Due to my being on befuddling pain meds as of December 18 (I'm getting better, hoorah!), I'm amazed that Joker's personality still prevailed, I think—and that the chapter actually made sense. My mind is slowly clearing, and I'm sure this chapter will have less of a "trippy" feel to it. Or maybe it will…?
On the other hand…
I would like to set aside a moment and say THANK YOU SO MUCH, YOU WONDERFUL REVIEWERS. WERE I NOT BEDRIDDEN AT THE MOMENT, I WOULD BE JUMPING UP AND DOWN WITH GLEE AND CREEPING ALL OF YOU OUT BY LAUGHING MANIACALLY—I'VE BEEN TAKING LESSONS FROM JOKER. THEY WORK WONDERS.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight, or the various songs/bands mentioned here.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Joker
"Buh-bye now," I call, waving at the couple as they power-walk to their Volvo. "Have a nice twip!"
Princess is still crying—I can see Mr. Gobble trying to comfort her as they stumble awkwardly to the car.
I shiver as the cold air blows in through the window, picking up a clump of disturbing, frilly thongs of various colors that lay around the room behind me.
"Don't you want your panties, Pwincess?" I scream, laughing as the couple abruptly stop walking and look up at me. How tiny they look from up here."Don't wanna get cold, do you?"
Princess looks up at me, her entire body shaking. Uh-oh, somebody's maaaaad.
"Weave us awone, you cweep!" Princess hollers, while Mr. Gobble tries to pull her away.
Hmmm…that's weird. I thought she was just playing the "you wouldn't hurt a baby, would you?" card before, but it looks like she was serious. Whoops.
Oh, well. Too late to feel "sorry" for the "little Princess".
"Look out! Here…they…come!" I begin tossing handfuls of her panties down to them, cackling as they duck for cover. Mr. Gobble, like a good husband, tries to pick them up as they float down. Princess just wails (I wonder if they're British…).
"Adios, mi novia y mis amantes!" I hurl one last handful of "delicates" at them as they drive away. "Have fun in Argentina!"
I pull down the window shade and run my hands through my hair, shaking with laughter. I haven't had this much fun since…well, awhile. The expression on their faces…I wish I had had a camera.
I shake my head and take a deep, calming breath. Okay. They're gone. Time to get to work.
I take my cell phone out and call Seymour. After two rings, he picks up, sounding a little…shivery. I guess it's colder at the old hideout than I thought.
"Hi, Seymour," I say, wriggling my toes in the soft carpet of my new bedroom. "Get everything ready—we've got a new home."
"Yes!" Seymour shouts, and I hold the phone a little farther away than before. "Okay, guys, start packing up—Boss found a place for us!"
I can hear my boys cheering as I hang up.
--
It'll take three trips (and all of our cars) to drag everything to our new home.
That makes about…three hours, tops. And then unloading all the stuff means three hours more.
It'll be 2 p.m. by the time we stop—if we don't have a lunch break. Or if I don't need to teach anyone a, ah, lesson. Normally this would be time for me to kill someone with my very favorite knife. But, ah, I don't want to get stains anywhere.
Of course, just because it's hard work doesn't mean it can't be fun. If there's one thing the '80s showed us, it was that back then, cleaning was in. Especially cleaning with a soundtrack. That's one of the only things I bother to remember from my past.
--
"Thanks, Schiff," I say, putting one of my mix CDs in what was the Gobble's high tech sound system. "Would I Lie To You?" by Eurorhythmics makes the entire house throb. Yes.
We start cleaning out the stuff we won't need—Princess' bras, for example, and old love letters and their honeymoon album (awwww, isn't that cavity-inducing?). The beat of the music is infectious, of course—soon we're all strutting our stuff, dumping things in the trash with surprising grace. Even Boss Boy, the poor guy who can only say "Boss", is getting into it.
Some of my bigger boys help drag our boxes of stuff upstairs, while I can't help but smile when Carrie Underwood's "Cowboy Casanova" comes on. I'm not exactly a country cowboy type, but I grab Schiff by the hand and see what moves he can pull. He's pretty good—he's mostly following me as we do our own rendition of the two-step, moving from room to room.
Suddenly the CD stutters and switches to…Lady Gaga?
Oh, well. It's a good beat. Schiff and I open the boxes and start taking stuff out, getting everything in "order". Seymour's special green pillow…Boss Boy's toothbrush…more clothes…
I toss the boys' stuff to them, calling "Pick a room, boys, you'll be sharing 'em!"
Dutifully they do as they're told, toes tapping to the beat. I find myself snapping my fingers, muttering "Can't read my, can't read my poker faaaace…" under my breath as the first two of several boxes are cleared out.
The boys are clearly impressed by our new house. Some of them are even touching the flower-patterned wallpaper to make sure it's real. I was right—they're really excited. I think I've even, ah, exceeded their expectations.
Good. That means they'll be even more useful to me when the time comes. I can't help but be a little…proud of them, though. They really do trust me—and each other, for the most part. No useless arguing, or stabbing anyone in the back (unless they really, really have to). Just efficient teamwork.
If only Batsy could see this.
I go up to the master bedroom and go hunting through the closet. Lucky me, Mr. Gobble's clothes fit perfectly. A particularly good find is a white, purple and blue argyle sweater—one that doesn't itch. I found some nice dark pants, too—not too baggy, not too tight.
I wonder how Batsy buys clothes—or does some servant pick them out?
I'll have to ask him tonight. I guess the pseudo-romantic music from the CD is affecting me.
I keep digging through the closet, finding similar warm clothes. Sweaters, mostly—and all argyle, too. Blue, red, black, green, purple—all warm, all stylish, all mine. With a Gucci pinstripe suit thrown in for good measure. Not that I, ah, really need a new suit.
There's some decent underwear, too. Clearly Mr. Gobble was secure in his, ah, masculinity—smiley face boxers here, Hello Kitty briefs here (in dark blue, so very masculine), and green pinstriped boxer-briefs there. Hey, they're warm.
The music downstairs switches to Phil Collin's "Sussudio", and the clearing out and moving in continues in style.
I amble out of the bedroom and call down to my boys "Got everything done yet?"
A mish-mash of voices answer me: "Yeah", "No", "Maybe," and "Boss!" and I feel a little twinge in my temple. Note to self: remember to keep questions se-lec-tive.
Looks like I'll have to help out a little bit more.
I check the clock—plenty of time before meeting Batsy. Looks like I'll have something to, ah, occupy myself with until then.
I get the feeling that something's…happening with Batsy. The city outside is oddly quiet—and not just because of the snow. But that could just be because
We'll see.
