I appreciate all the support received.
I can only hope I will do the characters justice.

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The atmosphere is pulsing, beating, alive. The ambience dark and electrifying. In the background, music blares from large, vibrating speakers. The throng of criminals - petty and renowned alike - mingle about, exchanging sly looks and conniving smiles.

Many know this to be a favourite hangout of Gotham's Clown Prince, and even fewer are aware of just who runs the place. They all think themselves brave, fearless, stupid, to dare to step in the same air as the Joker. Big-shots they are now, and only the smartest know better than to stand on a self-built pedestal of gold. People die here, and here are they reborn. Of course, at times, they stay dead.

Here is where business is made, deals struck, cards played. All things naughty, bad, secretive. Away from the prying eyes of the public, from the authorities, from the city's pesky, pesky little vigilante. This is where sinners go, and where sinners dwell - mice in a trap.

A hush falls upon them when she steps up, up onto the steps, up onto her throne. Her scent curl up in tendrils into their noses, her crown of golden ray cascades down her back, where white porcelain act as her epidermis. Sultry outfits she always don, and perfection is her forte. Cold blue eyes scan the lines, though never resting on anyone - only above, always above.

The sensible hold their breaths, and take caution to pry their gaze away swift; away from her, safe from him. The ignorant gawk, inhale, lust. To them, she is merely another frequent patron of this snazzy location, where people get drunk, high, before like ashesashes, they all fall down. Of course, to have a spot dedicated specially to her, she must be a patron of great honour, they think in awe... or just a cheap but talented whore.

They do not indulge in the knowledge - perhaps it is best they remain in darkness. It would spoil the fun, after all, and clubs were all about fun. Unbeknownst to their fragile minds, the area is a ticking time-bomb, and she is the trigger. She is merely one of the dancers - the best one there is to be had, too - and someone seemingly ideal to have a good ol' tumble in the hay. They do not smell the crazy on her, the danger she brings in at her heels.

I'd love to rub that, darling, whistles one. A bald, corpulent man he is. Nothing but a measly cocaine-trafficker.

Instantly, winces are heard, but he pays them no heed. His desire outweighs all senses. He waggles one thick, short finger as a notion for attention. She turns, and graciously grants him a pearl-white smile. Eyelashes are bat, and off she goes, towards the metal chain swinging from the top, awaiting her to begin the dance of death. He does not catch the scheming in her irises, and greedily soaks in the view like a thick slab of sponge.

Poor, poor, sad sod, the educated whisper, already scrambling from their seats to the exit.

Tick-tock.
Tick.
Tock.

Tick

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...

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Far, far up in the havens of sparklingsparkly things, he watches from his cosy little alcove, exuberantly furnished to his personal tastes. Always present, always seeing. He is omnipotent, omniscient - he is Gotham's greatest salvation. He is chaos. He is order. He is anarchy. This is his abode, his territory, his realm. The universe is of his own creation, he is—

Ah, what is this? A fly has been caught in the spider's web!

He grins widely in anticipation, a smile from ear-to-ear, and leans forward. His grip on the handle of his cane tightens, and his piercing gaze prowls before resting on the bulky mass carelessly ambling around the premises of the stage. Predator on prey. Easy, easy catch of the day.

What shall be today's signature dish?
Why, clam chowder with a sprinkle of red, dash of joy and garnish of a meat topping of your choice! All made with lo-ve!

As the trudging mass persists in closing the distance between her and himself, the King of Gotham feels an unprecedented prickle of annoyance. Naughty, naughty, naughty boy. Seeking to claim his most prized possession for his own? Tsktsktsk. Someone has not taught him the rules, then. No matter, no matter - he shall be patient... he shall count to ten! Any longer and bangbangbang - they would have a winner!

The prize? Pretty pretty red roses with intricate patterns, drippingsplashdrop onto mommy's hand-washed carpet with red bits of pollen.

As he interweaves his fingers and views the spectacular show of flexibility, agility and pure seduction, she so happens to lock eyes, and instantly, her features light up, and she blows a kiss. Puddin', she mouths, before erupting into paroxysms of giggles. He stares in silent commentary, and soon, his vision turns red as the fatfaticecreamboy screams for moremoremoreicecreamplease!

Too much ice-cream's gonna get 'cha hurt. Stuffstuff yourself till the balloon goes pop! and whoosh - fireworks everywhere!

He jerks, and snarls into the air. His creation - and his most special one as of yet. He did not do all that hocuspocus shock therapy magic trick for nothing. He did not push her into that vat of bubbling acid for her to come grovelling to him as his perfect little, annoying doll to be in vain. He has moulded her - he has created her into who she is now. She is his. His toy. His possession.

Was he jealous?

The horror! No no, he is merely being territorial. What was emotion, but exhilaration from playing with good friend Bats?

Being defensive is a guy thing, after all, as an once-promising therapist had said to him before. He is merely staking his claim over what belongs to him - and she just so happens to exist as one of them. She is such an amusing little thing, truly. A wonderfully-played, novel game for him to delight in.

It had been deliciously simple to bend her, to make a joke out of nothing.

Head tilts, lip purses. Yet, what a curious little minx she is, but how infuriating she can be! What she ostensibly stirs in him is enough to make him—

Had he had already sent her off on a rocket? Aw, party-pooper.

How about kicking her off a building? Rats!

He shakes his thoughts off. He is in control - why does he let such trivial things bother him, especially when the goings in Gotham's getting good? They topple balance and oh, was he not going to let it occur again! Wicked vixen, she will have to be dealt with later for causing such unnecessary turbulence. A teensy, teeny-weeny pinch of bleach, perhaps...

The little bit resemblance of a beat in that shriveled old pound of flesh is disregarded, as always, and within a few seconds - he is back, in authority, and badder than ever. What matters now is not dwelling on nonexistent, frivolous feelings or unicorn rainbows, but to defend what is claimed property.

A silencer can be so disrupting - it made the environment all too very dull. Where would the adrenaline be in a world of dreadful, dreadful silence?

Nighty-night.

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