Author's Note: Sorry, my international fan-base!! I have come home! (Enter the egotistic-Tia mode.... -___-;) Thank you for your patience or even your impatience! It just shows me how much you care~! ^___^ Ok; let's kill all the fluffy-bunniness and get down to the raw, dirty, harsh reality of Huntley Dyson! * Smiles * Which may in fact be more sinister after I have been exposed by the amazingly orgasmic, dream/nightmare-like brain of Dave McKean—the godly man who knows how to make a piece of shit beautiful in Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on a Serious Earth! * Sighs * I will track him, Christopher Nolan, Steven Moffat, and the Valve creators of Portal down and create an amazing British brain-trust that could very well inspire me everyday of my life... ON WITH THE GOD-FORESAKEN STORY!!!

Jackpot

How long had it been? For the ex-stalker, it might as well have been eons since he last saw his conductor. Although, it had really been only a few months. Huntley had been released from the asylum on "good behavior" to a mostly normal lifestyle while still performing the correct notes of the Joker's symphony. How? To Huntley's relief in maintaining his fix, the Joker haphazardly duct-taped a cellular phone to the inside of his mask.

Once Huntley first plucked at the sticky material to reach the phone, he obsessively punched the button sequence to enter the cell's phone book. All the numbers had been there—all seven key numerals that would allow the device to swim through millions of Gotham's gossipers to reach a voice as malleable as liquid mercury; with outward symptoms of the metal's poisoning. But a message had been sent by the deranged individual commanding Huntley, as his very first task, to memorize the number then wipe it from digital existence. He had repeated it aloud every second the night had to offer, aware that the cell's cushy walls would muffle his sounds.

Now, he had applied and had been accepted as a window-washer and also attended orchestra concerts as a hobby—all as facades formulated by the Joker's mind. Huntley never verbally questioned his "conductor"--the nickname he had dubbed the Joker echoing within his limitless neurological pathways—but he had pondered why he had to be employed in such menial jobs. Though he had asked the conductor's permission for getting other menial, part-time jobs under his belt to fund his orchestra concert visits. This got the OK by the conductor, who answered quickly and with an edge of vexation on the other end of the line. A click followed, signaling to Huntley that the conductor had more important business to attend to. Huntley hung up as well then savored the fresh transaction with his conductor. The Joker truly threw the phone down in disgust, still smiling at the fact that he was Huntley's conductor, alright; he would conduct his fate up to the big finale!

One night, about a month ago, Huntley brushed up to hear the cellos hum low and the violins' bows bob to strike wonderful notes. The daily exposure to the classical music was a change to Huntley's tastes while he started to warm up to it and look forward to seeing live performances. He wore impressive suits to concerts that the Joker provided, making Huntley appear too suave to be a simple, working-class citizen. On top of that, the Joker snagged the best seats to shows. Early on, Huntley noticed the high-class types swarmed around him. Not only did he feel out of place at first, but Bruce Wayne even began a conversation with him one day.

Sitting a row in front of Huntley, Bruce Wayne laughed softly to ladies Huntley assumed were his dates. Next Wayne spoke to others in his row. To his surprise, Wayne didn't hold a polished wine glass like all the other influential figures of Gotham around him. Not being able to relax or conform to the fancily-dressed surrounding him, he got up for a bathroom break. Maybe a little time from this crowd will let me clear my—Huntley bumped shoulders with someone whom appeared from nowhere.... It was Bruce Wayne!

"Ah-I'm sorry. Please excuse me," Huntley rambled then turned to leave.

"No; I'm sorry," Wayne turned the man around to look him in the eye. "Hey, I haven't seen you around here before.... What do you do?"

Huntley gulped subtly, not being able to produce a reasonable enough lie. ".... A window-washer."

Bruce made a guttural chuckle. "Well, you must be a pretty good window-washer to make it so close to the stage," he didn't say it harshly or sarcastically and eyed Huntley dead-on.

Huntley's shocked eyes dilated in the dimly-lit concert hall to get a better focus on the man in front of him. "Yeah, well, it makes a living. But I can have fun every once and a while."

Bruce nodded, held out his hand, and stated, "Bruce Wayne. I'm proud of people like you who are skilled at their jobs—no matter how important to anyone. Would you like to have some more fun with extra money or even a vacation....?" He held out his syllables to ask for his name.

Huntley moved a bony arm and hand to Wayne's built frame. "Huntley Dyson," he said, feeling the powerful grip closing on his palm.

And just like that, Huntley got the huge job of washing Wayne Manor's windows. I guess if you approach any businessman in as comfortable an atmosphere as that or in an affable mood, you're bound to make ground-breaking deals, Huntley thought to himself, feeling as if he had already become integrated into Gotham's sophisticated ranks.

Author's Notes: If you see where I'm going already, don't think of me as an idiot (although, it is stupid); think of me as an observer. By the way, I have not looked into the occupation of window-washing nor know much except they use squeegees and platforms.... XD But there is a "Sexy Window Washer" video on Youtube that's hilarious and hot! ROFL!

Thank the on-the-spot, improvatory metaphors and other fun things to Daniel Bernard Roumain and Chemistry class... That's my bored mind making fun things out of the ordinary! :D