The Psychologist's Date part 1
Jul. 22nd, 2009 07:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tinhuvielartanisUhm...disclaimers. If you're easily squicked, don't read this mmkay? I don't know what else to say. Oh, it's probably full of typos and whatnot because I was in a mad rush to finish this Monday night and had no time to proofread. And I still haven't because I've been too busy with other stuff. If you notice anything hideous, give me a shout so I can change my file. I doubt I'll change it here because HTML makes it very difficult to find the offense in question.
One thing's for certain, writers' withdrawal sucks. This is second day and, already, I'm missing this character. If I can make to Saturday, though, I should be okay and can turn my attention back to The Blood Crown. I've no doubt I'll make it without giving in this time, though. Fellow J-fic aficionados: consider Tin officially retired with this story. Whee!
Props go out to Kanike, who helped with the word association therapy and with naming the psychologist. Oh, and many thanks for the therapy in general. It’s a difficult job being a psychopath…..on paper that is. Ha.
Also many props go out to Gunslingaaahhh, Masquedbunny, MsManagr, RevClaudia, Opal Lynn, and Mldrfan, who offered support and suggestions regarding the Heath references and phobias. Special props go to Guns, who offers up all manner of Heath education I did not possess prior to this operation. I swear, J would never have a date if it weren’t for his harem of willing supporters.
The Psychologist’s Date
He danced so freely, so smoothly, his violet overcoat flowing like it were liquid. Daft Punk filled the room with a sentience, driving the Joker to be the dandy dude he knew he was, despite the fear he instilled in everyone around him. He was the Cab Calloway of Crime, that’s who he was, and he worked his image harder, better, faster, and stronger thanks to his trusty iPod and its provision of a personal soundtrack. Even though he’d probably end up just blowing up their headquarters for fun, the Joker deeply appreciated the Apple corporation for their offering of the mighty mighty iPod. God bless ‘em.
The Joker had his TV on as he did his little smooth criminal ritual to the music on his iPod. He was waiting for her to come on. She was on almost every night now, talking to that twit of a TV journalist Engel whats-his-name. The Joker really despised Engel. But the TV psychologist Engel had on every night raised Joker’s ire even more. Her name was Liz Bromberg and, despite her good looks and classy outfits, the woman was nothing but Dr. Phil in a frock. And she had the nerve to psychoanalyse the Joker almost every night to what he was certain was a rabid herd of thousands of viewers who just couldn’t look away from the trainwreck of hack journalism that GCN offered up on a dirty plate every single night Just because the Joker had released that happy little home movie to the news channel, depicting what would happen to fake Bats and pretty much anyone else the Joker didn’t like, GCN had been obsessed with All Things Joker.
But this new person, this Liz Bromberg, got on Joker’s last nerve. He’d been psychoanalyzed by tons of clueless psychologists and psychiatrists for many years, but they all had the decency to actually talk to Joker before passing their professional judgments. Not this one. Well, it was time she gave the Joker a little couch time. If she wanted to analyze the Clown Prince of Crime, analyze she would. The Joker threw a shoe at the TV, turning it off. Amused at his own impressive aim, he returned to dancing, checking his watch and war paint, before exiting his room with the iPod in tow. When he bounced downstairs, his new henchman was waiting for him.
“Going out tonight boss? Need a ride?”
“No, Sidney, I plan on taking a different set of wheels,” he brushed past the large black man, oblivious to the young man’s concern over his new boss’ well-being.
“Would you mind if I followed you then?” came Sidney’s voice from behind the Joker.
The Clown Prince stopped and looked over his shoulder at the young man. This one seemed different from the others. He wasn’t all about getting a large sum of money to party with until it was time to rob another establishment. Those bozos were so boring. But this one….this one seemed to have a head on his shoulders and a genuine concern for the Joker’s safety. He liked Sidney. The Joker had decided to keep Sidney around for as long as he remained not stupid. “As a matter of fact, Sidney, I would-d… However, if you want to meet me at Vespers and Vine in…say…two hours, that would be just peaaachy keeeeen.”
“You got it, boss,” Sidney said, checking his watch. He tried to be conscientious when it came to the Clown. He might have his groove on 40% of the time, but the other 60% was spent blowing things up and ending as many lives as possible. Sidney wanted to remain in that 40% zone. He fully intended to keep his feet firmly planted in that 40% of jovial Clown goodness.
The Joker lingered for a moment, just looking at Sidney. He cocked his head a little to the side, then flashed a smile, more like a sudden gnashing of teeth, and he was gone from the old apartment building where J and his clowns currently set up housekeeping. In the foyer of the building sat a skateboard in the corner. It was a little Old School, featuring decals of all sorts that covered the faded glitter-based paint, in the O so fashionable purple. J would have it no other way. Kicking the bottom of the board, Joker made it flip into the air. He briefly caught it on his right knee before letting it fall to the floor right where it needed to be. A henchman who saw Joker working with his skateboard once laughed and called him Skip Engblom. The Joker had no idea who that was, so he shot the man in the face. He later found out that was a compliment. Either way, the man needed killin’.
Opening the front door, the Joker launched onto the sidewalk, increasing his speed with each long-legged push forward on the skateboard. Pretty soon, he was zipping so quickly along, people could barely see him. He was a purple, green, yellow, red, and blue blur. “Nemesis” by VNV Nation blasted directly into his brain, compelling him to go even faster. Now he could barely see anything around him, not that the Joker really did in the first place. Everything was just so boring and unimportant. All he ever really focused on was places and people that needed to be blown to smithereens or women of interest that may be good dates and, later on, funny presents to be placed at the gates of Wayne Manor. All Joker had eyes for right now was the GCN headquarters at the corner of Vespers and Vine. The place wasn’t far from his current lair, so getting in a little boarding would do his soul good for the task at hand. It was time to have an actual therapy session with Mike Engel’s sock puppet psychoanalyst.
He arrived in record time, literally skidding to a halt and kicking his board up into his arms, cradling it like a baby. Passersby gave pause to the multi-coloured image suddenly appearing in their midst as if by magick, then began to make a wide berth around him, whispering and speaking in hushed tones. Is that him? Could it really be? No, it looks nothing like him. Has to be a stunt. But look at those scars. What about those scars? Those scars those scars those scars.
“BOOOO!” he screamed at them all, cackling as they scattered away from him in a panic. He watched the one-word-inspired mayhem continue and curled his lip in disgust at the herd’s predictability whilst attempting to get the foul taste of their poor manners out of his mouth. He’d read somewhere about a kind of kindred spirit who referred to humanity at large as the Free Range Rude. He rather liked that description right about now as he watched them dash about like roaches under a kitchen light. They didn’t keep the Joker’s attention for very long. They didn’t deserve it. He opened the glass door to GCN’s headquarters and waltzed right in. The woman at the front desk was gathering her belongings in preparation of leaving when she looked up with that deer-in-the-headlights expression Joker so often inspired. He watched as her hand eased underneath her desk.
“Ahhh-tut-tut. Do you really want to do that, Toots? Or do you want to go home and forget any of this ever happened? Choice is yours really. You touch that panic button, you’ll never see home again. You get your left-over lunch and Harl-ee-quin romaaance, and you can be-bop outta here with nary a carrre in the world.” The Joker propped his skateboard against the front desk and rested his elbows atop the marbled surface, his chin bobbing from one gloved hand to the other in a kind of mock playfulness. “All I really need from you is the floor and office number of one Dr. Eeeelizabeth Bromberg. Think you can manage that before you scurry off like a good little snitch, hmmm?”
The woman remained frozen for a few seconds until she hurriedly said, “Fourteenth floor…Number 14-14.” Reaching across to pinch the woman’s chin in between the thumb and foreknuckles of his right hand, Joker squeezed affectionately and rocked the young lady’s head to and fro.
“You’re a good kid, ah…” Joker dipped his head and honed in on the lady’s name tag. “Ma-ree-ah. Ri for short-t eh? Okay, well, off you go then. Thaaanks for the information now. You go on home and enjoy your fiiine liter-a-turrre. I think I got it from here.”
Ri couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She didn’t even look back to see the Joker bounce onto the elevator and punch the button for the fourteenth floor with a combination of glee and aggravation. Up up up he went, giggling as he did so, thinking about what a cool bungee jump the GCN building would be. He’d have to try it sometime. But not this evening. The elevator door opened to a dimly lit floor devoid of human presence, just how Joker liked it. The fewer the happier and all that rot.
Walking as though he had slinkies in his shoes, the Joker made his way down the wide boring beige hall way until he found office 14. Fourteen fourteen…. Sounded like a spoof he saw on SCTV a lifetime ago. Except in the spoof, it was Tearteen tearteen and everyone was fairly alarmed in an Ingmar Bergman sort of way. Joker shook the reverie from his head and wondered if he should knock or just walk on in. He decided on the latter. Liz had picked him apart to Mike Engel so often, the Joker felt as though they were already good friends. Friends don’t knock. They just barge on in. So barge he did. It was a little anti-climactic, though. Liz wasn’t in her office and the lights were all off, save for one of those tacky green desk lamps that all “professionals” insisted on having on their desks. Something about the curvature of the lamp made the owner look professorly. Ha. Yeah.
Surely Liz-baby hadn’t already left? Joker looked around. Her jacket was still there. So was her purse. Always a sure sign that a woman was still lurking about somewhere. He studied the psychoanalyst’s décor. On one wall was a large poster of Glenn Miller, nicely framed and well-protected. Was Liz a Swinger? Joker grinned at his own little joke. The shelves behind her desk sported a state-of-the-art stereo system along with an orderly row of CDs. He traced his finger along their spines. Hm. All in alphabetical order. But a nice variety! Nirvana, Benny Goodman, ABBA, Soothing Sounds of the Sea, Led Zeppelin. This chick reminded the Joker of his little dentist friend, Dr. Romello. He studied the knick-knacks around the CDs. There was one of a Jitterbugging couple, one of a Flapper, a bobble-head Billy Joel….what? Where would you get a bobble-head Billy Joel? The Joker furrowed his kohl-stained brow. That was just beyond random, even for him, which was saying a lot.
Then again, all the best psychotherapists were themselves completely off their nut, so this little couch session should be fun. Now, back to this stereo. He examined it for iPod compatibility and he wasn’t disappointed. Pulling his trusty iPod out of one of his overcoat’s many pockets, the Joker twirled it around in his fingers before placing it in the dock of Liz-baby’s stereo. Twirling the wheel around until he found the song he wanted, the Joker turned the system on and placed the iPod on repeat before pressing play. He then retreated to the shadows of the office to wait for his therapist’s inevitable return.
Liz Bromberg heard the music long before reaching her office. What on Earth? She recognized the song: “Candyman” by Christina Aguilera. She never thought she’d ever like anything having to do with Christina Aguilera, but this song held Liz hostage. Dr. Bromberg had a weakness for 40s popculture and, especially, the music. She could be found at any hotel featuring a retro dance on any given weekend, Jitterbugging to her heart’s content. This was her hobby, her passion and, somehow, Christina Aguilera became a part of that with her release of “Candyman.” Liz smiled as she approached her office. It was probably Mike playing another one of his pranks on her. He knew how much she loved this music. It would be just like him to leave it blasting in her office before he left to go home. Shaking her head with amusement, Liz opened her office door.
“LET’S DANCE!” an all-too-familiar voice burst out of the darkness. And a blur of green and purple enveloped Liz, twirling her to a whole new level of dizziness before she felt herself being hoisted up by the waist and tossed, like a rag doll, first one way and then the other, around the Joker’s thin frame. Terror gripped her as he wrapped his right arm around her waist and took her hand in his left, keeping perfect time to the song. “Oh you gotta loosen up a little, Liz-baby! This is the Jitterbug, after all, and your Candyman has come a-callin’. So what say, Babysnakes? You gonna show me whatcha got, or is it all an act for the GEE CEE ENN?”
Joker pulled her closer to him, swaying her back and forth. “C’mon, Twizzler, you know you wanna feel the music. Let’s see those feets o’flame!”
The song began again and Joker began to sing along with Christina, changing the lyrics to fit his needs, as he cajoled Liz into actually dancing with him. “There’s nothing more dangerous than a boy with charm, I’m a one stop shop, make your panties drop, I’m a sweet-talkin’ sugar-coated candy man….I’ll take you to the Spider Club at Hollywood and Vine, we’ll drink Champagne and we’ll dance allll night-t, we’ll shake the Paparazzi for a big surprise, the gossip tonight will make tomorrow’s headlines. I’m a one-stop shop, make your cherry pop, I’m a sweet-talkin’ sugar-coated candy man…oooh yeah!”
Liz suddenly found herself straddling the one person on this planet she never thought she’d be dancing with, much less doing the Jitterbug with. And he just held her there for longer than was comfortable, smiling that wider-than-wide smile of knowing.
“Please put me down,” Liz said in her professional doctor’s voice.
“Oh, yes ma’am,” the Joker mocked her. He let her down without letting her go. Reaching across her, the Joker took off the repeat function so more than just Christina could play. “It’s a groovy song, Sister, but we need more than just dance music for the work we have to do tonight.”
“And that is?” Liz asked, her voice deliberately measured and confident, despite her almost paralyzing fright.
“Oh well, Doctorrr Bromberg, you are going to psychoanalyse me in person. You seem to be such an expert when talking to that pale-haired prat Mike Engel, let’s see how you do when I’m really on your couch.”
“I…I –uh- I don’t think that’s really necessary.”
“Well, I …. I – uh…..” the Joker mocked her. “I do.”
Glenn Miller’s “Little Brown Jug” followed “Candyman” on the Joker’s iPod. The Joker produced a knife out of nowhere and placed it against Liz’s throat, right where her jaw met her ear, then cocked his head to listen to the music as if he’d completely forgotten she were there. Liz remained frozen as she watched the Clown Prince get lost in the music she’d always found so precious. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to feel the same way about Glenn Miller after this night. Slowly, Liz cast her eyes downward to see the Joker’s left foot tapping away to the rhythm. His shoes were just as crazy as he was, being some kind of strange bowling shoes which were so worn, they looked like they were made of snake skin instead of actual patent leather. Just as suddenly as he had gone into reverie, the Joker snapped back to the moment and leaned into Liz, his face just centimeters away from hers. He smelled like Nag Champa and peppermint candy. “You’re such the experrrt on TV, yucking it up with Mike Engel, I figured I should give you the opportunity of a lifetime, Doctorrrr. Let’s see how your keen perception does when your favourite case study is lying on your couch.”
And he was suddenly away from her, literally leaping over to the leather couch that sat in one corner of Dr. Bromberg’s office. He lay down, his arms behind his head and his legs crossed, feet still keeping time to the music, which was now “A String of Pearls.” With his eyes, he motioned for the good doctor to join him, to sit in the chair perpendicular to the interview couch and actually do her job. When he saw her eyes slowly move to her office door the Joker scowled and threw the knife he’d had at her throat as hard as he could, admiring how it lodged a good inch into the wooden door. Already, the Joker had another knife in his hand, displaying its razor-sharp beauty to Liz as if he were hawking the Sham Wow on late-night television. “Now now, Sweet Cheeks, let’s not be thinking of bolting for an exit. I can have five of these pretties poking out of you like porcupine needles before you could even turn the door handle. Let us be – ah – civil about this. I’ve put up with your psychological insults for weeks now. The least you can do is validate your so-called expertise in such matters by playing along with me for one lit-tle night. How about it, then, my doe-eyed beauty? Come sit here with your favourite Clown Prince and see if you can psychoanalyse me as easily in person as you can when you’re playing to the GEE CEE ENN audience.”
Visibly shaken, Liz moved cautiously over to her chair and sat down across from Joker. “Where do you want to begin?”
“Well you’re the therapist, Freudiana. You choose.”
“Okay…. First, do you have any phobias? Phobias tell a lot about a person, what makes them who they are and why they do the things they do. What are yours?”
“Well, doc, I have this inexplicable terror of a wardrobe that matches...spiders…and killer bunnies. What do you think it meeeaaannns? Hm?” The Joker grinned, openly mocking Liz.
“Okay.. well… H-how about some word association then?”
“I’m a big fan of words. Go for it, Kitten.”
Liz pulled a notebook out from under her chair which she used to keep her lists of random words. She would sometimes use the words in the book or, sometimes, she’d come up with new words, which she’d add to her book for possible future sessions. Looking around for a pen, she began to panic a little when she couldn’t find one anywhere near her. She really didn’t want to move much for fear the Joker might take any movement on her part as an attempt to escape and make good on his promise to turn her into a pincushion. About the time she resigned herself to having to move to get a pen, the Joker leaned over and handed her his own pen. “Silly doctor…can’t even keep track of your writing utensils?” And he clicked his tongue with amusement. “How on Earrrth can anyone take you seri-ous-leee?”
Liz grabbed the pen, unable to hide her ire at the Joker’s jibe. “Okay…this is word association. I will give you a word. I want you to respond with the first word that comes to mind. The purpose of this exercise is to see how your subconscious works. There are no right or wrong answers, so don’t think about your responses. It’s supposed to be free association. Do you understand?”
“Probably morrre then you do, Doc! Let’s get this show on the road!”
