New Story

(Disclaimer: I don’t own any DC characters, I’m merely a fan, writing fiction.)


Whatever Happened to the Harlequin of Hate?

A spotlight shines into his eyes, partially blinding him, reflecting off his stark white skin. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear out the spots. He stands in front of a brick wall, and behind a microphone stand.

“Where am I?”

“Where you always are: on stage”

The sparse audience isn’t looking at him. They look to a spot at the edge of the stage, right outside his eye line, or they look at nothing at all. Staring out into space, staring at their shoes, but none of them are staring at him. In fact, they don’t seem to notice that he is even there. And perhaps just as unnerving, is that everyone is smiling. Naturally.

“Is this…am I dreaming?”

“No. You are not dreaming.”

“This is Gotham, I think. I mean, it has to be Gotham. I know Gotham like I know myself. I know this stage…but it’s not quite right.”

“Wait.”

People begin to file in slowly. They shake hands and share laughs with those already sitting down. There are men and women in costumes, businessmen in suits, housewives in aprons, and cops. There are countless many cops. They come marching in like a wave of blue. Like the walls were glass our comedian can see outside. There are groups gathered around trashcan fires toasting marshmallows and telling stories. The side streets are filled with people double parked for the event. More people in skin tight costumes show up, dropping down off zip lines and grappling hooks, gliding down on capes from adjacent rooftops.

“Wait a minute! I know some of these people! Why that’s, er, Starfire, one of those titans the birdboy ran with. And that’s…that’s the robin I killed! But…he came back didn’t he? Why is he so young? And isn’t that him behind him!?”

“Be Patient”

“You’re of absolutely no help you know. Why, I’ve killed a lot of these people haven’t I? They, they can’t see or hear me, can they? I mean, we’ve got a Dicken’s kind of thing going on, right disembodied voice?”

“Uh…yes, you could say that.”

“I wont have to interact with a little crippled boy will I? Because that’s really pushing my boundaries for pacifism within surreal freak outs.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“You don’t know me that well, do you?”

“I did, once.”

“You…what the hell are those?!”

From down the road there came a roaring, a roaring which grew in size and strength and power every second it approached. Like a storm cloud fog it came at him, like the black vengeance of God coming down upon him, there was a tumult of Batmen. Black motorcycles, cars which crept along the road with hardly an inch between them and the asphalt, great armored beasts covered in spikes, cars with wings hovering above them, low flying jets and stealth helicopters. It rained Batmen down upon them all.

“…Huh.”

The great mass slowed, then stopped. The eerie collective dismount spooking even the clown. And they filed in. Grey bats, black bats, blue cowls, purple cowls. Bats with fangs, bats with super powers, Bats in leather and canvas, bats with dentures. Thin black bats with red angled symbols, thin costumed bats with pencil line eyebrows, Bats with green rings, bats with revolvers. They all fit in, despite what you’d think, and just as the heaving mass of people seemed about to burst, the crowd breathed out and they disappeared, though the shadows suddenly seemed thicker.

“So, should I tell a few jokes? What do you people want to hear? Bawdy limericks?”

“They can’t hear you.”

“Then why am I here?”

“To observe.”

“Observe what?”

Like a rolling film his perspective moved, dragged along the floor of the stage and down the wall onto the floor. Then back up, onto the table, and into the casket, where a man lay in a purple suit, an expression of apathy on his face.

“I made arrangements for a much more extravagant send off than this! Where are the streamers? Where are the crying widows? Where is the French team of acrobats?”

“This isn’t your funeral, Joker. It is your death.”

“Oh, it’s one of those things. Joker, here is your life! Or death, rather. Didn’t I just go to one of these?”

“Shh. It’s starting.”

“So? What do you care?”

“I want to listen.”

“Aren’t you like, my spirit guide or something? I assumed you’d know all this stuff already.”

“I know one story. And no, I’m not your spirit guide. I’m just the only one who’d take your case.”

The first one to walk up and speak was a man of a duplicitous nature, scarred along one side. A scar that ran deeper than the suit of black and white, or the face of peach flesh and dry black death. He cleared his throat, elegantly at first like a best man would at a wedding, but it devolved into a phlegm filled hacking cough. He spit as he finished.

“I’ve known the deceased for half of my life. I first met him when I was a brass young man, working for the people of Gotham City as a district attorney. I wanted to bring him in, along with the rest of the freaks I thought were ruining this city, making the mob look like shoplifters with the degrees of their depravity. He educated me on the subject, with a bottle of acid.”

“Thought some made mook did him. Did I really do that? I could’ve sworn all I did was rough ‘em up a little, maybe burn him a bit. Or was that someone else?”

“Shush, Joker. He’s not done.”

“Once I was back out on the Gotham scene I started taking power. I stole territory from the penguin, recruited freaks for my cause of a city ruled by the lowest common denominator. When it came to the clown, I was indecisive. I went to him, and asked him if he wanted to be part of my organization. He laughed at me, laughed in my face, telling me he'd won, bringing me down to his level. So I flipped a coin, and shot him twice in the chest. He giggled, and then he died. No court exists that can handle an indecent case like Joker. What I did was the only way.”

The two-faced man sat down. His exposed jaw pulled back in an uneven grin. His remaining good eye slowly streaming tears. As he slouched in his chair, a woman in red and black spandex stood up, visibly shaking with grief, her makeup running badly with the tidal wave of tears. Her coherence came seemingly from sheer force of will, as she began to talk about the man in the pine box.

“Mistah J was the only person in my life who ever really loved me. I mean, I had boyfriends and stuff ya know, but nobody who stood by me like the Joker. He was my one and only, and no one can make me laugh and smile like he could. I was his princess. The judy to his punch, ya know?”

“…Is she crazy?”

“Oh be nice.”

“We had our squabbles like any couple, but we always knew we were gonna be together forever. From the first time we touched back at the asylum, to the last minute I saw him, before he put the blindfold on me. We were just fooling around, regular normal couple stuff! And I was fighting back like he likes, struggling against my cuffs and yellin’ for help. But, I…I musta kicked him just a little too hard in the wrong lace or something, and when I’d gotten out of the locks to help him it was already…already too late!”

She threw herself on the coffin, screaming and crying and rubbing off her grease paint on the lavender fabrics. A few of the cops placed about the room tried to gently pull her off, but only ended up having their noses broken. After a few attempts a man with stringy yellow hair walked up and whispered to her ear until she lifted her head up and allowed him to escort her, lovingly huddled arm in arm, back to her seat, where she continued to bawl, albeit somewhat more quietly. The man then stood erect, showing his height and thin stature, and he proceeded back up to the front and faced the room. He spoke with an eloquence and weight not unlike a professor speaking to his students.

“My name is Doctor Jonathan Crane. Many of you know me as The Scarecrow. Some of you, like doctor Quinzel there, have known me as a friend and colleague. The Joker, on the other hand, knew me as a rival. In crime, for fame, even for Batman’s attention. And in the end, I am responsible for killing him. It was another dark night in Gotham, and I had ransomed the city with my fear toxin again, as usual. The payment was late, so I set off some of the gas canisters to show them I wasn’t merely playing patty cake with the police. The fog began billowing out an empty building near the police station. I didn’t know that The Joker was using it as his temporary headquarters. He’s never been particularly receptive to poisons of any kind, including mine, but his men proved extremely susceptible to its effects. Seeing a mad clown waving around a gun, they became so terrified that, in their chemical induced state, they rushed him, and beat him so fiercely that it took them a week to scrape enough of him together for this event. I did not like The Joker, but I would not have subjected him to…that.

“None of these people are making any sense. I’m not dead. I’m right here! See? Me? Alive? Frisky, even!”

“Are you?”

The Joker paused to consider this. His usual brevity temporarily vanished as he furrowed his brow in contemplation. He pinched himself, he slapped himself, he blew a raspberry.

“Seem pretty alive to me. Then again, you’re the spooky one. Reaper knows best, eh? I guess I’ve gotta see this through to the bitter end. Who’s next?”

“I think she is.”

A redheaded woman in a wheelchair was brought up, being pushed by a gray haired man in a long brown jacket. Her wheels squeaked quietly, but the silence in the room ushered by her movement made the noises loud as gunshots. He stood behind her stoically as she began her tale.

“The Joker was a monster, the worst possible result of the human condition. He put me in this chair. He put countless others in the ground. After I was made this way I spent years planning a way to kill him. Batman told me he couldn’t kill him, saying it was a line he couldn’t cross. So I had to do it alone. I served as Batman’s eyes and ears on assignment, giving him priceless intel, but all along I was picking and choosing locations and poisons and lies to tell my boss. It all came down to him, me, a locked room, and a gun. I disabled the cameras, I had the walls soundproofed, I paid the guards to look the other way, and one night in Arkham, I shot him to death. Starting at the knees and moving up, I used every bullet I had in that revolver. And then, I left. Eventually Batman found me out, but he couldn’t gather enough evidence to prosecute, and my father kept the rest of the city in the dark when I asked for his help. I had to kill him, so no one else would be hurt. I had to do what Batman couldn’t, what the courts couldn’t. And I’m happy he’s dead.”

“Hmph. I’d call her a party pooper if I thought she could still use a toilet.”

The pair disappeared back into the crowd. The next speaking person seemed undecided between them all. The rogues were arguing quietly but heatedly, the batmen grabbing batarangs, ready for a scuffle. Eventually it died down when a large green hat was passed around and numbers were pulled out. A small man with what could only be described as permanent hat-hair fretted and fidgeted as it moved from hand to hand. As the hat came back to him and he breathed a sigh of relief, a man in a green suit stood up for his turn at the coffin.

“Question: Why don’t clowns tell the endings to jokes? Answer: They are not done living them. Perhaps as much a challenge to my intellect as determining the identity of the bat was finding the origin of The Joker. Who he was before the circus his life became. And once I came close to finding it. I know I did. But when I approached him to confirm my hypothesis, he…laughed at me. I spent days thinking on him, trying to solve him, but he didn’t care. Didn’t value my hard work, wouldn’t tell me if I was right. He asked me, when he restrained his laughter at my efforts, “If a tree falls in the forest and kills a pathetic man in a green jumpsuit, would anyone care?” I…lost control of myself. He just made me so angry. I shot him. I’m not normally a violent man but… Before he stopped moving, he said to me, “Question: What conundrum could even the Riddler not solve?” He started retching violently, but shoved out of his throat the answer. “What’s the point?” And he laughed quietly, until the giggles became barely noticeable between his labored breaths, and then stopped altogether.”

“My name is Arnold Wesker. Yer name is DUMMY! And you barely said 3 words to the clown! I’m doin’ this here story. Aint no big dramatic thing like the rest of you sad sacks been talkin’ about. Simple as all hell. I was takin’ more an’ more a the clown’s territory, and it came down to a showdown between us. I did the better planning, packed the bigger guns, and I blew him away with a Tommy gun, the way things are supposed to go down. Strictly business. I always thought that Mr. Scarface was my Joker, just like Joker had someone else in him before he was in an accident. I made him this ventriloquist dummy that I brought with me.”

The old gentleman held up a small man in a purple suit, wearing a smile on his face. But not the smile of insanity. The smile of freedom. The face was normal and unscarred, the hair a regulation brown. It looked, in all definitions of the word, normal.

“I used to think if he had this with him, it would, maybe, I guess give his human side a voice. Even if we are buried behind something, we still want a voice. We still deserve one, even if small.”

He placed the figure on the floor, leaned up against the table leg, and walked back to his seat. It was a few seconds of silence more before another walked up and told their story. After the long stories of some of their comrades, many kept it short and bittersweet.

“I thought I was dead to the suffering of this world, but the deaths of his cruelty reached even my icy heart. I shattered his frozen body against the pavement, and mailed the pieces to the Gotham MCU.”

“I bred a laughing variety of Venus flytrap to trap him. He didn’t know they were also specially created to release a plethora of my own custom-made toxins. I had to rescue Harley somehow.”

“He made fun of my skin one too many times, so I threw a rock at him.”

“The Joker helped make me the man I am today! Without him, I’d still be a legitimate businessman. Sure, I’d still be a scarred up, sliced up, freak to rival any of the rest of you nut jobs. But, without the clown, I might have not known what I really am, inside. He told me I was the worst person he’d ever met, and he was right. But, just like the rest of my rivals, when Gotham was craved up and he tried to take my piece, I devoured him.”

“The old man took too many lives in Metropolis that day, and I did what none of you had the guts to do! I’m the only real hero here.”

“You all know me. Many of you voted for me, even if you don’t remember doing so. I am a proud American citizen, but in my past there have been times when I was known, quite aptly, as the greatest criminal mind on earth. Only one man had the audacity, and the cunning, to challenge my title, and that man was The Joker. His unpredictable mind created schemes of sheer nonsense, and yet, they often succeeded in spite of themselves. I knew The Joker before he was a mass murderer. Back when he was a prankster robbing banks with fake guns and leaving behind plastic vomit. Truly, a genius of injustice. Something, though, something pushed him too far. Perhaps it was just his many years in the line of work, maybe it was the world changing around him. All that’s clear is that the laughing man who murdered on occasion, became a beacon of depravity, and tragedy. I put him out of the world’s misery, the way Batman never could. I saw to it, with my considerable government influences, that he was executed. Nice and legally. But in a strange way, the world is darker for having lost his spirit, and I, for one, will miss him.”

“He’d brainwashed me, he’d tortured me, and he was about to kill my adopted father, so I shot him, with his own gun. And it still haunts me to this day, but none of you can say you wouldn’t have done the same. We are better for having lost him.”

“Now hold it! I know my own life, and…well, ok, a lot of this seems familiar, but there’s no way I could have done all of these things! I’ve never even met some of these people. And when did I torture that guy?! I really think you need to come clean about all this. Who are you?!”

“Honey, I really don’t want to answer your questions. You’re supposed to figure out all this on your own. And besides, the best one’s are about to start. Look at the shadows…”

And they started to move, to slide into your field of vision somehow imperceptibly. They walked up and told their tale. Batmen with black capes, Batmen in blue. Batmen as fanged monsters, Batmen as gumshoes. Swinging down from rafters and emerging from the floor. And as invisible and massive as they were, they paused to form an orderly line.

“Oh, spectacular. I can’t wait to hear this. Who’s first, the one with wings or the one wearing…is that a pirate?”

“I watched him kill himself right in front of me, just to frame me for it. We were just two old warhorses beating on each other, too tired to be like we used to. But he couldn’t give it up. He had to be a monster, even at the very end.”

“After he killed Robin I just lost my reserve. I hunted him down, tore his diplomat papers up, and I shoved them down his throat. Then I caved in his skull with a crowbar. Superman had to pull me off his body. He broke my arm in the act. The League shunned me, but no Government seemed to care. I went on with the mission, as I always do, always will.”

“He shot Tommy Elliot. I beat him to death in an alleyway. Gordon tried to stop me, but I knew this was the last death I could allow on my watch. He told me he’d hunt me down for it, send everything he could after me, but the sirens never came. Instead, he retired.”

“It was the 2nd time I’d encountered The Joker, and he died from a stab wound. Thankfully, his intellect and talent for evil never grew beyond those 2 incidents, for I was soon dealing with other monstrous men….”

“I fought him on a rooftop, and he nearly got away in his helicopter, but at the last second I tied him to a gargoyle, which then broke off. The weight brought him down, all the way to the ground.”

“That devious joker trapped me and my ward Robin in yet another one of his ingenious devices, a merry-go-round of murder, he called it. Thankfully I had an acetylene bat-torch in my trusty utility belt to free me from my restraints. But, that clever clown had henchmen waiting for us, and watching his boys fight us on the revolving ride was, just too funny for him. He laughed himself to death, a case of fatal hilarity…”

“He’d crippled Barbara. He tortured Jim. My friends, my comrades, my partners in the never-ending war. I wanted to reason with him, I did. When I went to Arkham that night I had every intention of talking to him, man to man. But The Joker was not a man, he was inhuman slime, and I left his body in that funhouse he invited me to, for the freaks he’d hired to do with what they may. I hung up the cowl that night.”

“He’d poisoned the reservoir, killed many people with his hideous new poison that left his victims with a permanent grin. He came at me, and I weighed my options. I could have stopped him, grabbed his wrist and kept him from plummeting, but I didn’t. And he fell into his own plans, and died.”

“They’d forced my hand, made me play hide and seek with the inmates, running through the asylum, trying to plan, trying to keep them off me, away from me. Joker was running the show, like always in there, always in there. After Croc tore chunks of me off I ran him through with n antique spear. And then I split Harvey’s head in two, ran my thumbs through Destiny’s eyes, and fish hooked Joker til he split open like a child’s doll. I made sure he bled out. I put them all down. I killed them all. And I never left that place again, til tonight…”

The clown once standing tall now sat down, head in his hands, waiting for them to finish. As the Batmen disappeared once more, the lights began to rise, and people began to file out. And the coffin grew large, til it enveloped all. The Joker remained bored.

“Does none of this move you?”

“Lady, I know a bad show when I see one. I’m an expert on performance art, and this is not up to my standards.”

“But, it’s…you.”

“Is it? I may have done a lot of these things, but I didn’t do just as many.”

“No, Joker, they are all you.”

With her words came a flood of sensation into the mad man’s mind. Memories and lives and deaths and plots and times and places and people he never was, or always was. Long hair and scarred cheeks, vats of bubbling acid, makeup over moustaches, countless closets of purple clothes. He screamed with the tide of images, of pain inflicted or received, and a temporary sanity came to him, seeing so many pasts, and over and over again, one person who had been there, and would come for him when it was his time. One who would still care.

“It’s you, isn’t it? You!”

“Yes, it is.”

The Joker sunk down onto the floor, an awed expression on his lips. His head shaking back and forth, his eyes darting everywhere but at her.

“It can’t be you, that’s not possible! You’re…you’re…”

“Dead? What do you think is happening to you?”

“This is what a brain does when you’re dying. Isn’t it? A normal person’s brain, at least. A replay of my whole life, flashing before my eyes! But it’s not quite my life. And yet, it is. But if I’m thinking this, and I’m pretty sure I am, than I’m not dead. But I’m close, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you’re very close.”

“Why is it being dragged out like this? For who’s benefit is this freak show? I’m certainly not getting anything out of it. I’m not even allowed to interfere. You’d think the whole crazy thing would give me a loophole in situations like this, but after all the build up, I messed up the punch line.”

“Honey, you were never truly gone, you know. You were just pushed over the edge. I thought that coming back to you, might twist you back my way.”

“So is that it? The big man sent you to laugh at me one last time? Life’s a laugh and death’s the joke it’s true!”

“I came to see what you did with your life after I died. I know you did it all for me, Joker.”

“Why are you calling me that? Why don’t you call me by my name?”

“Because the man I married died with me that night, so many years ago.”

The permanent makeup on his face began to run as he broke down, and began crying. He ran up to the woman and collapsed in her lap, crying into her stomach. The high pitched cry of a man unfamiliar to the action, a man with 40 years of stifled screams, it echoed through the metaphysical room the existed in. The room of the funeral gone, the black starless sky of Gotham enveloping all.

“Oh God.”

“Oh baby…”

“Oh God, I’m sorry…”

“It’s true, I’m a monster. Oh, Jeannie, what am I going to do?”

“There’s nothing you can do. Not anymore. It’s too late.”

The clown stayed whimpering, his red-lipped grin twisted into a bizarre mirror of itself, creating a chilling view of human emotion in a man habitually devoid of empathy. With her cold look locked on his pathetic countenance, the man choked down his tears, his sobs, his love for the woman finally in his arms again, and let the bleach white overtake him. With a last whisper of her name, The Joker had returned again.

“So, you were guiding me, right? Get guiding!”

“What more is there for you? You’ve seen your death countless times, been countless selves. Haven’t you learned anything from this experience? It is your last, after all.”

“You want me to summarize the entire experience that I just had in a short and sweet way that includes a “brought to you by the letter 3” spiel?”

“It’s your funeral.”

“Hmph. I’ve learned…that it doesn’t matter what the mode of death is, some things never change. Because even when they’re not talking about me, they are. Because they’re talking about The Joker. The joker has fun! I keep this city on its toes, even if it’s crazier by just one person. And I do not ever stop laughing. Sometimes I fall in battle. Sometimes I die hugely, destroying the city with my last breath as Batman rushes me one second too late. Sometimes it’s a small, ironic, unnoticed death. I die murdering a child in front of his parents, or kicking a stray dog in front of a vet’s office. Everything is chaos, nothing stays the same. Every thought betrays me, sooner or later, and every friend becomes an enemy, or a victim. I’m The Joker! I burn down the city. I kill people. I commit crimes. I am the guilty. I torture the innocent. And I get it. I mean I really get it. The punch line of The Joker is he’s dead. Because, in the end, The Joker dies. What else am I going to do? Retire and play canasta? Life doesn’t work that way. I keep ‘em rolling in the aisles til I drop, and one day, I will drop. But until then, the show must go on.”

“That’s right, Joker. You maim and you murder until someone finally puts you in your place. And then you’re gone. Until that time comes you keep terrorizing, because no matter how many lives you destroy, you can’t bring me back. And I know you had great plans for your death, but without you around to terrify people, no one would carry them out. Your men abandoned you, after selling your body to the highest bidder, of course. The cash set aside for your massive tombstone is drained by those still around to take control of your accounts. The land you purchased for it becomes a public park. Your body is left alone, no repairs to make you look your best. You’re kept in a cheap black suit, standard fare for a funeral. They put you in a secure, locked box, and they bury you as deep as they can dig. The stone is unmarked, saying only “identity unknown.” No service is held. No obituaries are published. Several small parties are thrown. And the Batman goes out on patrol, just like every other night.”

“For the wife of a comedian, you’re a real downer, you know that? I’m tempted to use “Take my wife, please,” but you’re not a very good audience.”

“You never really laughed again, after that night. Not honestly. We didn’t get a lot of time together, but we were happy. And you disgraced my memory by the life you led. It all started in a playing card company, the beginning of the end….”

“What? What is it? What is it, it’s all over me…”

“Watch out! He’s pulling a gun!”

AAAAAAAAA oh no. No, no, no, no…”

“So, Red Hood, we meet again.”

“No. No no no. This isn’t happening. Oh dear God, what have you sent to punish me? Don’t come closer! Don’t come any closer, or I’ll…jump…”

“Can I wake up in a hospital bed, or, hell, a prison bed, now? I’d like to get off this ride.”

“Not this time.”

“You know, I don’t actually believe in any of this life after death place, you know that? This is just me alone in my head. You’re not really here, Jeannie.”

“I’ve always been with you, you’d just forgotten. Or chose to ignore.”

“…I’ve tried to believe in an afterlife, but I just can’t. I mean, what kind of God would allow me to exist?”

“A vengeful one?”

“Ha ha! So you’re getting some revenge for the big guy on me, by showing me all of this?”

“It was a joke.”

“Oh.”

“Are you ready to let go of the past, now? Stop living in memory?”

“To go to my final resting place? I don’t really think you’re going to escort me in past the pearly gates, I don’t think there’s such a place waiting for me, for anyone! If I did, what would be the fun in killing people?”

“You’re not going to Hell or Heaven, much as you deserve it. You know what your punishment is for being The Joker? You have to be The Joker. For a few years, you are happy, with me. And then you’ll throw it all away and become one of the human race’s most despicable monsters. And you’ll know all the time, that in the end, it was just you. My death didn’t destroy your mind, neither did a dye job and an encounter with a man in costume. It was always just you. You gave up, and gave in. You’re done. It’s over. Let it go.”

“Jeannie? Don’t let them take me back Jeannie, I don’t want to go back.”

“Remember your act, Joker? The one you practiced on me and the baby?”

“Yes…I think I do.”

“It’s just like you remember, a comedy of terrors…”

“Sorry I’m late to the club tonight, everyone. I had to run here, 6 blocks! See my car broke down on the way here. And I was driving from my hotel room, see my house burned down last week. I was sent these wonderful chocolates by some sympathizers…and my dog got into them. I couldn’t afford the vet bills, so he passed on. Of course, my father is a retired veterinarian, so now my parents wont talk to me, or help me out with cash. But it’s alright, you know. My wife was cheating on me with my best friend, but she said if she was staying that she’d be in the front row here tonight. I, uh, I don’t see her. Boy will the kids be upset. Little Jack has some sickness they can’t identify, and I don’t know what to do for him. But, they say laughter is the best medicine, so I figured I’d become a stand up comedian! I just wish I’d remembered to bring him…”

“Get off the stage!”

“Uh, ladies and gentleman, you’ve been wonderful. Goodnight.”

“Ppffugh. Guhh. Aaugh. I’m stinging. Itching. My face, my hands…something in the water? Oh Jesus, it burns…Get this stupid hood off. Get it off so I can…see…Ha. Ha ha ha. Ffnk. Ahoo, Ahoo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo. Ehrrr

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

-Benjamin George
Copyright 2009