Fascinating Villains

{42} - Attraction

The truck's ignition and other gear - our masks included - are all turned off, therefore Cheryl and I are waiting in pitch darkness. She has parked the vehicle in a parking lot bordering the backside of a former pawn shop turned conspicuous florist, for us to ascertain that if anyone is pursuing us, they have lost our trail before heading wherever my friend plans to drop off the stolen cargo. I gaze out of the window at the bare fragment of land which unofficially extends the parking lot, pondering how we will know enough time has passed if the truck's digital clock is not functional.

Foul Play suggested we take this precaution in case there were other hooligans posted somewhere, either to watch the exchange we disrupted or at a checkpoint with orders to intervene if the truck had not arrived by a certain hour. The thugs we faced were alive when we left them, but broadly not in any state to contact their associates, let alone chase us.

I inquire, "Do you think, if one of them wakes up, that they would be stupid enough to call The Joker and tell him they failed to protect his shipment?"

"They were stupid enough to work for him."

I can hear her grinning in the lilt of her otherwise unbothered voice.

"Or just very desperate for money. Even if I cannot imagine how someone would accept to be an accomplice to senseless murders and to face the relentless danger of working for a clinically insane man like him just for money. He can't pay that well."

Simply by observing her posture, it is clear to me that Cheryl is entertained by the turn of our conversation. She drums her fingers swiftly against the steering wheel.

"People get into all sorts of unexpected situations. Especially 'round here."

"I've heard that they're usually mentally ill. People who work for The Joker, I mean. When the police or us pick them up, when they haven't died after a job. It's hard to want them to suffer more, even if - maybe - it's natural to hate them and to wish that they get punished."

"I'm guessing you don't hate them?"

"It's impossible that all of his goons are as rotten as he is or as disturbed. Necessarily, some of them are just thugs who aren't the biggest fans of critical thinking."

My friend laughs, kicking her feet clad in black stiletto heel boots above the inactive break and gas pedals. Pensively mischievous, she tells me, "I can tell you what they're big fans of: status. It's not just about the prize or the adrenaline, it's about lettin' everyone know they're dangerous. The money lures most of 'em in, of course. But the real bait is more addictive, it's the feeling of being a symbol of fear. Just pure power. Fear is the number one currency in Gotham, I don't know if you've noticed."

"That, and a reputation. Everyone in this city seems obsessed with secret identities and personas, sensational names, MOs and the like."

That is an opinion I have been chewing on for a good while, which is apparent through the confidence I brandish when I utter these familiar thoughts.

The amusement in her tone increases. "Well, then, you've noticed. And you've got us all figured out, apparently. Except... Aren't ya one of us freaks, now?"

She flicks my left shoulder, wrapped underneath the dark blue material of my vigilante suit.

I chuckle. "A little. I guess so. But I'm not partaking in any of this to earn a name for myself. I'm fulfilling something bigger than that; helping people is my purpose. I didn't end up here after a series of bad decisions and I am not seeking a reward other than making this city safer for its residents."

The woman tilts her head back against the headrest of the driver's seat.

"As noble as you sound, honey... All those idiots in discount wigs and runny clown makeup also think they're accomplishing some great goal. Some are as driven as you feel right now, because crime brings them closer to finding meaning for their life." She giggles, causing the silhouette of her chest to tremble. "I'll say, others just worship dollar bills or need 'em too bad to care."