Disclaimer: 1) a renunciation of any claim to or connection with; 2) disavowal; 3) a statement made to save one's own ass.
(Disclaimer: I also do not claim to own the definition of Disclaimer. Merriam-Webster and View Askew own it. Clever bastards.)
Look, I know I know I know. I know that this seems like yet another idiotic Joker/OC/Batman triangle. And–– you're right! It is! Good for you! But I intend to have fun with my Anti-Mary-Sue, and I hope you enjoy the ride!
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See, I'm ready. Watch me, world; I'm the guttersnipe in the ballroom gown who, with her infinite grace and charm, will enchant the bodacious billionaires and beauties of Gotham City with one elegant walk down the marble stairs of Bruce Wayne's penthouse apartment. Look aloof, look aloof and distant, think of Eliza Doolittle from Pygmalion, who with nothing but annunciation and a full facial convinced the royalty of Europe that she was a long-lost princess. Of course, she had Leslie Howard by her side and knew the waltz, but I'm sure that with my head held high, I can survive one trip down a staircase and become the epitome of elegance.
Unless, of course, I actually trip.
Tumbling head over three-inch heels in a ridiculous dress that I suspect was made in the 1800s, all thoughts of elegance disappear from my mind, to be replaced with my one desperate prayer that nobody in this outrageous, gorgeous room saw my downfall.
Predictably, everyone is watching. More than a few are laughing. It's really a shame I'm not religious.
"Ma'am, oh dear–– Ma'am, are you alright?" An English gentleman, eyes kind and concerned, has teleported to my side.
I stand up hurriedly, swaying a little and refusing to look at him. "Oh, mister, I think you've got the wrong person," I say gruffly, "there aren't any ma'ams here, definitely none that fell down a flight of stairs, ha ha ha!" He smiles at me, but I plow on, babbling as usual and turning completely red. "I think she headed off, uh, that way." Waving in every direction. "But I couldn't be sure with all these people." Nodding firmly, "Right, well, I'm going to devour the buffet table out of mortification now–– I mean, you know, empathetic mortification." Tottering off, absolutely ashamed of myself. Epitome of elegance my ass.
Alone now, watching the socialites, debutantes, and fat lechers (they don't get a pretty name) hobnob and chitter. I am in the abyss. I have looked into it, it has done likewise me, and there I am. With strawberries. I inch the strawberry bowl closer to me, stopping every few moments to smile graciously at another member of the gliding species of alien defined as "model." Finally, another big name arrives in a very large 'copter and the entire room turns around to watch him (deep voice, assume it's a man) congratulate the new DA. Who I'm supposed to be taking pictures of. In fact, I ought to be documented all of the proceedings. But honestly, after my initial horror, all I'm proud of is my ability to sit on the buffet table holding the bowl in my lap and shoveling berries into my mouth. I've really hit an all-time low.
"Hello." I jolt and look up, mouth crammed with fruit. It's an incredibly handsome, clean-cut man–– the host and the rage of the town (literally, in some circles), Mr. Bruce Wayne. I turn as red as the berries. "Who are you?" he continues, as if it's perfectly commonplace to find twenty-two-year-olds hogging the strawberry bowl in his penthouse. Glancing around at the company, I wonder if I'm not far off the mark. I swallow.
"Someone who is supposed to be here, I assure you." I blush again. "I mean, not here, sitting on your buffet table like a moronic centerpiece, but here. This party." He laughs, and turns around to sit, to my shock, on the table. In a state of awe, I hold out the strawberry bowl, knowing that I look for all the world like a chimp that's discovered Jane Goodwin. He grins again, looking completely at ease, and takes a handful. I see good humor glow in his eyes.
"So," he says kindly, "what do you do? That is, when you aren't going to fundraisers." I look at him incredulously.
"Yeah," I say derisively, "I'm the type who has enough fortune and lack of ambition to just laze about and flirt out of boredom. No sir, such decadence is below me." I nod firmly. "Or, rather, around me, you can choose your favorite preposition. No offense meant, of course," I add hastily. He smiles again, a big stripe of white in pale skin, and again, his suppressed laughter explodes in his eyes.
"None taken. But it seems a little hypocritical of you to criticize self-indulgence when your own dress seems to be excess made into clothing." Let me mention now that this dress is about the size of a small elephant and looks like a wedding gown, complete with twenty thousands petticoats plus lace. It is a mess of black and white spirals and other nonsense. I scowl pointedly and shove another handful of berries into my mouth.
"One: I was–– misinformed by my colleges, who have a high opinion of their acts of jollity. They told me that you had an eccentric side to you, fuelled by money and public indulgence." Mr. Wayne seems to flinch, and I turn a little more towards him, still speaking through my mouthful. "So." I gulp. "They said… that this was going to be a masquerade." The man sitting next to me begins to grin again, but I only scowl more deeply. "And so, the horrid dress, the idiotic shoes, the, uh, mask, which you'll find in the trash can outside, and the delusional idea that I could transform myself into the beggar turned princess. Ha ha ha."
I roll my eyes and point to the diminutive Englishman, who, I now realize, was serving drinks. "You can ask him for an eyewitness account, but I assure you, I most definitely fell down every single one of those stairs." I shrug. "You know what they say about pride coming before the fall!" This is too much for Mr. Wayne, who bursts out laughing. I manage a small chuckle on his behalf, and finish, saying, "Which is why I'm sitting here instead of doing my job."
"Which is?"
I wave my black pretty camera with its enormous flashbulb in his face. "I'm just happy it didn't get broken. Though, at this rate, I'm more likely to find a mirror and begin creating my own blackmail than actually working." Wayne smiles again, and now I notice the crinkles around his eyes, the long black lashes surrounding the beautiful dark blue of his iris. Three minutes later, I realize that I'm staring, start, and succumb to full-body blush for the sixth time tonight (yes, I count them).
"Oh, damn, sorry about the whole, um, staring thi–– what I mean is that–– I mean, its my job to stare, 'cept its usually through my camera lenses. Which isn't to make you think I'm some sort of creep. I'm not. I'm the retard that everyone knows–– cause everyone knows one, right? Yeah, I tend to, er, babble when I get–– nervous, I mean, its not like I do it all the time, but every time I do it its just–– whatever I'm thinking comes out of my mouth, and its usually bad for my job. Which is probably why I've never been invited to these events before." I gulp, and, seeing that he's still smiling at me, rush on. "Please don't get me fired." God, I seem to have a knack at making people laugh tonight.
"No, I don't think I will. I think you're too good of company–– I usually don't meet someone so humble at these 'social' events. And I mean that as a complement to your honesty." Bruce Wayne, saying this, offers his hand to shake. And I, awestruck, not to mention idiotic as usual, let the strawberries fall to the floor. The bowl shatters and the fruit explodes, splattering my dress with bright red juices.
The sound breaks through the quiet hum of polite conversation, and I, who have just reached over to grasp a billionaire's hand, am now standing horrorstruck at the new mess I have created. Wayne's mouth twitches again, and I swear that right now I am not in the mood to be laughed at. Now, if there were anything deeper than an abyss, I'd throw myself into it. I'd consider sinking into the ground if it weren't ten stories below me.
And, I find, looking around, that Bruce Wayne has taken the alternative method of disappearance and has vanished into thin air. Which is a bit of a bastardly thing to do, never mind that I broke his beautiful glass bowl. I sink to the marble floor in a vain attempt to clean everything when I hear a loud BANG! Then, a high-pitched, twisted spiraling voice comes circling though the suddenly silent hall.
"Good evening ladies and gen-tle-men."
Still shocked silence. I rise slowly and, slipping off my stupid high-heels and stepping as carefully as I can over the broken glass, begin making my way through the crowd. There's one strawberry still mostly intact, and I slip it in my one (concealed) pocket as the voice continues. "We are to-night's entertainment!" I'm near the very front of the masses, but I keep my camera as carefully hidden as possible, and myself from hyperventilating.
There is a clown stalking around the crowd.
There are clown thugs in the middle of the room.
I have serious clown phobia.
I begin having what is commonly known in most of the English-speaking world as a "panic attack."
The freak's rounding the crowd, he's going for the finish line and he's–– stopped in front of me. "Whyyyy hello gorgeous!" His mouth, if you can call it that, has been carved open into a Cheshire smile. Even when he's stopped talking, the giant rictus grin never seems to close. His eyes are deep kohl-infused tunnels, and no matter which one you take, you know that whatever light was at the end has shorted out forever. The trembling vats of adipose in front of me melt away like foam on a beach and I'm left standing in my ridiculous, red-stained oversized dress feeling very unwell. Because I know–– like Bruce Wayne (unfortunately) knows–– that if I talk to this circus crazy now, whatever's at the top of my head will come out of my mouth. And I feel like this is the sort of clown who appreciates his own jokes more than others'.
He stops. He stares at my dress. I stare at him. Green hair? Really? But I manage to keep my big fat mouth shut. He doesn't. He laughs, a horrible, terrifying demented laugh that makes me want to break down and cry.
"Wellll, girly, from one class of criminal to another, I'd like to point out"–– pointing at my dress––"that––ah, after a crime of–– he he ho ha he he passion, it's best to clean up after oneself." I look down. My dress is splattered with the remains of my strawberries, looking very much like I just waded through a pool of blood. I refuse to comment, clutching at my skirt. The man in the make-up and the pimp suit saunters forward. "Don't wor-ry daaaaahling, you won't be in the big house for long–– you're too––ah– irresistible." He cackles again, tongue darting over his painted lips, moving closer and closer, until I can't stand it anymore.
"Actually, you don't have to worry either." I gulp. He has stopped very near to me and I can feel body heat and menace radiating off of him in waves. "This, um, costume was actually for my performance to tonight as, um, Lucia di Lammermoor. You know, the mad scene, after she's killed her husband. It's okay, though, this entertainment will certainly um, suffice. I mean, I don't even know much opera anyway. Much much better with comedic routines–– I mean, not to imply rivalry or anything, but I find that everyone is laughing at me tonight."
A bit of an eerie silence, then a small, insidious chuckle. The fiend is still grinning wildly and looks like he's about to crack up again, and he's looking at me with a disturbing hunger in his eyes. His proximity is killing me, I can feel myself twitching, and I start edging out of the crowd, keeping his eyes on my face the entire time. I figure that as long as he isn't paying attention to the others, maybe I'll be able to delay our dooms, or provide distraction until someone comes to save us. In the corner of my eye, I swear I see a shadow move, silently, from pillar to pillar. I press on, ignoring the monster's lecherous gaze.
"Actually, mister, I really hate clowns." Oh Lord, I've done it now. "Clowns freak me the fuck out. The only reason I'm not running around having an A-bomb mushroom cloud panic attack is because I figure that I'll be more of a danger to people as a moving target." The creature in the makeup begins making enormous puppy dog eyes.
"Don't you like me, Lucy?" Lucy–– Lucia––? Oh, nice one, asshat. "I'm here to make people laugh––ah, Lucia, I'm here to make them smile. Do you want to know––" and suddenly he's close, very close to my face, with a harpy in one hand ––"how I got these scars?"
He grabs my cheeks, sticking his knife into my mouth, and suddenly everything is clear and sharp as shattered glass–– the metallic taste on my tongue, the smell of his face pain, his low, raspy voice muttering about his drunken girlfriend–– and I know who he is. The Joker. Of course, of course. Coming to help Mr. Dent with his fundraiser, perhaps? This is no time for babbling and panicking; we're all in terrible danger. I finally act, twisting and pulling my head away from the knife, bringing my enormous flash bulb from behind my back and screaming "Cheese!" as I flash his eyesight into temporary oblivion.
Taking this moment of blindness to beat him repeatedly over the head with my camera, I give a war cry that quickly turns into cry of "Oh fuck!" as the other thugs start rushing me. Dammit, savior in hiding, you really don't take a hint, do you? I'm in some serious trouble, you bastard! I manage to take several thugs out by bashing them over the head with centerpieces, when I hear yelling. The Joker has his harpy at Rachel Dawes', Dent's girlfriend, throat. The Joker stares at me with malevolent humor, mouth split wide open in the usual terrifying grin.
"Oooooh, oooh boys, I like her...he he ha aha ha why don' we make the proper introductions? I'm the Joker–– the helpful man with the friendly smile. And you are–––?" I begin to shake as I feel his cronies approach from behind. I should know better than to play hero, I'm only 4' 11" and three-fourths and every time I interfere, things go from bad to worse. I choke a little on my words, refusing to acknowledge the thugs behind me.
"Who me? I'm just the retarded kid who sat at the back of the bus and made bus noises. I don't even know how the stupid thing works!" I laugh a little wildly, spin around to punch funnyman one in the gut, and end up getting whacked over the head. So much for preserving Harvey Dent's little party, not to mention his life. As my vision spirals into darkness, I hear an exchange that makes my heart jump into my mouth.
"A little fight in you! I like that."
"Then you're going to love me."
