The scars? What, you want my Joker story? Ha, I get asked about them so much I usually do just make up some crap to get people to go away. Since we’ve got time and you seem to be comfortable, sure, why not. Hmm, where do I start? Life before I took the job? The interview? The preparations, maybe? No, I think I’ll just skip to where it started to get interesting.
I was on the roof of the museum, crouching next to the service shaft’s grate, eyeing the padlock. From my position I could have turned around and had a great view of Central Park, but instead I was focused on the job at hand. I’m not the kind of guy who stops to take in a view, anyway. Unless, of course, it involves a killer set of legs.
The lock looked pretty new. It was your standard modular mechanism with pin tumblers. The stainless steel body and shackle were both unmarked and shiny, but I thought it must have been used a lot, because there were a lot of scratch marks on the face. In any case, I jabbed my picks in, and sprung it open in a few seconds. After wriggling inside I swung the gate closed behind me and left the padlock just inside the door, so it could be replaced when I made my escape. Leaving the maintenance room five minutes later, I was ready for my date with the guard patrols.
Ironically enough, it ended up being like most of my dates. There was a lot of waiting, feeling nervous, awkward silences, and it was rather anticlimactic. In fact, I never even caught sight of a single one of the bastards. To be honest it surprised me – it seemed as though Jenkins’ information was solid.
After reaching the storage area in the bowels of the museum, I pulled out the device Jenkins had given me that morning. I simply plugged in the jack to the little hole in the side of the keypad, it flashed and beeped, then the door unlocked with a click. It was ludicrously easy. This was when Jenkins’ offer of $10,000 for one night’s work began to seem waaay too generous. Shit, he could have done it himself, it was that simple.
I mean, a freakin’ museum has only a padlock on a grate, and some security people walking around? C’mon, there should have been motion sensing alarms for multiple sectors, and all sorts of other shit. The place should have been locked up as tight as Fort Knox. I knew that Jenkins’ information was good, but I started to think he may have paid his informant to leave off the internal alarms as well.
Shaking off those thoughts, I slipped in and closed the door, and searched around the dark little storeroom with my pocket flashlight. After a few minutes I found what I had come for sitting on top of a pile of ancient-looking junk. I compared it to the photo Jenkins had given me, and was satisfied it was the right thing. It didn’t look too special, just a little box with one of those cool-looking Egyptian eyes on it.
I picked it up, wrapped it in some bubble wrap, and was putting it in my backpack when I heard a beep and a click, and the door swung open.
In that instant, the flight or fight instinct kicked in. Unfortunately there was only the one way out, so fight was the only option, and my instinct screamed that to my body. I was already leaping at the intruder when I actually took in his appearance. It wasn’t one of the patrols, but someone dressed in black, holding a little electronic device with a dangling jack.
When I crashed into him, slamming both of us into the doorjamb, a single thought flashed through my mind, ‘hmmm, that’s strange.’ As we both crumpled to the ground in a tangled heap, he let out a strained, guttural groan.
I rolled away, zipped up my pack, then slung it onto my back as I stood. The other guy was slow to move, and he was clutching his middle. I’m pretty sure I winded him when my shoulder sandwiched his guts to the doorframe. I contemplated knocking him out with a swift kick to the head, but instead opted to just walk, leaving him writhing on the floor of the storeroom moaning pathetically.
*
Backtracking towards the maintenance area, I managed to avoid the guard patrols again. However one hallway away from the maintenance room, I stopped dead in my tracks. It suddenly occurred to me that the guy I had met in the storeroom, let’s call him Winded, was carrying the exact same equipment as I was. Of all the places to break into in the city, he had come to the same museum, and opened the same damn door, with the same tech. Either Jenkins really wanted the Egyptian thingy and was hedging his bets, or it was some kind of set-up. They were the only two explanations I could come up with, and both pissed me off. I was going to have to have a little word with Jenkins.
It was only those thoughts that made me stop in front of a window, and pause long enough to look through it as I mulled everything over. Long enough for me to see the hideous sight of three cop cars, the occupants jumping out and readying their weapons.
‘Fuuuuuck,’ I growled, twisting back towards the maintenance room and my exit.
Just in time to see another guy fully decked in black, his bald head flashing the museums overhead lights like a strobe, swinging the maintenance door open.
I swear, that moment was the first time in my entire life that I thought that a God existed. That was the only way it could have happened – if some divine, sadistic entity was twisting my fate so he could have a good laugh. I know he’s not technically a God, but I pictured Buddha; large, round and always smiling like a Cheshire cat. Even if he wasn’t doing anything himself, surely he was an agent of the deity, and that patented grin was him enjoying some petty human’s misery.
In my mind the image of Buddha’s face suddenly superimposed over Jenkins’, when he smiled his own cheesy grin as he shook my hand to seal the deal. Right then and there, I wanted to wipe that smile off both of their faces, violently.
Luckily I pulled myself back to the situation, and I started weighing up my options. I could have tried to rush the new guy, who I now officially dub Skinhead, like I rushed Winded. It might have worked, but it was more likely not to. Mainly because there was a lot more ground to cover than in the tight confines of the storeroom. That, and I had been lucky the first time.
The flight or fight instinct reared its head again, and let the rest of me know that this time there was an option to flee. If it was a set-up, there would be someone waiting up on the roof anyway, so trying to tussle with the newcomer and leave the same way he and I came in through was probably not a good idea. The museum was a big place though. If I found a good enough spot, I thought the cops would pick up the other guys, and I would be able to slip out eventually.
It would be tricky, but it was the smartest play. I dropped into the shadows by the window before Skinhead could see me. He moved along the wall from the maintenance room, and readied himself to peer into the next corridor.
As he did, one of the security guards came around the corner at the other end of the hall. The guard stopped and let out a squeal when he saw a dude all dressed in black, about 60 feet away.
He quickly recovered from his shock, snapping up his taser and yelling, “Hey you, don’t move!”
Skinhead turned, and I saw that he was holding a handgun, some kind of semiautomatic. The security guy squeezed his trigger as his eyes registered the weapon. Well, I’m pretty sure he did it as soon as he saw the weapon, anyway. I don’t think they are allowed to shoot at someone who has a finger on the trigger of a gun. Seems pretty obvious, with the whole jerking when electrocuted thing, but hey, I suppose if you see a dude with a gun you’d probably just want to drop the fucker, right?
The dart sped from the taser. I couldn’t believe it, I thought tasers had a range of maybe 15 yards, and the rods they shot were wired to the taser. Instead, the taser’s dart crunched into Skinhead’s chest, a moment after he finished his turn from the corridor to face the guard behind him.
The dart’s tiny explosive charge sent several needle-like electrodes into Skinhead’s flesh, and squeezed some piezoelectric material, so that 30,000 volts sizzled out. Yes, I didn’t know that at the time, and surfed the net to find out how the thing worked. It was that freaking cool.
Skinhead’s teeth clamped together and his body convulsed crazily, sending his hand jerking up and curling all of his fingers, including the one on the trigger of his pistol. The gun bucked, and the bullet rocketed straight into the security guard’s neck, blowing a gory mess onto the display behind him.
It was all over so quickly. One second two guys were going about their business, the next, one is dead and the other is foaming at the mouth, sliding down the wall to the floor. Fuck me. I got my wits about me quickly though, and ran down the hall away from the two downed men.
*
As I ran, I saw a sign proclaiming that the Native American gallery was ahead. Luckily, I hadn’t come across one of the cops yet. They were probably making their way through the maze of long corridors, but I knew it wouldn’t be long until more came and covered all the exits. I had to find another way out, fast.
I reached the gallery and began to assess my options. Being on the second level of the building, I could either go up to the roof, back down to the first floor, or hope for a fire escape from the floor I was on. I still suspected that going up was a bad idea, so that option was out. I spun around, noting all the little signs dangling from the roof, pointing every which way. The dinosaur area, the taxidermy department, the civil war section. One sign, pointing to the door on the right of where I came in, said: Lobby. There was no way I was going that way. I was pretty sure that’s where I’d be most likely to meet a cop or another guard.
I gazed at the artefacts around me, hoping to get some inspiration. One case held a pair of Tomahawks, as well as some other trinkets. They looked deadly, and really cool. Another display held a feathered headdress, for a chief or something, I guess. Not so cool. The artefacts didn’t give me any inspiration whatsoever. In fact, the sightseeing was simply wasting time, and I didn’t have any. So I began an Eenie-Meenie-Minie-Mo between the door on the left, and the one straight ahead.
Out of nowhere I heard a rubber-on-tile squeak. I whipped around to see Winded charge into the room from behind me, clutching a nasty looking curved sword that had jewels glistening on the hilt. What the fuck, right?
“Give me the box!” He screamed, slashing the blade at my gut.
I jumped backwards and slammed straight into a display case. It toppled and shattered, sending Geronimo’s feather hat sliding away, with a dusting of glittery glass specks. If you hadn’t noticed, I like shiny things. There were also some larger shards of glass and while they weren’t shiny, they sure looked sharp.
As Winded stepped forward, I grabbed a handful of small shards and threw them in his general direction. While the glove I wore protected my hand, it, coupled with my awkward position on the floor, made for a terrible throw. Still, seeing the action he tried to protect his face, and stopped his forward progress.
As I scrambled on my hands and knees towards the Tomahawk display case, the shards pattered pathetically against his coat, and he once again focused on me. The fool was really pissed off. I knew that if I tried to give him the damn eye-box, he probably would have stuck me with the expensive and vicious looking sword anyway. I needed to go on the offensive, or maybe even just slow him down a bit so I could get some distance.
Reaching the case I wanted, I sprung up onto my feet, leaning backwards against the case. I faced him, then looked at the door to each side of me, feigning indecision and confusion. He took the bait and lunged forward, arcing the blade down to bite deep into my left shoulder. As soon as he was committed to the strike I dropped straight to the floor, smacking down onto my back.
The blade crunched into the glass box above the wooden case, sending wickedly sharp shards cart-wheeling in all directions. I shielded my face with my hands as the blade continued on its course, Winded not able to fight inertia.
It thudded into the wood, destroying most of the case, and sending the contents clattering down around me. The wood was not thick, but the parts of the broken case bent together in a jumble, snagging the blade, and he had to work it a bit to get it free.
I used the slim opportunity to pick up the closest Tomahawk, and hacked at the side of his left knee. The mix of squishing, thudding and cracking was brutal. It put movie sound effects to shame, let me tell you. He instantly howled and released his grip on the sword, using both hands to clutch at his leg.
I kicked out with all my strength, punching both feet into his right, uninjured, knee. It flew out from under him, and for an instant he seemed fine. Then as his body weight adjusted, all of it resting on his left leg, I swear I could see the blood drain straight from his face and spurt out of his mangled knee.
He crumpled, the knee bent at a grotesque angle. I can’t remember if he even screamed with the kick and subsequent topple, or if the sheer absurdity of getting a Tomahawk in the knee shocked him so much that he was dull to the pain that followed. From the way he went limp, it looked like he passed out. I didn’t really care; I had only one thing on my mind - getting the hell out of there.
*
As I went to get up, I saw that my left hand had been impaled by a shard as I went for the Tomahawk, and was beginning to drip blood onto the carpet. I removed it and shoved it into one of my pockets, then clutched my hand to my belly to try and stop the bleeding. I snapped up the other Tomahawk with my right, and hacked away at the section of carpet that my blood had touched. No way was I going to give them that kind of evidence. Once I gouged it out, I pocketed the little scrap of carpet too.
Before I could even think about choosing which way to go again, one of the cops leapt around the doorframe, his pistol clutched in both hands, pointing straight out at chest height.
He caught sight of Winded (well, should probably call him Mangled now) first, his gun slanting down.
“What the hell?” He said.
He didn’t even see me as I threw the Tomahawk at him in a looping diagonal overhand. It didn’t spin gracefully end over end as I had imagined, but did a single half-turn, so that the thick end of the shaft where the head was attached smacked into the cop’s chest.
He dropped the gun, probably half because I surprised the shit out of him, and half because it gave him a hefty whack. I mean, he probably had the same instinct to protect the injury as Mangled had with the knee. I wasn’t going to complain, the dumbass dropped his gun, for whatever reason.
I immediately pounced up and closed the distance, drove my knee into his stomach, then smashed my elbow up into his jaw in a beautiful uppercut. He slumped to the ground, unconscious.
I resorted to doing an Eenie-Meenie-Minie-Mo to decide my exit earlier, so I continued, finishing on the left door, and dashed out.
*
As it turned out, I’m a pro at the rhyming, racist, and childish method of decision making. After negotiating a couple of corridors I quickly came to a door with one of those push-bar things across it, and above said door; a green exit sign. It was a beautiful sight. I sprinted to it, dropping my shoulder and crashing into it at full speed. The doors flapped open and crashed into the side of the building, and I smelt the cool, sweet night air.
My moment of bliss was interrupted by a call from below, “Freeze!”
‘Son of a bitch,’ I thought, ‘the cops are everywhere.’ When I thought about it, both cops and robbers alike had been popping out of the woodwork all over. I looked down the stairs in front of me, to see the cop standing with a car between him and me. He was resting his elbows on the hood to support his outstretched, pistol-wielding hands.
I was getting too weary for subtlety. I snapped off two shots from the other cop’s gun, sending him ducking behind the engine block. I slid down the rail, then fired off another shot as I used the momentum of the slide to take three dashing strides towards the back of the car.
I was now on the same level as the cop, but I was behind the boot and hurtling in at full speed, while he was hiding at the front of the car, crouching at the fender. I hadn’t even thought of what I was doing. It wasn’t until I leapt over the boot that I wondered if I would make it. Maybe an animal instinct thought that I could clear the car in one bound and clothesline the cop.
Yeah, no. I hit the roof once, bouncing and twisting a little, so that I flew over the bonnet almost horizontally. As the cop was popping up to see where I had gone, I thumped into him like a linebacker at full steam into an off-balance, unsuspecting quarterback.
We smacked down to the tarmac, his chest crushed between the unforgiving blacktop and my considerable momentum. Unlike when I sandwiched Winded, ah, Mangled against the doorframe, this time I heard the snap of ribs, and a corresponding squelchy, tearing sound that I suspected was the ripping of flesh. That’s right, ow. Shit am I glad he landed first. I rolled off him, kicked his gun away, and grabbed his keys. I was getting out of there as quickly as I could, and his ride was the most convenient way to do just that.
I fired up the engine, wound down the window, put it into drive, and slammed my foot down on the accelerator. No wonder the cops hardly ever caught us ‘bad guys’. Jackasses don’t drive stick. How can you expect to catch any self-respecting criminal in a decent car if you don’t have the control of changing gears manually? Anyway, as the car began to move I chucked the cop’s gun out of the window. I wouldn’t need it, and it didn’t have my prints. Growing up watching cop shows taught me something pretty valuable to my line of work; sever all connections to a crime scene.
I shot out of the alley onto Columbus Avenue, fishtailing as I turned left to go south. I wanted to go straight across to Jersey, towards the address Jenkins had given me, but it would have to wait.
Oh shit, I just realised I didn’t really introduce that asshole properly. Well, I had been given a tip from a fence that some rich dude was looking to hire someone for a job, and because I needed the cash, I thought I’d scope it out. The rich guy turned out to be Jenkins. He came off as a hugely pompous ass, trying to look down at me even though he was a couple of inches shorter. Usually I’d tell him what for, but since he offered me ten grand for one night’s work, I snatched his down payment, and got myself ready for the job.
As you can tell, I was a bit of a dumbass, and I should never have trusted him. Even though it was really my fault for being so fucking naïve, I was going to teach that stuck-up motherfucker a lesson in manners. First things first though, I needed to pull off a little misdirection. Just in case any cops saw me leave, or they could track the cop car.
Drifting around intersection after intersection, I finally came to the tiny alleyway I was after. I parked the cop car in the middle of the main street, the keys in the ignition and the doors wide open. Even if it didn’t get stolen, it had no connection to me. The way I’d left it though, I’d say it had about ten minutes of freedom before it found a new owner. I stalked into the alley, and found my stashed gear right where I left it. A bicycle, change of clothes, and backpack. The only reason they hadn’t been stolen was because I covered them liberally with trash from a nearby dumpster.
I transferred the eye-box into the new, bright-red pack, then began stripping off my black garb. I tossed them into the rusty metal drum beside my cache. I put on my new gear; a cycling road-race suit and helmet. Very visible, and not in the least discreet. Perfect for avoiding suspicion.
When I was ready, I drew a matchbox from the red bag, struck a match, and dropped it into the drum. The rags soaked in lighter fluid and newspapers I had put in there earlier flared up immediately. All was set. I just had to go and lodge a complaint with my employer.
Preferably in the form of a right hook.
*
Twenty minutes later I was outside the warehouse in Jersey that was apparently where I was supposed to take Jenkins’ loot. I stowed my bike, then gave myself ten minutes to catch my breath and get composed. I didn’t want to go into the situation out of breath and unprepared.
Finally ready, I marched up to the door and kicked it open. Nothing like a good old dramatic entrance when you’re trying to make a point. As soon as I crossed the threshold I could see Jenkins, sitting in a comfortable looking armchair, right in the middle of the vast space.
He had grey hair, parted in a neat line straight down the middle of his scalp. He looked around sixty – some deep lines on his forehead, but he wasn’t wrinkly, per se. His eyes were blue, with no sign of the sparkle you see in a person who lives happily. His clothes were probably designer, but how the hell would I know? All I could say is that the cream suit looked pretty damn expensive.
Like when I had first met him, he was literally looking down his nose at me - even though he was sitting. Either he thought he was better than me, or he was just trying to stick his jaw far enough away from his neck so that he didn’t look like he had a double chin. As I said, he came off as a seriously pompous ass, practically exuding condescension.
Before I could begin my rant, he started to applaud. Clap … Clap … Clap … It was one of those slow, ironic claps. I opened my mouth again, ready to tear him a new one. What was the bastard playing at?
When I was only about ten yards away from him, he said, “You did well, Mr. Reynolds. Remarkably well actually. I had heard you were resourceful, but you really are something else entirely. I can see I chose the right man.”
I took a step forward, seething, “You set me up, you sneaky son of a bitch.”
His jowls flapped as he replied, “Of course I set you up. You think I would hand out cash like candy, and that you could take a priceless museum piece as easy as dropping into a building, walking into a room, and walking out? Surely you can’t be that naïve.”
I had been, and I was furious both at myself, and the smarmy little asshole in front of me. I growled, and stormed towards him.
Before I could reach him he continued, “However as I said, you exceeded my expectations. You passed my little test with flying colours. As such, I am extending a most generous offer. I will bring you into our organisation. You will never have to scrounge for money again, Mr. Reynolds.”
“Fuck you, Jenkins, no deal.”
“You misunderstand, Mr. Reynolds. As I said, you have done exceptionally well. The way you handled the situation in the museum is exactly what I was after. I am not asking you to join us. I am making you.”
I leapt forward, swinging my right fist at his smug face.
In mid-air I felt a thwack in my back, accompanied by what felt like a pinprick. Suddenly my leaping punch was transformed into a ridiculously uncoordinated head-first dive towards the armchair. I couldn’t even fling my arms out in front of me to cushion the fall. Jenkins’ feet and the ground got larger and larger as my face rushed towards them, until they were all I could see.
Then everything went black.