Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight, or Victoria's Secret (thankfully), or Betty Boop. I do own The Gobbles and the Scar Story.

Chapter Twenty-One: Joker


I slam the brakes down in front of house 1439—home of the Gobbles.

The house itself is very nice—big, Victorian, and just a block away from the nearest tailors. The trees that surround the place are already beginning to turn silver with snow, and the slick Volvo in the street is more white than black.

I slowly step out of the car (wouldn't want to trip, now would we?) and make my way toward the pretty house, checking to see if the neighbors are watching.

Good. No one's being…pesky.

I tiptoe up the porch steps and admire the wicker chairs arranged in neat rows across the porch. I can't hear anyone inside…maybe they're sleeping? Or, ah, indisposed?

Time to find out.

I ring the doorbell and wait patiently. I turn and watch the snow falling silently, covering my tracks. I grab hold of the porch railing and lean out into the snow, feeling the cold seep wetly into my scalp.

"Aaaah." I stick my tongue out and catch a few snowflakes while I wait.

They're still not an-swer-iiiiiing

I go back to the door and ring the bell again. And again. And—

A surprisingly well-groomed man in a green silk bathrobe opens the door, coffee cup in hand, looking irritated. He's a little older than me. "Who're you?"

Me, meet Mr. Gobble. Mr. Gobble, meet your new best friend.

I give him my most, ah, winning smile. "Why, hello there. I'm from the…Homeless People of Gotham foundation. Would you be so, so kind as to give your house to a good cause?"

"What? We're not interested. Sorry." The man begins to close the door, but I slam my foot in the way. "Hey! What the—?"

"Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Gobble," I whisper, barging in without a moment's hesitation.

The coffee cup goes flying, spilling coffee everywhere. It smashes against the wall.

The man topples to the ground, and I nudge the door closed with my foot. Lock it.

"Now," I say, crouching down and pulling him up by the collar of his fancy-schmancy robe. "It would help the…homeless…if you have me a tour of this place. Let me see if this place is a-ppro-pri-ate for their, ah, needs."

"I—I won't—"

"You won't?" I giggle. "You won't?"

"Honey?" a pretty young voice calls from somewhere upstairs. "What's wrong?"

I incline my head toward the noise, smiling as Mr. Gobble turns pale.

"Tell her it's okay. You'll be right up."

Mr. Gobble nods and calls "I-I'll be right up…" He looks at me, eyes wide. "…Princess."

I can't help but giggle again as he begins to shake. So much for "I won't"…

"Good boy. Now will you show me around?"

Mr. Gobble puts on his game face. "No. I won't."

I dig around in my coat pockets until I find what I'm looking for. Duct tape. I toss the silver roll up in the air, watching Mr. Gobble's eyes follow it fearfully.

"Well, then," I say, as sweet as the pie I had for breakfast, "looks like I'll have to do it myself."

Mr. Gobble is bound and gagged securely, lying flat on his back on the floor.

I slowly take off my shoes and lay them on the welcome mat, hang my coat on the nearby coat rack, making a show of brushing the snow off it.

I begin my tour of what is soon to be my place.

The house is full of fancy-schmancy things that fit Mr. Gobble's personality. Soft carpets imported from some exotic place (Peru?), paintings of the Caribbean, all of the newest high-tech gizmos…on and on, from room to room, the Gobble's are…well-endowed. I can even see my reflection in the kitchen gear.

"Let's see…heater, check…fireplace—three of 'em—check…" I mutter, checking each detail off the crumpled list in my hand. "Kitchen with well-stocked pantry…yeah."

I hunt around for the next items on my list, trying not to, ah, wake the beautiful dreamer upstairs…yet.

It turns out that there are four bedrooms on the first floor, and more upstairs. Each of the bedrooms look built for princes—king-sized beds soft as a baby's skin, downy pillows, warm blankets, huge closets, and on and on. The boys are going to be thrilled. They haven't had this sort of winter comfort in…well, in forever.

"Big bathroom downstairs…check." I open the medicine cabinet and take a look inside. "Shaving cream, check. Aftershave, check."

I pick up the next bottle in the cabinet. What I find is…odd.

"Body lotion…?"

I look at the label. Victoria's Secret. It's pink, easy on the eyes, and smells like strawberries.

Well, you never know…

I shove the bottle back and finally find three of the more…important items.

"First aid kit…check. Hair dye…not exactly what I want. Nail clippers…check."

After I've found everything I need on the first floor, it's time to check out the second floor, where "Princess Gobble" is waiting.

I quietly creep up the stairs, listening to Princess…Gobble (doesn't quite roll of them tongue, does it?) move around impatiently in the bed.

And here we are at the Master Suite. Guess who's going to have this all to himself.

Once I reach the top, I take a quick look inside the bathroom—and oh, is it swell. The tub and shower have those, ah, those claw feet on them, and everything seems to be made of marble or glass. I can't even see fingerprints anywhere.

I open the cabinet—shiny, smooth glass—and take a look around, ready to check things off.

"Another first aid kit…good. More hair stuff…check." Looks like Betty told me about the right place. "…Check."

I suddenly spy a small package off to one side, near a small, clear bottle. I pick them up and look them over. "More durable than ever before!" the little caption on the black box screams. "Designed for BOTH your pleasure!"

I open the black box and dump the things out onto the sink. I find myself staring at a…surprising amount of colors in little packets.

I look at the bottle ("Safe and reliable! Buy one, get one free!") and give it a good look-over. Then I put all the stuff back where I found them, checking off more items on my list.

Once I'm sure I've gone through the bathrooms, it's time to wake up the Princess.

I tiptoe quietly to the room where Princess is waiting for her "honey". I can hear her pushing sheets away, getting, ah, impatient with Mr. Gobble. Looks like someone isn't a big fan of…waiting. I can relate.

So, I slowly open the door, finding myself face-to-face with a blonde bombshell in a little pink…thing. Or rather, two pink things: a frilly v-string (how did she put it on?) and a strapless bra.

So much for, ah, subtlety.

I slam the door shut behind me, knowing full well that Mr. Gobble heard that loud and clear.

"G'morning, Princess!" I give her my most dashing smile as she lets out a strangled cry. "Oh, shush-shush-shush. Your honeybunch is, ah, tied up at the moment. Be a good little girl and everything'll be peachy-keen."

Her eyes are looking a little wet. I move closer and mockingly wipe the tears. "Poor thing. You're not scared of little ol' me, hmm?"

"You—you're a murderer…" Princess…Gobble (ouch) whimpers. She sounds like Betty Boop. "Why wouldn't I be sca-wed?"

"Because then you're no fun." I look around the room, scoping the place out.

Let's see…there's another big closet, a big bureau (awwww, they even share their clothes), more plush carpeting (in red, classy), and a nice little desk with a state-of-the-art computer just waiting to make my…acquaintance.

"Okay, Princess," I say cheerily, dragging her toward the computer. "Here's what we're gonna do."

I shove her into the spinning chair, giggling as she tries to hold herself steady. I rest my hands on her shoulders, being nice, giving her…a warning.

"Get on the computer and look up 'flights to Argentina'. You and your, ah, honey are going on a little permanent vacation. It's a fair trade, right? You guys go be lovey-dovey in the sun for the rest of your lives, while I get this house and shovel snow off the walk."

"What? Where will we whive?" Princess whines (Whive? Really?), her too-pink lips turning into a sickening pout.

"There's a little place by the sea down there—just as, ah, pretty as this place. Warm sand, balmy breeze…"

She looks unsure. "You're wying." (Wying? Oh…she means lying. Stupid bitch…)

I snort. "Oh, Princess, why would I 'wye' to you? I mean…you're the one with the house."

(Well…maybe it's half true. The actual "tropical paradise" is nothing but a beat-up, run-down shack. I should know. I made it that way. In the tropics, that's the way I like 'em.)

"And there's another bonus to this place. A bit of…history." I spin the chair around so that Princess is facing me. "Speaking of which, wanna know how I got these scars? I've seen you looking at them. Thinking."

Before I do anything else, I look around the room, picking out pictures on the wall, little knickknacks. Then I lean down, let her get a good, long look at mebefore I start my story.

"Y'see, once upon a time, I had a good friend who was a girl—she lived in Argentina with her parents, who were friends with my parents. We would visit in the summer. Now, my father thought it would be a great idea if me and this girl got married one day, so he made sure the two of us were never, ever separated during those hot days. It was, ah, fun to be with her. She made a seashell necklace for me when I was sick one time—for good luck, she said. She made me smile. Now, I didn't smile much back then. I was a pretty serious kid, when I wasn't…playing pretend."

I take out one of my knives and point it at her, tickling the corner of her trembling mouth.

"So…the years went by, and soon, guess what? The girl and I finally confessed, and we set the date for the wedding on the spot—we would get married after college! Mom and Dad were so happy. Everyone was happy. It was great!"

Gobble is shaking, now. Tears are leaking out of her eyes like a broken faucet.

"But just before the wedding…something goes wrong. I found out that the girl loved someone else. She was going to elope with him—and do you wanna know why, Princess? Because he made her laugh."

I laugh as she tries to look away from me. I must look pretty…scary right now.

"So, I went after her, determined to prove myself. I brought my Dad's favorite hunting knife with me, just in case—"

"Pwease…don't say any more…" Princess pleads.

"No?" I cock my head to one side, feeling a grin stretch across my face like a disease. "Fine. I'll…cut to the chase."

As soon as I say "cut" she begins to wail. Good for her—she actually got a joke!

"Oh, shush-shush-shush. Keep doing that, and I might slip…" To, ah, emphasize my point, I jerk my hand to the right, leaving the slightest cut at the right-hand corner of her lips.

Princess Gobble surprises me yet again—she shuts up, but the tears are still messing up her face.