Rain pounded on the roof, beat on the crumbling concrete, and thundered on the cars that had been unfortunate enough to be left outside in the squall. Lightning branched across the undersides of the dark clouds. From the churning, polluted waters rose dense fog that mixed with the ever-present smog. The occasional vehicle slogged past, headlights cutting through the gloom. Sirens wailed in the distance, proclaiming floods, fires, and all sorts of crimes committed under storm-spurred confidence.
The Joker, Gotham’s very own Crown Prince of Crime, smiled at the chaos unfolding outside his window. It was a good day; one of the best in his recent memory. Everything was falling apart and he hadn’t even had to lift a finger. Sure, he loved causing it just as much as the next guy, but sometimes it was nice to sit back, relax, and watch the train crash. He could go out and wreck havoc any old day, and he would. At the moment, though, he had something much more pressing to take care of.
He did a little quick-step, a little dance, on his way to the sitting room door.
The Iceberg Lounge was just as lit up as it always was, a shining beacon of sin in the quagmire Gotham always became in the midst of its summer storms. It had its own brand of chaos, more subdued than the Joker’s but present nonetheless. Buzzing in the walls, creaking in the ceiling, cracking from the chunks of ice kept in the middle of the main lounge room. The Joker leaned over the carved wooden railing, crossing his long legs. The clientele that came even in such weather was all of a sort: tough, give-shit-but-take-none, criminal bastards. The kind Gotham attracted with sweet words and sweeter payouts. The kind who bet high and lost hard. The kind that were, in a word, desperate.
He’d been kicking around the establishment long enough to know the fools sitting in the booths by name. Well, the ones he thought he could use. Louie Rusk, a young, shiny new fish in a pond too big for him was desperate for a way to make his name into something. Penny Cook was a recent New York City runaway, in Gotham to prove something to someone by climbing ladders. Nicholas Wiggins had his arm draped over the back of a booth, pretending the sweat dripping from his forehead wasn’t because he was being swindled by the guy sitting across from him in their third round of cards. He was going to be the fun one, all swagger fueled by his litigation-happy new money parents. Joker had big plans for him—that’s why it was one of his own men taking the little brat for all he had.
Cigar smoke drifted down the hallway, followed by the tip-tip-tap of two feet and a cane. Joker turned on his heel and threw his arms wide.
“Ozzie! Just the flightless bird I wanted to see.”
“Spying on my customers, again?” said Oswald Cobblepot, the owner of the Iceberg Lounge and Joker’s one true love on this boring, barren earth.
“They’re just so observable. You would know.” he pointed to the camera tucked in the shadows by the ceiling; one of many scattered throughout the place. Oswald rolled his eyes though a fond smile tugged at his usually down-turned mouth. He tip-tip-tapped over to where Joker stood and looked down at his posturing clientele.
“Why’ve you got one of your goons on Wiggins?” he asked, which Joker knew was him asking what he was plotting. He launched into it, laying everything out in gruesome detail while Oswald watched fondly. His fondness hadn’t waned even by the seventh disembowelment. Harley had never made it so far without the light in her eyes dimming and her besotted smile straining. Even at her best, she hadn’t loved him like Oswald did.
“Nasty. I like it,” Oswald said. His grin was sharp around his cigar.
“It’s not too tame? I feel like I could do more.” he tapped one bony finger on his chin. “I wouldn’t want Batsy to think I’ve lost my edge. He would run off to some useless rogue like Black Mask or Kite Man! Can you imagine the embarrassment? Me, replaced with Condiment King? Oh, I would never live it down!”
“You could drop off the face of the earth and he would still be screaming your name.” he blew a perfect, beautiful smoke ring.
“Awe, you really think so?”
“Of course, Joker. He’s practically addicted to you.”
Joker folded over and wrapped himself around Oswald. Oswald chuckled and carded his fingers through Joker’s greasy green hair. This was another place where Oswald was so much better than Harley. She had always grown so jealous of his thing with Batman, had always been so annoying about it. You’re spending too much time with him, stop talking about him, why the fuck did you just moan his name? Oswald didn’t care about any of that. He was so perfect.
“So it is. I’ve scheduled our dinner for eight-thirty. Do you think that will be late enough to not interfere with your scheming?”
“As long as Batsy doesn’t get distracted by Catwoman for too long,” he said. Oswald nodded. He was so very understanding.
“I’ll make sure he shows up to your trap in a timely manner,” he assured.
Joy flooded Joker’s body, alongside a not insignificant amount of pure, unadulterated love. He smashed his mouth onto Oswald’s and they very quickly found themselves very occupied. So occupied, in fact, that they didn’t bother with the gunshot that went off five minutes later nor the subsequent furious squawks of the penguins.
And when Batman showed up an indeterminable amount of time later, he was very glad he hadn’t had time to fix the cameras in his cowl lenses. He didn’t want anyone else to be traumatized.
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