When I woke up from my nap, the warden had let the cat out of the bag. Or is it the bat out of the black? Either way, he notified the news I was out again and the city promptly shat itself all over the news.
There's something delightfully ghoulish about the way the talking heads talk about me. Oh, their tone and words say that they are sincerely worried and they just want everyone to be safe, but their expressions are bloodthirsty. Somewhere, a group of reporters are calling each other and making preparations to be able to wake and go on a moment's notice, to cover whatever mischief I get up to.
I hate the little fuckers, but if they didn't exist, they'd have to be invented.
Our relationship is symbiotic. I do something interesting, they report it because the public needs to know, and terror spreads like the plague. Any time I make an artistic gesture, I try to make sure they'll be able to cover it, and they do not disappoint. Honestly, I couldn't do this as efficiently without them.
The news coverage is practically masturbatory—a murder-boner, if you will. Or maybe a homicidal hard-on. A stiffie for stiffs.
It's a nice little confirmation of human nature. As long as you aren't the corpse, it's wholesome, family entertainment.
What's that old saying? Tragedy is my paper-cut. Comedy is when you fall into the sewer and die.
Old Wardie-poo did precisely what I wanted him to, what I spent months slowly introducing evidence for—he blamed Harley.
I had them drag her out of the office door so she could watch the last half of the news, the part where they described her, gave a short and inadequate description of her history, declared that she'd fallen in love and eloped with me, or perhaps even used me to get even with that ex of hers. They laid the entire thing at her feet, then grudgingly admitted that I might have been an active participant in my own escape.
If this wasn't what I wanted, my feelings might be hurt. I might have to visit the announcer for a discussion of what I am and am not capable of.
I was a little worried that she'd be too far gone to actually comprehend it, but she perked right up. She paled, then turned red, then paled again, and before anyone could stop her, actually tried to get to the television. The chain jerked her short and she almost cut her lip on the stairs when she fell.
I'm fairly sure she would have tried to put her fist through the TV if she had been able to reach it.
The noise coming out of her mouth… my Harley-kins has a filthy, filthy mind and apparently a violent temper. If she could have gotten her hands on that talking head, she might just have strangled him with her bare hands. She's mostly naked, enraged, violent, and I'm almost certain she offered to stuff the announcer's tongue up his ass after she ripped it out for him. Picking words out of her scream was a little challenging. There was an amazing amount of noise coming out of such a small woman.
My idiots actually shrank back from her while she screamed. At first sight, she looks like she'd break if you growled at her. Now, she looks like she'd gleefully gut a man and go dancing in the mess.
It's magnificent. I knew there had to be something under there, and how very right I was.
I don't mind saying that my heart went pitter-pat, or as close as that organ gets to ass-over-stupid infatuation. No matter. I was hard, and she was squirmy, red, and mostly naked.
She only got squirmier when I tossed her on the bed. It stinks in here, but I suppose that's to be expected considering what the Penguin's henchmen were dosing her with. Withdrawal tends to empty a person out at both ends.
But, if you'll pardon the pun, I could give a shit.
She's a damn fun ride.
I don't…. I don't understand why they're blaming me.
No, I do understand. I just cannot imagine why I was so goddamn stupid. I thought this was about me, or about some advantage at the jail, or transference or any other word that could not possibly describe what this was actually about.
I might as well be dead. The whole fucking world thinks I am a criminal, that I am the Joker's… the Joker's whore. Even if he gets bored with me and lets me go, I have nowhere to go. Even if I manage to escape, what the fuck could I possibly do? Where could I go?
I could go to fucking jail, that's where I could go. I'm now a wanted felon, and I haven't done anything. Not a goddamn thing.
And it doesn't fucking matter.
I could feel something break behind my eyes when I heard the news. I swear to god, it felt like something snapped, like I was made out of glass and someone dropped me from the roof to watch me shatter on the floor.
I couldn't stop myself from screaming. Every shit-house thing I ever heard, every goat-fucking, cock-sucking, shit-eating expression I ever heard in all those shitty schools, all the things I grew up hearing when my dad got drunk with his pals, every last obscene thing I'd ever heard pouring out of me so fast that I could hear my voice breaking, vocal-cords shredding. I don't even know that it made sense anymore after awhile, it just kept pouring out of me.
I barely caught myself on the stairs. I had to make the announcer stop. I had to. He was killing me. They were all killing me.
And then the Joker just… God, I wish I could rip my skin off.
It made him hot.
Right there, with my voice gone hoarse, in that stinking room, tears on my face, dirty and filthy and terrifying. He didn't even make me bathe, just shoved me backward on the bed and fell on me. I punched him a good one in the eye, but he didn't so much as slap me back, just…
I want to rip my skin right the fuck off.
The horrible part is…
No.
I'm not going to tell you. I'm never going to tell anyone. I'm going to pretend that never happened until I break down or die, whichever happens first.
And frankly, I hope I die before I have to talk about it.
I might as well kill myself, but I will be goddamned if I don't do something to him first.