So, didn't get many reviews, but hey, what can you do? I got a pretty good amount of hits/visitors and a couple faves/alerts so yay for that and thank you all.
Ok, so in case you were confuddled, you are right, I never mentioned my Oc's name. No worries, I didn't forget. On the contrary, twas done on purpose. And, if you're a little confused with what my OC is doing, don't be. It will all be revealed in due time, just slowly and gradually.
Alrighty, this chappie includes many-a-thing, which is why it is so ridiculously long (16 pages). I'll tell you now, I am an author who prefers longer chapters but less of them as opposed to short chapters but a ton of them. Anyways, this chapter contains some character development, it introduces some more minor Oc's and, drum roll puhlease... Lots of Jokery goodness! Oh, and my Oc's and the Joker's little, ah, scene is set after a certain part in the movie; I'm sure you'll figure out which one.
Alright, 'nuff outta me
Disclaimer: Nope don't own! I attempted to steal the Joker but you know what I realized?... No one steals the Joker, the Joker steals YOU!
Chpt. 2 The Warehouse
We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell~ William Shakespeare
I decide after the little the bank incident that it would I should lay low for a few days. Three, to be exact. I wish I could stay in my bed forever, but I have things to do.
Tasks to complete.
More dark clothing. And a 'beauty mark', just for good measure. I don't bother with the contacts though. They're itchy, so I decide to just wear my sunglasses again. Besides, the shade of blue of the contacts is the wrong colour anyways.
Not going anywhere special- and thankfully, not busy- this time. Just a little boutique on 23rd and Socorro. It's called 'Peaches Stitches'. Yeah, I know, it doesn't really rhyme. But according to my folder, they "make darling dresses". The owner, Peaches (I seriously doubt that is what her name certificate says, but hey, whatever makes her happy) is an old friend of Vianca's. Probably because she gets almost all her clothes there. See, Vianca didn't go to stores and buy existing dresses. No, she sketches all the clothes she wants, and takes them to Peaches to make for her. Vianca is an amazing drawer. Her specialties are portraits (mostly of attractive males) and clothing designs.
Again, I take the bus, and it'll take about twenty minutes to get there. To bide the time, I put my head phones in, and I mouth the words to 'Rhiannon'. I'm a huge Fleetwood Mac fan. Stevie Knicks is my idol. City and Colour's Dallas Green is a close second though. I smile as Stevie sings, remembering my disgust when Vianca told me she didn't know who Fleetwood Mac was. I had forced her after that to stay in my room and listen to their album "Rumours" over and over again. Eventually, she was able to sing all their songs, lyric for lyric. Just like me. Of course, she did have a better singing voice than me. My voice is too low and husky to hit the high notes.
I'm already half way there when I realize I have forgotten my gun.
~/~
Peaches Stitches is a small, square building with salmon coloured bricks and multi-coloured mannequins with lopsided heads in the display window. For a moment I think I have the wrong address. This is so not Vianca's style. Then, I notice the dresses on the mannequins, and I walk right in. They are all gorgeous. And most of all, all from different eras. Sixties, seventies, eighties. And most importantly, forties. Vianca's obsessed with the forties style. Her muse is Veronica Lake. Her dad had taken her to see "I married a Witch" and she fell in love. I actually have never seen one of her movies, but once I Googled her and, yeah, she's pretty interesting. An alcoholic but completely gorgeous and talented. A perfect muse for Vianca.
I go up to the counter, which is covered in glitter, and ask for Peaches. A moment later a black woman with frizzy orange hair, long red finger nails and startling light grey eyes walks out. She squeals when she sees me.
"VIA!"
She attacks me.
I choke as she squeezes me. She's a good half foot taller than me, and with branch-like arms that have the grip of a fucking anaconda.
"Uh, hi, hon," I say breathlessly, trying my best to use my 'Vianca voice'. I "re-read" what the folder says about Peaches in my head.
'Peaches is a genius with a sewing machine, but a little kooky. She loves hugging people and doesn't fully understand the term "personal space". She's a darling though. She never lets her costumer's down, and she makes the most beautiful creations. She doesn't have a mean bone in her body and she loves to laugh. But, if she asks you out for coffee, don't say yes. She'll talk endlessly, and won't let you leave. And she gets hyper on caffeine... It's not cute.
P.S- Her hair isn't real... But her eyes are.
Good luck. xo'
Of course there is more than that in the folder; age, home town, criminal record, ect. But they aren't really important. Not right now anyways.
Peaches finally lets me go, but, unfortunately, she squeals some more.
"Wha' didn't ya tell me you were comin'?"
"It was last minute," I reply, wincing from all her shrieking.
"Where've ya been? Why havin' you returned my calls?" she asks, but she's not upset. Nope, she's as excited as a child who's about to get a cookie... Kids get excited about that, right?
"Oh, you know. School, social groups..."
"Boyfriends," Peaches interrupts, grinning slyly, "You still got dat boy, right?"
"Peachy, darling, I always have a boy," I answer smoothly, hiding the shivers running down my back with a coy smile. But, I don't want to go into that subject, so I change the topic.
"I know its last minute, but I need you to make me some dresses," I say, pulling out two pieces of paper from my satchel. The paper's are the sketches of the dresses I, apparently, need to wear. I rip them out of the folder. I don't see why I can't just choose my own dresses, but whatever. The folder's like my boss, my master.
Must obey.
I hand the sketches to Peaches and she looks them over, her eyes widening and her mouth forming an 'O'.
"These are gorg!" she shrieks, bouncing on her feet a little, which I notice are encased in fuzzy, fur covered heels. I wince at her noises again, but still smile toothily, like Vianca always does. I still need to work on my 'Vianca Smile'. The only reason why I'm not scaring Peaches with it, like before with Shirley, is because she's not actually looking at me. She's still gaping at the sketches like there the map to the lost city of Atlantis.
"I need them by the end of next week," I say. She nods vigorously, and goes running into the back room. I follow her and see her rummaging through her materials. The room is a mess. Clothing fabric and half made clothes are strewn everywhere. I can't tell what colour the carpet is (but I'm betting its zany). But, Peaches looks happy and excited. Almost deliriously so.
It's actually a little concerning.
"Can you do it?" I ask. She looks up at me with a crazed smile.
"'Course! Anythin' fuh you, Via," She chirp happily, using Vianca's nickname. She actually hates that that nickname, she just doesn't have the heart to tell anyone that. At least not the people that come in handy for her anyway. I don't have to worry about that, though. I always call her Vee.
Jeezus, I miss her
"Okay, thanks hon. I gotta get going. I'll call in a few days about the progress," I say, and watch Peaches face fall.
"Oh, ya gotta go so soon? I was hoping we could go fah some coff-"
"No!" I interrupt quickly, "I, um, have to go meet someone for lunch. Sorry. Maybe some other time?" I smile sheepishly. Peaches nods, suddenly happy again. She's like a big, full grown chid. It's kind of funny, in a highly disturbing way...
"I'll hold you to that," she warns playfully.
"Of course you will," I respond, trying to smile again. I maybe I did it right this time, because Peaches simply beams at me.
~/~
I decide, before I go back to my apartment, to go to Vianca's old apartment. I've been going there every once and awhile all week (well not the last three days. Remember, lying low), just gathering some of her old stuff. I've got a list of things I need to get, and I only have a few more things to go.
Okay, so Vianca's apartment is really big. It's actually a penthouse. Two down from the Prince of Gotham's Bruce Wayne's penthouse no less. It has an amazing view of the city, but only the fancy parts. The fancy part makes Gotham misleading. It's a patch of flowers in a field of spiky, ugly weeds.
I have a key, although the Folder does give me detailed instructions on how to pick a lock. And hotwire a car...
Uh, yeah...I have a key.
Vianca's penthouse is still fully furnished, but besides that it's basically empty. Only three books on the bookshelf ('How to cook for idiots', 'The world of Italy' and 'The history of the Mafia'). There's no food in the obese fridge, no clothes in the closet (which of course is a walk-in). Well, actually, there are some clothes left, but only the ones that aren't on the list of 'Must Keeps'. Basically, the place is empty, and my apartment is filled with boxes. All Vianca's shit. And she has a lot of it... Stuff. Stuff, I mean.
~/~
So, I'm gathering up the last of the 'Must Keeps', when I hear the familiar click of a gun being cocked.
Shit
"Boss ain't happy wi' chu, Via," a deep, thickly accented Italian voice says behind me. I turn slowly, dropping my stuff and silently cursing myself for forgetting my gun. My mind's eye can see it now, grinning smugly on my night table. I so badly want to put my hands up in surrender. But, Vianca would never do that.
I need to be Vianca.
Two men, both counting guns at me, in Vianca's penthouse. Did I ever mention how much I hate guns? Yeah, I normally have one and sometimes use one, but only if I have to. Well, actually I have yet to fire this one. The men pointing weapons at me are classic looking Italians. Deep olive skin, neat dark hair, shrewd dark eyes and looking sleek in their tailored suits. I recognize them from the Folder. They are Vinn and Carlisle, two of Salvatore Maroni's men. The Folder, I recall, tells me they aren't very smart, but are fiercely loyal to Sal.
This could prove to be an issue.
"What chu do this time, Via?" one of the men asks, his accent more Jersey than Italian. This is Vinn. The other is Carlisle.
"You didn't hear? Took out fifteen mill. from the family account," Carlisle sneers. I raise an eyebrow, a very Vianca move.
"Actually, it was twenty-five million," I smile sweetly, but my body's stiff. Put your guns away, assholes, I'm unarmed. But they're probably trying to make up for the fact they were never able to put their Italian sausage in Vianca's fridge, if you catch my drift. Vinn's face twists into a nasty smile. I inwardly groan. The Folder mentions this face. This is the face he gets when he wants to fuck something. And, I'm told, he really, really wants to fuck Vianca. Tried many times before too, apparently. But Vianca can have any guy she wants. Why would she want you? Oh, awesome. Now he's ogling my boobs. I regret wearing a V-neck.
"You look good, Via," Vinn whistles, sliding closer to me. Carlisle hangs back, still sneering and pointing his gun at me.
"Been too long. Didja' miss me?" Vinn drawls, stepping a little ways in front of me. God, he's so slimy. How had Vianca managed to deal with him all these years?
"Not nearly as much as you missed me," I coo. Lead him on. 'Cos that's what Vianca would do. He bares his teeth and shifts his beady eyes back down to my breasts.
"Boss says we supposed tah bring you tah him so you and him can have a 'lil chat. But, maybe Carlisle and I can tell him we dan't see youse, if you give us a little taste..." His hands reach out, hovering over my breasts.
Oh, fuck no
Before he can lay a single greasy, Jersey finger on me and my girls, I jab him, hard, in the solar plexus with a tightly clenched fist.
Down he goes.
"Bitch," Carlisle snarls, rushing towards me, looking wild. Like charging bull. As I recall, consulting my photo-memory, Carlisle has a bit of a nasty temper. I dodge him quickly, and try to rush past him to the door, but he reaches out and yanks me back by my hair. He whips me to the ground and lands on top of me, his hands around my throat. I fight him, scratching at his hands, kicking my legs and spitting in his face. He's winning.
Do you normally see dots when you're choked?
"Hey, hey! Whoa! Dan't kill thah broad. Boss wants her alive," I vaguely hear Vinn say. It's kinda hazy now. I can't really see or hear. And fuck, it really hurts. Note to self:
Don't ever be strangled again. It isn't fun.
The hands are gone from my neck but before I can react, the handle of a gun hits me, really fucking hard, on the side of my head. The dots in my vision all ooze together, then I'm out.
~/~
I wake up to the sensation of someone touching my leg. And, though the touch is deceitfully gentle, I shudder and instinctually move away. My eyes flash open, and with a painful gulp, I realize I'm in a car I do not recognize, seated between Vinn and Carlisle. Vinn's hand is on my thigh, and he's looking out the window, a slight smirk on his thin lips. I hate his mouth. It is a mouth that I'm sure has weaseled its way into getting everything he wants. He's a con artist, and he frightens me. I don't want him or his hand or his mouth or him anywhere near me. But then there's Carlisle, whom is currently yelling at the chauffeur. He strangled me, and hit me in the fucking hit head with a gun. Out of the two of them, I believe he is the most likely to kill me.
"Yah awake," Vinn states, his sugary, slick voice making me cringe.
Nice observation, Gill Grissom
I grumble unintelligibly in response cradling my throbbing head in my hands, which I note are shaking. Yep, I got myself a good sized goose egg on the side of my head. I hate guns.
"Isn't chu goin' tah ask where we takin' you?" Vinn inquires curiously, his dark eyes glinting. I know that kind glint. This guy is a sadist; one step beneath being some fucked up serial killer. One very small step. Maybe that why he works for Maroni, so he can satisfy his, ahem, urges.
Don't think you're going to be satisfying anything with me, buddy
"Don't wanna be a cliché, I guess," I grouse, wanting to move further away from him but then I'd be practically sitting in Carlisle's lap, who I also dislike greatly. Jackass hit me with a gun. I do believe I am developing a grudge...
Vinn yaps at me the rest of the car ride, and I do my best to ignore him. His voice however is very grating, so the task is difficult.
"... it would be pink. I think you wuh' look real sexy in pink," Vinn drones on, until Carlisle (thank God. He'd be my hero if I didn't have that grudge) interrupts him.
"Boss says he'll deal with her after the meeting,"
I'm pretty sure when he says 'meeting', he doesn't really mean the type like in 'the Office'. This is probably some crazy ass mob meeting, in a fancy, low lit room with leather chairs and love seats, and waitresses in skimpy outfits serving to men, all smoking cigars and fondling bimbo's that are in their laps. The location is probably an elegant restaurant, or an insanely decadent hotel...
...A. Fucking. Warehouse?
Well, Gramma always told me my imagination would leave me disappointed with life. And, the disappointment I feel is actually very strong. I really wanted to sit in a comfy leather chair, and sneer at the bimbo's. I like sneering at bimbo's. Something Vianca taught me; "We're better than them, darlin'. Might as well let them know it."
Vinn opens the door, and drags me out of the car, still nannering about the colour pink. I actually have nothing against pink, except that I blush a lot, and wearing pink just brings out the colour more. I get flustered easily, and I don't want to wear a colour that accents the hideous colour my cheeks turn. Linking his arm in mine, Vinn escorts me into the warehouse, ludicrously reminding me of how Graham McKinely had walked me into the school gym at winter formal all those years ago. That dance sucked. It was grade ten, and Graham was too shy to dance with me. Also, no one would share their booze with me. I really needed a drink that night. We wander into the building and I blink uncomfortably in the harsh, fluorescent lights. Ugh. I hate this kind of lighting. It does nothing for my complexion.
...What the fuck?
I'm concerned about my skin instead of the two men, who have kidnapped me, have guns and work for a man who's pissed at me ( Vianca ) for taking his money ( technically theirs but he's male, he thinks everything is his ) without his permission. Jeezus, how hard did Carlisle hit me? Vinn leads me into a room with no furniture, mouldy grey walls and smells faintly of pasta.
Homey.
Vinn, being the gentleman he is, shoves me to the ground and tosses keys to Carlisle. It almost makes me laugh. The key is on one of those round key chains, but it's really big, making me think of a 'Nancy Drew Mystery' for some strange reason.
Yeah, I probably have brain damage. Damn you Carlisle. Damn you Carlisle's gun.
"I'm guna' geh'us some food," Vinn says, walking past Carlisle to the door.
"Watch her," he adds, and Carlisle gives him a 'duh' look. I flinch when Vinn slams the door behind him. I look up at Carlisle; His face is set, total poker face, and his arms are crossed over his chest as he leans on the door. We stare at each other for a bit, then I smile sheepishly. He doesn't react. I huff, then sit up, cross legged and turn away from him, pouting a little. This was not how today was supposed to go. At. All. I mean, I am so screwed. Maroni, after one good look at me, is going to know I'm an imposter. And not just because I'm not wearing blue contacts. He's known Vee since birth. I will never be able to fool him. Plus my cold sweats have probably washed off my 'beauty mark'.
Yep, I'm a dead girl. Dead, dead, deady, dead, dead...
~/~
After twenty minutes, and some good thinking, I decide that, hey, I don't really want to die. At least not without a little annoying resistance on my part. I say annoying 'cause I'm about to bug the hell out a lot of Italians.
"I have to pee," I announce, cocking my head at Carlisle. He doesn't budge.
"I needa piss," I repeat, and although Vianca would never say something so unlady-like, I decide I really don't care. I'm officially not acting anymore. This is all me. All me attempting to escape. I've never had to escape before (unless you count the bank but no one was trying to stop me that time) so this'll probably be a little rocky.
Bear with me.
Carlisle grunts in annoyance and suggests, "Jus' go in the corner," My face screws up in disgust.
"Ew. First of all, I'm not an animal. Second, do you want to stink the room up? You're stuck in here too and-..." Carlisle holds up his hand, stopping me, and his other hand squeezes the bridge of his nose.
Oh.
I'm giving him a head ache... Good.
"Fine," he finally sighs, motioning for me to come with him. Cautiously, I get to my feet, feeling slightly dizzy. Damn, I hope I don't have a concussion. I wobble over to him, and he opens the door, prodding me in the back with his gun, which has magically appeared in his hand.
"No funny buis-" I cut him off by whirling around and kneeing him swiftly in the crotch. He doubles over in pain, and I knock his gun out of his hand, and point it at his sweaty face.
How does it feel, Jackass?
"Give me the keys," I bite out. Wheezing and bent over, Carlisle is till as stubborn as ever. Yeah, well, I'm almost sure I'm worse. I click off the safety and point it sideways, like an amateur mugger does.
"Give me. The fucking. Keys," Carlisle glares at me murderously, but my glare is far more scary... I hope.
"C'mon, c'mon," I urge impatiently, watching as he digs around is his pocket. I sigh a little when I hear the lovely jingling sound of oversized key chain. Grudgingly, Carlisle plops the keys into my palm.
"Thanks," Gramma always told me to be polite, "Now, back up slowly," He does so, backing into the room again.
"Keep going til' you're back hits the wall," I order, waving the gun at him. He bares his teeth at me, but obeys. Once his back is against the wall at the back of the room, I give him a mocking wave, then swing the door shut. I hear him shout and stomp toward the door, but the key is already in the keyhole. There's a satisfying click, and he yells again, pulling at the door knob uselessly. First escape, ever, and I say it's off to a lovely start.
"Shit, Via,"
I jerk around and see Vinn looking at me with a disappointed expression, like that of a father discovering his teen daughter has snuck out of the house at night.
I run.
Sure, I have a gun, so why don't I just shoot him? 'Cause then this will be even more personal. I he lives, he'll want revenge. If he dies, the rest of his buddies will want revenge. It's an Italian thing. He calls out after me. It's not angry, like one would suspect, but rather worried and maybe slightly annoyed. Strange; Vinn must not have the classic Italian/Jersey temper...
Focus!
Okay, I need to get out of here. Alright, alright. So, I came in here and we turned left down a long hallway, then right half way down another hallway. Again, my photo-memory definitely comes in handy at times like this. I can see the way we came clearly , in full detail. My only hope is to circle back and get out the way I came in. I dash into an open room and hide in a dark corner . I stop breathing and listen. I hear Vinn panting and running down the hall.
"Via? Via, c'mon! Come back," he calls in a whiny voice. Okay, good, he didn't see me run in here. I hold my breath until he passes by the room I'm in, and his hurried footsteps fade away. I slink to the door and poke my head out. Look left. Empty. Look right. Empty.
Run.
I sprint back the way I came, confident I'm going the right way. I'll be outta here in no time. I gulp fearfully as I pass the room I had locked Carlisle in; the door is wide open. He's gone.
Oh god, oh god, oh god...
I slow down a little, perking my ears and listening closely. Footsteps. Arguing. Coming closer.
Shit
I sprint again, even though my head is throbbing, and my legs and lungs burn. I look down at my gun. I may just have to. I don't want to. I hate you. You kill people, not to mention gave me a wicked bump on my head. But you could become my friend, just for a moment , and help me out here. How 'bout that?
Dear lord... I'm going crazy.
I don't have time to ponder my current mental state as I round a corner, running full speed into another body, which was running full speed in the opposite direction. You can imagine the outcome. Like two trains hitting each other head on. Except I land underneath the other train, hitting my already battered head. And dropping my gun.
"Fuck," I moan, my eyes squeezing shut, my hand cradling my bruised noggin. The train on top of me giggles...? He giggled, and that kind of pisses me off, but also really surprises me. I was sure that the train I had crashed into was Carlisle or Vinn, but neither of them seem like the giggling sort. I open one eye, very hesitantly, and for a moment, I wish it was Vinn or Carlisle. The face hovering over mine belongs to the most hellish creature I've ever seen. Scraggly, acidic washed out green hair, almost touching my face. Distorted panda bear eyes, complete with black eyeliner. Chalky, peeling ghost white skin except on its mouth. Red smears over raised, bulbous cheeks and mouth. A clown from fucking hell, complete with a purple and green suit.
"You..." I half gasp, half groan. I remember him. It's Bozo the fuckin' clown, aka bank robber extraordinaire aka The -fucking -Joker.
Have I mentioned I am exceedingly unlucky person?
"Well, hello there, gah-reen eyes," he drawls, smiling widely down at me.
"Of all the rotten, fucking luck." I mumble, still wincing from the new bump on my head, warily watching the clown on top of me. And when I say on top, I do mean on top. Sprawled, actually. The only reason why I'm not suffocating under his weight is because he's supporting himself on his elbows, which are at either side of my head. He pulls back a little, squinting at me.
"Ohhh," he suddenly says, giggling wheezily and bending back toward me.
"You're the broad with the, ah, gun," he says, licking his ruby lips and nodding.
"I rec-og-nize those eyes, uh, those eyes-suh of yours," he goes on, his face so close now that our noses almost touch. I nod a little, stiffening my muscles. This guy seems like a very fragile bomb. If I struggle, I just might set him off. Better to stay still and wait for him to get off me. Although, he doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry...
"And-duh what's a lady like you doin' in a place like this?" the Joker asks me, tilting to his head to one side, reminding me of the day at the bank, after he had shot Bank Manager.
"Kidnapped," I grumble bitterly. He chuckles a little, wetting his lips, making the red paint (lipstick?) shine in the harsh lights. The action is strange. One might think it was a sexually suggestive act, but I don't think so. Maybe if anyone else did it, but for him it seemed as natural as breathing. Unnerving, definitely, but natural.
"What do the, ah, Italians want with you? This is Mah-roni's little head-quar-ters, yes?" his voice is bubbly, almost friendly, but I don't believe it for a second. This man is quite capable of killing me, without a second thought. I saw him kill two (three if you count Grumpy and the bus) men like they were nothing. Because they were. They were nothing to him.
And, I'm nothing to him.
"I think so," I whisper in response, unable to keep eye contact. His dark eyes are very intense and frightening; those smudges around them don't help. Or, do help, depending on your point of view.
"Mmm-hmmm," he breathes out deeply through his nose, still grinning down at me. Now I can't stop staring at his, um, 'smile'. I realize, upon closer inspection the red paint (seriously, I hope it's not actually lipstick) is covering horrible, painful looking scars. The scars start at both corners of his mouth, and slide up his cheek in a grisly, ever-smile. Vee mentioned something like this before. She called it a Glasgow Smile. Or a Chelsea Grin. Slicing up the cheeks so it looks like a smile. An age old form of torture, mostly used by the mob. Vee told me that when you get your cheeks sliced, that you can't help but scream, which only rips the flesh open more. I didn't ever ask how she knew this. I still don't want to know.
"So, uh, what does ol' Mah-roni wan-tuh with you, green eyes?" the Joker inquires, scanning my face. I can just imagine what I look like; blood on the side of my head where Carlisle had hit me, a split lip, miscellaneous scratches and a necklace of bruises on my neck. I'll have to buy a boat load of cover-up to hide those. I just know they're going to be purple and ugly.
"Well, I don't think he wants me here to welcome me to his city," I murmur, shifting my legs, trying to give this guy a hint; GET OFF!
"His city?" his chalky eyebrows raise and his tongue grazes his lips slowly.
"Sure. Ever since Falcone went nuttier than a squirrel, Maroni has taken over," I'd shrug if I could move my shoulder. Why am I having this conversation? Shouldn't I be kicking and screaming? No, 'cause then Vinn and Carlisle would find me.
"Hmm. What-tuh 'bout, ah, Gambol and that Russian fellow, hm? Do they own-nah Gotham too?" he asks, his voice becoming a little deeper. Did I say something that pissed him off? Jeezus, I hope not.
"Well, I shouldn't have said that Maroni owned Gotham or whatever I had said. No one has owned Gotham since the Batman showed up. He has criminals in this town with their tails between their legs. But, Maroni, Gambol and the Russian guy are the considered the top dogs, even if their tails are between their legs too," I nanner on, simply spewing the info the Folder had given me, chewing on the corner of my mouth when the clown didn't reply.
"Um, if you don't mind me asking," I say hesitantly, "But why are you here?" I know that was pretty bold, and maybe mildly stupid, but the way I see it I don't have all that much to lose. Well... that's not entirely true, but whatever. I'm curious.
"Group-ah therapy," the Joker replies dryly, rolling his eyes playfully before snickering quietly, his breath heating my face.
"Huh," is all I can say. Although heaven knows he needs it, I don't think the sort of group therapy he participated in was the type where you share your feelings.
'Hi, my name is Joker, and I'm a psychotic clown,'
'Hi Joker,'
The thought of this mad clown in an actual group therapy almost makes me giggle.
"Yeah and-"the criminal begins, but stops, his eyebrows scrunching together, his dark eyes drilling into my face. I can't help but blush. His gaze isn't lewd or anything. It's searching and analyzing; it makes me uncomfortable. Not to mention embarrassed.
"Say, aren't you, heh, ah- you're Mah-roni's lil sis-ter, cah-rrect? Hm?" he asks, trying his best not to laugh, but little sniggers keep escaping his mouth. I don't answer. Let him think whatever he wants.
"Yeah, yeah. I've seen pictah-tures. Don't do ya jus-tice, green eyes. Not. At. All," he giggles, his voice playfully patronizing,
"What, did-deh you and brother dearest have a spat? So, so he got his little, ah, boys-zuh to rough you up a bit? Tsk, tsk, tsk," he tutts, waving a purple finger in my face, his words filled with laughter. His chest is vibrating with his guffaws. I can feel them against my chest. It makes my face flush more.
"Aren't-tah big bro's sah-posed tah protect their sis-ter's?" he growls, his tone suddenly biting and angry. Jeez, this guy a skitzo? I hear a click, and I whimper when I see a knife- switchblade- in my face.
"Or," his voice is dark, dripping with menace, but quiet, "Did sis-ter dearest start it? Did little sis berrrr-reak one of bro's, ah, toys, and he's just putting sis-ter in her place-uh? Huh?" He presses the tip of the blade to my cheek, and if I was afraid before, I'm fucking terrified now.
"Maybe," I squeak, unable to think of a better answer. He stares at me a moment, before exploding with laughter. I flinch at the grating, hyena-like sound. That there is a devil laugh. Scratch that- even the devil would cover his ears if he heard it. I'm almost certain he would.
"May-be? Heh, maybe? Oooh, green eyes, that is a wond-er-full answer! Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful," he titters excitedly, tracing my jaw line with the dull side of the knife, "I mean, it rah-veals absolutely nothing, but-uh lets the imagination run wild! And ya know what?" he leans down, his mouth next to my ear.
"I like wild things,"
I shiver and gulp at the lump in my throat. I want this guy off me. Now.
"Plea-"the knife is shoved against my mouth before I can get a word out.
"Oh, no, no, no," the Joker admonishes fervently, his face donning a look of half adoration, half malice. How he manages that, I'm not sure.
"Mah-roni's. Don't. Beg-uh," he chides, pressingly the blade bruisingly against my lips.
"Get me?" he barks, the adoration gone, leaving only maliciousness. I nod furiously, my eyes filling up with tears of fear and pain. Now I can add bruised lips to my list of injuries.
"Gooood," the Joker purrs, taking the switchblade off my lips and raking it through my tangled hair. He doesn't say anything more. No, he seems content to just smile lazily at me, distractedly running his knife through my hair, humming to himself. It's terribly awkward for me. Where do I look? His eyes are out of the question. His mouth is even worse. So, I study his ensemble. Long, deep purple over coat, reaching to probably around his knee's (now it is making a tent around our lower halves) or further than that. Matching trouser's, the fancy kind (are those suspenders?). Underneath his jacket seems to be a hunter green waistcoat, a dark tie (looks a little over used and un-ironed) and a periwinkle dress shirt with what looks like a hexagonal pattern on it. It's a... Unique fashion choice, to say the least. After a few more minutes of being trapped under a clown with a fetish for knives, I start getting annoyed.
"Um, Mr... Joker, sir?" I clear my throat, stumbling on my words. He looks at me sardonically, quirking his stained mouth. Before I can say another word, I hear shouting and footsteps coming our way.
Oh goody
"Weh thah fuck is she-"
I tilt my head back, and look upside-down as Vinn and Carlisle round the corner at the end of the hallway, and see me and the Joker. They freeze, and I feel the vibrations of a chuckle from the Joker go through me.
"Those your, ah, 'nappers?" he stage whispers, smiling happily. I nod.
"Unfortunately," I say dryly, rubbing my head again. The Joker suddenly springs to his feet, dragging me along with him. I grunt and sway, but he steadies me with a gloved hand on my shoulder.
"Vianca," Vinn barks sharply, for once showing a little anger. Oh, so he can man-handle me, but no one else can?
Jackass
I cringe when the Joker tightens his hold on me, his spidery fingers curling crushingly around my collar bones. He yanks me tightly to his side, his movements jerky and violent. But, he's laughing. Pretty darn hard, too.
"These, uh, these bozo's 'napped you? Oh, jeez, Green Eyes," he chortles and wheezes, pointing childishly at Vinn and Carlisle, whom are still frozen. I'm pretty sure the clown is making fun of me.
Awesome.
"They had guns," I mumble in my defence.
"Hmm?" the Joker turns his attention to me, squeezing my shoulder painfully. The list goes on. I take this as a clue to look at him. Jeezus, this guy is tall. A good six feet, two inches. Probably would be taller if his shoulders weren't so hunched. He has broad shoulders, and a wide frame, but he seems rather gangly. Kind of like a teenager.
"Nothing," I murmur, glancing away. His eyes unnerve me. I can't tell their colour, not with all that black crud around them. They look black. But, no one's eyes are black...
Right?
He bends a little, his nose in my hair. Oh god, don't sniff it, don't sniff it...
He inhales deeply (sigh) and asks huskily, "These bad men givin' ya trah-bles, lil' lady?" I nod, 'cos it's true. They certainly are. The Joker straightens, giggling.
"Paws off, clown," Vinn growls, pointing his gun at him. He won't shoot, though. He might hit me. Which I'm sure was the clown's plan all along.
"Uh, sorry, Guido, but I think-kuh the little lady prefers my paws-zuh to yours," the Joker replies, and I inwardly protest; I would prefer no paws on me at all.
"Fuck off, Smiley, and give us the girl. Or we'll take 'er from ya," Carlisle says stonily, but takes a threatening step toward us. I like how I have no say in this at all. The Joker sighs, then with the hand not on my shoulder opens up one side of his coats lapels, revealing- get this- fucking explosives. A string is hanging out, and the clown grabs it, pretending to pull on it. I make a low whining sound in my throat and shy away. The Joker just pulls me closer, humming a low "Shh" into my hair. Carlisle and Vinn's mouths drop open, and I giggle a little deliriously, but it is drowned out by the Joker saying, "Still wanna come get-uh her, Guido's?"
Vinn and Carlisle look at the Joker, at me, at each other, then step back slowly, lowering their guns. The Joker pouts, eyeing them as they slowly retreat.
"You two," he says, letting go of me to brandish a gun, "Are no fun," and proceeds to pump them full of lead. I yelp in surprise at the horrifyingly loud bangs, watching wide-eyed as Vinn and Carlisle remain erect a second, then slump to the floor. Blood pools onto the linoleum floor, almost black in colour. Their eyes, still fading as life leaves them, are just as wide as mine.
Ohgodohgodohgodohgod...
Fuck
I hate, hate, hate dead bodies. Dead people. Dead people I don't know, ones I do (for however briefly). It affects a person, you know? I mean, before all this Gotham shit, I had only ever seen one dead body; at my great uncles funeral when I was nine. I was dared to peel back his eye lid to see what colour his eyes were.
They were a milky, filmy blue.
I notice my shoulder is no longer in a vice grip, and I sway against the wall, hand pressing into my mouth in an effort to stop the vomit that is climbing up my throat. The Joker is just having a grand old time. He's slumped against the wall opposite me, practically dying of laughter.
"Di-did-" he chokes over cackles, "Didja' see their faces?" and bursts into more howls of mirth. I cough a little, wiping whatever tears I have in my eyes, but straighten, composing myself. I dust off my dirty shirt and warily glance at my 'saviour'. I jump a little when I see he's stopped laughing, and he's staring at me. He clears his throat obnoxiously, raising his eyebrows.
What?
"No, uh, thank you's?" he demands, his tongue darting over his crimson lips.
"You killed two men. Why would I thank you?" I retort, maybe a little vexed. This clown is really starting to piss me off. His disregard for human life is sickening. He gives me a bewildered look, like I've just said the stupidest thing imaginable.
"Uh, these men, as you so kind-ly called them, kill-uh people for a living. They had it comin'. Ever heard of Kar-mah?" he inquires rhetorically, twirling his gun around his finger like a cowboy.
"Then just imagine what Karma has in store for you," I snap spitefully before I can stop myself.
Shit
I cover my mouth in astonishment, and I take a step back from him. His eyes widen a fraction, but so does his smile. The scars on his cheeks elongate and stretch, and I can't help but wonder if the action is painful.
"You, heh, you're just a lit-tle spitfire," he chuckles, sidling over to me.
"No wonder Mah-roni's pissed at you," Before I can run away, my jaw is in his hand, and his blade is against the corner of my mouth. I take a sharp intake of breath. My wide eyes meet his mischievously glinting ones.
"Oh don't-tuh look so serious, Green Eyes," the Joker chides, delicately brushing my sweaty hair out of my face, "You should smile more. I'm sure its brill-e-ant. Like mine!" he beams down at me, revealing his off-colour teeth. I whimper in fear, wanting to pull away, but not daring to.
"Do you thin-kuh I'm gonna kill ya?" he whispers, putting his left cheek beside my right. I can feel the paint coming off him, and onto me. I nod; I'm sure he's going to kill me. I cringe when he lets out another hoot of amusement.
"Oh, no, no, no, no! Not you, doll! Nope-uh," he releases me, pulling his face away. He flutters his hands to emphasize his words. I don't move though, or look away. I don't think he'd like that.
"See," he says conversationally, pocketing his knife, "I'm a ger-reat judge of character. And, I can just tell you're, ah, you are gonna be so much more fun-uh to have around ah-live, rather than dead-uh, yes?"
I chew my bottom lip nervously, unsure how to respond. He slides his hands into my hair, and forces my head to nod.
"So, I'm, uh, letting you go!" he exclaims gleefully, bouncing on the balls of his feet (I notice he's wearing really worn out brown loafers).
"But," his voice lowers, "You owe me, Green Eyes," he whispers huskily in my ear, his hot breath making me shiver. He makes me nod again, and giggles frantically before letting go of me. He shoves me away from him, a huge grin plastered on his painted face.
"Run along, little Mah-roni," he says with an elaborate wave of his hand.
He don't needa tell me twice.
I spin on my heel and book it down the rest of the hallway. Before I reach the door out of this hell hole, I hear him cackle after me, "I am a man who always cah-llects my debts-suh,"
Aw crap
Ok, how'd I do. Was Jokey-poo in character? Tell me! What do you think of my oc? Is she a sue? And for the love of god, will you ever figure out the mystery of the impostress? Oh, what a world, what a world!
Reviews are appreciated, o'course. Til next time
linnie kinda spinnie