Small-fortunes - Small Fortunes

Hey man, nice Shot

The title Darth symbolises transformation. When I took Darth as my title, I put away my childhood name. What does it matter that I was once a miner or a soldier? The only thing that matters is what I will achieve.

I restored the title of Darth to the Rule of Two so that only the worthy may hold it from this time, until the end of time,

https://www.youtube.com/embed/YpxKIO6EoSQ

Kate Feld - Vesti la Giubba || Pagliacci 

Vesti la giubba, E la faccia in farina. La gente paga, e rider vuole qua. E se Arlecchin t'invola Colombina, Ridi, Pagliaccio, e ognun applaudir! Tramuta in lazzi lo spasmo ed il pianto; In una smorfia il singhiozzo il dolor, Ah! Ridi, Pagliaccio, Sul tuo amore infranto! Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor!

Joker || Fracture

Readers Please Note: Joker: Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion.

Joker: Fracture is a presented as an experimental speculative short story that will collaborate art and literature. If you would like to be added to the reader’s tag list, please make use of the Ask feature of this blog.

|| ONE ||

The chill of the September rain had promised nothing more if not the early coming of a frigid Winter haze that threatened downtown Gotham City. The people scattered beneath their black umbrellas, clutching newspapers and hot coffee cups on hurried footfalls, keen to get indoors. Into their offices and shop fronts where they might escape the cutting winds that sliced, unhindered through their layers of clothes. Traffic drove with their headlights on though it was mid-morning and heavily overcast under the sheeting torrent of water that collected in the gutters and soaked the stacked trash bags piled in the alleyways.

This sanitation workers strike was getting ridiculous. It was only a matter of time before private enterprise and public malcontent merged to a compromise. Nineteen-Eighty-One had lagged to become a grueling year across the nation.  The people were getting tired of having to burn their own refuse. Clean air in the city was getting harder to find without having to wrinkle your nose at some foul stench whilst walking down the street. 

And here they were. 

The glorious Eighties. 

Progressive freedom, entrepreneurship, education, industry. An endless stockade of possibility and expansion in the "land of the free".

Nineteen-Eighty-One had lagged to become a grueling year. 

But none so grueling as it was to forty-one year old Arthur Fleck. 

To think. 

Everything was going so well. More or less.

Arthur fashioned himself an up and coming comedian who spent countless hours filling a battered notebook with an array of satirical, observational comedy. A number of classic jokes and one-liners that he thought were particularly amusing, were scrawled in a careless, immature left hand. Occasionally punctuated with attention-grabbing images from magazines and newspapers that he found of interest. His index of jokes were far more entertaining than the notebook's conventional purpose. Arthur's state funded and overworked registered physiologist had suggested he use this book as a journal to record his thoughts and feelings. An outlet to assist in ordering his chaotic array of thoughts. From an early age Arthur had been diagnosed with a troubling cascade of mental illnesses. Amongst these clinical diagnoses were agitated depression, anxiety, physiological ticks that manifested themselves in the form of uncontrollable fits of laughter and borderline, low level schizophrenia, amongst other problems.

Arthur had, throughout his life, with the assistance of his equally dissociative and concerningly ill mother,  been taken to an array of doctors, specialists and clinicians that had connected him with an ever increasing roster of daily medications designed to tweak his unbalanced cerebral chemicals, allowing him to function in a less encumbered capacity. Currently, Arthur was on nine separate medications whose purpose was varying. Pills to fight depressive episodes, pills to regulate his anxiety. Pills of an anti-psychotic nature, pills to help him sleep. His prescriptions were filled fortnightly and increased or reduced depending on the outcome of his frequent visitations with his psychologist. 

There was little joy to be had in Arthur's life, for he lived as the man of a small two bedroom apartment on 42nd Street with his ailing mother, Penny. In her lucidity she had supported his dreams of entertainment, instilling in him the virtues of his existence being a blessing upon the world. That he was to be a ray of joy and happiness unto all. That his father, though very much estranged, would be proud of him, for he was a good boy. Kind-hearted, decent, soft spoken and gentle of nature.

And yet, Penny's deteriorating mental health and inability to function, meant Arthur was left with no choice but to quit his schooling in his mid-teens and take on the role of full-time carer. Cooking, cleaning, shopping and bill-paying were amongst his daily routine, removing him from the education system prematurely. This state of living had its own pitfalls. He'd lost contact with his friends, few if any, ever sought to write or call leaving Arthur regrettably alone. 

In spite of this, Arthur pressed on, finding employment where he may. Slightly difficult without a high-school or college certificate within his credentials. Not impossible however. He ran a series of local jobs across town that included working at a car wash, as a factory pick/packer and even at a local supermarket as overnight replenishment staff. These were but a few of the positions he held in his youth for several years. Often working two jobs in tandem with little respite in between. In spite of this, whenever possible, Arthur made it a habit of taking Sunday off duty so that he and his mother might take a stroll down the park to enjoy a cup of coffee and a nice sandwich at a quaint cafe. Permitting that Penny was feeling strong enough to leave the apartment. 

His love of spreading laughter and joy had eventually seen him to finding a contractual position with a small business known as Ha Ha's Entertainers. Ha Ha's specialized in loaning performing clowns, magicians, exotic dancers and roving MCs to businesses and events across town for everything, from children's parties, business promotions to charitable events. 

His contract at 'Ha Ha's Entertainers' had been a blessing. A means to segue into his dream career of stand-up stage performance. Financial stability, though meager as his pay-cheques were, seemed sufficient to maintain his mother along with her pension. At very least the bills were paid and there was food in the fridge. Their lifestyle was far from luxurious. Their apartment was a heavily dated decaying art deco building constructed in the late fifties for which building management was lax with general maintenance. That damn elevator had been on the fritz for longer than Arthur cared to remember despite how often the residents complained.  Even so, it was home. If nothing more. 

Now what would he do? 

In spite of his sincere pleading, his boss had dismissed him with callous words. Arthur swallowed his regret as he cleaned out his locker. His worldly possessions, magic props, theatre make up and his journal packed into a brown paper bag. 

He'd got on relatively well with his colleagues, or so he thought. The boss said he made them uncomfortable. 

Now he regretted ever accepting that pistol. 

That gentle favor had turned to ash. He found himself wondering if he'd been set up for this fall. Why did he bring the gun on shift? Protection yes, but it wasn't supposed to end like this. His ribs still ached where those cruel teenage thugs had knocked the wind out of him. And raising his right arm to comb his hair in the morning brought a shattering burn across his shoulder blade. He couldn't sleep on that side without whimpering. 

Even so those last angry words replayed themselves in his head. He made ready to leave 'Ha Ha's' for the last time. Punching out the tiime clock and vandalizing their stupid exiting sign was hardly enough. He had half a mind of going back and kicking the shit of the boss' car. Letting down the tires. Taking a crowbar to the windscreen. God! His head was pounding. His heart in his throat. He thought he heard his name as he marched down the street. He'd take the 32 bus downtown but stop at the newsagent on the corner first for a pack of smokes. 

"Arthur! Hey, Arthur, wait up man, c'mon!" His coat sleeve was tugged on. Aggravated, he ripped his arm away, noting Jimmy's profile. That hawk-like nose and slackened jaw-line of his colleague, well, ex-colleague now. 

"What?!" He bit out sharply, coming to a standstill and making the younger man wince and furrow his brows. The smell of greasepaint and cloves coming off Jimmy's sage green button down and corduroy jeans. 

"Jesus man, I'm sorry. Getting totaled like that just ain't right. What they sayin' 'bout that gun bein' real though-"

"It was just a prop, for an act." Arthur repeated for the third time that day, cutting Jimmy off cold.  He was starting to wish the lie was real. The tremor in his hands was more than the need for another hit of nicotine. The wind wasn't helping.

Jimmy however, nodded, searching Arthur's care worn face for a moment before pressing on. 

"Yeah well, listen. I got a buddy across town what works as a roadie for this place called the Regale Theatre Company. It's run by some overseas chick. I don't know if they're hiring any, but if you ask for Bill Tormey at the loading bay, he may know somethin'." Jimmy pressed a newspaper clipping where he'd scrawled the theatre's address and Bill's name in blue ballpoint across a show advert into Arthur's reluctant cold hand, explaining, "He's usually on shift till six on Thursdays through Saturdays. Tell 'em his ol' pal Jimmy sent you. I dunno. Maybe they might got somethin' for you. You never know."

Arthur stared at the clipping and its scrawled letters for a few lengthy heartbeats. His anger dissipating into an anxious ball that constricted in the top of his chest and forced him to swallow. He nodded slowly, muttering a 'thank you' as he folded the clipping in half and pushed it into his breast-coat pocket. 

"Yeah, all the best, pal. Maybe I'll see you 'round." Jimmy said with a nod, slapping his hand across Arthur's bruised back almost parentally. The gesture may have been awkward, but never forced. Jimmy wasn't a bad guy. Arthur shook his hand, exerting an undercurrent of his frustration into that handshake before muttering a final goodbye and turning away. 

He was pissed off, cold and hanging for a cigarette. 

@arthur-j-fleck​ | @jokerous​ | @daily-joker​ | @joker2019confessions​

Part Two

It wasn't right.

His thoughts screamed it. Even though his body rejected his mind's reasoning. Even though she was overwhelming him with her touch. Leaving him aching, raw. There was something... something about her. He couldn't put his finger on it. It was slipping. It just wasn't right.

And he adored the way she kissed him. Deep, hungry. Chasing his tongue. Cheeky minx. He purred against her lips. Sighing, giving over. Laughing happily against the kiss. His thoughts again interfered, he should have  been ashamed of himself. Tainting her passion when his kiss had just been shared amongst the nerve undulating high of cocaine and inside Christov's mouth. He should have at least brushed his teeth to spare her tasting the remnants of the other man's saliva. That was... illicit. Dirty. He wondered about how she felt, witnessing that scene downstairs. It had been intense. Fuelled by aggravation that started extremely sincere, but when he realized the absolute ridiculous nature of the insult he spat, whatever he was angry about just.. disappeared into the ether. And he was unable to keep a straight face. Nor could Christov. That was wrong. Really wrong. She shouldn't have been subjected to that. Here he was a mere month prior lecturing her, snapping like a dog against her about her indiscretion and infidelity with another woman and he had committed virtually the same sin directly in front of her.

Was she too high to realize what was going on?

He wondered if he'd have to explain himself in time.

He couldn't believe it. This is really what consumed his thoughts even as his lover was lacing her tongue against his throat. Lower.. along his chest. His hands found her back, her silken hair...

"Yeah... yeah that's it baby... more...Uh... yes..." She had him. His nipple in her mouth. Fuck.... fuck he loved it when she did that. He arched off the bed, desperate for contact. His body raging between his thighs. The ache in his manhood becoming blinding. All encompassing. It had been ages since he fucked a woman while high on coke. He loved doing it. Every sensation just heightened a thousand fold. She was edging him beautifully. He was whimpering mess of red desire beneath her lips.

Christov flooded his thoughts again. They'd both been high that night in Singapore. Deep in the underground where they shouldn't have been. They'd escaped by the skin of their teeth. And those possessing drugs of any kind were sentenced to almost imidiate execution without trial. The nation had little respect for foreigners and aliens bringing their filthy narcotics into their clean land. They had both been bleeding. Christov was a dog. He'd begun by wiping the blood from Tino's lips first with his fingers, apologizing for not having served better. Then with his kiss. What came over the two men in that backstreet industrial alleyway was inexplicable. They tore at each other's clothes. Pushed each other against the slightly greasy brickwork and kissed. Not the cordial, respectful, chaste kisses of brothers. No. This had gotten deeper. Darker. They confessed things to each other without saying a word. Just with their eyes. That they wanted to fuck. To break the rules. Because there were some lines that you didn't cross in the Camorra. That honor and family was the most sanctimonious. You just didn't do it. Confused business with pleasured. Blurred the line between colleagues and lovers.

But they did... They did.

That line was crossed.

And they both got off on it with reckless abandon.

They'd never say a word. They'd take this secret to their graves. No one would have to know. But they did. Even though they never said a word to the rest of the guard, they seemed to intrinsically figure it out for themselves. And they weren't angry about it. Why? Because he was their employer, maybe. Because they were wearing his money and riding on his coat tails? Perhaps. Because they were Italian and bisexuality was as normal as the air you breathed. Also a strong possibility. Because they reasoned that his heart wasn't in it entirely. Because his primary focus had always been on women. True. True.

Whatever it was, they relaxed about him. And in the privacy of his estate he relaxed the rules on them as well. He'd know for a while that Curtis and Tony were going likely going steady. Even though they never talked about it and sought to take women as their partners. Mostly for show. Because it was better if Lorenzo didn't have to think too hard about what his High Guard was really like.

He'd been married for almost thirty years. He wouldn't understand anyway. Not without explosive repercussions. They didn't need that.

So Christov never let it go. That one night in Singapore. When they were strung out on cocaine and drunk on fear and pain and pressure. Running from their enemies, running from the law. Running from themselves.

They accepted each other a lot more readily than they should have. But it had felt good.

Ridiculous. He pushed the thoughts of the other man away. Lalienna was working his skin. Descending his abs and stripping him of his will to fight her. Her kisses were hot, burning. He could hear himself begging. But he sounded as though it was coming from somewhere else in the room. It was the coke. He wasn't fighting the high. He was rolling with it. He wanted it... His cock in her mouth... Those deep, decadent strokes. Fuck it. He'd bend her over the bed and take her from behind. He was wild with the desire to see his body covered in her blood. It was a fantasy. A filthy illusion that suggested he'd taken her virginity. She was bleeding for him. She always bled for him.

The scar... healing at her throat that alluded to his initial. He pulled her hair back just so he could see the 'S'. Hear her whimper.

"You high right now, baby?" He needed to know... She didn't feel right. She didn't look or sound right all night since she came downstairs.

"Lali... Tesoro, sei alto?" (Treasure, are you high?) She lapped at his groin, teasing him with her tongue before looking up at him from her knees. Her eyes unfocused. She looked pale. Weakening. She wasn't there. And he knew what that was liked. He'd fucked strung out whores before that made offers to do things that were inhumane just so long as they got enough cash to make it for the next hit.

"Mm? Sort of Papi... painkillers." He nodded shifting back from her. Teasing her. She giggled at his resistance. His gentle fingertips caressed her jaw.

"Do you feel good right now?" He whispered hotly. Praying for an answer.

"Sure... sure I'm okay, Papi... really... Just, let me love you. I've been so bad-"

"You haven't, amore, you've been human. That's no sin."

"I don't deserve-"

"Yes you do... You do angel, you deserve my love. Don't contest it. Now, get up... Up... off your knees. I've changed my mind about what I want."

She hesitated. It was visible and direct and stiff. Unable to hide herself. He tensed. Leaning back against the bed. His fingers working the zip to his fly.

"Non dovremmo farlo quando sei in questa condizione." (We shouldn't do this when you're in this condition.) He swung his legs around her, got off the bed. Fuck... Everything hurt. He'd denied himself her touch for a month. They'd barely been afforded a moment's privacy together and now that they had the perfect opportunity his fucking conscience got in the way.

She huffed angrily. Dejected. He never refused her. This was a first. She wasn't accustomed to his lack of submission. She'd been good at making him fold to her will. Making him submit. Making him cum. And he wanted to. Now more than ever, but he couldn't. This wasn't right.

"Papi, come on... don't be like that... Come back to bed. I wanna make your feel good."

"And I want you to... more than anything, bella mia... but this.. I can't. You're a mess. Have you seen yourself in a mirror?"

"You're fucking high, Papi... " She laughed at him, indignant in disbelief. She was on her feet and following him around the room.

"Have you looked at yourself? You don't look crash hot either."

"Don't deflect on me, Lalienna.. we're talking about you here."

"Words... too hard.. Just.. feel." She was touching him, his bare chest. His arms. He was weak for her. He wanted her. He raked his hands through his hair and pulled away though it killed him to do it.

"Why aren't you eating?"

"Wha?"

"I said, why aren't you eating, Lalienna? Hmm? I know you haven't touched a plate in over 24 hours. Ares told me you keep refusing food. We've talked about this, we're not going down this road. I've been there, done that. Bulimia, eating disorders. You're not going there, amore. I won't let you."

"It's not like that, Papi... I just.. get into moods, 'kay? I don't feel like food right now."

"But will you?"

"I'm gaining weight... it's gross.." She was rambling, dejected. Her eyes unfocused.

"In your imagination, maybe. Not on your body. Have you seen yourself? You're a walking supermodel, baby girl. You've practically got the body of a prepubescent boy were it not for your hips and breasts. You and Ares could be confused for each other, from behind."

She pushed at him, hard. Knocking him off balance so that he landed on the ottoman at the foot of the bed.

"You're killing the mood, Papi... this isn't sexy anymore."

"No, it isn't. But you are. Even if you're fucked up. I still want you. Need you. I wanna do things to you that I've been holding back for too long. Gentle... loving. Nothing hard. Nothing dangerous, nothing that pulls you out of your comfort zone."

She purred his name. Sinking back to her knees between his legs. And he opened them for her. Inviting her. He took her hand then, and pressed it right atop his pulsing heat. Hard for her still as it strained against his grey trousers.

"Feel that? Hmm? That there.. baby girl... It's all for you. I'm yours. Every inch belongs to your heart and soul and body."

"Papi's big." She giggled, mischievous eyes. Hungry... but not.. Something still wasn't right. So he pushed her.

"Lali... what's going on? Between us? Right now?" Her eyes changed in response. She pushed away. He knew it. He fucking knew it.

"Cosa non mi stai dicendo?" (What aren't you telling me?)

"I don't know what I want anymore! I'm scared okay? I'm scared of us.. of you! I'm scared of myself." Tears, her eyes filled and began to drain for the second time that night. He hated this. Seeing her cry like this. It was killing him.

He got up, lifting her from her knees and then arranging her in his arms. He plucked her bodily off the floor. She weighed little that was of any consequence. And she didn't resist him. So he carried her back to the bed and laid her down gently. Taking off his shirt that she wore beautifully. Wanting to take off her underwear. But she whimpered and refused him. He didn't care if she bled through the sheets. He had a mattress protector anyway.  Everything was washable. But she didn't want her lace removed. So he respected that and left her a moment to strip himself naked. His clothes joining hers on the floor... No, he thought better of it. He didn't want her to suffer. So he picked them up. Shook them out and hung them neatly on the back of his dressing chair before striding back to take residence atop the bed with her.

He was tired after all. And the building urge for release was stripping him of his will to think clearly. It didn't matter. He'd be happy to deny himself now that he had her. She'd love him when she was better. They had all the time in the world together. She was his Mistress now. They'd make this up to each other.

He told her so as he covered them over under the rich sheets and elegant black quilt. He hugged her to him. Listened to her, for moments as she cried in his arms. Burying her face against his neck. His shoulder wet with her tears. He shushed her lovingly. Gently. His tender hands at her back. Caressing circles on her skin.

"It's okay...baby girl... It's okay... It's like the phase of the moon... the tides of the sea. Today you'll feel impossible. Run down... Worn out. Tomorrow... it will pass. It will always pass. We don't have to rush things anymore. You're safe now that you're with me. I won't.... I fuck this up for us. We're both not at our best right now. It's been a long week and its only just begun. Sleep, baby. Just sleep. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow when you wake I'll have a new gift for you. A surprise. Something that will make you forget about everything you're going through. Everything you've suffered. Sleep. Heal. Sleep."

God... he thought to himself. She was an angel. He'd torn off her wings when he forced himself within her. Again when he cut her. And she was bleeding out the moment he laid eyes on her. Now she was bleeding again and he could almost taste it. No wonder he was offending her. He almost wanted to attend the bathroom, to shower and brush his teeth and make himself presentable for her. But, her weight was heavy against him. The bed was soft and sleep was calling . Like a siren.

He closed his eyes a moment.

"I love you, Lalienna...."

He drifted on that empty ocean.

He wasn't alone this time.

She was beside him.

Wallpapers from Darth Maul #3

'Why didn't you come with me?'

"You must travel dark hallways to get there. And it is a place of sin. The Red Door stands as the gateway to abandon. And you'll do anything if they let you in." ~ Sable

{| @lalienna-dementriento @f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat |}

John Wick by Carolina Lta  aka @littlemorrison / @mycrystalhorse

“Horror stories don’t interest me,” Maul said.

“Being one yourself, I would think they might, wouldn’t it?”