I've seen a few stories about other Batman villains.
Penguin, Catwoman, Riddler, Poison Ivy.
I haven't seen one about the Ventriloquist. Dunno why.
Maybe not many people like him?
Maybe they don't think he's important.
Who knows.
At any rate, that's more or less what drove me to write this.
Mostly a one-shot.
Might make a series if enough people are interested.
Might not. Depends on how I feel.
Anyway, review, please?
You Dummy!
Arnold Wesker had it all. He had money, he had friends. He was living the high life. His friends adored him. As well as Billy. Oh, everyone loved Billy! Billy was the cutest thing ever made. Even more cute was his speech impediment. Billy had trouble with 'B's, deciding the transpose any and all 'B's with a 'G'. Even his own name was always "Gilly!"
"Howdy, goys and girls! It's your old pal, Gilly!" Billy spoke, smiling to the audience. The children would laugh, Arnold would laugh. Billy would call Arnold a 'dummy', and kids would laugh louder.
"Billy, I've made a bet,"
"Dummy. You should know getter than to make gets!"
"And why's that, Billy?"
"Gecase, you always lose!"
"No, but I think I can win this one!"
"Why's that?"
"I made a bet you could say 'billions of bright blue balloons bounce beautifully before the bay'."
"Oooo, you dummy!"
Oh, the children loved it when Billy would call Arnold a dummy. Why, you might ask? Well, it's very simple. Arnold and Billy preformed in front of an audience of studio children, and no less than five cameras on a show called Arnold's Cockamanee Junction and Billy was his puppet.
Billy was Arnold's ace in the hole. Arnold had left Gotham to make it big, and boy had he. Arnold had been born to a very large, and very powerful, mafia family. He had grown up with relatives assassinated, and delivering paraphernalia under the guise of Wesker's Famous Redi-Lemonade! - Just Add Water!
At only seven years old, Arnold had woken to glass shattering. He crawled out of bed and peeked out his bedroom door. He saw his mother thrown from her room, and blood pouring out of her mouth. She had various cuts along her body, and a handgun in her left hand. Looking towards her room, she aimed the weapon and pulled the trigger. A single bullet followed. A laughter was heard, and Arnold thought he heard a man say something about "missing".
His mother pulled the trigger again, but it seemed the gun jammed. He heard more laughter as his mother fought with her weapon. Another shot, this one from his mother's room, and a bullet tore through her chest. One last shot went through her head and he body slumped over in her own blood.
Arnold's voice was gone. A lump formed in his chest, and he thought he might very well pass out. He waited for his mother's killer to exit the room. Waited for him to turn and see this little weak boy and shoot him.
Arnold waited in vain. Arnold wouldn't know until days later, while he was in the hospital, that he was never discovered. While he waited, Arnold's head spun, he felt weak, and he staggered back and fell in a dead faint.
As he fainted, one could almost hear something snap. Something so small, so tiny, it seemed unimportant.
Over the next few weeks, Arnold tried many different creative outlets. He drew, he wrote, he read. None of it seemed to work. Then a doctor offered the little boy a ventriloquist's dummy. Arnold began to practice throwing his voice. He got quite good at it, but could never enunciate on his 'B's. As a child, substituting 'B's with 'G's was cute, but trying to make it big, it was a nightmare!
Arnold finally landed a career as a children's entertainer by the age of twenty-three, and never looked back, since.
Now, here was Arnold; his hair graying with age and his wide blue eyes hidden behind thick coke-bottle glasses. He had put on a few pounds, but the children still loved him and Billy.
Or had loved him.
Arnold's Cockamanee Junction was canceled, and Arnold now slumped down in a chair, tossing Billy onto the side table.
"That's it, Billy. We're done. If I can't even entertain kids, for Christ's sake, what kind of entertainer am I?" Billy simply smiled over at him. Arnold frowned. "Stop that!" Arnold grabbed a letter opener and, in a fit of rage that left as soon as it arose, slashed at his doll. A long cut fell along his left cheek. Horrified, Arnold dropped the knife.
"Oh, Billy! I'm so sorry!" He cried, whimpering. "I'm just not myself! M-maybe I need a drink."
His last show had just finished being filmed and would air for children world-wide in two months. Saturday at 11am - 10am central would be the last anyone would see of Arnold Wesker.
Or so he thought.
As Arnold poured himself a shot of whiskey, the phone rang. He crossed over to it and answered.
"Arnold Wesker."
"Yo, Arnie?" that voice, could it be?
"Who is this?"
"Mugsy! Ya know, back in Gotham?"
"Mugsy!" Arnold smiled, "How are you? My, I haven't heard from you in years! How's the family?"
"Oh, we doin' good, Arnie. We doin' good." Mugsy's voice sounded grave. "Arnie, I got some bad news to tell ya,"
More bad news? What else could go wrong in Arnold's life?
"Your father died. Drive-by just riddled him wit' bullets. I, uh, I'm real sorry I gotta tell ya like this." The glass fell from Arnold's numb hand and shattered to the floor. "Arnie? Ya there?"
That tiny snap from when he was a child, so insignificant. Arnold could distinctly hear it echoing inside his head, pitching against every inch of his skull.
"We were thinking you could come back and take your father's place." Arnold opened his mouth, and closed it. His throat felt dry.
"Youse mugs callin' me? Ha! I'll do da jog! I'll be da greatest crime goss Got'am's eva' seen!"
"Er, Arnie?"
"No! You dummy! Dis is Gilly! Nah, not Gilly. Gilly's too kiddy." Arnold turned a looked at his dummy. "Call me Scarface. Yah, yah. Scarface." Was Arnold really throwing his voice?
"What you lookin' at, dummy? Get me some getta' duds! I can't run a family lookin' like dis!"
"Uh, uh, yessir! M-mugsy, we'll be on a plane to Gotham tonight."
"Arnie, I - "
"Now, dummy!"
"Um, b-bye!" Arnold hung up the phone, and stared at Billy - no, Scarface. The doll was sitting up right. Did I do that? Arnold wondered briefly.
"Dummy, I'm talkin' to ya! Move it!"
"Oh, uh, yessir, Mr. Scarface!" Arnold began looking through the phone book, searching for a shop that would suit the needs for his companion.
"Dat's more like it." Scarface smiled, smugly, as he watch the little fat man run around frantically. "A guy can get used to dis."