand the basic concepts of morality and good versus bad or that it's not okay to break the neighbor boy's ankles just to hear them pop. That's not to say they don't have any compunctions or guilt, it's just that their ideas of guilt and ethics are different than the socially accepted ones. A sociopath, for example, could be a very loving, kind and gentle husband and father who also happens to enjoy hiring whores and sawing their hands off. The funny thing about sociopaths is there are a lot more of them out there than you think.
That stupid prick from accounting that skims off the employee fund and bangs everyone's wives? Yeah, he's a sociopath. He doesn't know any better and the simple fact he's screwing over his colleagues gives him a stiffy. Pretty much anyone you've ever met that doesn't seem to give a fuck and is only out for himself is a sociopath. Sound like half the people you meet? Yep. We only ever hear about the ones that beat their granny to death, but those are just the overachievers in the field.
The psychopath: these are the fun ones. They know right from wrong, they just don't care. The psychopaths are exactly the same as sociopaths except they don't have any remorse or empathy whatsoever. Now, I'm no psychiatrist, but this is whom I think of as your Jack the Rippers and Ed Geins. They kill because they enjoy it. They torture because it's entertaining. They don't really have an agenda beyond the fact that they can and it's fucking good. Sociopaths are the ones with agendas; they plan and scheme, they have explanations and excuses and reasons and causes they torture, kill and rape for. The psychopath strips away all the pretenses and bathes in blood for the sake of feeling the heat on their skin. Unlike the sociopath, they will never really fit into society nor have a normal relationship with another human being.
But there's a third kind: there's me. I'm not a sociopath or psychopath, as I know right from wrong, I understand the moral and ethical codes of today. I feel fear, and guilt, and I can empathize. As you can probably tell, psychology is very fascinating to me, and I think to be a good psychologist you have to be able to empathize with people. In fact, I'm really quite a normal person. While I'd like to refer to my condition as "Enlightened," I doubt you or any psychiatrist would agree.
In fact, my Arkham Asylum psychiatrist chuckled at that one. For once, I hadn't been telling a joke. Bitch.
Anyway, the only reason I would even admit that I have a so-called Anti-Social Behavior Disorder is that I'm anti-social. I think our society needs a good swift kick in the balls. It sucks. Just take a look at Gotham City. Something is going seriously wrong there, and you don't need to be a psychiatrist to see that. Then you have people like the Batman.
He and I, we're a lot alike. We understand that justice and the Police and courts and laws are flawed. We understand that humans are walking contradictions and given half a chance we'd all be sociopaths. The problem with the Batman is he has hope for the system. He thinks that with enough swooping around and flinging bat-shaped-shurikens he can fix Gotham City. What the idiot doesn't realize, is that doesn't fix the entire fucking system that's flawed in the first place. Order? Now there's a joke. Just look at America's government, our Supreme Court, and tell me you don't get a good laugh.
Me? Unlike a psychopath, I have an agenda: I want to tip the established system on its head. Unlike a sociopath, I'm not just out for myself. I think everyone should have the right to shoot their neighbors dog and then their neighbor for it shitting in their yard for the fifteenth time. I think corrupt judges should be strung up by their toes and flogged to death. I think ordinary citizens should be perfectly able to beat the piss out of the school bully.
See? Enlightened. No? You don't agree? If you're like my psychiatrist, no, you don't agree. You probably think I had some horrendous childhood, or that I like eating brains or have some complex about women. I didn't and I don't.
Ah, you say, with a knowing look in your eye... but your scars. That creepy Glasgow smile you paint with makeup. You had something horrible happen in your past, didn't you? You are crazy, after all, you say. There's pathology and history behind those scars that you use an excuse. I don't.
I'm not crazy.
Let me tell you about these scars.
I didn't grow up in Gotham City. I actually grew up in Manhattan. In 1984 I was eight years old. My parents weren't abusive, my papa didn't beat me up, my mama didn't drink excessively. Their only flaw was that they were moderately well off and they gave me enough freedom to pursue my own interests. When I was eight years old, my biggest interest was astronomy. I wanted to be an astronaut.
Shocking, I know. Ha ha.
1984 wasn't all that long ago, but it was long enough ago that a kid walking to the hill behind an apartment complex in the middle of a Saturday night wasn't worthy of calling child services over. Half the time, my parents didn't even lock the house up at night. Yeah, Manhattan had a hefty crime rate, but it was always someone else, some other neighborhood.
Anyway, the hill behind our apartment. The city lights were pretty bad, but it was the best spot I could find for my telescope. The moon was full and I talked my mom into letting me go by myself. That's where I met the man that gave me these scars.
He was high on something, my guess is cocaine. That was really big back then and didn't have some spunky name like today's drugs. That wasn't the first thing I noticed about him though. His suit was obviously really expensive, even to a dumbshit eight year old kid like me. His hair looked like earlier that night it had been styled, but was now free from its excessive gel.
He was holding a knife, and he had blood all over his hands. There was splatters of it on his face and on his three-piece suit. He started laughing at me, making fun of my telescope, but then he kind of sobered up and really looked at me.
"You look like a smart kid," he said to me.
I shrugged, trying to put myself between this nutjob and my precious telescope.
"Would you believe me if I told you I just killed a girl?" he asks me.
I shrug again, noticing that the blood on the knife is still wet. It's dripping on the ground and I have the sudden irrational urge to memorize the spot so I can come up in the daylight tomorrow to see if I can spot the blood on the blades of grass.
"I did," he continues. His eyes look shiny and black and he's staring a hole through me. He won't blink. "I actually killed two people tonight. A homeless guy and this blonde hooker with blue eyes." He just stares at me when I don't respond. I'm starting to wonder why he's telling me this. Doesn't he know I can go to the police?
"What color eyes do you have?" he asks me, and now I'm getting a little concerned.
"Green," I answer. I don't really see a reason not to answer him.
"Oh, green," he says, like it's really interesting I have green fucking eyes. And then he tells me, "I told my lawyer, you know. I told him I killed all these people. And I have, I've killed a lot. I really like it. I even killed some policemen but they didn't chase me, and my lawyer didn't believe me, and my psychiatrist won't tell anybody. So I keep killing people. What do you think about that?"
I'm really surprised he's telling me this, but mostly that he's asking my opinion. Being a kid, I assume he's genuine when he asks what I think, so I tell him: "You'll get caught eventually."
He looks closer at me like what I said was interesting. He takes a step closer and looks me over. "You really think I'll get caught? I don't think so." He pauses a moment and looks down at the knife in his hand. "And even if I do, I'm rich, you know. I can afford the best lawyers and I can probably even pay off the judges or whatever. I doubt I'd do any jail time. Then, I can keep doing it."
"You're full of shit," I say, thinking if I use a curse-word it will make my point more legitimate.
He laughs at me again, and takes another step closer.
"The police will catch up with you and you'll be in jail forever," I say in my prepubescent squeak, too naive to even know about the death penalty or parole or time off for good behavior.
"I don't want to kill you though, kid, don't worry." I don't find this reassuring for some reason. Ha! He grabs me and we struggle to the damp grass. He's lying on top of me, and he has this gut-covered blade to my throat.
"No, I'm going to prove my point," he says, still in that calm and slightly mocking tone of voice. "After confessing to you, I'm going to fuck you up, and you can tell your parents and the police and whoever you want, and still I won't be caught. My confessions mean nothing."
We struggle some more and he has a death grip on my head that leaves finger-shaped bruises for weeks afterwards. I get little nicks and cuts along my mouth and chin as he tries to get the knife between my lips. He sticks the wet knife in the corner of my mouth and jerks it. The cut ends up being uneven because I'm struggling so hard, but the pain of it puts me almost immediately in shock. The cut on the other side is more even as he takes his time.
He doesn't tell me why he gives me this mutilation in particular, but tells me that my telescope is nice, and then he walks away. My jaw feels like it's hanging off my face as I walk home.
I tell my parents what has happened. I tell the police, and give a description of the businessman. I give reports and fill out paperwork and talk to psychiatrists and lawyers. The scars get infected easily because they're in my mouth and despite the neat little rows of stitches, I wind up with deep crevices and uneven healing, and what could have been a few roguish scars turn into freakish mutilations.
The guy's never caught that I'm aware of. I never saw anything on the news about him or about any of the murders he supposedly did. When I graduate from high school I move to Gotham City, intent on going to college.
See? It didn't fuck me up. I didn't have some atrocious childhood after getting attacked like that. I wasn't suddenly crazy or anything. I probably got made fun of a lot more than the average kid, but that's it.
So I move to Gotham city and I see what it's like here, how fucked up it is, and then it hits me. All the stuff that guy said: it's true. There's no justice. There's no order in the "Established Order." There's some psychopath running around cutting up kids' faces because he enjoys it, and no one does a fucking thing.
And you know what? Good for him. I surround myself with people like him now. They're real, they don't pretend. They don't sit at home on their fat asses watching true crime documentaries pretending to be sickened by guys like my businessman. Courts and laws and jurisdiction and subpoenas and fairness -- what a laugh.