Authors Note: Hey guys! Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed my story! A special shout out to Gia's Soul: you're feedback was very helpful in writing this chapter. I'm having a blast writing this story and I hope you guys enjoy this chapter.
Car Troubles, Part 1
The Joker's cell in Arkham had no windows. His previous cells had windows though. The last cell window the Joker looked out of had been ten feet above the ground with steel bars. It still made the Joker laugh when he remembered the look on the security guards' faces as they watched him run across the asylum's courtyard from that same, bar-less window. For the past month, though, the Joker had woken up to a view of a dark, cement hallway filled with the dank, cells of his fellow inmates. He decided that he was going to have to look for a change in venues soon. For the time being he would content himself each morning by leaning back on his cot, putting his feet up against his sink, and letting the world drift away as he read the morning paper he had delivered to him by Fred, the orderly he was blackmailing
"Joker," Fred the orderly stood in front of the bullet proof glass front of the Joker's cell, holding a tray.
"Oh, good morning, Freddie!" the Joker said, hopping up from his cot. "Beautiful day in the neighborhood, ain't it?"
Fred's face tensed. "I'm going to slide your breakfast tray in through the drawer," he said, "do not approach the glass until I have moved away."
"Whatever you say, slide it on in, I'm ready Freddy," the Joker said with a laugh.
"Lunatic," Fred mumbled as he slid the Joker's tray in through the drawer.
As Fred started to walk away the Joker called out, "Be sure to tell the wife and kids that their Uncle J. said hi!"
Fred stopped. For a moment the Joker thought that he was going to turn around and say something back to him, but instead he kept walking. The Joker chuckled as he turned to his breakfast tray. The Gotham Gazette was hidden under a bowel of gray sludge that may have been oatmeal, but it was hard to tell from the smell. The Joker had to have his meals delivered to him because he was no longer allowed to dine in the cafeteria with the other inmates; he had been deemed a disruptive influence. Unfair, in the Joker's opinion. A man starts one or ten food fights and he's never allowed to forget it.
He tossed his bowl of oatmeal into the sink and unfolded the paper. The front page had a black and white picture of a police officer standing next to a convertible. The Joker didn't recognize the officer—as far as he was concerned the officer was just another one of Gordon's trained monkeys—but he did recognize the car. The headline above it read, "Female Crime Duo's Car Impounded; Owners Escape Police on Foot." The Joker cackled and turned to the entertainment page.
"Oh, stop the presses," he said to himself, "we have breaking news."
The main article of the entertainment section was entitled "Robbery Survivor Has Reason to Smile: New Comedian Leaves Gotham in Stitches." Below the title was a picture of Dorothy Davis standing on a stage, smiling, and holding a cupcake. The Joker took a sharpie—one of the few writing utensils he was allowed—out from under his pillow and drew a moustache on Dorothy's face.
It wasn't the first article that the Joker had read about Dorothy, he had a collection of articles and personal documents about her hidden under his mattress. He had been amused, to say the least, when he'd found out that the sweet, unassuming woman he'd met at a bakery almost a month ago was a fellow comedian, and he was sure that Gotham's mindless masses had found her quick rise from frosting cupcakes to fame inspiring. However, the Joker knew, from experience, that comedy could be killer, and he decided that he was going to personally make sure that Dorothy Davis kept on smiling, whether she wanted to or not.
"I don't think it's such a bad picture."
Dotty sat in the office of Allister Jenkins, the owner of Allister's Follies, the comedy club she worked at, and crinkled her nose at her picture in the paper. Dotty was not a pretty woman, except from certain angles. Most people described her face as "interesting" or "expressive." Her own mother had once called her face "one that people remembered." That wasn't what bothered her about the picture though.
"I just wish the photographer hadn't insisted on that cupcake," said Dotty tossing the paper onto Allister's desk.
Allister reclined across from her. He was a stout man, without being fat, and had a salt colored cowlick that was greased back. He took a box of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked.
Dotty thought about saying no, but, instead, she just shrugged.
"It's your office," she said.
Allister struck a match on his desk, and lit his cigarette. He closed his eyes and took a long drag before he spoke again.
"You're the woman who stood up to the Joker," he said picking up the paper. "That makes you something of a hero."
"I'm not a hero," said Dotty, "I'm a comedian."
After she was released from the hospital, Dotty hadn't had much to do until the bakery reopened, except work on the skit she'd promised Allister. For the first time in weeks she'd felt inspired, and had written a skit about a woman with a fear of needles showing up for her first day of work at a hospital. Allister had laughed when he read it, the other comedians had laughed when they'd rehearsed it, and, most importantly, the audience had laughed when Dotty performed it for them. It had been the biggest audience the club ever had. Dotty learned, both to her delight and consternation, that it had been because of her.
Allister tipped his head back and blew more smoke into the air. A cloud of the nicotine scented mist was forming over his and Dotty's heads. Dotty cleared her throat to dispel the cough that was starting to form.
"I just wish that that reporter could have kept the focus on me and the club," said Dotty.
"It's still a good article," said Allister, "and it does bring focus to the club. You're our headlining act. When people come to see you, the club gets the exposure."
"Yeah, I guess that's true," said Dotty.
"Speaking of exposure, how's the publicity effected your friends' bakery?" Allister asked.
"It was a little slow for a while," said Dotty, "but now it's starting to pick back up again."
"Yeah, nothin' hurts business more than being robbed by a costumed crazy," said Allister.
"Oh no, sir, it wasn't the costumed crazy that scared people away, it was the hair that he found in one of our pies," said Dotty.
Allister laughed, sucking in a cloud of smoke, and starting coughing.
"Are you okay?" asked Dotty.
Allister's face was starting to turn red; he sucked in a breath.
"Yeah," he wheezed, "I'm fine. That was funny. You should incorporate that into one of your acts somehow. You have to address what happened to you sometime."
Allister blew smoke into Dotty's face, and she coughed in her turn.
"No, sir," she choked out, "I already told you: I'm not going to address the robbery in any of my acts."
Allister blew more smoke at her.
"Dotty, it happened. You survived. Now try to laugh about it."
Dotty waved the smoke away from her face.
"Yes, sir," she said, "I did survive, but one of my coworkers did not. I don't think that's funny."
Allister crushed his cigarette into the ash tray on his desk.
"I won't push it then," he said, "but let me know if you change your mind."
Dotty nodded and stood up, grabbing her trench coat off her chair and her hat off Allister's desk.
"I'll see you in a few days with a new skit, then," said Dotty, "I have to go meet some friends for lunch right now."
"Have a good time," said Allister, striking a new match on his desk.
Dotty nodded to Allister, and walked out of his office before he had a chance to light a new cigarette. Allister was nice, in Dotty's opinion, but she sometimes thought that he was a little insensitive.
She decided to leave the club through the back exit. The hallway was dark, except for a few bulbs on the ceiling that shone down on the black and white pictures of the clubs past performers that lined the walls. Dotty thought that the lights looked like spotlights on the pictures' subjects. In every picture, the performer was standing in front of a laughing audience. Most of the performers on the wall had gone on to bigger audiences in Gotham than just Allister's Follies, Dotty had even named a few of them as sources of inspiration in her interview. That was what drove her, the chance to make Gotham laugh.
Heaven knew it needed it.