Old old old old old.

Old. I mean it.

Uh. But I like this story because it's funny.

Disclaimer: I don't know Batman. If I didn't I wouldn't be a virgin.

"There is no way I am wearing this."

I hold up the monstrosity that Lena calls a dress. It's a ridiculously thin, emerald green thing that possibly could be related to a handkerchief, and looks like something one of the women that Bruce Wayne constantly pulls around would wear.

"I'm not a whore, y'know," I state, tossing the cloth at Lena, who sits on my bed looking expectant.

"Just try it on, Julie," she begs, offering the beast back to me. "Bruce Wayne himself invited you to this party, so you have to look nice. It's an important event—a fundraiser for the DA, and you want to walk in there with converse and jeans on?"

"And a shirt. Don't forget the shirt," I tell her, sighing and taking the dress back. "Fine. You have a point. Bruce would rip my hair out strand by strand if I appeared looking like the bum I usually appear to be. But you're doing my hair and make-up—you know I'm hopeless with stuff like that."

"Ha!" Lena springs up from her post on my bed and shoves her fist into the air, looking extremely triumphant. "You're gonna look so sexy, no man will be able to resist you."

"I think that many would," I reply, pulling my worn jeans off and, as if on cue, Lena sneers at me. "What? Now you're scorning my choice of underwear? No one's going to be seeing these, Lena, so you can shove it."

"They're so…grandma-esque," she sniffs.

"Like I said," I say, "shove it. Go heat up the straightner."

She grumbles, but shuffles into the bathroom to heat up the straightner that I hardly ever use, and I pull off my plain green t-shirt to slip into this napkin of a dress. I smooth it down over my stomach (having been manhandled it has a few wrinkles, but nothing anybody would shit themselves over), then turn to examine myself in my mirror.

Well. It's not as bad as I thought it would be, but it certainly doesn't make me look sexy, as Lena predicted. I look like a girl forced to dress up, which is exactly what I am, and I look very awkward with my legs being exposed so much. They're not exactly great legs, but not exactly what the flowers would wilt at either. That basically sums up my entire appearance, but I'm all right with that. At least I'm not deformed like that crazy man who likes to giggle too much that I see on the telly all the time.

My gaze dips down and I blush. Dear God, what are those things? They look like two little…well, I'm not exactly sure what they look like, but I've never noticed them before.

I hear a whistle, so I turn and see that Lena has exited the bathroom and is busy appraising me.

"Your stare makes me uncomfortable," I inform her. "You know, I'm straight."

She glances at my face. "And you dress like a lesbian," she retorts, then beckons with a finger that I should follow her into the bathroom. I reluctantly do, and when I enter I see that she has my meager supply of make-up lined up. "Well, we don't have much to work with," she observes. "But it's enough, I think. Too much make up, and you will look like a whore. C'mere."

I sit myself down on the toilet, and she grabs the brush and begins to assault my scalp with it. "Dear God, woman," I hiss, my eyes tearing up. "Can't you be gentle?"

"Nope," she says, the brush catching on a tangle. "Your hair is a rat nest. If I be gentle you'll be late for the party. You want to look nice for once, don't you?"

I grumble my acquiesce and wait for the torture to end. Once it has, Lena picks up the straightner and runs it through my hair. "Is…it supposed to smell like burning hair?" I squeak.

"No. But since when did you care about the state of your hair, anyway?" she replies. She has a point.

I don't know how long I sit there before the torment is finally over and Lena permits me a glance in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looks her age for once and actually looks like a woman. I stare at myself, surprised, before Lena drags me away so she can offer me her heels. When I look down at them, I'm inwardly grateful that Lena remembers that I'm hopeless and that I'll only make a huge fool of myself. I slip them on, and I smack my lips once. "I'm ready, Mommy!" I tell her.

"You're so lucky," she says, choosing to ignore me. Her voice is dreadfully envious. "Going to the party of the most notorious playboy in Gotham City, and looking gorgeous to boot."

"Oh, honey, we both know that you're the most beautiful woman in Gotham," I tell her, and it's true. She's more the type that Bruce Wayne would go after—beautiful, witty, and intelligent to go along with that. Lena is the most successful reporter in all of Gotham City. She may not seem like it, but she's the best writer I've ever read.

"Yeah, keep lying. Brucie won't be able to keep his eyes off of you," she sniffs, then practically pushes me towards the door. "C'mon. You know dangerous it is at night here, what with that crazy Joker guy on the streets."

I snort. "You're afraid of that kook? He's just a cheap little criminal. He's the same as any other guy in this city. He's just looking for attention."

"Just go. Don't worry me more than you already do."

That's all she says before she slams the door. It's almost unbearably cold, and I huddle closer into myself to protect myself from the bitter wind. Bruce's penthouse is only a few blocks away and I am not wasting money on a taxi ride (who cares if I'm rich enough that it wouldn't matter?), but still. I'm starting to regret it—I start to walk as quickly as my heels will allow me to do, and it isn't long before someone is following me.

I told Lena about this—that if she dressed me up all 'sexy' that some crazy man would spot me and try to get lucky with me. But she never listens when it's important. I start to walk faster, but I stumble slightly as the heels catch on the cracks on the sidewalk. "Ugh," I sigh, slowing my pace against my own will, and their footsteps as soon right besides me.

"Hell-ooo, gorgeous," he whistles. "It's an aw-fully chilly night—sure you wanna be hanging out here alone?"

"Yeah, I hear there are real creeps hanging out around this time of night," I reply dryly. "Thanks for the warning. Now bugger off."

There's a giggle (a giggle? What kind of man giggles?) and then a gloved hand on my arm. "Oh, I insist that you, uh, hang out with me and my friends here. We'll take re -ally good care of you, babe."

I'm about to shove my cursed heel into his foot, but someone grabs me from behind. "Lemme go!" I shriek, struggling against this goonie's iron grip, and on a whim I kick my leg out and hit the man in the gut. He doubles over slightly, then begins to do that stupid giggle again. And when he looks up, I see the face from the news.

"Oh," I say, calming down. "It's just you. The Joker, right? You know, this isn't the best way to get a date."

"Are you offering, beautiful?" he chuckles, bending over to pick up my shoe, which had fallen off when I had kicked him. He slips it back onto my foot slowly, then grins a yellow grin at me, his black eyes salacious.

I jerk again, but whoever has their hands on my wrists really worked out as a child. "It's one of my bad habits to date psychopaths," I say sweetly, and he laughs again. Good, just keep him laughing. Lena will leave my apartment soon and will no doubt see this group of smelly men around me and call the cops. "I'm just on my way to a party. Do you really want to ruin my night? That's not very nice."

"A party?" The Joker's face lights up instantly. "Well, what'dya know! We're on our way to one, too. What a coincidence! Mind being my squeeze, darlin'?"

"I'm not letting you squeeze me," I say irritably, spitting fire at him with my eyes.

"It's a date," he grins, and those ugly, puckered scars smile along with him. I stare briefly—what a fake, with that stupid warpaint.

"I thought only prostitutes wore that much make-up," I spit, but we're already moving again. I begin to panic, and I trash violently against the arms that are holding me. "Put me down, put me down! Fuck, fuck! Lena!" I scream as loudly as I can, and the clown glances back at me.

"Why the fuss, honey?" he coos, turning around and leaning close to my face, his tongue darting out to lick those crimson red lips. I can't help staring as he does this, because it's, frankly, a bit distracting for someone to lick their lips while they're talking to you. And I certainly don't want to look at his eyes, so I'll settle on his lips. They're quite nice, actually—very full with a generous bottom lip. "It'll be, uh, fun—we'll dance and drink and eat those disgusting little shrimp that rich people always have. Then afterwards," here his voice drops a few octaves and goes so quiet that I have to lean forward slightly just so I can hear what he says, "we can go back to your apartment and—"

"Pervert!" I screech, reaching out my legs to kick—my foot contacts with a thigh, and he barely flinches. He just laughs, almost annoyingly loud. "I'd never let shit like you in my apartment! Let me go before I do something I regret!"

"I'd en-joy that," he intones. "Do it! Do something you'll, uh, regret…"

I thrash against my captive's arms in my rush to reach this bastard. "Let me go! I'm gonna hurt him!"

He's doubling over with laughter now, his hands clutching his gut. "Ha! You're just too much fun, chickadee!" The Joker reaches with a hand, and—dodging my biting mouth—pinches a cheek teasingly. "I'm gonna enjoy parading you around as my own personal little, uh…pet."

"You…" I trail off, because he turns around and continues to walk, and I hear multiple footsteps behind whoever is holding me. I'm forced to walk to this man's long strides, and my feet just can't take it in these kind of shoes, so I kick them off and walk barefoot down the ice that used to be the sidewalk. I stare daggers at the Joker's purple clad back, watching his muscles move under the long coat he's wearing. He's tall and unbearably thin, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His hair, greasy-looking and wavy, is tinged a very pale green. What a ridiculous man—and to think that I let him see me angry. I can't stop when I'm angry. Well, he's in for hell.

"Just play the part of the sweet, innocent captive, baby," he giggles as we begin to enter the building. "By the way, sweetlips, what's your name?"

"…Martha," I say, almost too quickly, and the Joker laughs.

"C'mon, baby, a be-au-tiful girl like you must have a more suiting name," and as he says this he pulls out a gun and shoots the usher who is waiting to see us up and I scream, and the man who is holding me clamps one of his hands over my mouth.

"J-Juliet," I stammer, making the grave, horrible mistake of telling him my full name. As he howls with laughter I flinch.

"Juliet!" he continues, continuing to giggle at my expense. "The little bitch that kills herself for love! Man, oh man! You got time for romance, Juliet?"

I grit my teeth but refuse to reply, my eyes glued to the broken body of the man the Joker had just shot. He chuckles and says nothing more, and we enter the elevator, all of us huddling in. I'm, unfortunately, pressed into the Joker's back and my cheek is squished into his shoulder. "I hope someone castrates you," I mumble into him.

He chuckles at my anger. "That wouldn't much, uh, fun for you, Miss Juliet." He turns his head so his face is close to mine again, and his obsidian eyes are playful. "Now, you're going to be my helpless, be-au-tiful hostage, and you're gonna help me find Harvey Dent, okay, sweetcheeks? All you have to do is stand there and look pretty and occasionally whimper your protests. I might have to, uh…show off a bit, but nothing too harmful, so don't be afraid, Juliet."

"I'm not afraid of a prick like you," I seethe.

"I can see it in your eyes," he says. "Is it the scars? Everyone's a bit, uh, taken aback by them."

"Your scars are the least of my worries," I reply. "If you've watched Nightmare on Elm Street you would know that you've got it good."

The elevator door opens.

"Good evening, ladies and gentle-men," he says, taking me from the man who was holding me before, pushing me out along with him. He raises the gun he shot earlier and lets out a shot that makes everyone jump, and the rest of his goonies trail out behind him and hold their guns out to keep everyone at bay. "We are…tonight's entertainment," he says, dragging me along with him. I stumble, collide into his side and he slips an arm around my waist to secure me there, and I push and struggle against him.

"Let me go!" I order.

"This is Juliet," he tells a very scared-looking young man. "She's my date for this evening—isn't she just the prettiest thing you've ever seen?"

And to my absolute horror, he spins his head around and smashes his lips down onto mine. He's holding my arms tight to my sides so I can't push him away, and his tongue slips in between my lips forcefully. I scream a muffled scream against his mouth, trying to pull my head back but he's not having that. He pulls away suddenly and smacks his lips loudly, and my face flushes red with anger and embarrassment.

Time has no essence. The Joker drags me around for God knows how long, 'showing me off' to the guests at the party and occasionally inquiring about Harvey Dent. And, often, he would turn around and kiss me again, forcefully, firmly.

"Okay, stop."

Whoever said that I feel extreme gratitude towards, though I have to admit, the way she said it wasn't very forceful—like a mother tiredly reprimanding a child. The Joker loosens his grip on my waist and I stumble away from him, falling down on the ground. He spins his head towards the source of the voice and immediately his grin stretches across his face. "Well, hell-ooooo, beautiful," he drawls, smacking his lips. Oh, God—I can just see the disgusted look on the poor woman's face. I don't even listen to the rest of the conversation—I'm busy looking for a way to sneak out, but all the exits are guarded by the Joker's minions. I could jump from the window, but I doubt that would really help me, and Bruce would just be pissed that I ruined his big pretty window. So I sit myself up and continue examining the room for the tiniest crack I could slip through, because I'm avoiding looking at the woman—who, upon a glance, I see is Rachel Dawes, Harvey Dent's girlfriend—and the horrible jerk who is currently circling her.

"Sex fiend," I mutter, and when I see that Rachel has kneed him straight in the balls—score!—I take my chance and jump at him, attaching myself to his back, making us both fall down. "This is revenge, asshole!" I shriek with joy, spinning us around until I'm on top of him, and I punch him straight in the nose as hard as I can. Blood squirts out and stains my knuckles, and his black eyes are dancing with mirth and agony, and his red mouth is open wide to cackle at me. I clench my fist again, but I know that punching him again is unwise and I'm quite satisfied with that one little love tap.

He grins at me. "I like my women on top," is all he says, and my face goes red.

"You—" I begin, but he shoves me off and I notice that, my my, Batman has finally decided to crash the already crashed party. I feel a bit left out when the Joker pushes me off of him with a very excited look on his painted face when he spots Battyman, but whatever—at least with all this commotion gives me a chance to escape. I make a run for the elevator, but one of the Joker's goonies blocks me.

"You ain't goin' no where, little girl," he says in a very annoying voice that resembles a retarded hillbilly, but I don't pay much attention when I throw my entire body into him to knock him over—I succeed, and I grab the gun that he lets go of as the wind exits his body. He lets out a little "oof!" as we fall, then I scramble up so I can point the gun at his head and look threatening.

"I think I am," I say triumphantly, and the man makes no move to stop me. I turn around, but a hand closes around my ankle and pulls, and I fall.

"I don't think so," he retorts, and I can tell the man is grinning wolfishly underneath that ugly mask of his. He's pulling me towards him, and my dress is going up my legs. I twist and turn to avoid this, and I lash out with my other foot and smash my heel into the guy's face. I hear an ugly crack, and he immediately releases me to howl in pain, ripping off his mask to cup his broken nose, which seem to be a favorite target of mine today.

The gun had skittered away from me when I fell, but I don't think I have to worry about clown man anymore—I leave him moaning in pain and find that the elevator is jammed. Some minion must have shut it down. "Dammit!" I shout, turning back around to find that Batman has jumped out of the window to save Rachel, who the Joker pushed. Really slick.

For a minute it is perfectly quiet, except for, of course, the Joker's laughter, and for Rachel screaming. Jesus Christ—this man deserves another punch in the nose. I start to advance on him, and none of his men try to stop me—breaking the boss's nose and one big strong man's nose must have forewarned them of my fury. The fiend doesn't even notice me when I'm standing right in front of him, or when I cough angrily to announce my presence.

"Hey, Mr. Joker," I say finally, and he suppresses his laughter to look up at me.

"Oh, hello, gorgeous," his voice drawls, still giggling.

"Hello yourself," I snap, putting my hands on my hips, unaware that this makes me look like some surly girlfriend. "You just dropped a DA out the window and drug me over two blocks worth of cement so I could play your little hostage game, then you made sexual comments about me, then your little friend tried to sneak a peak under my dress, and you just stand there laughing the whole fucking time! You know, I think I really do want to punch you in the face again—maybe you'll end up getting one of those disgusting crooked noses. I really hope you do—it'll put a dent in your oversized ego, you stupid bastard. I'm going to sneak into your house and dye all your fancy purple suits pink and shave you bald. Haha! Nice joke, right? It'll be a joke, right? I'll be laughing—"

"You talk too much, babe," he sighs, running a gloved hand through his nasty-looking hair. "Look, I've got a, uh, tight schedule, so I probably won't be able to fit in another date this week." His face is suddenly way too close to me, his breath hot on my earlobe, and his husky voice continues with, "Next Thursday, seven o' clock."

"Like hell—" I begin, but his finger presses down on my neck and my vision goes black, and I faint.