Here's a question for all you readers—does anyone know what the inside of Bruce Wayne's penthouse is like? I know he has a bedroom of sorts, and a ballroom, and possibly a sitting room, but other than that, I'm clueless.
By the way--thanks, Indigo's Ocean, for telling me that Beethoven wrote "Ode To Joy", not Mozart. My mistake!
Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight, or any of the bands/songs mentioned here.
Chapter Eight: Joker
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Batsy drops me off near Robinson Park, just like I asked him to.
He's somehow managed to "change" (he can never change) out of his suit. He went to his oh-so-cozy hideout (which I didn't see again) to put the Tumbler away, and slipped into his "Bruce Wayne" skin. Perfect slicked back hair, soft, friendly (even a little clueless) smile, and enough charm to cause even the most stubborn of men to question their sexuality—or their business prospects.
It's a good skin, but a poor substitute for who he really is.
Speaking of skin, since I still haven't put on my face yet (as per Batsy's request), I look relatively…mundane at the moment. Despite my own special style, almost no one would get that it is me underneath this oh-too-pink fleshy canvas.
I hate being mundane.
"Wish we could've spent some time together," I say, running my hand through my hair absent-mindedly. "The Tumbler doesn't have a radio, does it?"
"It has communication. That's all I need." Batsy's eyes flicker slightly with annoyance.
"Don't you ever…listen to music?" I ask, giving him my most appalled look. "Punk? Jazz? Rock n' roll? World?"
"If I did, I wouldn't tell you," he replies sternly, sounding a little more like the Batsy I'm used to.
Oooh…that hurt.I think I might need a band-aid to patch up my, ah, poor bleeding heart.
"You'll be all right here?" Batsy asks, leaning out the car window, his eyes a little unfocused.
He looks tired. Stressed. Maybe even a little…proud. (It's always worse when you're proud and stressed). After all, he again did the impossible. The Brave Batman went out in the daytime to foil a oh-so-sinister plot by the most, ah, dashing of knaves Gotham—no…the country—has ever known.
"I'll be just…peachy." I grin and turn away. "See you later, love."
I don't look back as his car drives away. I'll see him soon.
--
I take my time riffling through the stacks of fabric at the Arts and Crafts Center near the park.
I've sewn everything from the waistcoat I wear to the scars on my face (and other places). Call it a…recreational hobby of mine. I like seeing what I can make with a few scraps of fabric and bits of string and needles. Whatever comes out at the end looks decent enough to wear. Usually.
That nurse outfit I wore to visit Harvey cut it pretty close—the hospital nearly changed their clothing policy on me. I would've stuck out like dynamite sticking out of a dog's…
Anyway. The point is, I feel like being a little…creative in other ways.
I grab a bunch of fabric—purple, black, and green—and dump it at the cash register. There's a cute girl there. Pretty red lips. White smile. Perky in more ways than one.
She looks delicious, but I've got a Bat on the brain.
"That's $25.50," she tells me, and I hand over the cash, taken from the last bank I robbed (there's a lot more where that came from).
"Thank you," I tell her, grinning as I walk out the door, bag in hand.
--
My boys grow quiet as I amble into my hideout, not really paying attention to them or the world around me. I have more…interesting things to think about. My face is back on now, thank God. I feel more like my old self.
The hideout was once a stripper bar in what is now Old Gotham—it still has the poles and pin-up girls to prove it—but now it serves a better purpose. It's beat-up, grungy (though I keep my rooms clean for the sake of paradox) and covered with enough booby traps to set even Batsy on edge.
And for the moment, it's…home. With multiple roomies. Stupid roomies.
"How'd your day go, Boss?" one of the boys asks from over his hand in Poker. It's a simple question from a simple person, doing something simple for a simple gain.
"Fine n' dandy," I tell him, taking the rickety stairs two at a time.
"Anything to do tonight, Boss?" another yells from the pool table.
I turn around when I reach the landing and peer down at him. "It was lov-er-lee," I tell him, adding "Be prepared for some noise, gents."
I kick off my shoes as I head toward my room, still dragging the bag of fabric along. Unlocking my door, I step inside. I lock it behind me. Can't be too careful with all these weirdoes running around.
Good. My room's exactly as I left it. My sewing/First-Aid kit is by the bed, where it should be. The CD player is on the right station—I added the radio myself. The CDs are in the right place. My workbench is still covered with knives and sewing needles and cell phones and cake crumbs. Oh, and crayons and magazines.
I dump the bag by my workbench and grab one of my many mix CDs, placing it in the player and hitting play. Ah, Pink Floyd. Always the best person to, ah, work by.
I let the guitar strings slither into my ears, and I feel all that tension from Batsy slip away…for the moment. "The Dark Side of the Moon" is all I'm tuned in to for the time being.
"Re-membering games…of daisy chains and laughs…" I croon, waving my hands in time to the music, pretending to conduct it. "Got to keep the loonies on the path…"
They say music soothes the savage beast (or breast), but to me…music awakens it. You see, depending on my mood (and what music I play as a result), I can find a new way to preach my philosophy to the poor, undefined masses. I'll rig bombs while listening to Beethoven's "Ode To Joy". I'll create a hostage situation to Frank Sinatra's "Luck Be A Lady Tonight". I'll prepare for an evening of "games" with whomever captures my interest, while listening to Placebo's "Taste In Men". The list goes on.
Despite all my artistic choices, unfortunate-ly, I can't find a certain song that fits Batsy. It's more of a…mish-mash with him. I like it that way.
I sit down at my workbench and grab the nearby needles and spools of thread. I reach for the fabric. Black first. I hum along to the song, muttering snatches of the lyrics as I take out my scissors and snip-snip-snip, the fabric takes shape.
I wonder how Batsy's doing. Maybe he already found the punchline already. Maybe he'll hear it on the news, or good ol' Gordon will tell him. Either way, I can't wait to see his reaction.
All too soon, the song is over. Motley Crue takes over where my pal Floyd left off, and suddenly sewing isn't half as fun as dancing.
The floorboards creak under my feet as I leap into the air, kick my legs up, and shake my hips like a Molotov cocktail. The boys downstairs know enough now to stay out of my way when I'm like this. I get a little…upset at being interrupted.
While I'm dancing about, I find my thoughts roaming toward the delicious Flying Rodent Formerly Known As Bruce Wayne. What does he do for fun? Does he even know that "fun" exists? And what's with the no-less-than-six-girls-at-a-time approach to dating?
Somewhat reluctantly, I stop the music and look toward my closet. I smile as an idea takes shape.
I haven't looked at the tabloids before. Now might be a good time to, ah, mix things up a bit…
"Boys," I yell down, grinning so hard my scars hurt, "Does anyone have an issue of Gotham Star on 'em?"
