@detectiev :    â what does that make us? the lowest of the low. â
  THE JOKER DOES NOT STIR FROM HIS TORPOR BUT WITH THE EYES.  theyâre gleaming things, afire like torches. wolfish. though only as much as they can be through the fogs of antipsychotics. his disfigured smile is broad and cruel and hardly humored, although his voice shows a delight that does not make it through what after a full minute becomes just an eerie display of teeth.  â i didnât know there was an us, det-ehh-ctive. â  agent cohle remains proper. impassible. pretty strange of him to cling to formality after undoing the shackles at the jokerâs hands and breaking pretty much all the safety protocols he could break ; feeling a bit too safe, maybe, with his shiny gun secured in the holster pressing against his wrinkled shirt. Â
 he wants to talk. the joker always indulges cops who want to talk, because theyâre rare and brimming with all sorts of questions. cops, usually, donât have questions. journalists have questions, shrinks have questions. not cops. all they are, all he needs them to be, is angry little rats running here and there â ready to be experimented on. oh, he loves experimenting on cops. but his friend rusty here is something other than a rat ; heâs a detective ! and detectives, too, are full of questions. the jokerâs tongue darts over his bottom lip as he leans to look at the other, heavy-lidded and smiling ; dirty green curls falling over his forehead. Â
  â i donât know, rusty ... iâm, hmmmh, pretty high on olanzapine right now. â
  the joker gives his head a doglike shake, stretching arms and fingers and blinking harshly. feeling each numb juncture. then his eyes, those wolfish eyes, settle back on cohle.  â didya ask yourself that question when you, uh, crawled with the worms ... pretendinâ to be one ... and were, hehee, horrified at how well that turned out? how gooood ya were at beinâ a worm? â  he chooses impassibility, again. a blank, untouched stare.  â câmon, rusty, you can tell me. weâre such ... old ... friends, arenât we. â
  LOW, BY WHAT STANDARDS ARE THEY LOW? WHO DECIDES THAT? IS IT GOD? WHALES IN THE SEA, BATS IN THE SKY, WORMS IN THE EARTH. ITâS NOT WHERE, ITâS THE HOW. HOW ONE CARRIES ONESELF. ONE CAN FLUTTER ABOUT OR SOAR. DIG THE SAND OR SWIM. CRAWL OR RUN. CRAWL OR RUN.Â
  the medicines are slower than his brain. the joker remembers. the first time they met, rustin cohle was camouflaged in the scum like a deer in an autumn wood. yet he knew immediately, by the smell, that he was not one of the group. it was earthy, not filthy. not wormy. dog-like and predatory, like his.   â yâknow, rusty, if ya asked me - or yourself - that question the first time, it woulda been ... inappropriate.  âcause you were fakinâ it. but ... but now, you smell real muddy. so iâm gonna tell you. â  first, the joker allows himself a long growl of laughter. there are no shackles. no barriers between him and rustinâs holstered gun, between his hands and the detectiveâs thin throat. joker lingers on the moment like itâs slowly moving in and out of water. he licks the corner of a scar, feeling the tender irregularities of the flesh.  â whatever you think youâre keeping out of your house is already in. ssssmile, rusty. beinâ an outcast is just the first step of a long staircase. now, if to the bottom or to the top ... you decide. â