The Parole Officer - Rated PG-13

He hasn’t killed me yet, I think that has to count for something.

Five times now, I’ve been assigned to this maniac, and every single time it feels like a death sentence.

The Joker, the Clown Prince of Crime, sits there staring at me – same unnerving grin on his face as every other time. I guess it doesn’t hit me the way it used to, but it still gives me goose bumps.

When I started out as a parole officer, I thought I’d be doing some good for the world. I majored in criminal justice, minored in psychology – and damn if I didn’t think I’d play some part in saving a person or two. You see heroes on tv every day: Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman – Hell, after a while, it starts to feel like all those uplifting things they tell you as a kid are probably lies. “You can be anything you want to when you grow up.” Yeah, right. What they should say is “If you bust your ass, you can scrape out a living and a cable bill so you can fantasize about lives that aren’t yours.”

But here we are. Thirteen years at this desk, and my fifth appointment as the Joker’s parole officer.

“Don’t look so glum, Patrick.” he interrupts my silent pouting. It takes me a second to realize that he’s read my nameplate on the desk. He doesn’t remember my name. Am I offended? Am I relieved?

“You’ve got a job to do, old sport. We’ve got motions to go through!” he says, smiling that big toothpaste commercial smile. What do you say back to someone with that much confidence.

“Right. Today we will discuss your early release from incarceration on the condition that you do not conduct any illegal activities. Upon doing so, you will return to..”

“I know. I know. Don’t do what you think I’m going to do. Don’t do what I always do. Don’t do what I… do…” he chuckled.

This was old already. My job, on paper, was easy. People come in, I read them the riot act, and then we talk about their plans for returning to regular life. We talk jobs, we talk relationships, we talk potential roadblocks to recovery. But, what did you talk about with someone whose entire identity was chaos? How do you explain rules to someone who exists solely to break them?

“Once monthly you will be asked to come back in for updates and a scheduled drug screening.” I continued.

“Oh yes, that’s such a fun game that we play, isn’t it?” Smiling again, batting his eyes like one of those cartoon girls who’s trying to flirt.

I always hated the drug tests with this one. Most of the time, you put a cup in front of someone and they know what to do. They’re supposed to take it into the bathroom and pee in it. Or, occasionally you get the ballsy ones who try to sneak in someone else’s pee. Either way, the routine was pretty much the same. But with him…

With the Joker, you never know what you’re going to get. One time he peed on me. One time he peed everywhere in my bathroom BUT the cup. Hell, one time I even had to throw away a bunch of girly magazines after I disposed of the “specimen” that he had decided to leave in lieu of piss.

To be honest, It’s getting old. Every time I do this, I know that he’s going to go back out there and do something unspeakable. The Batman is going to catch him, and instead of doing what we all wish he’d do – he’ll throw him back into custody. Rinse and repeat.

Then it hits me. Maybe I’m the gear in the mechanism that needs to snap. Maybe I’m the part of this process that needs to go against the grain so that we don’t continue this cycle. Maybe… maybe I kill the Joker and I don’t have to sit here for a sixth time, thinking about all the folks he’s hurt as I try to find him a data entry or fast food job for him to not go to.

All I have to do is pull my weapon and end it. I’ll be a hero. Maybe. At least, if nothing else, I won’t be part of the machine that keeps letting him hurt. I won’t lose any more sleep because I didn’t act. I won’t feel guilty when I watch the news anymore. I won’t..

He’s forward in his seat now, and he sees it in my eyes. Hand to God, I know he does. Where did my mind go? How did I not see him lean in like that? He looks like a guy who’s watching his team rush the ball. He’s excited.

“You’re thinking something different this time, aren’t you Patty?” he says, practically drooling. “You’re thinking about what I’m going to do when I leave here, and how you might have a chance to stop that from happening, aren’t you??”

My heart's racing. I can feel it in my neck. Can he see it there? Is that how he knows that I’m off balance now?

I can feel the weight of my piece between my hip and the armrest of my chair.

“You’re not him, Patrick.” He says, both playfully and menacingly.

“Who?” I’m not sure if my voice is shaky. I can almost taste the adrenaline.

“You know exaaa-ctly who I’m talking about, and you know you’re not him. HE stands for something. I WANT him to kill me. You… well, I just want you to TRY to kill me.” He leans in closer, breathing heavily - Seductively. “If you think you can pull your revolver and fire off a kill shot before I sink my teeth into your face…”

He leans back, cheerful. “...then this afternoon will be much more productive than I had anticipated!”.

He has me. He has me physically, and he sure as hell has me mentally. Breathing a sight of relief, I feel the muscles in my body starting to relax.

“Don’t kill anyone. Come back next month.” I say to him, defeated.

“Tsssk.” He says, standing. “Boooo.”

He straightens his slacks out and puts his jacket back on, never breaking eye contact. What tension there was in the room is gone. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the balls. I want to go home. I want to take a shower and have a beer. I want to feel like I wasn’t mentally pissed on today.

“I like fun Patrick.” He says, as he opens the door to leave. “I’ll be back if there’ll be more of him.”

And with that, he shuts the door and I can hear the ceiling fan again – blood starting to return to the nonessential parts of my body.

Who knows. Maybe this time’ll be different. Maybe he’ll just get bored of getting caught, and the fun of killing will wear off. You hear folks all the time talk about how the first and second chance didn’t work for them, but somewhere long after that it kicked in that they need to get their act together. Maybe all of this was for nothing, and he’ll turn over a new lea… I stop, catching myself mid-thought.

The son of a bitch took the picture of my kids off of my desk.