A/N: First of all, for this chapter, I had intended for it to be a LOT longer, to the point where it was TOO long as just one chapter. As a result, I've posted this one for now, and the next one will be slightly shorter. Warning: there is a helluva lot of description and singing in this chapter, and there will be in the next one, too. I really hope that is all right.

In the beginning of this chapter, I make a statement that Summer ends up with the role of Elizabeth Proctor for American History. ALL CREDIT FOR THIS IDEA GOES TO My Purple Skies. Though there isn't a large part of this right now, there will be later. This goes to show that if you give me a great idea, I might just use it.

Thanks goes toChocolateShapeshifter, chibigurl305, Arlena4815162342, pourquoibella, Comidia Del Arte, ninjapoke, thexdarkestxnightsx, RoflingCupcake, Starrycat05, My Purple Skies, and Silential for the reviews!

Hmmm...what annoys me most of all are arrogant people and cocky jocks. And about a million other things I don't have the time to write down now.

Can any of you spot the Repo! reference toward the end? ;)

Disclaimer: I own Batman characters and plots in my dreams. The lyrics aren't mine, either. If you plagiarize, I'm afraid the Joker will have to get involved :( (I know that some of you would like that...)

THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REVISED.

Chapter Six: Give Me Something To Work With!

Your body's lightin' up the room.

I want a naughty girl like you.

There's nothing harder to do.

~My Darkest Days, Porn Star Dancing

Freedom!

I zoom out into the parking lot once the final bell rings, nearly smashing through the glass doors. The bright sun blinds me. Out of pure laziness, I throw everything into the bed of the truck before climbing into the driver's seat. Around me, students are spilling out of the doors, filled with the joy that the weekend brings to all ages. The key at this point is to wait until mostly everyone leaves. Engines rev up.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Summer stalking past me to her brand-new Mercedes Benz. Why does everyone have to be so damn rich? But anyway, she's sour about something, and I'm sure it's not because I ditched her for Crane. Quite hilariously, Summer has been "cast" as Elizabeth Proctor for American History. I guess she found out she was Jonathan's betrayed "wife", the wife of one of the people she looked down on most in this world. It must be so horrifying for her. As for me, it looks like we two are enemies in all aspects now. Funny how things work, isn't it?

Smirking to myself, I fiddle with the radio dial, getting nothing but the buzz of static as I watch Summer and just about everyone else pull out of the parking lot at top speed. The trick to making it out in one piece is to wait until the reckless people leave so you don't get banged up.

The twiggy figure of Crane catches my attention briefly as he exits the school, carrying a boatload of books in his scrawny arms. It's a wonder they don't snap under their weight. He supports them as though he's used to it. I know he sees me gawking at him, because he looks up, freezes, electrifies me with a scowl, and completely blows me off. He speeds up. I feel a bit stung (I shouldn't care), but honestly, what had I been expecting? Buddy time? I suppose he's still pissed off about the whole being cast as John Proctor thing. And he blames me, on top of it all. Ignoring my presence make sense.

One moment, he's letting me in, little by little, and the next, he acts like I don't exist. This wants fixing.

Crane strides over to a rusty-looking station wagon parked five spaces down from my truck. While I'd always wondered how he got to school every day, I never expected him to own a car. I'd always thought he rode a bike or walked or something… Ames, from where we live, that would take more than two hours. I highly doubt it. Where had he gotten the car? And how the hell had he gotten Geraldine Crane to agree to it? Um, maybe that's a subject best not touched on, lest I be on the receiving end of one of his bone-withering death glares.

I'm surprised he's not giving another one to me right now, seeing that I'm hanging about halfway out of my window to see what he's doing, with static crackling in the background.

He opens the dinged door and tosses his books carefully into the seat. Crane swings his ratty bookbag down from his shoulder and hunts through it for what I assume are his car keys. I bet someone took them, for he throws his bag into the car before raking a hand through his long hair. Strange thing is, he doesn't look stressed, unlike me when I'd thought I'd lost my own pair this morning. Jonathan simply kneels down beside his car, sticks his upper body into it, and gets to work. The panel pops off.

My mouth falls open.

Jonathan Crane knows how to hotwire a car.

My eyebrows go up in automatic disbelief. That's one for the books. I'd bet all my pennies that Craig took Jonathan's keys as a sick joke. Without a doubt, he won't give them back to me. Or Crane.

Seeing that Jonathan is still going at it (hotwiring…), I figure that he probably needs some form of help. Now, I don't know squat about automobiles, except how to name them. But I'll try… I pity him.

I hop out of the truck and slam my door. The loud sound causes Crane to stand up sharply, not quite jumping in alarm. It's more like he's been put on alert, cautious. But the sad thing is that he nearly nails his head on the door when he rises. He sees me coming toward him, boots clicking against the pavement, and crouches back down to his wires, working furiously. I think he's trying to escape me.

"Having troubles?" I call out to him, only about ten feet away. Ironically, at that moment, the station wagon jolts a little and revs up. Oh.

"Never," he responds coolly. Crane keeps his back to me as I approach but finally turns around when his indifference and oozing creepiness don't send me running off in the other direction. I notice that he's unbuttoned his shirt collar enough to bare the long expanse of his pale neck, mottled with scratches and bruises. However, when he spies me studying them, he moves his deft fingers to button it back up.

I almost tell him to leave it be, to be a normal guy, (to let me look some more, out of concern), but figure I'd already pushed my luck with him today when I'd impulsively asked him to keep my tacky headband… I reach up to my hair and touch it as I recall my not-so-proudest moment. I hope he's forgotten.

Crane finishes with his shirt and slides into his driver's seat as quickly and as smoothly as he can. The windows are rolled up; it's got to be hot in there. Should've left his collar undone; I myself have taken off my leather jacket, revealing the tank top beneath. And without so much as a how-do, Crane slams the door on me and leaves me in his snooty dust. Wow. Is it all really a façade? I ask myself. Or is he angry with me for no good reason? Maybe he doesn't want friends…

Want them? More like he doesn't need them…but as much as I hate to admit it, no one should be alone. And Crane is heading that depressing direction.

"Screw it," I gripe as I slide into my still-running truck. To hell with making friends. I don't need him, and he certainly doesn't need me, my concern, or my help. I take one look at the radio's clock and nearly have a heart attack. It tells me that I need to get my sorry ass to work. Friday nights usually bring large crowds, and Saturdays haul in even larger ones. Thank god it's Friday.

The place I work is a nightclub and bar evening and night. A kind of cabaret, so to speak. Not to mention that it's located on the nonexistent border between the lower-class half of the city and the high, fancy, wealthy district of Gotham. We get everyone from middle-aged businessmen to aspiring college students, from common folk to druggies, and from cops…to mobsters. Wonderland is where I work, and hopefully, with the help of me and a few girls, it will become a hot spot for…anything. I'm only a "backup" or "pre-show" singer for our main attraction, Sarah Garland.

She's our star. Even her name sounds theatrical. And she works the Fridays and Saturdays. I can never be the kind of star that she is. My performances are liked and mediocre at best.

I pull onto a street flooded with vendors and shops that sell miscellaneous and unusual items. It's a colorful place, full of different things and characters. And right smack-dab in the middle of it all, is Wonderland. It's only 4:30, but in Gotham, the light of day fades fast, so the curly, neon red letters can be seen flashing very brightly by this time. I drape my jacket over my arm.

As the simple glass door opens, a surprisingly cheery tinkle of bells sounds, contrasting with the smooth jazz gracing the atmosphere. Wonderland officially opens at five o'clock in the evening. The air smells faintly of cigarette smoke, heady alcohol, and sweet perfume, making an interesting (but not at all unpleasant) aroma. The lights have been dimmed, giving the large place a warm red-gold glow, and it will become even darker when the show starts. On opposite sides of the room are the bar (for those who come to drink) and the stage (for those who come to…er—get off). The stage, surrounded by gold curtains the same shade as the carpet, takes up two-thirds of the room, large enough to hold a band, the performers, and to allow the performer(s) to sashay around to their (and the audience's) liking. There are even a short flight of steps at the front of the stage that descend down into the dozens of dark mahogany tables if you want to give the customers their money's worth.

I've never used them. Even if you're not a stunning blonde bombshell like Sarah Garland, some men can't keep their hands to themselves.

"Ames, m'dear! You're alive!" A small, portly, and balding man comes barreling out of one of the dressing rooms. I pull on my jacket to cover my tank top.

"Hi, Mr. Sorvino. Yeah, I think I am." I smile at our friendly, overdramatic manager. I can't help but feel cheery in his presence. The crinkly-eyed man grins at me and kisses my hand before giving it a fatherly pat. "How were nights in my absence?"

Mr. Arnold Sorvino shudders theatrically, straightening his crisp, dark gray suit. "Absolutely, positively horrific. Zora cannot sing at all! We had people leaving…" He lowers his voice to a whisper, gesturing with his animated hands. "The promise of Sarah's show was the only reason some of them stayed."

I brush past Mr. Sorvino, who seems about two feet shorter than me, and weave through tables to get to one of the dressing rooms. He waddles comically after me, his important, stately voice listing off his complaints. "Sir, you're not being very fair. She didn't have a heads-up, no time to practice." I duck to avoid a hanging light. "See where I'm coming from?"

Mr. Sorvino huffs and easily scoots under the light fixture. "Yes, yes, but Ames, darling, it's better that we have you."

"Eh," I comment, tired of arguing and false praises. "Be happy to have Sarah. Not me." I stop outside one of the secondary dressing rooms, trying not to let my resentment show. I wait for Mr. Sorvino to catch up.

Eventually, he does. Breathing heavily, he pulls out a lacy handkerchief to mop at his balding, graying head. "Sweetheart, Sarah's in the business for the fame and fortune, we all know that. And she's gorgeous. She looks like Veronica Lake…" he adds wistfully. I patiently wait for him to cease drooling. He remembers himself. "But you've got heart. You do this because you love it, kid." He waggles his index finger at me in a scolding way, a very (rare) serious look on his face. Mr. Sorvino's eyes are definitely proud, but I don't see why. "Don't you ever doubt yourself."

One of those corny speeches.

I nod obediently, raising my eyebrows.

Mr. Sorvino takes a step back and appraises my outfit. "Are you wearing that tonight?" I can't tell if he likes or dislikes it. Off to our left, the band starts to assemble. Meaning only one thing: people are filing in. Skimpily clad waitresses are exiting the dressing rooms. Twenty minutes until showtime.

"Is this, um, acceptable? I need to fix my hair and stuff. But no makeup," I warn him as my hair comes tumbling down out of its ponytail. The silver-sequined headband is the only thing keeping the unruly ash-brown waves back.

Mr. Sorvino nods. "I like it. Dangerous sort of feel." I smile and hug the leather jacket around my awkwardly shaped frame. "Still Pat Benatar tonight?"

I open the door to the dressing room partway. "Yep. 'Anxiety' and a good old round of 'Heartbreaker'."

"Fabulous. You know your stuff."

"That's why you hired me," I call out as I begin to shut the door on him.

Mr. Sorvino sticks his small foot in the door. "What about tomorrow night?"

I smile, remembering. "It's a long one. I'm planning on Nina Simone. Band still got it?"

"Sure thing, darling." He lets me go with a wink. "Oh, by the way, we're giving Sarah the night off tomorrow. You'll be the main attraction. Glad you feel better." The door slams shut, leaving me in dumfounded silence, standing in the middle of the radiantly lit room. It hurts my eyes.

Holy—! Am I really...?

I stop myself from spinning in circles around the room, reminding myself that this is only one night. They probably just want to see how you'll handle the pressure. It doesn't mean anything. They will never, ever give up Sarah again. It's just this once. And surprisingly, I'm not freaking out about it. It must not have walloped me in the ass yet.

I sit down in front of the vanity. The mirror shoots a number of different reflections at me from all sides; the overly bulbous bulbs shine with enough light to power Gotham. I've always found those strangely unnecessary. They blind you before you can actually see your reflection, allowing you to paint on a Ghostface face before you can see what you're doing to yourself.

Ssssss…goes the spray of the hairspray can I'd grabbed off the vanity. With my head hanging upside down and my hair nearly touching the floor, I attack the mess with stickiness, hoping to give my mop more volume. That's all I can do to myself. I flip my head back up to see the result.

I have a lion's mane for hair, a very long afro. It's extremely messy. Replacing my sparkly headband, I turn right and left, angling my head. It's strangely becoming. The retro-looking clock on the wall tells me that there's ten minutes until showtime, and I'm not nervous yet. I used to get so anxious, but after a while…

The door bangs open, and Mr. Sorvino sticks his shining head through it. "Ames, get your arse by the stage! The band's already on!" He's in manager mode, not in his fatherly mode. One hundred percent serious. "We got a full house."

For Sarah. I roll my eyes at his sudden change in attitude and follow him out into the lively, flowing atmosphere.

I can't see much from where I'm standing now, so the moment I take the steps up to the stage, I peek out of the curtain to judge our numbers. Oh! Um, a fair-sized crowd…yeah, it's huge. I let out a breath and retreat, starting to get the shakes. What I really need to do is stop thinking about it. The stage (hidden behind the curtains now) is completely dark, and I'm used to it, but you still have to kind of feel your way around to get to your place. I've accidentally groped an innocent band member once or twice.

In preparation for the show, the squeal of the electric guitar reaches my ears, along with the quieter clash of a cymbal and the thud of a bass guitar. Even after working here for a few months, I still don't know the names of all the members. The only thing I do know is that they shift to jazz instruments when my pre-show is done, and that the lead guitarist is very attractive. I usually do two songs, but am slowly working my way up to three. And now, all the band is doing is testing out instruments before we start, which will be soon.

I really hope I'm standing in the right spot… Oh, there's the microphone right in front of me…

"Tonight, we are proud and glad to welcome back one of our youngest performers. For the past two days, she's been feeling a bit under the weather, I'm afraid. But she's back!" Mr. Sorvino's rich voice booms over the loudspeaker. I hope he never says that again.

And just like that, my nervousness is gone. I smile. This is what I do best. He continues, "I know you missed your weeknight entertainment, so please warmly welcome back, Ames Manson!" A round of thinly scattered applause. I grab the mike and turn it on. That's our cue.

I make a split second decision and turn around, with my back to the curtains.

The low, quick pulse of the guitar at the beginning fills me with excitement. The curtains open as I add my whisper to the intro. "Get nervous, get nervous. Get nervous, get nervous, get nervous."

I spin around as the stage lights fly on and the drums start and the electric guitar fires up. I manage a few good headbangs in before I whisper again. "Get nervous, get nervous, get nervous. Get nervous, get nervous."

All movement stops as I begin the first verse. "I feel a little shaky; I can't control my nerves…" As I sing, I force my voice to take on a panicky edge, complimenting the song and my wild-eyed look. I belt my heart out and the band is fantastic.

I stroll around stage, not caring how many mobsters fill the tables or even the fact that the crowd's loving it. I'm performing just for me and for me alone. Midway through the song, I walk straight up the middle of the stage to the very edge, stopping just in front of those stairs. But I won't go down them. Never.

Instead, I bend over and lower my voice for the upcoming line. "Can't you hear my heartbeat? Hear the way it sounds? Can't you hear my heartbeat? Hear the way it pounds?" Straightening up, I stick one arm in the air. "JUST GIVE ME SOMETHING TO SLOW IT DOWN! YEAH…"

During the following guitar solo, one guy even stands up and whistles.

I go through another verse before hitting the final chorus, moving back to center stage. "Anxiety, got me on the run. Anxiety, I just need someone. Anxiety, can't get nothing done. Anxiety, spoils all the fun." I quiet down, returning to whispers. "Get nervous, get nervous. Get nervous, get nervous. Get nervous, get nervous."

Smiling broadly through the last chords, I move my body some more before the song ends. Turning off my microphone temporarily and having sweat drip down my face (okay, the jacket is a little warm, especially under these lights), I acknowledge the polite cheers and applause before gesturing graciously at the band (all men) behind me.

"Heartbreaker" is even more of a hit, even though, to my disdain and inward wincing, my voice cracks twice. I think my face is going to split in half from smiling so much. I'm almost excessively happy, unlike Sarah Garland. She's learned to control her emotions to the point where it's almost scary. I put the mike back in the stand for her, and the curtains close to the last round of applause.

Mr. Sorvino catches me in a bone-crushing hug before I can flee to one of the round tables pushed up against the far wall. I just want to watch Sarah perform, to see how she does it. How she can make men obsessed with her by simply batting an eyelash at them. After a few praises and more fatherly pats on the head, I'm free to shrug my jacket off and wait for the next show.

A cool surge of air rushes to my armpits. Oh wow. Relief. I realize in the scarlet-gold atmosphere that I'm sitting in the shadows. Hopefully, they shield me from people. Now that my performances are finished, I'm turning back into my old, anti-social self again. I cross my arms and lean the cushioned chair back against the smooth crimson wall, nearly whacking my head on a spherical dangling light again.

Blast those things.

One of the many simply but provocatively clad waitresses bustles over and sits next to me. It's Zora. She high-fives me before chirping, "Ames, I was watching you from the audience. You were fantastic!"

"My voice cracked a few times." I secretly envy her, the cute form that's being tightly hugged by a strapless blue dress that barely covers her butt. She's not a slut; it's a uniform thing. Zora's ten times more gorgeous than I'll ever be. She's thin, for one thing, with straight jet-black hair cut sharply in a stylish bob around her golden-toned face and a pair of deep-set amber eyes that always glow a coppery-gold in any kind of light. She is…exotic-looking. I will never, ever be that lovely.

She raises an eyebrow at me.

Shaking off the pang of jealousy, I duck my head, hiding behind my hair, and continue, "Thanks, but it wasn't my best show."

It sounds like I'm reaching out for sympathy. Or attention.

Zora blows her bluntly cut bangs off her forehead in exasperation. "Oh, shut up! You're too modest. Everyone knows you're better than me at least." She nudges me with her slim elbow. "My voice kept breaking, and I was so nervous…" Biting her lip in worry, my coworker looks to me for consolation.

"It wasn't fair for you; you weren't prepared." The plinking of the piano, the strumming of a few string instruments, and the deep sound of Mr. Sorvino's voice announcing catch my attention. "Let's not talk. Sarah's going to start." I sit upright, resting my elbows on my thighs and paying suddenly rapt attention.

While I ignore Zora's comment of, "I don't see what's so special about her," the lights dim down accordingly to sensual hues that make anyone on stage look smoldering, warm, and untouchable. Like a vision or a goddess. They are reserved for only Sarah. Starstruck, I wait along with everyone else for the curtains to open and for Ms. Garland to be revealed.

She surprises us by opening with her voice, instead of with her body. A low, soft, and sultry tone. "You had plenty of money in 1922…"

Damn, this is going to be one sexy song. As the causal plucking of strings picks up the mood, Sarah emerges from behind the scarlet curtains to the sounds of wolf-whistles and cheers. My mouth drops open, as it usually does, at her sheer glamorousness. What is Mr. Sorvino thinking? Having someone like me replace a siren like her, even if only for a night? I'm the ugly ogre cousin in comparison. Depressed, I can't help but admire her anyway. She's addicting to watch. I'm straight, as well.

Sarah holds the microphone delicately to her full, pouty red lips, crooning out the smooth tune in her classical, chilling voice. So smoky-sounding…how does she do it? She simply sashays slowly around stage, turning her magnificent body this way and that for admiration, moving her hips entrancingly for the men.

…Wow. I let out a breath. That's it; I'm done. Beside me, Zora's actually as enraptured as I.

"I have no words," I whisper.

Sarah and I are complete polar opposites. We are both very tall…and that's where the similarities end. Tonight, Sarah is wearing a slinky, glittering black gown that clings to her body as it falls to her feet, with an extremely low back that draws all attention to her curvy rear (how she manages to have those slim thighs and calves, I'll never know) and a daringly deep-cut front that barely covers the D-size breasts hovering above her tiny waist. She certainly has nothing against showing her flawless, perfectly creamy skin. The left side of the dress has a long slit traveling all the way up to her thigh, and a diagonal slit stretches across her abdomen, fastened at intervals with six-pointed rhinestone stars and baring small spaces of her flat stomach. Miniscule black stilettos encase her small, graceful feet.

"Why don't you do right, like some other men do?" She's descended the stairs. I crane my neck to keep her in my line of vision.

Sarah's fluffy white-blonde hair, waving and curling in just all the right places, brushes her lower back while swooping bangs cover one huge, doe-eye the color of smoky quartz. Its twin winks at the audience every now and then. Add the plump, crimson lips and the cute ski-jump nose to her appearance…and you've got one hell of an Aphrodite or Helen of Sparta. Mr. Sorvino is right; she does look like Veronica Lake. Only better.

"Get out of here. Get me some money, too." She really plays up that line, rubbing her fingers together and snubbing men as she weaves in and out of tables. She's playing hard to get.

If only I could act like that and be wanted as badly… If only I looked like that! I try to take in as much as I can, wanting to be her. Zora rapidly waves her hand in front of my face. "Ames, snap out of it! People will think you swing the other way." Even that doesn't faze me. I keep watching Sarah slink around the tables to the alluring jazz, turning men on with the lightest touch or the briefest glance.

My eyes fall upon two men sitting at a table near ours. And they are the only ones in the room who don't have their eyes glued to Sarah…their eyes are fixed on me. I'm not really anything to look at, so I stare back quizzically. These guys look all too familiar; I've definitely seen them around before. And not just here. I take in their expensive suits, their clean-cut style. These men have power.

Then, it hits me. I've seen them before.

Mobsters. The crime family.

Under him.

My heart skips a few beats before it kicks back to life. My brain spins…I have to…I have to get out of here. I can't think! Why can't I think? Filled with the heaviest sense of dread and anger, I let out a shuddering breath and temporarily run my hands through my hair and over my face. The hate and fear that begins filling me up like a balloon is astounding. Pretty soon, I'm going to burst if I don't do something.

Leave. Just leave.

"Ames, are you all right?" Zora puts a hand on my shoulder.

A bit of weakness leaks into my voice. "No," I groan, torn between crying and laughing hysterically. It's a strangled sound, like a cow choking. I'm overheated and nervous. On top of that, my hands can't seem to stop shaking. I'm sure my face is stark white and taut.

"What's wrong? Talk to me!" she adds after I don't answer right away.

Think of a lie.

I make myself mumble, "…don't…feel good… Poisoning…still in system…" I don't know if she has enough information to know what I'm referring to, but she buys it. "Tell Mr. Sorvino…left and that I'll be here…eight tomorrow." I add a pathetic whimper at the end.

Getting up from the table, I don't wait to hear Zora's response. Two pairs of cold but all-too-interested eyes follow me out the door.

I need air.

Once outside, (I'd ended up in the back alley of all places. Idiot.), I find it harder and harder to suppress the trauma, pain, and red-hot fury bubbling beneath the surface of my skin. Memories rush at me. Tears sting my eyes. Daddy… I silently snap.

"Falcone…"

It rips its way out of my chest but is an enraged, hoarse whisper, and blindly, I turn and slam my hand into the concrete wall beside me. The skin of my right palm splits.

The jolt of pain brings me back to reality. Breathing heavily, I stare at the red beading up along the side of my dominant fist.

Brilliant, Ames. Brilliant. I'd needed that just like I needed someone firing a nail gun into my ass.

Can anger and revenge really drive a person to attempt to put their hand through a stone wall? I violently chastise myself for my loss of control, wiping my bleeding hand on my jeans and walking past dumpsters to get to the front of the Wonderland establishment.

What had happened…had happened six years ago, but it's still fresh in my mind. I will never get over it. The cruelty of one man.

I calm down enough to think clearly again. Even though it's nighttime, my drive through the Narrows is uneventful. The only beings on the streets are a few drug dealers here and there, but no one tries to assault my truck, or me, for that matter. I'm normally not home this early on work nights, so at least Mom might be happy to see me.

Thanks to the jog to my memory, I recall that I've seen both those men (together at the same time) at least three or four times over two months. Always watching me. Gotham is full of creepers, but I don't understand how something like this can slip my mind. I'm being followed. Watched.

And I know how they know who I am.

If I looked like my mother, it would've been a lot harder for them to track me down. If I looked like her, I'd be prettier, but more importantly, life would be somewhat more peaceful. But I hadn't been born that lucky, and so, I'd been found, easily identified as the child of a traitor.

Hands down, I'd taken after my father. We are identical.

Genetics are a bitch.

A/N: Chapter Six! As I said earlier, Chapter Seven will have even more singing in it, but will deal even MORE with Ames' past, so you won't be kept in mystery for long. Chapter Seven may be shorter. I AM OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS!

Sarah Garland's performance is strongely based on Jessica Rabbit's performance in Who Framed Roger Rabbit?. If you want to get an idea of what she's like and how she sounds, you know where to go and what to look up. I even used the same song, because it was the one, and I couldn't hear anything else past that.

For Wicked fans, please tell me I'm not the only one. But does anyone else feel the strong urge to cry whenever you hear "As Long As You're Mine"? Or the "No One Mourns the Wicked" phrase?

"The Blue Wraith" (or Wrath) by I Monster. Look it up. I dare you not to burst out laughing.

REVIEW MY PRETTIES! REVIEEEEEW!

Question of the Day: Who is the most underrated actor or actress out there?

Thanks and love to everyone :)