Jervis never felt at ease in supermarkets. They were so very full of dead-eyed men and women who's lives oozed through the cracks of the status quo, measuring perfectly against society's prerequisites. Even when dressed in his most casual garb (which left him feeling next-to-naked— no petticoat or hat, even) Jervis's short stature and strange features compelled the normal people to gawk, though it was difficult to tell whether they recognized him as a mass-murdering criminal or a simple oddity. If anything, he thanked God for the Kitty Genovese effect. Gotham's populace was a teeming herd of bystanders.
The Hatter gave a sigh and glanced around the place tutting to himself at the gaudy displays of "extra-large" whathaveyous, disgusted that anyone could swallow that much food within the window of time between its purchase and its expiration date. On a regular basis, no less. But he hadn't come here to pass judgments, although he couldn't quite help himself. What he'd really come for, he reminded himself as he strode to the seafood section in the store's backmost corner, was a new pet.
The lobsters all piled together in that sad little tank seemed a bit languid. Poor dears. It would be cruel not to attempt to rescue at least one or two from their horrible, cramped cell.
He observed them thoughtfully, half-hoping that one of them might gaze up with pleading eyes or tap his meaty "crushing" claw upon the glass, some silent acknowledgement that his empathetic behavior would not go unnoticed. But of course, lobsters were merely great red swimming insects, and at this time most probably had no recollection of the murky ocean where they were born. They only knew the sty they puttered and groped through now, but their uncle Hatta would soon change all that.
The white-aproned clerk behind the tank began to eye him strangely as his selection extended into three minutes, later denying the strange little man when he requested an opportunity to "meet" one of the lobsters before making his final selection. Good lord, Lorena thought, adjusting her nametag, she always got the nuts. But little did she comprehend, there was simply no guessing how practiced a dancer any given lobster might be without first saying how do ye do, and shaking hands.