The Circle

BY : Triyune
Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman
Dragon prints: 1707
Disclaimer: I do not make money of writing this fiction and I don't own Batman nor the characters from that universe.

For about 10 years, I have been thinking about writing a story combining the atmosphere and place of Roissy and Eyes Wide Shut. Here it is, featuring DC's toughest guys, Joker and the Bat.

additional info:
1. Venetian masks like the Bauta, Volto, Zanni or Colombina are used; please check this link for reference images:
2. Kink requests are welcome! There's barely anything I won't write.


The Circle

Part 1: The breaking


After having managed to fall out of the bed finally, I went to the kitchen to make some coffee. On the way to breakfast, which usually took place at 11 a.m., I let my eyes wander over the interior of my apartment. Thinking of what it had looked like when I had squatted that ruin made me laugh. No one seemed to mind, no one had barely noticed and it had become an accepted fact that the Joker was now living in this hellhole. Not that many knew, but those who knew laughed every time they saw me.

With the money I had sleeping on various bank accounts, coming from some profitable bank heists plus the returns from some share investments some of my men were taking care of I could have moved into a castle and kept a herd of first class bulldogs. The reason for staying in this hovel was cover. Half a year ago, one Saturday morning, too early, the Bat had suddenly been towering over my bed and I had almost died of a heart attack. I knew then that I couldn’t live as luxuriously as I would like to.

If I moved into a new building in the heart of Gotham, roof deck, three sleeping rooms, four baths, gossip would soon carry these news to the Bat as well. That way, living in the suburbs where everyone settled who didn’t want to attract too much attention and where news stayed news only for these people who lived there, I could feel safer.
I frowned, thinking of that strange Saturday morning again. The scent of the grinded coffee served to wake me up more than the coffee would in some minutes.

How had I managed to escape? As hard as I tried to think of that situation, it eluded me. I could have painted an image of the Bat standing there, but I had no memories as for what happened then. Usually, I kept every detail of encounters or other happenings in mind so not being able to remember my escape seemed unrealistic.

Absentmindedly, I touched the scar under my ribcage. When I became aware of that I immediately stopped and checked for the coffee. I didn’t want to fall for that again. Not that early in the morning. The day would be ruined, as usual. It was embarrassing that I had spent the last two weeks hanging around on the sofa, watching TV, drinking and playing with myself, only going out for some milk anyway. No projects would come to my mind and I wasn’t in the mood for that at all.

Generally, I had been very moody the last few months, not knowing where that came from. I tried to draw, I tried to play the bass, that was a joke, but I tried out some instruments in some shop but it just wouldn’t work out. I had lost a few pounds during those months because I didn’t eat regularly anymore either. Something was wrong.
I poured the coffee into the cup and went to the fridge to get the milk.
I threw a fit when the milk was empty. How stupid had I been, putting the empty milk bottle back into the fridge?

“Where are my pants?!!” I screamed, not expecting any reply at all.

Recently, things like that threw me. I was unbalanced and tense and didn’t know how to help that at all.
When I had found the pants I put them on and left the flat, shoeless and topless. In the little grocery store at the corner of the street I got me some milk and some bewildered glances. Self-confidently, I passed Joe Bonny, another one of my employees who took care of business. He frowned and stopped.

“You okay, Joe?”

I pressed my teeth together, stopped, turned around and answered with an infuriated yell, wildly gesticulating with the milk bottle in my hand: “Why thanks, yes!!!”

Turning around and leaving a dumbfounded Joe behind, I hurried to get back to my haven. So many idiots around, and I was just one of them. When I entered the house I felt more relaxed already. Up the stairs and back to my room.
When I opened the door I noticed that something was different. A white envelope was lying on the floor, right in front of me. I picked it up and opened it. In my current mood, I didn’t think of any exploding letters of similar shit at all.
The paper was black, the letters fine and white.

“Dear Sir,
you are invited to join the Vaudeville Cercle.
Friday, 23rd, 8 p.m. A taxi will meet you.
Dresscode: Black tie. Please bring a mask.”

I kept staring at it until I was no wiser than before. The Vaudeville Cercle didn’t ring a bell at all. I put the invitation on the table and finally put some milk into my coffee. I remembered having heard about that word during my comedy courses, something about theatre or movies. Maybe it was a club dedicated to movies or theatre.

Later in the evening, I decided that I would accept the invitation. I had no plans how to annoy the Bat or wreak some havoc in Gotham and I felt just as useful as a hole in the head. In fact, I was feeling quite low at the moment. That morning had not been one of the better ones and I did my best to suppress those thoughts. Something was going wrong. I just didn’t want to admit it. So in order to distract my mind from that I would put all my effort into that and the masquerade.
You should know, that is my speciality.

After two days of thinking hard on the disguise I decided for a black tailcoat together with a black chemise and black pants. And spats. In black. Then I got me some materials for casting the mask. It was going to be a modified black Commedia dell arte mask, allowing me to speak clearly in case I had to.

On the 23rd I got dressed in the morning already in order to get familiar with my role. Obviously, everyone was going to appear in disguise and I practiced moving differently so that they wouldn’t recognize me at all. In the evening, I dyed my hair. I didn’t do that very often but every time I did that it felt somewhat odd, seeing my hair back in its original colour.
Then I painted my face so that I looked like one of them.

When I was done I didn’t dare to take a step back and take a look at it. I was afraid of that.
Jack Napier was gone; I had buried him by the shore of the acid pool. That individual had been a pathetic loser, bowing and scraping before the big guys, begging for attention and despairing when it wasn’t granted. Someone who begged to be betrayed, to be taken advantage of. And the housebreaking he had been talked into had been the final act. Drop the curtain and wait for the applause. Something which will never come.

I realized then that I couldn’t live on others’ benevolence and trust in it. My trust had been betrayed several times and it needed something devastating to make me realize. Something, which would strip me bare of these inferiority complexes and meekness. Something which would force me to be demanding and imperious. Something which would change my position from a bootlicker to the one who gets his boots licked, with no regard for the ones who’d assume my position and be the new bootlickers. They could rise themselves as I had done it for myself.

After all, with that look, I wouldn’t have survived a night in Gotham, being the one who I used to be, depending on others, desperately looking for help. They’d have killed me and displayed my skin in the Freaks of Nature museum of Gotham, getting a neat sum of money for that.
Either you change or you perish, but without style. Jack didn’t stand a chance, he was unable to survive.
He had to die.

Full of hate, I stared at the figure looking at me in the mirror. It was just a shallow echo, but enough to get me worked up. I turned around and left to put on the mask.
At 8 p.m. I headed downstairs and when I opened the door I already saw the taxi. I got in and we left, wordlessly.
The panes were blacked-out so no one could see through; only I could see what was going on outside. We drove towards the western boundaries of the city, leaving the heart and then even the suburbs behind, out into the woods.

After a fifteen minute drive we passed huge gates. In front of us, in the middle of nowhere, was a mansion stretching into the void, illuminated by thousands of lanterns, dipping the front into yellow light. A chateau of immense size. While we were approaching it I was wondering why I had never heard of it or seen it. Yet, on the other hand, I hadn’t taken much interest in the surroundings of Gotham since I had been taken to the southern boundaries to the asylum. My curiosity as for Gotham’s surroundings had been killed there and never woken again.

I got out of the taxi and went through the wooden doors. A long corridor, of which I couldn’t even see the end, lay in front of me. The walls were painted white, lavishly decorated with golden stucco, paintings and statues. The furniture looked old, yet new. The height of the rooms suggested that only the sky was the limit and the ceilings showed hunting scenes of the very odd kind. There was a dead fox, three men, five women and dogs and the men were-

“Sir, this way, please”

A servant was awaiting me. I left the sodomy behind and followed him, curious about the rest of this strange place. He led me into a huge hall where about 100 men were already waiting in a circle. Blatantly, I crossed the hall and lined up as well.

As I stood there, waiting for something to happen, I looked around. The urge to do something and catch their attention was almost unbearable, but I felt that it was not the place and time for that. That was something bigger than that. Something, someone as macabre and as obsessed as I had put a lot of effort into.
These were all men; dressed in evening dresses such like suits of all kinds, most of them wearing capes and hoods to cover their head fully. A few archaic African masks, masks made of metal in odd shapes, distorting their faces and many Venetian masks, the Zanni, various Colombinas, the Harlequin, Casanovas, the Bauta, skulls...but not a single Joker.

In the course of the following 20 minutes more men entered the hall and lined up until the circle was full.
I couldn’t but curl my lips at seeing some owls as well. They were so vain as to even wear their masks at this event so everyone would know who they were. A sting of haughtiness made me press my lips together and raise my head. Lowlife ldiots.
A loud noise washed through the hall and I turned my head just to see three tall men entering. Two of them were dressed in shiny black suits with black painted faces and the third wore a Bauta. It was painted in plain black, the simplest of all masks, unadorned and unpretentious.

When he had reached the middle of the circle a flock of naked women entered the hall, each walking towards one of the men around and positioning herself in front of a man. All of them wore the same mask, a blue Colombina.
A red-haired woman looked me in the eyes. I was determined to defy any advances.
She lifted a glass filled with transparent liquid. Every woman did the same, offering the men a glass. They took it and drank and so did I, curious as to what this game was about.

The glasses were given back and then there was silence. I kept looking her in the eyes.
Blue circles framed by the ocean, moving gently, showing faint golden rays of the sun dancing on the waves...a bitter taste in the back of my mouth alarmed me but it was too late. Heat spread in my body and my hands started shaking. My knees gave way and I gave in, but before I hit the floor her gentle arms embraced and held me. Two other men had collapsed and were held up by women now as well.
I heard a voice coming across the hall, shattered and in echoes and I couldn’t find out where it came from.

I was lifted and carried away; the walls of that hall merged and vanished in the air, like smoke, as I flew past them.
We stopped and gloved fingers closed around my arms and legs and pushed me through the world. Veils of grey and black were pulled open before we passed them until I landed on something ice-cold and hard. Struggling for breath from the cold spreading on my legs and back, I tried to move and protest but I couldn’t. My arms felt too heavy and after some feeble attempts I gave it up. Hands undressed me, took away my coat, opened my chemise and took away my shoes and spats. A black Bauta leaned over my face. Faceless, emotionless horror.

“I’m going to kill yer,” I managed to pronounce, but no one took notice. Only now I realized that I was lying on a dissecting table.
The nose of a Zanni touched my flank and I looked down. My pants were gone.
Now I was desperate enough to move, at least my lips, and when I was cursing my way through hell the Bauta appeared again and pressed something between my lips and teeth. My head was lifted and the straps of the gag were closed.

That was the moment when I knew that I was serious trouble. This castle was all about debauchery, I had noticed that much; yet, if my screams shouldn’t be heard in this hell of whispering, moaning and screaming I had a grave problem.
Something moved beyond the ring of muscles of my ass and I huffed, not being able to do anything else. The eyes of the Zanni stared at me in glee.
It was too large and hurt, yet only for a moment until I felt it sliding in and popping into place. The feeling of something entering instead of leaving my ass made me feel sick. Surely, I had been experimenting with some strange stuff as a teen but nothing as serious as that.

People entered the room; three men, one of them accompanied by one of those naked women. Silently, they lined up by the wall, watching.
A black skull pushed an intravenous bottle holder past me. I wanted to say something, I wanted to shout and I wanted to leave but none of that was possible. The gag only allowed me to make muffled sounds of discomfort.
The Bauta moved close to my face and whispered in my ear.

“We can’t fuck you properly if you’re full of shit, you wacko.”

As I was still pondering over what he could have meant I felt a stinging pain in my bowels. I averted my eyes from the Bauta and helplessly searched for the cause of that unpleasance. When I saw a tube going from my ass to a bag I closed my eyes in terror. Heat moved up to my head and a pang of utmost despair attacked my brain.

“Never done some colon hydrotherapy? This practice is a marvel,” the skull rasped into my ear. The voice sounded familiar to me but I didn’t dare to assume that to be true. If that really was Sionis I was better dying before it was his turn. He had never forgiven me for killing his girlie.
I turned my head away in pain, things were really getting uncomfortable by now and I knew that they wouldn’t stop till those two litres were gone. My heart was aching and racing and I felt lightheaded.

Now the Zanni started massaging my belly and I wished I had been able to disappear without a sound, without notice. The humiliation I felt at that was comparable with the worst practices at Arkham.
One litre still left. At times, I could feel the water running into my bowels and then they felt completely numb. However, now they were about full and the cramps worsened. I would have clenched my fists but that was impossible. I had to stand the pain silently, unable to move at all.

Until now I had avoided looking down again because I wanted to spare myself that sight but when I checked for the water still left in the bag I inevitably saw it. My belly was bulging already to the size of a mid-pregnant woman. I started gagging and immediately tried to calm down again when I got aware of my situation. If I really was throwing up it could go nowhere else than through my nose and I didn’t want to give them another reason for laughing at me.
Memories of my stage appearances flashed through my mind anyway. It was the same laughter, the same feeling of humiliation. I took that personally.

Suddenly, the tube together with the plug were pulled from my ass and for a second, the water welled from my body but the Bauta quickly shoved another plug in. This one was bigger and still hurt when it was staying where it should.
I would erase that from my mind. All of it. From the moment I entered that place up to now and what would probably follow for the next four hours.

The plug was pulled from my ass and I arched up in pain, only to find myself taking in the dick of the Zanni. I flexed my fingers, the pain overriding the effects of that drink. Fear, humiliation and an angry kind of despair filled my head, giving me the worst time of my life. Not even Arkham had been as brutal.

“This town needs an enema!” a shrill voice shouted across the room and at the last word I saw that person dancing into my vision.
A joker.
With a surprised sound, it disappeared from my vision again, pushed aside by a Volto. His mask wore no expression, it was only decorated with a black pattern I couldn’t identify from where I was lying. His cape was flying through the room as he rushed to the table. He filled the entire room with his presence.

The Zanni was pushed aside in the same manner and I whimpered as his hard-on slid from my ass. He fell to the floor, followed by a riot.
Mercilessly, the water poured from my ass and the smell of that made me gag again. Though, all-encompassing relief spread in my body while water and faeces hit the floor.  

“Who do you think you are?!” the Bauta screamed but was disgracefully pushed away as well. The watchers by the wall scattered; some of them left, others kept watching in delighted curiosity.
The Volto leaned over me and removed the gag; black velvet caressed my skin for a moment until I was lifted by strong arms. Irrespective of the water still flowing from my ass, he left the room at a smart pace with me on his arms.

Walls, golden statues, men, women, Venetian gods appeared and disappeared until everything turned dark and cold. I inhaled fresh air.
After some more steps the door of a car was opened and I was gently dropped on the back seats, the door closed. Shortly after that, the taxi driver entered as well.

“Sir, where are we going to?”

I licked my lips. They tasted salty from the sweat although I felt cold. The seats were covered with leather.

“Heartven Road...four...”

The engine was started and a journey through the night began. I closed my eyes and soon lost consciousness.
When I woke up I felt cold again. Outside, night. I was carried to my room, up the stairs, through the door, lain down in my bed. The mask was taken off my face and I turned away in shame. Everyone of them had known who was behind that mask since I had just painted my face but not my entire body. No one else in Gotham wore a kind of skin that white.

A glass of water was put on the bedside table and the blanket was pulled over my chest. Then the driver left.
I spent the rest of the night sleeping and waking, dreaming, sweating, shivering and groaning with pain. Not even the fall into the acid years ago had left me so fragmented; it had only brought out the best in me...or the worst, depending on my state of mind. One day, I thought of it as a godsend, the next time it seemed like a day when hell broke loose to get me.
But this. This was profound hell and hell only.



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