My Smile is Just Skin Deep
Henshaw – known to most by his given name of Benjamin, or "Benny" – had seen a lot of weird stuff in his career as a henchman in Gotham.
After all, he'd worked on and off for the Joker for the last eight years. A remarkably long time, for one of the Joker's henches, but Henshaw had managed it by making sure he only came on the briefest of jobs – or "capers" as the boss called them – and of keeping his mouth well and truly buttoned.
But for all the many weird, bizarre, grotesque and crazy sights Henshaw had witnessed in that time, nothing had prepared him for what he now beheld.
The Joker stood in the middle of a large room, dressed in a weird ankle-length white – dress. He couldn't think of any other word to describe it, with its high collar and set of buttons running the entire length from neck to ankle. Of course, Henshaw always knew the boss was a bit queer – in fact, he'd been more than a little surprised when he'd taken up with that harlequin cookie a few years back – but he would never have pegged the Joker for a cross-dresser.
Henshaw tried not to stare as he entered the room with a basket full of red roses clutched in either hand. His buddy, Rocco – the fifth Rocco Henshaw had known in the last eight years, the Roccos never seemed very good at staying unnoticeable – carried two similar baskets, these filled with black roses. Henshaw hadn't even known that roses could come in black.
The Joker turned slowly in a circle, a wickedly sharp razor blade held aloft in each hand, surveying the room they were in with a delirious cackle. His step picked up until he spun in a sudden whirl, the skirt of his dress flaring up around his ankles. Beneath the dress, Henshaw saw he was wearing red and black striped socks and black stiletto high heels, and felt suddenly ill, as though he'd mistakenly hired gay porn.
"Ah ha ha ha haaaa," Joker sang, spreading his arms out wide as he spun. "Put on a happy face!"
Henshaw stopped short and stared at his boss, jaw dangling open. The Joker came to a stop and then stared straight ahead towards the door of the lair, the ragged corners of his lately scarred mouth fixed upwards in a twisted grin, his purple eyes gazing vacantly at nothing. He giggled to himself and then fell silent, his arms by his sides, razor clutched tight in each one.
Henshaw was somewhat relieved to note the Boss' dress was spattered and stained with suspicious looking red blotches. Maybe some of the Boss was still in there after all.
"Er, Rocco, what happened to the Boss' sensa style?" he whispered as the Joker spun on his heel on the red and black tiled floor and strode towards a mirrored wall.
Rocco shrugged. "Boss seems to find it hard to stay on top that sorta stuff lately. All his suits got dirty but he never wanted 'em taken to the cleaners. Just dumped 'em out back. Those socks he's wearin' the last matchin' pair."
"Yeesh, what happened to him?" Henshaw felt oddly disturbed. The Boss had always taken real pride in his appearance, best-dressed guy Henshaw had ever seen, even if he did have odd taste in colour combinations.
Rocco dumped the roses down on a table pressed up against the wall and indicated Henshaw should do the same. Then Rocco withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow while Henshaw leant up against the wall and pulled out his cigarettes, tapping one out.
"Dunno. He's been gettin' weirder and weirder for ages now. And knowin' the Joker, that's sayin' somethin'. Hasn't run a proper scheme in months. Yannow how he always used to be scribblin' things down, comin' up with crazy ideas?"
Henshaw nodded, inhaling. Rocco tucked his handkerchief away once more.
"Well, he don't do that no more."
Henshaw's eyes widened disbelievingly. One thing about the Joker was that he was always stir-crazy with ideas, 'strokes of creative genius' as he'd called them, and their recording came first and foremost above all else. At one time when there had been no writing material handy, Joker had taken a blade to a hench's back and deftly carved his thoughts there, putting a quick bullet through the hapless man's brain when he protested.
"'S'almost as though he's – I dunno – outta ideas."
Henshaw turned away with a slack lower lip, rubbing one hand over his stubbled jaw in shock. "Geeze… "
The two men turned to survey the room. The Joker had always had theatrical taste in décor, but this space was unusually bare and spartan, as unlike the Joker Henshaw knew as could be. Joker always had an extravagant bed, lots of comfortable couches, several refrigerators filled with junk food, a selection of intensely disturbing torture devices and a variety of carnival memorabilia in all colours of the rainbow. It had always creeped Henshaw out a little bit – nothing worse than staring clown faces with wide-opened mouths fixed to the legs of a Judas Cradle, painted purple with orange polka dots, right next to the bed strewn with miniature plushie dolls of the Boss that his girl was fixed on collecting.
This room was bare except for the table and a large plain desk. There wasn't even the usual makeshift stage complete with curtains that the Boss always said was for emergency use (whatever that meant). Just the black and red checked floor.
The lighting was weird too. The bulbs in the fixtures were red glass, throwing an unearthly fiery glow over the space, broken only by the dark shadows that crept in from the corners. The whole place was quiet and still – no old movies playing on a television set, no carnival music blaring out of a calliope and no cheery singing in the high-pitched voice of the Boss' girl.
Hey, come to think of it – where was the Boss' girl?
The Boss was standing in front of the mirror, stroking his fingertips over his reflection. Henshaw thought with a twinge of strange hope this might be a sign of the old Boss returning – he always seemed kinda high on himself – but then the Joker just giggled insanely and begun unbuttoning his dress. Henshaw shot an alarmed look at Rocco who just shook his head sadly and tapped out a cigarette of his own.
The Boss pulled open his collar, revealing a twisted scar that covered his entire left shoulder and looked as though it extended down across his chest too. The Joker cooed as his fingertips poked and prodded at the mass of tissue, rubbing and stroking the marred flesh in a teasing fashion before he leant forward and licked his reflection.
Henshaw flinched. Who ever would have thought the Boss could get weirder.
"Rocco," Henshaw hissed as the Joker spun away from the mirror and danced over to his desk where he embedded the razors into the wood. "Where's that Quinn babe? Shouldn't she be able to help snap him out of this funk?"
Rocco snorted and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. "Jeez, man, you been gone awhile. They busted up!"
Henshaw was so shocked he dropped his cigarette.
The Joker perched himself on the edge of the desk, humming softly under his breath, his eyes bulging and wild and his lacerated smile looking raw in the dim light. There wasn't even the usual ostentatious throne looming behind the desk. The Joker always had a throne. Usually a hideous, garish thing in the shape of some creepy clown face. Henshaw had always hated them, but as the Joker turned his head from side to side and picked up a small bottle from the desk and uncapped it, Henshaw thought he'd give his left nut just to see the Boss, in his classic purple suit, reclining in one. Because Henshaw had just realised the bottle the Joker had picked up was nail polish.
"The white bishop tramples the checkerboard underfoot and claims her land for his own!" The Joker sing-songed, carefully stroking the brush over his nails. "She yields with a smile and a sigh so sweet it would make a clown weep!"
"What the hell is he talking about?" Henshaw whispered to Rocco who again shrugged, then turned away, motioning for Henshaw to follow.
"None of us can figure it out anymore. But if you think that don't make any sense, check this out!"
Henshaw followed Rocco quietly, casting an uneasy glance back at the Joker who continued to cluck to himself and paint his nails. What had happened to the Joker who had always had something quick and sharp to say? The henches had all feared his barbed tongue, but somehow this senseless nonsense seemed worse. Rocco led Henshaw up to the shadowy walls and as they drew closer, Henshaw saw the walls were covered in straggled writing in a mottled shade of red.
Letters written in blood. Well, it wasn't something the Boss would be squeamish about. But then he saw what the words read and felt a cold chill course through him.
"Another pretty flower! Blossoming like billous blood billowing in beauty! Red and black that's the knack! Petals scatter and flatter and batter whipped cream skin screamed purple!"
Henshaw had worked for a lot of Rogues in Gotham and one thing he knew was that they all prided themselves on Style.
But none of them more so than the Joker. The Joker had been as obsessive about his flair and theatricality as he was about the Bat. He was proud and conceited and considered it his responsibility to maintain a certain standard. Working for the Joker had been hard at times, and always terrifying, but Henshaw had also had a certain level of pride in the work. The Joker was never content to simply blend in – everything had to be perfectly conceived and executed. He considered his work his art and he was fully committed to that. As freaky as the Boss was, Henshaw respected that.
Staring at the nonsensical, childish rhymes sprawled across the wall, Henshaw shuddered, then turned away. He was reminded of how he'd felt when he'd gone to visit his grandfather, a former recipient of the Purple Cross, in the Home after he'd been struck down by Alzheimer's. The once proud and muscular war hero was then slumped in an old armchair, wizened and drooling, unable to recognise his own family.
Henshaw glanced back over to the Boss who was daintily waving his hands back and forth to dry his nails. Henshaw noted he'd painted them alternating black and red and cocked his head to the side, suddenly struck by a curious realisation.
"How long since she split?" He muttered to Rocco, who offered him his flask. Henshaw took a swig and Rocco scratched the back of his head.
"A year, maybe a little more."
"Is that about when the Boss started goin' weird – er?"
Rocco raised his head, his eyes suddenly wide as he pegged to what Henshaw was implying. "Uh – yeah, now that you mention it. Yeah, that's about when."
The Joker blew on his nails in a fey fashion and Henshaw pressed his eyes shut. He prayed that when he opened them again the Boss would be juggling those razor blades and launching into some strange gag. The Boss had always had a witty punchline, a quick retort, or a mind-boggling observation to make a fellow bust a gut or poke his noodle with. But when he opened them again, the Joker was simply sitting on the desk, once more staring straight ahead of him with a vacant gaze. His teeth were clenched together in a rictus grin. It was creepy, disturbing and bizarre – it was also painfully sad.
"Boss looks thin," Henshaw noted the Joker's shrunken arms and Rocco nodded.
"Ain't been eatin' so much. Hell, she took carea all that stuff."
Harley had taken some getting used to in the beginning – she was loud, perky, demanding and stuck to the Boss like glue, no matter how hard he hit her or what hurtful things he said – but after awhile she became just part of the furniture. Henshaw had learned quickly it was best to remain unnoticed by her as well – she shared the Boss' sadistic sense of humour and the Boss was more than a little possessive of her. After a while, it was no longer just the Boss. It was the Boss and his moll and though the Boss never stopped hitting her and saying hurtful things, he never got rid of her either. In fact, Henshaw had more than once seen them laughing together in some shared pursuit, dancing the night away or sending the boys out so they could get some alone time, though Henshaw tried never to think too much about what that involved. Sometimes when they got back, Harley looked worse than she ever did when the Boss was mad at her, and seemed happier about it.
And fact was, she made the Boss laugh a whole lot. And if the Boss was laughing at her, he was less likely to go looking to his henchmen to give him a laugh or two.
Suddenly the Joker burst into a peal of scatty laughter, rocking back and forth on the desk like a deranged half-wit.
"You're never fully dressed without a smile!" He cackled, delving a hand into his pockets and withdrawing a pack of cards that he threw up into the air.
The cards fanned out and came tumbling down around them. As they fell, Henshaw saw they were all jokers – par for the course, but for one element. The left hand shoulder of the joker illustration was obliterated beneath a red splotch.
"A smile that stretches as long and wide as the Seine!" Joker threw himself back on the desk, kicking his legs and giggling to himself, twitching spasmodically. "And beneath the ivory tower shall we dance and dance and laugh!"
Henshaw had a sudden memory of the Boss from a job they'd done a few years back. They'd been making a movie – The Death of Batman. The Boss had been on fire. Truly inspired. He'd been full of frenetic, joyous energy taking the greatest delight in the smallest of details, even the selection of the perfect jodhpurs to wear on set. He'd seduced the naïve young actress into her role and played with the Bat's brain like it was a musical instrument he was prodigiously skilled at. Henshaw recalled a moment with the Boss in a white tuxedo jacket, standing before the cameras and calling out for "Action". He'd been truly magnificent; as compelling and magnetic a force as an electrical surge.
Now look at him. His hair messy and uncombed, in a grubby, stained old dress, wasting away reciting half-remembered nursery rhymes instead of brutal witticisms, and dawdling time on painting his nails instead of cooking up something big and spectacular. Gone was the frantic magnificence of the Joker Gotham City had come to know and fear. All that was left was this empty shell of a clown, convulsing in delusional stupor.
The Boss had fallen apart. It was the saddest thing Henshaw had ever seen.
"Let's get outta here," he grumbled to Rocco who'd turned away out of respect to the Boss. "I need a drink."
Rocco gave a curt nod and together the two men turned back towards the exit, leaving the Joker writhing about on the desk, rubbing handfuls of joker cards against his body. Henshaw threw one last look back at him, then shook his head sorrowfully.
"I sure hope she comes back, real soon."
