21/3/2017

My shrink thinks starting a diary is going to help me 'let things go'. He says I have 'obsessive tendencies'. Whatever dude. I just know I'm angry all the time. What the fuck do you even write in these things anyway?

So I dance for a living. Hot, naughty, naked dancing. I have for years. It's the best fucking job in the world. Even when I was dancing for Gothams scum, right in the beginning, it was awesome. Dudes worship you, every night is a party, and the moneys great. I started at the bottom, dancing for drunks and perverts, and worked my way up. I've danced for the cream of the fucking crop, my friend. I've danced for Bruce motherfucking WAYNE. What a tightass. He's got a face like a smacked sack and he would rather talk business with his wealthy bootlickers that have a pair of titties is his face. Asshole. His bootlickers though, they pay out big time. Tens and twenties just to take my panties off. I bought my first goddamn car after dancing for Wayne and his buddies. He hired me for his guests a couple of times after that, but I haven't had any big pay work like that for a while. I do ok though.

So I don't feel any less angry yet. I'm gonna ask my shrink what the fuck I'm paying him for.

22/3/17

Apparently I have to write something every day.

Ok - today I bought some clothes and shit.

There. I'm cured. Cool as a fucking cucumber. Piece of shit diary.

23/3/17

I went to my self-defence class today. I love self defence. It's a fucking awesome work out, and helps if the dudes I dance for think they can get a little extra, if you know what I mean. My instructor, Leighton, is hot as shit. He's a fag though, so boohoo for me. I even asked him out for drinks once, and he fucking said yes! Here's me, waxing my junk for him and over the first round of drinks he's all,

"By the way, I'm a fucking massive homo." After I got over being pissed off at him we got fucked up together and it was a scream. He's the closest thing I have to a friend I guess. I don't really do the whole 'girlfriends' thing. People just fucking irritate me. I would still totally blow Leighton though…

24/3/17

I need to find some work. Know of any rich douchebags that want a shit hot dancer at their fundraiser? Of course you don't. You're a fucking book.

25/3/17

This lame ass diary shit is getting old quick. I'm going to Metropolis for a few days, taking a working vaykay. I'm not taking you with me, so suck it therapy.

28/3/17

Metropolis was a fucking blast! Gotham is awesome and all but I was born in Metro City and it will always be home. Plus, I can always get work there. I danced a few nights at Denny's, where I first started. The clientele was a little… different to what I'm used to now but hey, I work to get paid, right? That's how I can afford this freaking awesome apartment.

29/3/17

Denny called today. I thought he was gonna ask me to go back to the club full time, so I was about to be all – no way dude. But that's not what it was about. Turns out some guy called him looking for - and I quote - 'exceptional dancers' and Denny thought of little old me! He's a sweetie I guess. Anyway this guy quoted $100,000 for a three-week contract, plus tips. I'm like – where's the catch? Anyway. Denny set me up a meeting with this guy to discuss the fine print. I guess I'll go, douche better not be wasting my time.

31/3/17

So I'm meeting that guy tonight at 8.00pm in The Black Canary bar on Arkham Ave. Just giving you some evidence in case I get kidnapped, raped and killed. Or kidnapped, killed and raped. Yeesh.

1/4/17

Holy shit. I have so much to write my fingers wont go quick enough.

So I get to the Black Canary, and it's a fucking shithole, on the bottom floor of what I thought where offices or apartments. I walked in the door and it smelled like goddamn sweat and come, and my feet where sticking to the carpet. I swear I was about to leave when the barman looked up from his cash register and said,

"Jesus, your different from their usual type." Just like that. What the fuck?! I didn't know what to say, and just as I opened my mouth to ask him what the fuck he meant, two of the biggest dudes I have ever seen came out of a door next to the restrooms. Now I have never been called 'miss' by anyone, but sure as shit this fucking hulk of a dude says,

"The boss will see you upstairs at your leisure, Miss Taylor." I think I just looked at him for a while, taking in how stacked they both where, and wondering why the barmen had used the word "their", was I going to be dancing for more than one guy? Anyway I didn't show them my nerves and was all like, "Sure Mongo, lead the way."

So we went through the door they had appeared from, and into a stairwell. I guess we went up about 3 floors, and the smell started to improve. In fact, by the time we reached the top floor, the place was much cleaner. Spotless even.

The door off the stairwell lead to what I thought looked like the entrance to one of those posh clubs in the rich end of Gotham. It was all deep red walls and carpets, a booth for taking money, a cloakroom, and one other door. I started to get excited, was I going to get contracted to a club for all the wealthy married guys in Gotham!? Mongo snapped me out of my daydream as he ushered me through the only other door. Goon 2, who hadn't said a word, took up his mantle next to the door. His hands were clasped in front of him and shoulders squared in the typical goon fashion.

Mongo got me to take a seat on one of the many sofas in the next room. That's when I started to get really excited. There are mirrors everywhere, even on the ceiling. The whole place is decked out in lavish silks and velvets in gold, red and cream. I could live in that room. Everything looks pricey, like someone had just added a dash of…sex. A massive bar took up the whole of one wall – it's the first thing you see when you walk in. All these expensive looking champagnes and spirits lined up like guards on a dark oak battlefield. See, I get so excited about this shit I start using fancy phrases! Anyway, there are all these stuffed animal heads on the walls, deer and fox and shit. Don't even get me started on the leather sofas. I love that room.

Anyway Mongo gets behind the bar and goes "Would Miss Taylor care for a drink?"

I just sighed and said, "Look Mongo, stop calling me miss ok? Call me Beau, or just B if you like. Jesus." I felt bad though, because he looked all panicky, like he had orders to be super polite. So I asked him to fix me a martini. I had never had one before, but that setting, and having been called Miss – twice – called for a posh drink. It tasted like a rat had drank poison and then vomited it back into my glass. I was disappointed. Rich people invent these expensive drinks and then they taste like shit! Assholes.

So, there are four doors in this room. Two for the bathrooms, the one I entered through, and a kind of hidden one, behind the bar. When it first opened I thought it was just Mongo, doing whatever he was doing back there. But when I heard him say "What can I get you to drink boss?" I knew someone else was in the room. I turned in my seat to address my potential new employer, but the door was still open, and I could only see half of his expensive looking suit, a dark green Armani number. I started to feel nervous, like I was at a fucking job interview or something. When he spoke to order his drink, (a whiskey sour) his voice didn't sound right, like he had a bad throat, but worse. It was deep and raspy – a growl. I sort of recognised it, but I didn't think anything of it until he stepped out from behind the door, and I almost wet my panties. His face. It was burned. Badly burned, the whole of the right side of his head in fact. I have never seen anyone so badly disfigured. Whatever burned him must have burned for a long fucking time, because some of his lip was missing, pulling his mouth back into some sort of sick grimace and showing his teeth. There was no hair on the right side of his head, and his ear was just a little mound of gristle and a hole. I felt sick, the combination of the vile martini and the shock of his scars made the room spin a little. I began to try and pull myself together as he made his way over to where I was sitting. I stood as he reached me, and held out my hand, managing a smile.

I said something along the lines of, "Hi, Beau Taylor. I hear your looking for a dancer." Its all still a total blur. He sort of regarded me for a second, and then took my hand. His palm and fingers where all burned too, and felt twisted and rubbery in mine. The feeling made me want to squirm, but I kept my cool.

"I'm not looking. Chance is looking." He growled. Well then. What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? The left half of his face, the side without burns, broke into a smile.

"I'm just messing with you kid. Here's the situation:' He beckoned for me to sit again and I did so. 'I'm beginning a little operation. I have many associates who like to feel… pampered when we have our meetings up here. Pretty little flowers like yourself make it feel less like a chore and more like an evening for gentlemen. Don't you agree?" Half of him smiled again and he took a seat to my left. It was then I realised. With him sitting to my left, I could only see the unscarred side of his face. And who wouldn't recognise that face? It was Gothams Fallen White Night. It was Harvey. Fucking. Dent.