A Userguide To Understanding Joker

Question 3: Who Was He Before He Was The Joker?

But on the inside, he was a heavy gambler with a large debt to the wrong people. He had two children in European boarding schools. A son, which was named after him. He was seventeen at the time, merely three years younger than myself. And he had an adopted daughter who was sixteen. She was know to be quite the problem child. Then, aside from two large school tuitions, he had a mistress that he put up in a penthouse, had a younger second wife who loved to shop, and had steep alimony payments to my mother. So I'm sure you can see why he was dumb enough to take the mobs money. Money he knew he couldn't pay back. Ah, desperation, am I right?

As I stood over my father's bleeding body, I formally introduced myself as Jack Napier. A name with no tie to his because it was literally drawn from at hat at the orphanage. I explained how I was his son. I expected blabbering and pleading for mercy, since he was my father. Or perhaps endless explanations to make sense of his lack of a role in my life. But what I got from him was a laugh. Here I was, the brain damaged son he threw away and forgot about, bringing down on him his final judgement. He found it befitting that he brought me into this world, and I was taking him out of it. The son of a bitch didn't even apologize. So I was happy to stand there and watch him die slowly.

After that I took it upon myself to pay dear old mom a visit, late one night. I held a knife to her throat as I regaled her with my tale. From her I got the crying and begging, and endless explanations. But it meant nothing. It didn't take it all back. It didn't fix a fucking thing. But as I slit her throat she said my name, Jack. A name I had not told her. So I knew, she had known I was alive and well for all these years. She knew the kind of life I had had because of their absence, and she did nothing. To me, that was worse than just walking away and forgetting about me.

So that made me track down my dear younger brother. Yeah, I took away his parents, but it wasn't enough. He had the life I was supposed to have had. A life that honestly, wasn't all that dissimilar from the one I had led. Like me, he was put away somewhere and forgotten about. However, he had the privaledge of having a name with clout. He had old money for a security blanket. And it should have been mine. So I cut him up, a small piece at a time, until he just bled out.

Catharsis is defined as the process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions. Which means the death of my parents and my brother should have made me feel better. But it still just wasn't enough. Truth is, there was no catharsis for the  betrayal I felt. Still, I sought to sate it by going after the adopted sister as well. But when I reached her boarding school, I found out she had ran away and been unheard from for months.

So I didn't invest any energy into finding her. Technically, we weren't really related, so why bust my balls looking for her? I just gave up and sort of lost interest. Or maybe I was busy with working myself up the mob ladder? Who knows, life went on. But one day, out of nowhere, she found me. It was a chance meeting of course, she had no idea who I was. Nor did I know who she was on that first meeting.

Ironically enough, I asked her out. We actually dated several times before I found out who she was. We were having dinner in a fancy restaurant when she told me how her family had been murdered. She told me all the dirt about dear old mom and dad and baby bro. She hated them more than I did. I remember my hand going to my gun under the table. I had it cocked and aimed right for her stomach. But as I sat there looking at her my chest started to swell. My hands shook. And I stopped breathing. I couldn't kill her because I had fallen in love with her. She was so much like me. We loved and hated all the same things. And I never felt happier than I did in her presence.

So I married her. And we were truly happy. I never saw any reason to tell her who I really was. As I mentioned, she wasn't really my sister. So why ruin our domestic bliss? And it truly was bliss. It was perfect. So perfect that you lie awake at night and wonder when the bottom is going to fall out. But it didn't. Well, not right away.

After a few years she told me that we were going to have a baby. I was so happy. So as a dutiful husband and proud father to be, I decided to put together my own crew and pull off a robbery. A robbery that I didn't ask the mobs permission to pull. Something that I was expected to do because they owned me. And for me to pull my own job, I would have to pay them a tribute. Because that's just how it is. But that tribute would have been too steep for me to get a better place for my growing family.

So I posed as the Red Hood. The Red Hood wasn't a person, you see. Well, wasn't just one person. The Red Hood had been many people. Many criminals. Criminals hidden beneath a Red Hood of anonymity. It was the wool pulled over on the cops. Maybe I was crazy, or maybe I was desperate, either way, I really thought I could get away with it. That the mob would never be none the wiser about my involvement. But I was wrong.

It only took them thirty two hours to break down my door, firing machine guns at my wife and I in our bed. Coroner's report said my wife was shot twenty seven times, my child growing inside of her, a son, was shot twice. It was ultimately a shot through the heart that killed her. You know how many times I was shot? Not one. Because you see, I wasn't their target, she was. The mob still saw a use for me. Her death was my punishment for my defiance. Because what better way is there to hurt someone than taking away what means the most to them?

The job I pulled as the Red Hood had raked in enough cash that it gave the mob an idea for a similar heist. And who do you think they wanted to do it? Yep, me. Think of it as an opportunity I was supposed to be thankful for. It was my redemption and get out of death free card. Because they owned me and I didn't actually have a say in the matter.

So, as expected, I graciously took the job. But I didn't have any intention of it ending in a win for the mob. I was done with the five families the second they took my wife from me. They just didn't know that yet. My plan was to bungle the job, kill all the guys on my crew, take the money and run. But it didn't exactly work out that way. Instead the Batman showed up, and in the frenzy I fell into that proverbial vat of chemicals which gave birth to the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime.

I'd be lying if I said it wasn't painful. It was extremely painful. And the chemicals effects linger in me to this day. They changed me forever. Not just physically. They did things to my sanity. Well, partially. The rest was done through losing the only person I ever loved. Would ever love. Because I learned the hard way, love is a weakness and a liability.

I should have disappeared. I should have just left Gotham, bleached white, but somehow still alive. But for what? I had no reason to live. Nothing to carry on for. Yeah, I was still young, I could have started over. But I was too pissed off. And I was vengeful. I wanted to chase a catharsis I knew was unreachable. Because I wanted to unleash the anger I harbored inside. And my target was the mob. They started a war and I finished it.

And when I had killed every last one of the bosses and all of their right hand guys, I became the last man standing. Meaning it all became mine. My city. And it has stayed that way every day since. For years I saw my power to control, manipulate, and hurt people as my only only reason for living. But then Bruce took a notice and interest in me.

I've made it my life's mission to break him. Maybe literally, but I do mean more metaphorically. As in break his spirit. You see, Bruce is a dreamer. He thinks there's good in everyone, even if it's the tiniest amount. He also believes with all of his heart that there is justice in the world. And he goes out, night after night, risking his life to make Gotham like a 50's Norman Rockwell painting. And they say I'm the dillusional one? Ha ha Haaaaa!

So there you have it. That's the truth. That's who I was, and how I became this. I don't guess I need to tell you that if you breathe a word of this, I'll have to fucking kill you? Yeah, I didn't think so.

Hahahaha!