Due to the next week being nothing short of hectic, this will probably be the last chapter for awhile.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight, or The Rocky Horror Picture Show and The Nightmare Before Christmas. I do own Seymour and Todd, though. And the Prawn Shop.

Chapter Fourteen: Joker


I'm not exactly…pleased with how things went with Batsy, but you know what? That's perfectly fine.

It makes working on Step Three of The Plan that much simpler.

Or at least, part of Step Three. It's a minor detail, but too much fun to pass up.

Adjusting the camera for just the right angle, I lean one hand against the wall, keeping me stable, the other undoing my tie. I haven't changed out of my suit—in fact, as soon as I got home I went right up to my room and went to work. What can I say? I'm…dedicated.

Besides, I'm still in that, ah, needy mood. And a little self-love never hurt anybody.

Much.

I cock my head to one side and close my eyes.

Click.

One down.

Off comes the tie. I take one of my gloves between my teeth and slowly slide it off my hand, staring at the camera all the while. The familiar feel of cool leather sliding over my knuckles is almost as good as Kevlar. Normally I would have taken my gloves off and then my tie, but like I said, tonight's full of surprises.

Click.

I feel like adding a bit of…burlesque to the scene. I grin at the camera…with the glove's fingers still between my teeth. Think "animal magnetism".

Click.

Now for the other glove.

Click.

Waistcoat time. I turn and lean my back against the wall now, ankles crossed, preparing to loosen the first button. Time for a Batsy-scowl.

Click.

It's hard to keep that scowl in place, so I decide to be a little hurried and loosen two more buttons.

Click.

I quickly get rid of the waistcoat and turn toward the wall, taking care of the first few buttons on my shirt. It's blue. I slip one shoulder out and look back toward the camera. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Click.

The shirt becomes fully unbuttoned, and I turn back around and walk to the camera. I turn its "gaze" down to the floor, then sprawl out, one hand on my stomach, the other balled into my shirt.

Click.

The shirt comes off. I adjust the camera again and go back to the wall. I face the wall, hands and arms splayed out, back arched. I can't help but smile at this one—after all, it's a "what-could-have-been" posture…or "what-could-be".

Click.

I hurriedly shut the camera off and take a look at my work…my foray into modeling. Only these beauties are for Batsy alone.

"Aww, I blinked," I complain to no one in particular. I sigh at the second glove picture, which would look good if not for the fact that I, ah, look a little out-of-sorts. The stupid camera got me in mid-blink.

"Hey, Boss, aren't you coming down?" one of my boys asks from behind the door. "The Nightmare Before Christmas is on!"

"Don't rush me, Seymour," I reply, still flipping through the pictures. "I'll be down in a jiffy. Just let me fix things in here."

"But Boss—"

"Wait, Seymour."

I grin once I get to the "unbuttoning" pictures. Yes, I think Batsy's gonna love these. And if he throws them out, well…

There's more where that came from.

"Boss, they're at the part with—"

I grab my shirt, pull it on, and head toward the door.

Now. My boys are great. They're loyal, funny (I'll never forget The Cellphone Incident), and best of all, they let me have my space. My policy is "You get your space, I get mine." (Guess whose space is more important).

They respect that—not that they, ah, have any other choices.

But sometimes—sometimes—there's one guy who just. Doesn't. Get it.

I open the door to find Seymour—a big, broad-shouldered guy who once-upon-a-time was a cop before stress drove him nuts—standing in front of the door, looking twitchy and anxious as ever. He's balding already—but then, that's to be expected. Looks like he was a fine-haired guy, the kind who never have to comb their hair. It just…is. Until he started pulling it out strand by strand.

"Seymour," I say, putting as much purr into my voice as possible, "could you, ah, c'mere for a sec?"

Like a good boy, Seymour obeys.

"Seymour. D'you like Nightmare Before Christmas?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah Boss, I do."

"I see. I'm more of a…Rocky Horror kind of guy." I cock my head to one side. "…Does Jack Skellington make you, ah, die laughing?"

Seymour offers up a whimpy excuse for a smile.

"Well…I guess so."

I return his smile. Of course mine is far more genuine.

"Oooh, good. Let's go, then. But next time…be a little more classy when you call me, won'tcha?"

An idea suddenly strikes me.

"Actually, Seymour, could you be a pal and run an errand for me?"

Seymour's reaction is just as I hoped: "Sure, Boss! Whatever you want!"

"I need you to go down to the Prawn Shop and get some photos printed. Oh, and stick 'em in an envelope and mail them to Bruce Wayne's penthouse. They're very special."

"Okay!" Seymour's so happy. No questions asked, either. I can't wait until his past mistakes catch up to him.

"Good boy.." I give him a companionable pat on the back. "Now, let's go see what Jack Skellington's up to, hmm?"

--

It turns out that Jack Skellington and friends never get old.

The boys and I laugh and scream at the appropriate moments. I even convince good old Thomas Schiff to sing "What's This?" and "Jack's Lament"—he's the best singer of all my boys. And, to popular demand, I sing "The Oogie Boogie Song", making one poor sap wet himself and the nice carpet in the process.

He'll never make that mistake again.

"Todd, go clean this up," I order, pointing to the corpse on the floor. Todd—a twig of a man—obeys with practiced ease. (He's a survivor). "Seymour, go do that job I told you about."

Seymour nods and scampers off—or as much as a guy like him can scamper. I turn off the TV and say goodnight to everyone. I'm ready to turn in. It's been a busy day, after all—and I have to be at my best tomorrow.

Sugarplums don't dance in my head when I dream. No, in my dreams clowns ride bats as they fly high, high over Gotham, and Batsy finally gets The Point, and together we dance in the rubble of the GCPD.