Clowns and Cultists

February 21, 2016:

Joker meets some cultists and gang members for a heist that doesn't go as planned.

East End - Gotham

The first impression of Gotham for many is East End, a district notorious
for it's poverty, crime, prostitutes and drugs. The lit up central strip at
night is colorful, bright and looks like something out of Las Vegas with its
innumerable gentleman's clubs, casinos, bars and strip clubs. The
downtrodden feel of East End has been glossed over by these glowing lights
and brilliant signs along with the towering cityscape of surrounding
districts, such as Otisburg, Burnley and to the north the Robert Kane
Memorial Bridge.

Along the East End's southern region the streets begin to be overtaken by
cobblestone alleyways, alleyways that web work throughout a rundown slum
city of shacks, sheds, makeshift homes and decrepit apartments called
Alleytown. A heavily populated district many immigrants and their
descendants call home.

Park Row aka Crime Alley rests upon the other side of the main strip,
dominated by an underdeveloped housing project called Scurvy City by the
locals (it's actual name being the Skirley Apartments), East End Free
Clinic, the Bowery, Tin Roof Club, Sheldon Park, Robbinsville and the GCPD's
9th Precinct.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: None.


Fade In…

The rain around gotham comes down heavy in solid sheets of freezing cold almost sheets of ice. The sane and the health conscious have hidden themselves away in the corners of doors, the inside of buildings, only a few left out at this late hour of the night.

Lights flicker on and off fighting back against this thick all encompassing darkness. In the dark of the alleys even the occasional trashcan fire has been put out by this downpour, and yet a lone figure still walks down the street. The roar of thunder overhead, and the torrential downpour cover over a subtle sound… laughter.

The laughter builds and builds growing closer as a long figure silhouetted in shadows stumbles, and fumbles down the street. His skin is a pure white, like the driven snow, hair greener then the most sickly chemical sludge. Blood red lips still dripping with rain and some sort of mix curled up into a forced smile.

In the light of a single flickering bulb a truck lies in wait, men in suits loading up large bags into the back of it. There's an uneasy expression on the mens faces when they first hear that sound, pausing to turn their attention over towards the source.

Two small groups in slicked dark purple and maroon hooded robes move along the sidewalk, clearly passing by, each containing about five people. They don't have umbrellas, just hoods which the rain courses over in the darkness. One in each group lacks the weird attire - one is a middle-aged man, the other is a sobbing woman. Both are soaked to the bone but docile. They are clearly being 'escorted' somewhere.

"Hey!" yells the man to the guys loading the truck. "Help, please!" he calls.

And then the laughter bubbles up over the loud sounds of the rain, and the panic of the man seems to rocket… but he doesn't actually seem to try to run away, just scream a little until poked.

Dressed in a tattered green vest, and partially dissolved matching purple pants the laughing man's smile widens even further. "Well well well, what do we have here?" Speaking up over the rain in a bit too friendly of a voice. A small switchblade popping out into his hand silhouetted as the lightning strikes behind him, showing that garish grin for its full potential.

One of the men loading the truck moves over to see what's wrong, a visible colt 45. at his hip, engraved with the word Junior. His thick black moustache soaked down in the rain. The other two guys loading the truck don't seem as happy with the situation, one of them, a blonde man with hair down to his shoulders draws his m1911. "Don't get any closer, either of you if you know what's good for you." Speaking in a thick bronx accent. It's clear the group are on edge already.

"Mind your own business; he's …. drunk," barks one of the hooded men in the front to Moustache, drawing and gesturing with an ornate looking black metal knife. Yeah, really drunk. The gesture opens the hood a little bit more, revealing a man that is prematurely aged, as if some horror befell him to make him look far older than he may actually be. The dagger flashed, the visage, the groups of silent hooded people—- they're behaving like cultists. Because they are.

"Lest you be included in the demonstrationnnnn!" an eager sounding woman entones from the dagger-holder's left, reaching out to pet the man in the center who makes a feeble sobbing noise. Those two and their clump aren't focused on the laughing male, the second group of cultists is watching Joker more critically but seem more intent on just getting Mrs. Sobbing down the street without interference. They complete /assignments,/ those minions.

"Oh my my, little old for playing witches and wizards aren't we? Don't worry ma'am I'll save you." Joker strikes a pose before flashing a hand of jokers. He stands there for a moment looking heroic, before winding his hand back and throwing them like Frisbees. A single switch blade thrown into the mix.

The knife finds itself right in the shoulder of Blondie, causing him to fall off to one side his automatic 1911 going off in a wild direction and clipping the driver of the truck who falls onto the horn of the truck. And the rest of the cards… go right for the poor woman being held by the group of cultists.

"No! Not the sacrifice!" one of the cultists next to the targeted woman says in terror, and casts… a rough, disjointed looking fireball spell. It will do more than just kind of bloat towards the cards, though: it will also set the cultist next to him ablaze. "DAMN IT HENRY," The cultist yells, ripping at his robe, which is full of magical fire that the rain seems to do nothing to reduce. He ends up getting the robe off and dropping it in the street, revealing a really ordinary businessman of perhaps 48 years, his glasses loose on his nose. The little group descends into mild chaos: two of them try to discuss how to put out magical fire, and the woman between them stares at the flames in deer-in-headlights mode.

"Get him to the place," spits the aged leader of group one, and the other three hasten to drag their person off quickly while he rounds on the others. The obnoxiously loud honk sound drowns what he's yelling at them, though, but he did point at Joker and the truck loaders in a general way that could be either 'get them' or 'forget them'.

The Joker snaps his fingers in a sort of drating motion. "I guess this means I'll never make it as a superhero." A serious deadpan expression crossing his face as he adds. "Oh well back to being evil." Joker laughing once again over the sound of the honking as his face breaks back out into that wide smile a gun pulling from his pocket as he starts opening fire at the second group of cultists.

As if just on cue the remaining mobsters who had been loading the truck open fire. Panicked beyond belief as chaos erupts into the street. Blondie tries to get back up to a stand only for a boot from the joker to send him flying into the back of the truck with a thud. The rain and sleet makes traction difficult for anyone the joker included as the laughter mixes with the thunder, and that annoying horn. Bullets suddenly whizzing out of the building behind.

The cultists were too busy with the fire to realize their danger. The whole second pack and the woman in the center get mowed down by gunfire. They collapse into bloody heaps all over the sidewalk, and the fire on the coat burns merrily amidst the death.
The remaining cultist gawks at this bizarre display, but fortunately the others are smart enough to move their sacrifice a LOT more quickly now, and are booking it at a good clip down the street, with a few smarter shield-spells.

"Smell that?" Joker says, as the man beside him is shredded by that same gunfire from the center of the building. The white skinned clown moving along towards the fleeing cultists as the bullets whiz and fly tearing into the cloth of his tattered suit. "Aww come on leaving so soon? But I've still got some card tricks I wanted to show to you." Ducking as a bullet nearly smacks him in the head. "I promise they always knock em dead."

The remaining older cultist, who did not flee at all, turns on the truck with a sort of dark frown, and channels a nasty spell directly at it, a pulse of darkened energy with licking flames of magical fire, eager to consume. The flames rotate in a spiralling wheel from his dagger.
The others continue to leave, lit up by flashes of shielding, protecting their sacrifice more than themselves, and one gets hit by a stray bullet… but keeps moving.

Joker spins on the heel of his wingtipped shoes, to face the truck as he hears that sound. "I've heard of money to burn, but this is just ridiculous." Turning around to make a move back for the money. "Just plain rude." As he starts looking around for a fire hydrant.

"Honestly you try to have a little fun and people just go ballistic." Running over to try and smash it open with a small monkey wrench. "No respect for a little bit of monkeying around."
Opening a Hydrant in a heavy downpour. That logic actually … really causes the cultist to stop and stare at the show. He really isn't sure how to react to that … other than that losing their sacrifice has made his job really problematic. Still! He isn't the leader of this little sect for no reason.
Turning to the dead cultists, he approaches, and checks them for something — getting a book off of one, and pocketing it, a dagger off another, in a very businesslike way. Which probably isn't as interesting as the Truck of Loot on Fire (tm), so he must think he'll have a bit of time to do it. If he heard Joker's jokes and commentary, he's a sinister sourpuss and isn't giggling about them! In fact, he's noticed the Sacrifice is still alive and bleeding, and kneels by her, rapidly chanting, desperately, before stabbing her in the heart.

"Just breaks my heart to see good money suffer." Joker smacking the hydrant over and over with the wrench instead of opening it proper. One clang after another before eventually the side bursts open shooting into the side of the truck… through the massive downpour. It's certainly an interesting scene all things considered. The gout of water almost slamming him right into the truck as it sends him flying back to the ground on the other side of it. That honking still blaring out into the night as the gunfire finally dwindles somewhat now that they're fairly sure the target is dead. "Oh come on, not even a chuckle? Well you really ARE a negative Nancy aren't you. I mean not even so much as a smirk." As he dusts himself off the force of the hydrant shoving the truck slightly as burning money begins to go everywhere from the force of the impact.

There's more than just the explosion of water. The sacrifice, the ritual — it flares and a massive, 15' gate of sizzling steam and green fire manifests out of nowhere. Joker isn't the only one to command some very very random situations. From the gateway, a rather classic demon — aside from being pitch black instead of red — strides out into the noise and confusion. And it isn't happy.

"/REALLY/? REALLY. Into your MESS?" thunders the angry demon, wheeling on the cultist with a long lash of barbed tail. The demon itself is perhaps 7' tall or more, with the robust, heavy rack of horns.

"Well would you look who it is, Krampus!" The Joker slipping and falling right on his back, after grabbing just one solitary wooden box from the back of the truck, which oddly enough hasn't burned. "Here to spread holiday cheer and suffering." There's a slight pause that smile still on his face as the joker lays down on the street looking up towards the demon. "You know you're a little late this year." He adds popping himself up to a stand and moving over to lean on the cultists shoulder.

"I'll just leave you two to it, then shall I? Wouldn't want to get in the way of your holiday." He laughs before starting to just book it down the street, running as a motorcycle that looks like a clown holding a wheel in his hands and feet pulls around the corner driven by a man in a classic crying clown style helmet.

The demon steps /back/ through the gate, and with a lash, the tail snares the cultist… and pulls him into the hole in the air, with a hellish belch of greenish flame.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License