THE FAT JOKER

Screenplay draft

Title: THE FAT JOKER
Credit: Written by
Author: 
Draft date: 10/01/2024
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FADE IN.

INT. PIECO FACTORY - NIGHT

A chemical vat bubbles under sickly yellow lights. Pink sludge laps at rusted edges. Conveyor belts sit frozen, half-baked pies still riding the line like forgotten passengers.

JACK NAPIER, lean and wiry in a torn purple suit, staggers backward. His wild eyes catch the low-angle glare. He topples into the frothing liquid.

Bubbles rise. The surface stills. Greasy reflections hold for a long beat.

The vat erupts.

A 600-pound behemoth explodes upward. Fabric screams at every seam. Jack’s face is caked in smeared clown makeup, triple chin wobbling, belly spilling over a belt already lost beneath folds. Green hair mats with grease. He clutches a comically oversized pie in one meaty hand, cream dripping onto the cracked floor.

He wheezes, testing the new weight. His purple suit stretches to bursting. Seams pop one by one like distant gunshots. He shifts, and the concrete beneath him splinters.

JACK NAPIER
(high-pitched wheeze)
Look at me now, Bats. I’m the whole damn menu.

He laughs. The sound starts thin, then builds into a building-shaking wheeze that rattles the pipes. Fabric strain groans in rhythm with each breath. The laugh grows until the factory windows shatter outward in a spray of glass.

Jack waddles toward the exit. Each step cracks the floor deeper. Greasy footprints trail behind him, spelling out CALORIES in thick, glistening letters that catch the yellow light.

He pauses at the doors, pie still in hand, belly heaving. The seams at his shoulders finally give, purple fabric splitting wide. He laughs again, softer this time, a wheezy chuckle that shakes the triple chin.

The doors swing open into neon night. Jack steps through, leaving the vat behind, each footfall heavier than the last.

INT. PIECO FACTORY - NIGHT

Jack Napier looms in the vat's aftermath, triple chin glistening under sickly yellow lights that streak across stretched purple seams. The comically oversized pie drips pink sludge onto his beltless belly. He sucks in a wheezing breath, eyes darting across the rusted conveyors still carrying half-baked pies.

JACK NAPIER
(high-pitched wheeze)
In this town, every sin has a calorie count.

The laugh erupts from his chest in rapid bursts, fabric straining and popping at every seam. It builds, layered with heavy breathing and the low groan of concrete under sudden weight. Windows along the factory wall explode outward, shards raining onto cracked floors already marked by greasy trails.

Jack waddles forward, each footfall splitting the surface further. His free hand slaps his gut for emphasis, sending ripples through the mass of flesh. The footprints behind him spread and connect, spelling CALORIES in glistening letters that catch the yellow glow.

He pauses at the open doors, pie raised like a trophy, and laughs once more. The sound rattles hanging chains and sends another conveyor belt shuddering to a stop. Jack steps into the night, leaving the word complete on the factory floor.

INT. PIECO FACTORY - NIGHT

Jack Napier stops at the shattered exit doors. His triple chin wobbles with each labored breath. The purple suit stretches tight across his gut, seams already splitting along the shoulders. Greasy yellow light from the leaking vats catches on the smeared clown makeup and the comically oversized pie still clutched in his meaty fist.

He wheezes, the sound rattling through layers of flesh. A low, building chuckle escapes him. The factory windows that remain intact begin to vibrate.

JACK NAPIER
(breathy, high-pitched)
Look at this place. All that cream. All that sugar. Just sitting here waiting for someone big enough to claim it.

He shifts his weight. The concrete cracks further beneath his feet. One greasy footprint spells out the last letter of CALORIES.

JACK NAPIER
(rapid wheeze, fabric straining)
Gotham thinks it’s still in charge. Thinks it can count calories and stay thin. Not anymore. This whole city is gonna be my personal buffet. Every block. Every corner. Every last crumb.

His laugh erupts, high and shaking. The remaining panes shatter outward in a spray of glass. Jack waddles forward, each step a thunderous impact that sends pink sludge rippling in the vats behind him. The oversized pie bobs in his grip like a grotesque trophy.

He vanishes into the neon night beyond the doors. Only the wet trail of footprints remains, glistening under the sickly lights.

INT. PIECO FACTORY - NIGHT

Bruce Wayne stands in the center of the rusted vat room, black tactical suit absorbing the sickly yellow light. Pink chemical sludge still bubbles faintly in the open tank. He holds a small portable monitor wired into the factory's security feed. Grainy footage plays on loop: Jack Napier, lean and laughing, tipping backward into the froth, then the eruption of the 600-pound form that bursts upward, seams splitting, pie clutched in one swollen hand.

The monitor screen flickers with static. Bruce rewinds. Plays it again. His cowl casts a hard shadow across the grainy image of triple chins and bursting purple fabric.

A dented industrial floor scale sits a few feet away, its display still lit from the last reading. Bruce steps onto it without looking down. The numbers scramble, flash ERROR, then repeat.

He steps off. Steps on again. ERROR.

Bruce's gloved finger pauses the footage on Jack's laughing face, mouth wide, grease shining under the factory lights. He studies the frozen frame, jaw tight, breathing slow and measured through the mask.

The scale beeps ERROR once more, unprompted. Bruce turns his head toward the sound but does not move toward it. His eyes stay on the monitor, where Jack's enormous silhouette now fills the frame, waddling toward the exit doors, each step cracking the concrete.

Outside, distant police sirens rise and fade. Inside, the only sound is the low hum of the monitor and the occasional electronic chirp of the useless scale. Bruce unplugs the feed. The screen goes black. He stands motionless in the yellow light, the ERROR message still pulsing on the floor beside him.

EXT. GOTHAM ROOFTOPS - NIGHT

Cold blue night air slices across rain-slick gargoyles. Sodium-vapor yellows bleed up from the streets below, catching on wet stone and distant neon signs. BATMAN perches on a stone ledge, black tactical suit blending into the shadows, pointed cowl angled downward.

Far below, a massive purple figure waddles along the sidewalk. JACK NAPIER's stretched suit catches the greasy light, seams straining with every labored step. Cream-filled footprints smear the concrete behind him, each one glistening under streetlamps like spilled evidence.

Batman leans forward. His gloved hand tightens on the ledge. The distant figure pauses at a corner bakery, belly heaving, then continues, leaving another trail of white smears spelling out half a word: CALOR.

The Batcave scale footage replays in his mind's eye—ERROR flashing across the grainy screen again and again. Batman does not move. His cape flutters once in a sudden gust, then settles.

Below, Jack's laugh echoes up between the buildings, a high wheeze that rattles window glass two blocks away. The purple bulk turns another corner, footprints fading into the dark. Batman remains still, eyes locked on the last visible smear.

INT. PIECO FACTORY - NIGHT

Greasy yellow bulbs swing over a narrow bakery counter built into the factory wall. Rusted conveyor belts still carry half-baked pies. The floor already shows fresh cracks.

JACK NAPIER waddles in, 600 pounds of purple fabric straining at every seam. His triple chin glistens. One meaty hand still grips the oversized pie from the vat. Each step leaves a cream-colored footprint.

He stops at the register. The drawer sits half-open, coins glinting under the lights.

JACK NAPIER
(high-pitched wheeze)
Every sin has a calorie count.

He laughs. The sound starts low, then builds until the glass display case r

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