Gotham's Discontent
Chapter Five: Arkham's In-House Gala
Warden Grey took his measures to make the community room look livelier, brighter and much more inviting than it had ever looked in the last year that Jerome and Deedee had attended the prestige insane asylum. Where blank canvas, dreary walls framed the four corners, the Warden had instructed that his officers stream Christmas lights across the top of the ceiling, spiral them around the bars of the steely doors—Light-footed, gentle music quietly played in the background through the overhead speakers of the community room.
While the rest of the cast had still remained in their inmate stripes, Jerome stepped into the room (escorted by his guard from the East Wing), disrobed of his outer jacket, wearing the whites of his suspenders and his crisp, long-sleeve shirt rolled up to his elbows. Jerome considered the slight difference in apparel as still accompanying the prison's strict dress code; however, he was distinguishably more fashionable than the rest. He hadn't been the only one to amend his clothes. From across the room, holding a cold glass of whatever the Warden had considered to be the appropriate amount of draft for the asylum, Richard Sionis was arm in arm with Lucy Goosey whom clutched her make-shift doll tightly in her hand. Sionis wore his outer jacket on the outside of his sleeves like a pianist's cape, hitched around his neck by the button of his collar.
"Nice to see someone with a flair for style, eh, pal?" Sionis patted Jerome swiftly on the chest approvingly.
"It's a dance after all," Jerome agreed, mutually slapping Sionis against the shoulder, a tad harder. "How much of that stuff have you plowed into you already?"
"Oh, we haven't…" Sionis indicated Lucy Goosey with a finger before he cut himself off, and cleared his throat. "Oh. Oh, you mean the booze—right. A bit," he said with a usual genuine smile. "The booze isn't even that bad. It must be the real draft beer. Prison stuff would have you bent over a toilet, ready to take one in the ass."
"Lot of experience in that area, or…?" Jerome jested with a half-smirk.
"Smart ass," said Sionis with a slight frown.
Jerome chuckled to himself. Sionis had such a fragile, masculine ego. Jerome turned to Lucy Goosey. Not really what he had pinned as Sionis's type of gal. Brunette, innocent-looking, pig-tails, clutching her doll tightly against her stomach, Lucy Goosey looked almost 'proud' to be on the arm of the kingpin of Arkham; though Jerome was quite sure that if the two of them had been left alone, she wouldn't know anything about stripping the chrome off a trailer hitch…Way…too…innocent.
"Enjoying the night, Luce?" asked Jerome politely.
"Of course," Lucy Goosey replied gushingly. "Aren't we, Richard?"
"Mm-hm." Sionis said tonelessly. He looked elsewhere, ignoring the woman on his arm.
Jerome turned his head to observe the more interesting parts of the room, like where the refreshments and food would be located since this was a mandatory event—Probably has to be a nice spread somewhere—but a part of his body hungered for a different variety of nourishment when his eyes fell upon her.
Like the rest of the West Wing, she had to keep with the dress code; and while Jerome had thought that he had been pushing the limit by shedding his outer jacket, he realized that he hadn't pushed it enough. Jerome was mildly reminded of how enticing Delilah Valeska had been on stage when he saw just what extent Deedee had gone to amend her certain profile of what a proper dress should look like:
Deedee: fiery red hair cascaded down the length of naked shoulders and revealing backside. She had shredded her inmate's gown to the swell of her breasts, clipped tightly around the strength of her back by the white leather straps that Laura Greenburg seemed to have neglected to remove from her bed. The length of her dress had been cut from the height of her calf to the drift above her knee, as if some maniac had come at her with fabric scissors.
Laura Greenburg closed the doubled doors behind Deedee with a judgmental scowl, scouting the female inmate's encouragement of such gaudy behavior. Not much Greenburg could do unless she wanted to get into trouble with her boss for ruining a perfect evening for the clientele. Jerome's grin widened when, as Deedee strode toward him, she raised her arm in the air and flipped her the middle finger toward Greenburg clear as day.
"Wow," Deedee cooed, flying to Jerome's side, her fingers wrapping suggestively through the straps of his suspenders, "You look dashing."
"There's a dress code," Lucy Goosey chastised Deedee with a pointed gaze.
"Mm-hm," said Deedee, twirling on the spot, "Like it, Lucy? I can do the same for you, if you want. Didn't take long. But I get to keep the leather straps, love."
"You look like a slut," said Lucy disapprovingly, covering the eyes of her doll.
"Kind of the fuckin' point, Luce," said Deedee. "It's kind of like Halloween: all the girls can dress as slutty as they want, but no one is going to say anything because it's a bit of fan service." She glanced at Jerome with a smirk, then turned to Sionis, whose face had become stone as he caught a good look of Deedee's backside. "You agree, don't you, Richard?"
"Definitely," Sionis said, holding nothing back.
"Hey." Lucy remarked enviously. "I'm right here, Richard."
Deedee shrugged. "Lemme help you out, Lucy."
Deedee suddenly flew forward, grabbed Lucy Goosey's dress by the hem and pulled—the fabric had torn up to the height of Lucy's thigh, creating a half-hazard make-shift dress slit, revealing a bit of leg. Lucy gasped, pushing Deedee away, screaming in a whiny, scared voice: "GET OFF ME, BITCH!"
"Hey, hey, hey—" Sionis held up a hand to hold off Lucy Goosey from assaulting the eldest Valeska, and he turned full-bodily toward his date with a raised eyebrow of interest. "Wow…That's a bit of improvement."
Lucy Goosey frowned; but a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips when Sionis began to pay special attention to her, his eyes turned away from Deedee.
"There we go." Deedee grinned. "Doesn't hurt to show some skin, Luce. If you got it, flaunt it, eh?"
Lucy Goosey still clung to that doll, but she was a note happier. Sionis nodded quickly toward Jerome and Deedee as a swift farewell before heading toward the "dance floor", the clearing in the middle of the room that had been roped off by caution tape that clung to cheap, metal chairs.
Deedee turned to Jerome. The lean muscle on his young body silhouetted by the white, crisp shirt and suspenders; forearms exposed by his rolled-up sleeves; that strong jawline that went on for days, and a smirk that seemed permanent on pale skin—and the way he leered at her, a pan from the top of her head to her bare feet on the cold, stony floor.
"You really clean up, Brother," Deedee said, her voice suddenly hoarse.
Jerome leaned in and whispered, "Ditto." He offered his hand. "Wanna scuff the rug?"
Deedee snorted through her nose, taking his proffered hand. He led her under the caution tape, "That's funny as hell," he commented on the irony.
Jerome called up to the speaker, "MAESTRO! Switch it to a different number!"
The Warden, to most of everyone's surprise, answered Jerome through the overhead speaker: "Welcome to Arkham Asylum's first in-house gala." Jerome echoed a mocked impression of one being in awe of such a wonderful debut. "Tonight, we will enjoy the commodities of a social gathering, inclusive are the refreshments, spreads, and music accompaniment for the finer things in life. There will be no fights or squabbles; those who try to ruin the evening with such antics will be punished with the harshest extent of their actions—"
Greenwood and Aaron seemed to stare at the overhead speaker with dumbfounded expressions, mouths agape in confusion at the use of the Warden's elite-like sentence structure. Greenwood said, "What the fuck is he talking about—?"
"He means," said Sionis from the across the room, "if you fuck up, he'll fuck you up, Robert…Jesus Christ…"
Deedee and the women involved in the community room tittered until the Warden continued his speech, "Thank you, Mr. Sionis…Anyway, the dances are mandatory, think of it as a very important prom that one must not skive off. Delilah—"
Deedee's grin vanished instantly, staring at the speaker hotly, "I DON'T GO BY THAT NAME!"
Jerome calmly slid his hand around Deedee's waist, though it was ploy to lean in and whisper against the nape of her neck, "Not now, Deedee; pick your battles wisely."
"Fine," Deedee breathed.
The Warden continued, "Delilah…Valeska. I've forgiven your latest excursions—stabbing one of your fellow inmates, killing my chief of security—but you're on thin ice, dear child. I advise you to stay on your best behavior tonight."
Deedee mocked a curtsy, glancing around the room to find a video camera, whichever angle that the Warden was viewing her from—she wasn't sure where to look, but the intention was polite, albeit. sarcastic.
"Of course," Deedee said, dripping in cynicism but otherwise, an adequate response.
"Wonderful," said the Warden. "Then let the dancing begin."