Week 9_Dr Quinzell
After successfully carrying out the Joker's mission, Bob stood confidently poised outside of the Gotham Police Department. He flipped and snapped his Zippo lighter into action, setting his cheap putrid cigarette ablaze, then turned up his collar, the way any cinematic two- bit thug might do. And that's exactly what he was, two-bit. Any twelve year old, with enough money, sadly could have persuaded Gotham's finest into surrendering a variety of case evidence, ranging anywhere from firearms to narcotics. Bob, a known member of the Joker's crime syndicate, was a regular customer of the PD 'evidence room' that operated more like an auction house. All it took was a suggestive wink, followed by a money filled handshake and all blind eyes were turned. With a slack-jawed expression that Bob alone might have patented, he gazed through the small cloud of smoke that collected about his beady hazel eyes and noticed Dr. Quinzel approaching. As her lovely features were brought into their full magnificence, he tipped his faded brown fedora and extended a less than charming "why, helllll-oo there". Without a word, Dr Quinzel sneered and sashayed up the stairs in quick, yet graceful, leaps. She was more than used to being noticed for her beauty, and had learned from experience that no reply was usually the best way to ward off creeps and jerks. Bob mumbled the first defensive retort that came to mind, "umm whatever" and stole away, with his dank tobacco breath, into a gaudy metallic purple GTO.
"Yes, I'd like to peruse the Case File and Evidence floor under section CS176-3A please". "Why, certainly, Miss um…Quin-zel?" stammered Cadet Trejo, the front desk trainee who purposely sought the approval for properly pronouncing her name in reviewing her credentials. "Correct, I'm here on official business from Arkham Asylum as the primary…" "All yours Sweets", interrupted Officer Hargin, who simultaneously extended his access badge from its thin metal chain, buzzing her in, saving her from the rest of her pre-rehearsed justification for being there.
As Dr Quinzel entered the evidence room, she found it nearly impossible to contain her disgust at the deplorable sight of the crates about her. The sheer horror of being in the midst of such concentrated evil, so tightly contained and neatly tagged, weighed her down to the point of exhaustion. It was the zip-locked clumps of hair and coagulated blood stained daggers that troubled her the most. She dearly hoped these dreadful images would not later invade her dreams. As she approached the crate tagged, 'CS176-3A', she exhaled in anticipation with a bitter taste in her mouth that nearly escaped her lips. She stood above the crate motionless and unsuccessfully tried to gulp away the anguish and the jitters. She was afraid that if she were to find that the case gun was in fact real, that distrust and resentment for the Joker would quickly surmount. On the other hand, if she found him guilty as charged, and could still not deny her feelings for this murderous malicious wretch, then she too was in dire need of therapy. She picked up and examined the weapon with her cold fidgety hands, and began to realize that she hardly knew which end to first inspect, having no experience whatsoever with hand guns. She resolved to attempt to pry open the cylinder of the gun to see if it contained any bullets. She started about this business quite delicately, but within moments, in fumbling frustrated efforts, out slipped the revolver onto the floor ejecting a thin bronze colored rod which appeared to be wrapped in a small red unfurled flag. She picked up the gun, and delightfully noticed the word "Bang" etched and centered into the fabric, in large golden letters. The glitter and sheen of the golden letters warmed her more than the golden sun, more than golden springs, more than golden pendants. If only she knew that this silly toy would later result in a psychological transformation that not even the learned doctor would have dared to imagine.
Meanwhile, the Joker sat alone in his cell. A warm grin began to collect across his face as he painted a new picture of his Dr upon the depraved canvas of his mind. After finishing another masterpiece, he sighed and thought to himself, 'See ya tomorrow Doc'.