The Joker and the Thief

My worn shoes made little sound against the sidewalk while men in black suits and ugly ties passed by without looking at me. Women with high heels and styled hair looked me up and down before turning their noses up in disgust. Young couples and families quickly changed their path to avoid getting too close to me. Even with all this negativity surrounding me I continued to walk with my head up. I was use to this reaction. The rich of Gotham didn't take well to having a person like me walk proudly through their neighborhood.

A person like me. A person whose worn jeans needed to be thrown out. A person with long disheveled hair dyed a dark blonde but with redish roots clearly showing. A person who's only object that held value was the golden ring on her middle finger. A person who walks tall when their world is laying in piles of ruins around them. A person like me.

I wasn't homeless; through my appearance lead many people to believe I was. I had a house I could easily live in instead of sending my days and nights on the streets of Gotham. I had a room in that house. A room with a warm bed, decent clothes, and heat. Yes, I had a house. But it wasn't a home. I only went there when I was in need of good nights sleep. And when that night came around I used the window not the front door.

My father wanted to name me Marie, after his mother. But my mother had demanded that my name be Victoria. So my father made a compromise with her, not the first nor the last one of their marriage. My name became Victoria Marie Bradley. For the first fourteen years of my life I went by Victoria. But when my father died I insisted that people call me Marie. I did so to spite my mother. The two of us never got along. We were two very different people to say the least.

I picked up my pace as I walked away from the center of Gotham. The farther away I got from the heart of the city the darker the streets seemed to get despite the bright sunshine. I stepped off the main street and turned into the alley way next a Chinese restaurant. I stopped when I reached a plain metal door that was placed on the side of the restaurant. I threw my messy hair up into a bun, adjusted my black jacket, and exhaled deeply before I pushed the door open.

I was greeted by the barrel of gun. The owner was a rather tense-looking young man. His hand gripping the gun was tight and a little sweaty. I merely blinked as a stared at the gun and its owner. He was clearly waiting for me to speech. “I’m here to see Chechen.” I said with no emotion.

He loosened the grip on the gun slightly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Well, I am. I’m sure Chechen won’t mind.” I smiled innocently. The man gave me a thoughtful look before lowering the gun and moving to the side so I could get by. I walked through a metal detector, which remained silent, into the back of the restaurant. Only it wasn’t a restaurant today. Four tables were pushed together to create a square. At the end, sat a large television, which was turned off. On either side of it sat groups of men. But directly in front of the television sat a lone man. He was dressed in a dark purple suit complete with purple shoes. His hair was a dirty green color.

As I walked into the room it went quiet and everyone's eyes fell on me. But I ignored it. I even ignored the man-in-the-purple-suit's large amount of make-up. His entire face was painted to resemble a clown; a murderous demonic clown. I kept my eyes on Chechen as a small pulse of nervousness went down my spine and settled in my fingertips and stomach. "You're not usually this hard to find, Chechen."

He looked the same as he did last time I saw him. Curly, greasy black hair, with rather ugly brown leather jacket on and a cheap cigarette attached to this mouth. "I'm sure this could have waited until other time, Marie." Chechen said with a heavy Spanish accent. His face was clearly annoyed. The other faces were apathetic or tense. The clown's face was indifferent also but it held an underlying curiosity.

"I'm sure it could have, for you at least. But I'd rather not get caught with this in my hands." I said as I pulled a small brown package from my jacket pocket. The package was full of documents; police evidence. Breaking into the Gotham Police Department was probably the toughest and dumbest thing I had ever done. It had been a relatively simple job but I still didn’t want to do it again anytime soon. “But before I hand this over, I believe you owe me some money.” I said in the sweetest voice possibly. Chechen was known for shooting people instead of paying them.

Chechen gave the smallest of head nods before one of his employees, a man in an out-dated blue suit, crossed the room and handed me a similar brown bag. I pushed into my jacket pocket as he took the documents out of my hand. “Now, get out.” Salvador Maroni said in a bored voice. Maroni wore an anxious expression and a suit that was lazily ironed. I figured that was due to his recent court trial. “I will in a minute back I have one more thing to say. I quit.” I said calmly.

I caught a small sign of emotion flash across Chechen’s face before he said, “What do you mean ‘quit’?” I gave an annoyed sigh. “‘Quit’ as in…I’m retiring. As in I don’t want to work for you any more. I don’t see how I can make this clearer.” Gambol, who was the closest mobster to me, gave me a suspicious look. Gambol and I never got along because he had a huge sense of self-superiority. His voice was harsh and accusatory when he spoke. “Why? Why now?”

“Well, for one, I really don’t feel like going to jail for the rest of my life. “ I said sarcastically. “But you never get caught. Not even by Batman. How do you it?” Maroni said with a hint of disbelief. “How do I do what? Avoid Batman?” Maroni nodded his head. “I think Batman has bigger fish to fry than a teenage thief. You guys are occupying his time quite nicely. Any more questions?” No one said anything. “Goodbye. I hope to never see any of you again.” I said politely before I re-traced my steps back out the side door.