Prostitution is the world's oldest profession and I, my dear, am a professional. I had only been on the scene for a short time, but I had already attracted the attention of some of Gotham's best and worst. I regularly visited the "abandoned" warehouses that were home to the likes of Nygma, Penguin, and the Clown Prince of Gotham himself. The notorious men themselves had yet to request my company, but the lackeys had been quite generous with their shares of any loot they happened to come by. I had even managed to find my way into the higher circles of government officials and the occasional CEO of some of the biggest companies in Gotham.
I had honestly no idea how I had found my way into such high-profile customers, especially because I started my business on my own. Most women had to have pimps with big connections to land the jobs that I landed, but I managed to writhe and thrust my way to the top with no help. I attribute my success partially to my strange appearance I had been born with. My eyes are a violet that is unattainable with something as simple as colored contacts, and my hair is as black as the Devil's soul, with subtle hints of inky purple.
Because of my fortunate circumstances I have somehow managed to land myself in my current predicament. A small handgun is currently pointed directly between my violet eyes as I sit on the floor, the position I had ended up in after I was rudely pushed down. I look up at the man above me, one of Joker's lackeys.
"Caligo, I know this is your job, but don't you think that I am enough for right now? I paid good money to have your company tonight. I've showed you off enough, come back to my room now."
"Don't try to put me on display as a show of wealth," I manage to say through gritted teeth. "You don't own me. I've already done what you paid me for and you weren't that impressive. If you would like to purchase more of my time you're going to have to show me more cash. If you have it."
The nine other men in the room laugh, some of them offering me racks they had pulled from various pockets. I see the man's finger move as he clicks off the safety. I stare into his eyes, wondering if this is the moment my mouth and morals finally get me killed. Neither of those things mix very well in the underbelly of civilization. Just as I see his eyes harden with killing intent, I force the gun to point over my head with a swift kick to his forearm and he pulls the trigger. A spit second later our roles have been reversed. I had the pleasure of sleeping with an expert in hand to hand combat several times in the last few months. I took lessons as payment instead of cash.
"So…" I smirk as I release the clip and tuck it in the band of his pants, "The cash?"
The sound of slow clapping causes both me and the man I am currently pointing a gun at to abruptly turn to the door. The purple silk shirt was splayed open to reveal the various tattoos that stood out sharply against the pure white skin. His green hair is slicked back and the red smile he has is almost splitting his face in two.
"Mr. J! We was just havin' a bit of a lovers' spat is all! Right Darlin'?" I look from the man I'm threatening with a gun to the bullet hole now in the wall, silently thanking any god listening that it's not my brains splattered there. "Tell the boss, Caligo."
"Don't tell me what to do or things are going to get messy. You know my rules, as does everyone here." I smile sweetly at the Joker, covertly admiring the ink I could see. I gently swayed the gun back and forth, feeling the weight before squeezing the trigger. The poor man fell limply onto his back, already dead. Before I could raise my hands in surrender there were six other guns aimed at my head, and the Joker was laughing like mad.