Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight. I do own Damien and the shop Venus (a unique name, I know).

Chapter Thirty: Joker


A little place called Venus knows me very well by now. As soon as I walk in, the clerk in black leather—Damien—greets me with a smile. His black hair is slicked to one side, curling up at the ends—another new 'do.

The red-tinted lights give the whole place a "no-puritans-allowed" feel, and the various toys that are really not for the kiddies reinforce this fact.

I can see another worker walking around in the back isles, carrying condom packages and sleek, sensually shaped items, whistling some kind of pop hit as she works. Personally, I'm surprised that this place isn't flooded with couples—Venus is not one of the best "Adult Stores" in Gotham, it isthe best "Adult Store" in Gotham.

"Hello, Mr. J!" He leans his bracelet-adorned arms on the glass counter. "Haven't seen you in awhile."

"Your ol' Uncle Moneybags has arrived!" I say, bowing with a flourish. "And don't worry, I'll be, ah, filling your pockets soon enough."

Damien's blue-grey eyes shine with cold delight. "As always, I'm at your service."

Damien, like Betty from the pie shop, is another old "friend"—a guy who, if you pay him right, can assist you in more ways than one. Over the counter, he helps couples. Under the counter, he has items that can break off the honeymoon—his own special brand of chemistry. Some of which I hear come from a certain ex-doctor by the name of Jonathan Crane.

Hey, when business is slow…

Back when I first started business in Gotham—after I had used some of Damien's chemistry on the then-Commissioner Loeb—Damien got a little…edgy about having me as a customer. And he tried to, ah, do away with me. We had a bit of a falling out, and…

Well, his fingers never did heal up properly. And for a while there, he was wheelchair bound.

Now he's a great pal.

"So, what can I do for you, Mr. J?"

"Well…" I drum my fingers on the counter. "I'm looking for…something a little fancy. And a little…sensual."

"Is it for you or for a partner?"

I have to think about that. "Both of us, I guess."

Damien looks around the store thoughtfully. "Do you have anything in mind?"

"Something with a bit more…sensation. More of an entrée than a main course."

Damien smiles. "I know just what you need. Be right back."

And off he goes into the isles, while I take a look at what the counter has to offer. Nothing much, really—a pair of fluffy handcuffs or stuff for a bachelorette party, but nothing useful. (I have a collection of handcuffs from my previous stays at Gotham's police station).

As quickly as he vanished, Damien's back (has Batsy been visiting here too, offering free lessons or something?), carrying two large, circular bottles in his hand. They aren't glass, thankfully—glass doesn't…work well for me. One is brown, the other pink.

"Let me guess," I say, grinning as I take one of the bottles and look it over. "Body paints?"

"Exactly." Damien hands me the other bottle, letting me check the ingredients out of curiosity. "Chocolate and strawberry. The design of the bottles is old-fashioned, resembling hand-blown glass."

"How much?"

"For you?" Damien's smile is a little forced. "Fifty dollars. Each."

"Good choice, Damien." I take the bottles and place them on the counter. Trying to sound absentminded, I add "Oh, and…do you have any small, ah, riding crops available?"

Silly me—I lost the last one after a particularly, ah, entertaining lesson in manners. I'm pretty sure it was for me, but then since when do I bother minding my P's and Q's? One moment, it was in my bag of goodies, the next—gone.

Maybe Batsy wanted to play with it a while longer…?

Oh well. The point is…we need a new riding crop. Just in case.

Damien, of course, doesn't even bat an eyelash. He's used to my "requests" by now. One moment he's gone—the next, he's back with just what I'm looking for.

Y'know, ideally Batsy would be around to help out with this. I mean, it's not like I'm a mind-reader or something—though I come close with him. Looks like I'll have to handle this oh-so-difficult job all by my lonesome.

I bend the crop easily with one hand, feeling the handle with the other. I tap it against my palm, swish it around, listening to the light whoosh and crack.

It's…not exactly what I want.

Damien brings me another. I imagine that Batsy's standing in front of me, waiting silently, his back to me.

Whoosh.

Crack.

Nope. Again.

Damien hands me another crop—awwwww, it's got a heart on it, how vomit-worthy.

Whoosh.

Crack.

Nope. Again.

Ah, now this ismore like it—simple, identical to a real riding crop, and…hopefully effective.

I try slapping the crop against my thigh.

Smack.

Hmmm. Not bad. Now for "Batsy"…

Whoosh.

Crack.

…And there we go. Just right. I hand it to Damien, who yet again shows how useful he is by saying—guess what? It's on sale.

What a guy.

--

When I get home—after a nice day, ah, out on the town—I put all the new goodies to one side and break out my sewing kit.

I still have the fabric I bought a few months ago. I start snipping and sewing and humming to myself, wriggling my toes in the alpaca-fur rug underneath my desk. I love this house more and more every second.

Apparently, so does Jack. He rubs up against my knee and hops onto my lap, getting comfy. I scratch behind his ears and he purrs happily.

"Think Batsy'll like these things, Jack?" I gesture to the bags and the sewing in front of me.

Jack blinks his huge, orange eyes at me and chirps.

"Thought so." I let Jack get comfortable as I keep working.

Hopefully, I'll be able to get this present done in time. After all, it's coooooold out there this time of year. And who knows? Maybe Batsy looks good in more colors than black.

Not that black's a bad color on him, of course…I mean, those suits…

I drop the needle and loosen my tie, giggling to myself. Batsy's got me batty, it seems.

I look out the window, and instead of seeing just the pretty, pretty city, I see…smoke. Coming from the place between the Uptown part of Gotham and the Narrows. I squint a little, trying to figure out what exactly is on fire—and whether or not I can help, ah, fan the flames.

As if reading my mind, Jack hops off my lap and pads over to the window, head cocked to one side.

I get up, trying to get a better view.

Y'know what? Forget it. I'm going to get a closer look. The present can wait.