capencowl2020 | Letters from George

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Letters from George

WHO: George Tilyou, Jonathan Crane, Bruce Wayne, and Jane Porter
WHERE: Mailed to various secret locations.
WHEN: Throughout the second half of January.
WHAT: Secret letters sent between George and a few of his pals.
WARNINGS: Standard Joker warnings: language, violence, strangeness, etc.
NOTES: George's letters are all handwritten, and the penmanship is noticeably (and deliberately) different than it was when he was the Joker. The letters still look like they were written by a madman, though: there's too much pressure on certain penstrokes, the words wobble across the page and fluctuate in size, etc.

To Jonathan:

J.,

Three days ago, I met a woman on the beach. She said her name was Candace. She also said she’d tell me my fortune in exchange for a can of tuna fish, which I thought sounded fair. Now, obviously I had no use for my fortune (having already lived it and read all the spoilers besides), so: I paid one can of the chicken of the sea to hear yours instead. Would you like to know what she said?

Here, my gift to you:

Candace says you are to have a house full of parakeets, or possibly parrots, but probably not both. I asked if perhaps she meant crows, or grackles even, and she said anything was possible. She also said that you could use new socks, and that she has a sister who knits very nice ones if you’re interested. If you’re interested in the sister, that is—this sister apparently doesn’t knit socks for just anyone. I don’t know if you’re in the market for a woman or not, but if you are, Candace was relatively attractive and so presumably the odds are in your favor that the sister is, too. I can’t recall her name, and I don’t know her stance on grackles.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about fireworks, about that fusion of art and violence and fun. I miss that; I miss them; I miss you. If I bought a couple dozen, think you’d come and set them off with me? It’s not the same with just R., and I want your niece to learn to do it properly. Why don’t you come out for a few days? Take it easy, have some fun. Thursday, maybe, but you know we’re always flexible.

If you come, bring me that book you were talking about last time. Can’t recall the name of that, either, but you know the one I mean. The one with the train.

Question: How are you set for socks? I’m starting to think I’ve been had.

GT

To Bruce:

Dearest Bruce, our man on the loose,

How’s the fair city been treating you? The papers here all lie, but then again, don’t they always?

At least, I hope they’re lying. Funny, isn’t it, when you can no longer tell the difference? I don’t read them every day, not anymore, but when I do, I have to play that same old game as before: true, or baloney? I used to think I could call them, land every shot, but now, now, no, I’m not so sure. I look for your name, always, of course. They say it less than they used to. I tell myself this is good. That old saw, right? No news…

Speaking of old things, I caught a beautiful sea Robin yesterday. Seems odd to find one here now—he should be feeling a bit more tropical now, surely, getting that itch for a piña colada, a little sangria in the sun. He was lovely, though, or at least as lovely as they ever are. Such fins! Such poisons! How do they know it’s time to go, do you think? And what kept this one lingering in the cold, when all his friends had swum on to warmer waters?

I released him. If you’re wondering. Sea Robins never w(h)et my appetite the way others do. Or maybe I’m just losing my tastes altogether.

Your goddaughter, however, eats everything. A ravenous little beast! She grows so quickly, Bruce: a weed, a tiger, a tumor in my brain. My life devolves into cliché, but it’s true: they do grow fast, faster than seems possible even to my mind, which I had thought could deem anything possible, at least once. In no time at all, she’ll be grown and gone, the arrow flung from the bow or some such, I don’t know. Is that how you felt, once upon?

I’ve enclosed a portrait of you (her work, of course!). Please note the scowl. I think she captured it quite well, that slash of a mouth of yours. Does it still look like that, I wonder? Or has retirement softened the (Thin Blue) line? Send us a new picture when you have time. Her references are looking dated.

R. asks me often when you will come to see us in person. I never tell her the truth. The more things change, hm?

I thought it would end quickly, you know: that final boom, that last struggle. A laugh to ride out on. But it doesn’t. That’s the second greatest joke of them all: it happens very quietly, and it takes a very long time.

Kiss the city for me.

XOXOXXX
GT

To Jane:

Ms. Tierney,

Listen: keep sending me lousy hamsters, and I’m going to stop agreeing to pet-sit. This last one peed on everything! Well, metaphorically speaking (although its shedding was quite literal). An awful lot of noise and an awful lot of fuss, too: on that damn wheel all night long, and never stopped squeaking. Screen them better, or I’ll make myself a hamster coat. I’m a pet lover like anyone else, believe me, but every man’s got a breaking point.

Best regards,
G.

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[The entirety of the letter is a mess. Topics are woven into topics, stitched together in a Frankenstein manner by a Joker attempting to cling to the idea of normality. While the contents are unpredictable, the language isn't, and that gives him room to respond.]

Oh, I would be delighted! Have you seen the weather up here? Dreadful. Makes a man want to injure someone. Not that I consider it a duty to do so. How are you for Mondays?

[ George, who thought his letter was perfectly coherent, is a little disappointed not to be thanked for the fortune. But only a little. The pleasure of being able to anticipate Crane's visit more than makes up for it.

He's already thinking about which fireworks he'll get. Oh, this'll be a blast! He literally rubs his hands together, praying mantis-like, before sitting down to respond. ]

Mondays are the seventh-finest day of the week. Sounds lovely. Sold!

And yes, yes, weather has become an interest of mine, you know. All those fronts tangling, fighting, spitting. Wonderful stuff.

Shall I invite Candace and her sister to join us for supper one night? (If I can find her. You know psychics: tricksy.) Or perhaps someone else? A little beach fling or two and I promise, you'll forget all about the cold.

I'm trying to take you mind off how people make you worse. More cooks in the kitchen only spoil the broth, so they say. You know how I feel about uninvited company. I don't think it's very amusing to have strangers at a family visit, you understand?

[And when he says family, he knows Joker knows what he means.]

[ One phrase in there lodges in his mind like a fly stuck to flypaper, buzzing and wriggling: people make you worse. What the devil does that mean? Worse than what? Worse by what metric?

He loves people. Would be surrounded by them all the time if he could be. He loves their chatter, their stink, the contagious roar of their joys and their fears and their wants. People don't make him worse. So why does this idea keep coming up? Ronnie doesn't want him bringing Jonathan home, Jonathan doesn't want him bringing random women home. What gives?

For fuck's sake, he was just trying to get the guy laid...

He indulges in a cigarette while he writes his next response, taking his time with this one. ]

Yes, I know your feelings on the uninvited. Which is why I thought, you know, let's invite them! Make it legit.

You should relax a little, oh my nearest and dearest. Enjoy the pleasures the world has to offer you! If you don't like psychics' sisters, no matter. We'll find you someone else. (Something else, perhaps? I won't judge.)

But here, listen, I'm a reasonable man and I can compromise. [ He snickers while he writes that one, then goes back and adds a few underlines beneath reasonable. ] Monday night, Tuesday night, these are for family. [ Because, yes, that message came through loud and clear. ] Wednesday night, we'll have ourselves a BBQ and play mix-and-mingle. Thursday night... Well, who knows?

That's fair; you can't say that's not fair.

Oh, and speaking of fair, have a warning: we repainted the guest room, and I let my Little Queen choose the colors. Bring your sunglasses! She's certain you'll love it, but ooh, my, it is intense.

See you Monday.

[The days race and the beginning of the week puts the world back on balance. Nothing puts it nearly so on-kilter as the vision of a scarecrow in a field, arms folded, bags on the ground, eyes glancing here and there. The sight does not lose its irony and a sudden wind seems to knock him off balance. He stands rooted to the spot and let himself look like something of a shock.

His spot is near the window of a house built alone in the sticks. Whether he has chosen it deliberately is inconsequential; knock, knock, he's here.]

[ He doesn't see his visitor at first. George is in the living room with his feet up, skimming the latest offerings of 'Faster Than a Speeding Bulletin' and muttering to himself about what he reads. It's not that he's forgotten Jonathan might be coming. It's just that, at the moment, he happens to be distracted. ]

Journalism! Not hardly. These fools'll believe anything...

Fake... Fake...

[ It's actually not that bad, but he enjoys hunting for the weak points, of telling himself that he could have certainly done better, if only he'd felt like it. ]

Ooh, and if that's a real photo, I'll eat my own beach hat! Ha.

Sloppy... Rubbish, rubbish, slop...

[ Then that gust of wind comes along, making something tip in a part of his peripheral vision that is not supposed to have anything tippable. George stops his muttering and sets his 'Bulletin' aside at once, his eyes narrowing at the window.

He's always known that someday, They might find him. He was the Joker; he runs a safehouse; he will never be truly free until he's dead. And for a split second, on this quiet, windy Monday, his irrational amygdala screams that it's happened: They're here. Perversely, a sense of relief washes over him.

Then the Something outside his window resolves itself into the shape of a man he recognizes, then into a joke, and ah, Jonathan, Jonathan! George bursts into laughter, that unmistakable Joker laugh that he's never been able to fully smother, firing off in rapid staccato like a machine gun in his throat.

This is why he adores the man! Talk about making an entrance...

He's at the door in a flash, the 'Bulletin' forgotten as he rushes to flip the locks. He's still laughing as he steps onto the porch, and manages to get it in check only when he's throwing his arms wide in greeting, his smile ear-to-ear. ]

Well, well, well! Look what the wind blew in today, Ma!

[ He bounds down the steps and crosses the yard in long, loping strides. ]

And—upon my word! Could it be? This one's even got a brain! Oh, that old wizard's done right by me, I tell you what.

[ He reaches for him, intending to pull Jonathan into the sort of unabashedly warm and welcoming hug two brothers might offer one another upon returning from war. ]

So glad you made it. My god, I have missed you.

[The door opens suddenly and some words blow out at Jonathan - look, brain, right - together with the man welcoming him in from the cold. It was not an unusual occurrence to see him looking aloof and stranded within a crowd; awkward and quiet while selecting a familiar set of hellos and farewells. He doesn't struggle when the welcoming arm comes his way, though he does grasp his hands. The only sound he makes is to breathe for space while patting Joker's shoulder.]

I hear that.

[For a moment, he looks like he's going to blow over. Warm, confident displays aren't his style.]

Sorry for the hold-up. Traffic was murder.

[ That's quite all right: George has more than enough warmth and confidence for both of them these days. He's still beaming when he finally ends the hug and pulls back, and he keeps one hand on Jonathan's arm for an extra moment, as if to ensure that the man can't just blink out of existence. ]

Oh, I've no doubt! [ The chuckle that follows contains a hint of the person he used to be, too, a bit of dark amusement that says he fully appreciates the joke...and understands it may not have been said entirely in jest. ] But you emerged triumphant in the end. As per usual!

[ Reluctantly, he lets go of Jonathan's arm, but only so that he can pick up two of the bags. ]

Let's get you on up to the house. [ He's already leading them back the way he came, eager to get his friend inside and comfortable. ] Got a nice big pot of chili going—warm you right up. This wind's colder than a snowgirl's tit.

[Jonathan continues to watch from behind, keeping an eye out for anything untoward or unusual. Some sights jump out at him - crows, corn, prints in the soil - but he does not shrink as they make tracks towards the front door. His lips press thin at the joke; it's one he doesn't get.]

I'll take your word for it. Nice home you've got here.

[ For some people, having the Scarecrow following along behind them would quite literally be the stuff of nightmares. For George, however, it brings a deep sense of peace, of everything being exactly as it should be. He gets lonely out here, on what feels sometimes like the edge of the world. Having an old friend come to stay helps keep those wolves at bay.

He knows Ronnie's not exactly thrilled about this visit, of course, but she'll get over it. And little Lucy, why, she'll be ecstatic! Nothing beats a visit from Uncle Johnny. ]

Thank you. [ Pride comes through loud and clear in his voice: it is a nice home, and he and Ronnie have worked hard to make it so. ] It'll feel a lot nicer now that you're here, too, I can tell you that. Needs that egghead touch!

[ The moment they're through the front door, George's beloved bichon frise comes bounding into the living room. The dog takes one look at Crane and stops in its tracks. Its fluffy white hackles rise, and it bares its tiny teeth with a growl. ]

Sno-Cone! [ George sets the bags down and begins locking the heavy front door behind them. ] Don't make Daddy kick you, now. Where are your manners?

[ Sno-Cone keeps his eyes on Jonathan and emits a short series of high, sharp barks before offering up another growl. ]

[Crane looks down and regards the dog with a wary eye. He then focuses his curiosity on nitpicking the decoration inside the home and treats the mutt like it doesn't exist. Despite his past history with dogs - the two of them have never gotten along - he has the good grace to leave this one to its own slovenly behaviour. The rapport and camaraderie between a man and his dog was never something he had experienced.

Joker treats it the way any master might. With corrective warnings and violence, and treats for good behaviour. In fact, he even talks to it. Wears the sheep's clothing of a dog-loving family man, too. Here he is, without makeup or lipstick, in dinner trousers and a jacket, treating it like a normal member of the family while the Scarecrow looks ever the deviant. It's an odd joke.

A funny one, even. And as it trails on he fishes inside his pockets for his wallet. Takes out a twenty and offers it over.]

I won't let it be said I'm a bad uncle. Buy her something nice.

[He's talking about Lucy, of course. Does he care if Joker mistakes it as treats for the hound? No. He knows it. George know it. Ronnie knows it. But it's the polite thing to do.]

[ Since Sno-Cone shows no intention of calming down on his own, George scoops him up and holds the wriggling little beastie to his chest. ] Shh, shh, there's a good boy, now. You don't need to bite Uncle Johnny, no, you don't...

[ Then he sees that Jonathan's offering him a twenty, and his expression changes into one of mild offense. He doesn't need or want the man's money! For heaven's sake...

He dismisses the offer with a flip of a hand. ] Oh, put that away. In my house for thirty seconds, and already trying to bribe people! You'll be the favorite in no time if I start allowing that. [ He pushes a humorous tone into the words, hoping to make light of it, like if he just dismisses the whole thing then it will never have happened at all.

Still carrying the dog, George turns and heads toward the kitchen. ] Let's see about that chili, hm? And you can catch me up on all the gossip I've been missing. [ Because there's no way he believes that a silly thing like going into hiding could keep Jonathan from learning secrets. ]

[ the letter is typed, impersonal for a reason, but enclosed is a a picture. ]

George,

The city is the same as always, just colder. I can feel the chill coming on when my knee starts to bother me, like some sort of broken weather vane. The lines on my face these days have only deepened, but you can tell Lucy that it's because I've been smiling more.

Truth and lies aren't so easy anymore, are they? There aren't reporters like Lois Lane these days, just propagandists looking to promote and publicize. There's a blog out there you might like to check out called 'Faster Than a Speeding Bulletin.' Clever name, don't you think?

It might interest you to know that there's not much information on the migration patterns of Northern Sea Robins. Maybe it just felt like keeping you company, and who knows, maybe you'll see it again when it starts to get warmer. Maybe Lucy will draw one for me the next time it stops by. Tell her thank you for the picture, will you? She's getting very talented, though children are always a surprise. You'll feel pangs of loneliness without their voice and warmth to fill the room, but it'll always be offset by how proud you are of them that they've gone to find themselves in a world outside of the one they knew and loved.

And I think you're wrong, George. It doesn't end with a bang or a whimper. It never ends.

Just look at her smile and you'll see that I'm right.

Bruce

[ For several days, the photo stays in his shirt pocket, always with him, to be taken out and used as company whenever he's alone. Together, George and photo-Bruce chat about the weather, politics, the Stooges. They watch the tide come in. They attempt to catch the Sea Robin, and laugh together when they fail.

He never looks at the top half of Bruce's face.

On the fourth day, he says his goodbyes and gently, lovingly, gives the photo to Lucy. She insists that they tape it up next to her "big girl bed," so that Bruce will never miss out on storytime.

His response arrives several days after that, and includes a new drawing. In this one, a trenchcoat-wearing Bruce appears to be riding some sort of rainbow-colored four-legged mammal with tiny legs. ]

Dearest Bruce,

Thank you for the photo. She cherishes it already. Please find enclosed the young artist's rendering of yourself riding into battle atop a space otter.

Ah, yes, the zine scene, now available anywhere and everywhere ideas are sold. Amazing, that they haven't gotten black-bagged yet. Though would we really know if they had? And wouldn't that be something! A whole team of Stepford faux-rebels, government programmed, pretending to feed us stories of rebellion so we won't hear the real ones? My evidence: that graffiti artist is quite tame.

You know, this is the problem with rebellions. A fundamental lack of style! Need the panache to sell the thing. Nobody wants to buy tawdry desperation. You've known that from the get-go, of course. All those shadows. Negative space incarnate! Very powerful. Perhaps you could coach them.

No sign of the Robin. I think maybe he's flown. Finned. Finito. Maybe you're right—maybe he'll come again. I'd like that.

I always thought a smile would suit you. Glad you've found one that fits. Though that knee, that knee... Don't know how you do it, but that's par, hm? A great magician never tells.

Would you permit me to ask you something personal? I hope you won't mind, but I wonder: Do you ever miss it? The world that was. The you that was. I think I don't, but then sometimes... Sometimes, the wind comes in off the sea just right, late at night, redolent of other, deeper waters. And I wonder.

GT

[The response appears to have been written on a typewriter, though the print is very neat. The signature at the bottom is a swirling, looping thing that barely looks like a name.]

My dear G.

Are you quite sure you sent your complaint to the correct person? I have no recollection at all of sending you any hamsters. I imagine that is the kind of distraction you could well do without.

Do take your time in clarifying. You must be terribly busy.

Yours affectionately,
J.

[ He stares at her response, his brow furrowing. Did she not understand his (admittedly slapdash) code? Did she, perhaps, think he was talking about actual hamsters? Or is this just her way of saying, "If you had a problem with any of your visitors, surely they weren't the ones I sent"?

He decides to assume the latter. ]

Dear Ms. Tierney,

Quite sure they were your hamsters. A male (large, ruddy) and a female (small, squeaky). Thoroughly enamored with one another, as I believe my last letter made plain, and thoroughly neglectful when it came to shutting their cage door during their special moments together.

Please understand: I'm always glad to be of assistance to your furry friends. I'd just prefer if you were a bit more selective with them, that's all.

Send me a nice golden retriever or something next time, why don't you? Something capable of understanding boundaries.

Or send yourself for once, if you like. There's always room at the table for one more, especially if she comes without pesky critters.

We have margaritas.

Warmly,
G.

[He's quite correct. No one she has sent his way would have made that kind of problem for him... surely...

Knowing his standards, she's quite careful of who she points in his direction. Hamsters and rabbits are to be avoided.]

My dear G,

I can only apologise for the inconvenience caused, but I'm quite sure that the troublesome pair were not mine. I shall endeavour to find out who sent such a disruptive problem your way and advise them to direct their next set of overly amorous critters to somebody else... without attaching my name to it (the audacity!).

I'm sure that you know I would never knowingly send you any animals that would impinge on your strict boundaries so brazenly.

But you do make a tempting offer. I have some fond memories of your margaritas. I should have some time in a week or so to make a visit, if the timing suits.

Alone, of course.

Yours affectionately,
J.

Dearest Ms. T.,

For you, the timing always suits. Can't imagine a day that wouldn't be brightened by your company.

The girls will be delighted to see you as well. Fair warning: my little queen has been itching for fresh company at our tea parties, and will certainly attempt to recruit you. If you come, be prepared to spend at least ten minutes sipping imaginary Lady Grey with Toby the Race Car, Herbert the Ballerina, and an invisible duck called Rose. You might also bring a suitable hat.

Oh — and my apologies, by the way, for ever questioning your screening process. I should know by now that you only foster the most charming of creatures, no doubt because you are one yourself.

See you soon,
G.

My dear G.

You flatter me, as always.

I'd be more than delighted to attend a tea party, and have more than enough suitable hats for such a grand event. I even have a very special gift for her majesty.

I'll see you very soon indeed!

Yours affectionately,
J.

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Letters from George

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you actually did it 😂

ikr?

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