Crash, bang, boom.
These are the sounds that he likes.
He likes what people do when they hear them. He likes that they can startle him but how he's never afraid of them, rather thinking they're simply an extension of the inner hubbub. It's art; something outside of himself that proves he's human.
The things that it takes to make these sounds aren't expensive; he is after all, a man of simple tastes. He said he'd burned half of his share, and he had. It didn't matter. Crash, bang and boom were inexpensive, and even more inexpensive when you could scare people into giving it to you. And they always scare so easily.
See, it's all about creating a setting. A sense of suspended reality. But that can break, so the real trick is improvisation, to take even the interruptions and make it seem like a part of the act. There's no usher out in the crowd unless he wants there to be, and even if there is, there's still that minor interruption. So what he had to learn, was how to make it all seem like it was supposed to happen. Keep that suspended reality going, the anticipation rising, make the air so thick that it stuck to your lungs. That's what it was about.
Crash, bang, boom.
The finale. That's the most important part. It's the part where you send out a message. Everything before that is the fun but it's the message that really matters. There's a story in everything, but if the story isn't good there's no point to the finale. So he made sure that all the details were just as good as the finale, just as rife with conflict and dramatic resolution. If you looked at everything he'd done as a story there'd be more of a chance at making head and tail of it. Maybe. Maybe if it was a collection of short stories, minimalist in language, ambiguous. It'd make sense if they were stories perhaps, but maybe the stories don't make sense. He didn't care.
But no one was looking at it as the fantastic, brilliant, work of art that it was which made audience participation a tad bit difficult. And it really was a shame, that nervous rejection, seeing as it was truly a virtuoso's performance. But they only saw it as a problem. They saw it all as crime. That's why the Bat Man was out for him. It wasn't a story to them, they didn't have the imagination. When would they see that that was the real crime?
But it didn't mean that they weren't exempt simply because of their reluctance.
Dramatis personae: the stars, the supporting actors and actresses, the extras and the people who are nearly extras. Those are the ones who have only a few lines, but they're just as important. So, the stars, undoubtedly, were him and the Bat Man. Supporting: Ms. Dawes, Dent, Commissioner Gordon. The extras: the people of Gotham. The ones who are nearly extras: the subordinates of the stars and supporting cast.
The setting: Gotham. It was all there. All it needed was a story, a real story. The kind with heroes, and fallen knights and angels, the kind with well thought plans folding over right, left and centre stage. Gotham deserved that kind of story. He'd give it to them. Consider it his public service.
Crash, bang, boom.
Who was the director? The writer?
Him, of course, he could be the raconteur. And there are a lot of action sequences. Maybe it was over-ambitious to write, act, direct, and even do his own stunts, but if you wanted something done right really, the only way to do it was to do it yourself. If there was going to be anyone to compromise the story, it'd be him, no one else.
This story was the story of a lifetime. The expectations had been set; every scene had to be bigger, better than the last. He was more than happy to deliver.
That's the trouble with audiences today. Everything needs to be grandiose, every gesture a flourish impregnated with meaning and depth and just the right amount of the wow factor. He was good at that part, the wow; there was a constant stream of ideas, and all he had to do was pluck one down and set it in motion. As for meaning, he'd admit that it was his weakness, but that didn't mean that it wasn't there. He just wasn't going to hand it over like some cheap dime store novel (as much as he loved those), that was too mundane.
In short, he was born for it, as they say, and they got it right sometimes.
Crash, bang, boom.
Gotham was his theatre, the ushers on his payroll and the special effects guy? That was him too, couldn't trust the lackey's with something so important. It was entirely his production, his masterpiece until he made another, more extravagant one, till he got a better idea. Improvisation, that's what it was, the motions, the continence of the story. He'd never be done, he was more ambitious than that. He had to keep it going, for as long as he could, till the Bat had him on his knees and dealt the final blow. He wouldn't flinch, knowing that the Bat would never do it.
But it was always about the finale; and every scene was the finale. See, they were really short stories, and that's why they were so effective. Who had time for longer stories these days? Most people don't even read past the first few sentences of an article in the paper unless it was particularly gruesome. It's all about endings, even more than it was about beginnings, and the audience was in for one hellava finale as he turned all their little schemes inside out.
Crash.
Bang.
Boom.