WARNING: This work of fanfiction contains strong sexual content of a fetishist nature, including masturbatory mannequin-handjobs and what I can only term "erotic puppeteering." It also includes scenes of implied sexual/physical child abuse and threatened sexual/firearms violence. If you're not physically, emotionally, and/or legally old enough to handle these concepts, do us both a big favor and press the Back button NOW.

NOTE: Although Batman: the Animated Series is still considered revolutionary for tackling more mature themes than any "kids' show" cartoons of the past would dare, even a kid can usually tell what the writers meant in place of words such as "darn," "heck," and "stuff" nowadays. Unless the change would be unlikely for a given character to use, I've upped the language bar in these cases accordingly. As a caution to those readers with dialogue-virgin eyes, consider this fic to be rated TV-14 in terms of swears-- free of F-bombs, but in the case of mobsters and seedy criminals, their language isn't always going to be squeaky-clean.

Also, for the continuity folks out there, this story centers around the Animated Series version of the Ventriloquist character. In case you've only read the comic book version, here's a quick catch-up: replace the largely undetailed backstory of his years in prison with a largely undetailed backstory where his pacifist mother was murdered before his eyes in a botched mob hit when he was a kid, add in enough extra voice-throwing talent to ignore Scarface's problem pronouncing Bs, and... well, that's about it. Fanfics about seldom-used villains involve taking liberties with gaping backstory holes either way, I suppose.

LAST OF THE LEGALESE: I don't own B:TAS. Time Warner Pictures and its license-holding subsidiaries do. Characters and concepts are being used without permission. No profit is being made from this file. Happy Fun Ball is the night, vengeance, and a whole bunch of other stuff, too. Use as directed.

Enough of that, now-- let's get this over with. Enjoy!

-----

All Burned Out
by Apricot the Gerbil


Maybe there was a part of Arnold Wesker that truly believed his troubles were over when the Arkham doctors declared him to be "sane."

Even now, after two such marks appeared in his record, and then three-- and in between, HIS name screaming from the newspaper headlines and the head-shaking cops and Batman tossing him inside those cold asylum walls all over again, the man known to Gotham City only as the Ventriloquist held that tiny, wavering candle-flicker close to his heart as a child would cradle some poor animal found dying in the yard, desperately hoping for a miracle to make it all better: maybe, just maybe, he really could be cured.

With a split-second creak of protest from the bare metal bedframe's springs, Arnold shifted his body from one side to the other on his mattress and squinted, glancing around at the cracked, spidering wallpaper of his tiny (no, humble, he reminded himself, or cozy, you're supposed to think in positive words) apartment home. This was his third try in the world outside Arkham Asylum, since HE first made himself known... Right now, Arnold was sure of that much, and little else.

He tried not to notice how the doctors' farewells had gone from a hearty handshake and "I know you'll do fine out there" to last year's clap on the shoulder and a stone-faced "Good luck." This time around, however, he considered himself luckier than he'd ever been in his life. Though the social workers were usually too swamped with other cases to spend much time checking on his rehabilitation, they had found him both a place to live and a job at a clothing store with a speed that, had Arnold been the type to harbor suspicions, would suggest the paperwork was snatched from the top of a pre-assembled pile. As he was most certainly not that type, Arnold was beside himself with gratitude.

Lilli's Boutique was a small place, squished in among the other trinket shops lining the sidewalks of that sprawling concrete turf called "downtown," but Arnold liked working there. It was a very calming job-- organizing racks of shirts and dresses, mostly, plus some sewing and mending, and he was good at that. The customers were nice enough, and whenever a customer wasn't nice, Dolly was there to rush in and talk to them herself, before they yelled at him enough to make him cry. He cried so easily; it was one of many things about himself he was ashamed of. But Dolly wasn't bothered by it at all. She didn't even laugh at him, like so many other people had. Such a nice, nice person...

Dolly. A tiny smile crept onto his face at the thought of his boss. With a name like hers, it seemed to be fate.

But the medications he was on were so expensive, and the doctors insisted he needed to take so many of them, every single day... There was only so much minimum wage could buy. His case manager still hadn't called him back, but Arnold didn't want to be a bother. Calling his office over and over would be rude, especially when the man was probably busy with the problems of somebody more deserving.

The door between Arnold's phone-closet-bathroom and his chair-tv-living-room-bedroom was open wide enough to see the metal medicine cabinet hanging on the far wall. (He could never get the cabinet to shut right.) The bottles were still stacked in neat little rows: morning, noon, supper, bedtime... He'd been doing so well, never missing a dose. The doctors were so proud of him.

He couldn't remember how many days it'd been since the last of the pills were swallowed down. The silence after those final rattles had dropped a cold weight into his gut; he'd fumbled through his head, scraping together the list of excuses he knew he would have to start parroting soon. I don't think I should come in today. No, I think I'm coming down with the flu. I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me. Please forgive me. I'm sorry, Scarface, I'm so sorry--

Arnold's breath caught in his throat. He hadn't let himself think of that name for months.

He knew he'd been waking up to find pieces of scrap wood strewn across the floor of his apartment-- twice, now (or maybe more, it was getting harder to count properly nowadays), but each time, he bundled the pieces together and heaved them into the maw of the big dumpster out back, scrambling to buy himself a little more selfish time. He even knotted each trash bag triple-tight. Scarface was never any good at untying knots.

But this was always the last sign. All the other times, he wouldn't know where or when the wood had been carved and pieced together, or the clothes stitched, but soon there HE was again, back on his arm-- barking orders, crushing Arnold from the inside, and dangling him around like a master puppeteer. Seeming to know everything about him, even his most pitiful secret of all: that he really, truly loved--

Arnold plowed his head as deep into his pillow as he could make it budge, curling his threadbare blanket tighter around himself. He couldn't stand thinking about it. Any of it. He needed to sleep. He'd never make it into work tomorrow morning if he didn't get some rest, and now that he'd started losing minutes and hours (and days?) again, he wanted to at least make sure he could spend one more day in Dolly's shop.

He shut his eyes tight, feeling sweat start to ooze out onto his forehead, thick and salty and sliding down deep into all the slits of his face and hurting. Deep breaths. Deep breaths make you stay calm, it's what they said. He was going to go to Lilli's tomorrow. He was. Dolly had been so very kind to him, kinder than anyone before, and Arnold knew this meant she would probably be dead soon...

Good air... in. Bad air... out.

He needed to see her one last time. If for no other reason than to apologize and tell her goodbye.

And to hope. Maybe it would stay all better, just a little longer.

Maybe...

One hand darted out to fumble under his pillow. He searched around for the treasures hidden-- ahh. There they were. Arnold's fingertips brushed along the cool, sleek lacquered plaster (oh, how he hoped Dolly hadn't noticed the pieces snapped off from the store mannequins), his touch delicate, reverent. A sightly-curved ring finger here, a sturdy thumb there... Arnold could never recall exactly when he realized his interest in sculpture rivaled the way his cousins had begun hoarding magazines full of naked girls. Still, it felt good to even pretend he deserved his carved lovers' attention, if only for a moment. As disgusting as he knew his own body was, mannequins kept silent about it. Mannequins never judged him... and now, at last, he felt peace smoothing over the knotted coils in his chest.

Arnold kept stroking the fragments of fingers and toes, unable to silence a soft, wilting moan as he felt himself slowly begin to go hard. He sighed, stopping in mid-trace of a rounded nail, and let his eyelids droop closed. He'd been able to keep these, so far. These pieces of sexless, aloof, perfect beings... Pure beauty, frozen in time, within each unmoving pose. Something that offered him (and him alone) a feeling of joy to hold, to savor. Something not part of HIM.

Just like how he'd managed to keep his job for this long, now that he thought of it. And his apartment. Even his boss's kindness...

Deep inside, he knew he was unworthy of the praise and luxury he'd received during his many months of freedom. And yet... I really have been lucky, he thought, feeling the quiet of sleep drifting over him. After all, it was only now that he finally had to worry about life's pleasures being ripped from his grasp. Even as he stood at the edge of that horrible, horrible pit inside his mind, waiting to be pushed over and devoured-- perhaps, Arnold mused, he hadn't screwed up this turn at life so badly after all.

---

He awoke to the shrill, merciless alarm of the telephone ringing. With his blanket still wrapped around him like a cloak, Arnold scooped his glasses from the bedside floor onto his face, clambered off the mattress, and hurried the few steps to grab its handle. The bundle of coiled cord guarding the phone sprang to attack his hand, tangling his arms in a mess of plastic by the time he could venture a shy "y-yes?" into the receiver.

"Arnie? Is that you?"

Arnold smiled at the familiar voice. "Dolly! Hello! I was just--"

"Are you all right? Where have you been?"

His mouth opened, but his mind was suddenly blank. "Been...?" he echoed, confused. "I-- well, I was about to leave for work."

Dolly sounded worried. "It's four in the afternoon, Arnie! You've been gone for three days now!" Her sigh flooded a short burst of static into his ear; after a pause, she continued more calmly. "Now I want you to know, I'm not mad at you. But for you to fall off the map like that-- Midge's been covering your shift, and she only wants to know if you're all right, too!"

"I... don't know, what..." Arnold stammered, trailing off. His hand was locked tight around the receiver. She'll hear me if I start crying. Please, not now, not while I'm on the phone...!

"Your brother didn't leave you a message like he said he would, then, huh? He answered when I tried calling yesterday. Told me you needed to sleep."

Ice cube prickles, all through his body. "M-my... brother?"

"Yes, he said you might not be making it back for a while. He didn't say anything else, just hung up right away! Really, Arnie, please just tell me, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I-- look, I'll be over right away. I need to talk with you. Quick, I mean. Today. It's really important," Arnold said, hardly aware of his words as they were pushed, stumbling, from his mouth. "See you soon," he added, and settled the handle back onto the phone's waiting cradle. Both hands leapt to cover his eyes, his shaky palms smearing away at the tears still wobbling hot lines down his face.

He went over the list he'd memorized for mornings, counting each of them off on the fingers of one hand as he did so. Take my pil-- no, that's right, there aren't any... Work clothes on. Brush my hair. Check to make sure my wallet's in my back pocket when I leave. Remember to lock the door. Arnold wandered to the closet with legs that felt like lead. I can't give up now...

What he saw in the closet stopped his mind in its tracks.

The empty hangers dangled on their bar like a row of wire skeletons. All his clothes had been dumped on the floor in one big heap of cotton and polyester. Most were torn to shreds. He could see the white shirt and green vest he planned to wear to work peeking out from within the pile, and bent down to pull them free; he breathed a relieved sigh, seeing they were among the few unharmed. He rooted through the scraps for an unmangled pair of pants, folding them over his arm with the rest of his outfit when he finally found one.

As he stood, a trace of color caught his eye. There were two hangers with clothes still on them after all.

The first held the remains of what appeared to be... No, make that 'to have once been'...

(oh god it's a body what's a BODY doing here?!)

...a blue dress...

(A DRESS. Not a person. Just a dress. Calm down. Deep breaths. It's okay calm down--)

...its tattered neckline barely able to stay looped over the brace of its hanger. And behind it... Arnold stared at the black tuxedo hanging there in the shadows, masked by the bare wires. His old Ventriloquist outfit.

It seemed to be staring back at him.

He recognized the shade of blue on the dress. Scarface's favorite color. His doll's clothes always ended up tailored in blue, somehow... Wonder if anyone was wearing it first. I hope she's all right.

It was then that Arnold noticed the slip of paper sticking up from the suit's jacket pocket. He reached for it, unfolding the page to reveal a note. The handwriting was blocky and rushed, much sloppier than Arnold's own.

HERES YOUR DAMN MESSAGE!! THINK YOU'S THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS HOW TO SEW ROUND HERE?

SEE YOU SOON.

P. S. GET SOME FREAKIN DEODARENT SOME TIME! YOUR BODY STINKS!!!

Arnold folded the paper along the same lopsided crease-lines and dropped it atop his burial mound of a wardrobe, then shut the closet door tight. He'd have to hurry... There wasn't much time left for him.

---

The automatic chime at the front door announced Arnold's arrival with a cheery been-bonn as he stepped into the shop. "Mrs. Lilli!" he called out, scanning the slim walkway-aisles between clothes racks for any movement. He found none. Hope she hasn't left early... No, she always stays late to clean up. Why would she be gone when it's only five?

He paused before one of the shop's mannequins, staring at its upturned, featureless face. So beautiful... Last chance, Arnold thought, eyeing the four fingers and stubbed pinky on its left hand. This time he went for the index finger, unconsciously making a pained face as he snapped the plaster free at the knuckle. With one hand clasped tight around his final souvenir, he tried again, walking farther towards the back. "Mrs. Lilli?"

And then, drifting out from the storage rooms, that distinctive voice of hers, lilting with what remnants of a Georgia drawl her years spent in Gotham were unable to sharpen away: "Arnie, darlin', I've told you all this time... Dolly's just fine." She walked through the back-room doorway to meet him, a smile shining through the lion's mane of fluffy, honey-blonde hair that came to a halt at her shoulders.

"Right. Dolly. I'm sorry," he quickly replied. "Look, I know this is going to sound really stupid, but is there any chance you might maybe take the day off tomorrow? Close the store, or something?"

"Arnie... that's..." Dolly seemed at a loss for words. Her mouth flattened to a frown. "What do you mean?"

"I just... I might be in really big trouble from somebody. Soon. And maybe you, too, if they know I'm here talking with you... I'm so sorry, Dolly-- I really don't want anything bad to happen! I don't think I'm going to be able to work here anymore..." Arnold bowed his head, ducking his gaze to the thin-carpeted floor.

Dolly was used to seeing this gesture from him. She'd come to assume it was merely another sign of his politeness, but given her employee's already flustered appearance, the bow suddenly seemed to carry an air of misery, of unspeakable hopelessness. It disturbed her, though she couldn't quite pin down why. "Have you told the police about this? Maybe there's something--"

She stopped, seeing Arnold's fervent head-shakes. "It's not anything they could help with," he said sorrowfully. "I know they couldn't, too. This isn't the first time it's happened, and it hasn't happened yet anyhow so there'd be no proof, so..." Arnold trailed off, drawing in a slow, deep breath. "I'm sorry," he repeated, lifting his eyes to meet hers.

"Well, if you need to leave, I can put out another ad and find someone else, that's no worry," Dolly said. She gave Arnold a sad-looking smile, then reached up to pat him on the shoulder. "We sure will miss you around here, though. You just can't find customer service like yours in Gotham anymore... I swear, you'd be kind to a stinkbug!"

Arnold seemed surprised by the compliment. His shoulders hunched in a humble aw-shucks pose, framing the slight grin sliding onto his face. "Heh, heh. I think you're exaggerating a bit, but... thank you!" he said. "You're very nice, yourself."

His boss smiled at him. "Y'know, that's another reason it'll be a shame to see you go. If you leave, then I'll never get the chance to ask if you wanted to go have a cup of coffee with me sometime after work," she said.

"Cup of...?" Arnold repeated. A gasp and a gulp battled to be the first to leave his throat. "You mean, like... a date?"

Her smile widened. "It was just a thought, but... yeah, I thought about asking, a few times."

"I-I'm honored, but-- but why me?"

Dolly chuckled. "Why not you? I don't know, you've just got a certain charm to you. Like a real gentleman. Rare thing to find in a man 'round here." That, and she'd never once caught him staring at her breasts, she added to herself. "So, you know, after you've left, if you're ever back in the neighborhood for a while..."

"I'm grateful you'd want to! Really, I am, but..." Arnold bowed his head to her again. "Please don't take this the wrong way, 'cause it's not anything to do with you, believe me. But I, I'm just--" How do you tell somebody you're not attracted to people? "I'm not really... interested, in that."

"Ahh..." Dolly nodded and clucked her tongue softly. Her sigh drifted into a lone "hmh," sharp enough to rival a snort. "It's true, I guess. All the nice ones are either taken, or they're gay."

Arnold sputtered, lifting his hands to wave away this unexpected idea. "No, no, I'm not-- not that, no!" he said, his face reddening. He shuffled back a step, then another... and promptly stumbled over his own heel. He heard the plaster finger hitting the floor before he realized he had dropped it. By then, it was too late to do anything but mumble an apology to his boss and wish for the ability to curl up and disappear.

"So you're the one!" he heard Dolly exclaim. Arnold only dared look her in the eyes after she began laughing-- not a cruel laugh, but one of genuine merriment; a smile, rather than a slap to the face. "I wondered who was taking those. You know, I'm kind of glad it was only you... I thought some punk kids were walking off with them!" she said. With a growing smirk, Dolly pointed to the mannequin piece at their feet. "So, is that your 'true love,' then? Fingers? Or is it statues?"

Arnold looked down at it, wringing his hands behind his back. Should've known it was too good to last for long, he thought, waiting for the inevitable pointing and cackling to start.

"It's all right, Arnie! Don't look so scared," said Dolly, trying to sound as soothing as possible. She hadn't expected the question to terrify him... "I didn't mean anything by it. I mean, everybody's got something they like. Heck, I know so-- rest his heart, but back when my Ricky was still around, did he ever have a thing for ladies' feet..."

This time, Arnold was the one struck silent. "Really?" he said, his brow raising at the very idea.

"Oh, yes. It worked out pretty well for the two of us, to be honest. I could get foot massages whenever I wanted!" Dolly said, chuckling to herself. She paused, her laughter dying away into thought. "You know, seeing as how you have to leave all of a sudden... There is a store dummy sitting up in the attic that's been collecting dust for years now. It's been wobbly for so long-- I'd always planned to throw it out one of these days, but I never got around to it. Busy days, y'know how it goes," she said with a shrug. "I can't let you drag the whole thing away with you, but if you want, I could unscrew a hand off from it easy enough. It could be, like... a going-away present, we can say!"

"You'd... really do that for me?" Arnold asked. He looked as though he might burst into tears from happiness alone.

"Sure, why not? If it's either you or the garbage truck, I'd rather it go to someone I know," his boss replied, heading back to the storage room. "You just wait here, darlin'. I'll be back, soon as it'll let me."

In the bubble of silence following Dolly's departing footsteps, a thousand phrases of praise fluttered through his mind, each of them more elegant-sounding than the last. And yet, when his thoughts were jarred by a "Here you go, now" and a cool weight sliding into his hands, every single one of them disappeared from his tongue... a stammering mirage. "I-- really, I don't know how I can, ever--" he managed, fighting for words through the distractions of Dolly's calm smile and the unblemished gorgeousness he now held.

"Excuse me!" a man's voice called out, somewhere among the shirt racks near the front.

"Oh! Sorry, Arnie-- hold that thought a minute, could you?" Dolly said, looking around for the customer.

"Sure," replied Arnold. While his boss wandered about in her search, he breathed a tense sigh of relief and began edging towards the front door.

A second "Anybody here?" was heard, this time near the back counter. The only sign Dolly had that Arnold was gone was the been-bonn of the door chime-- and in the time it took her to turn and stare at the doorway in surprise, he was halfway down the busy sidewalk, mouthing a quiet "thank you" over his shoulder to the boutique as he hurried along, Dolly's parting gift in tow.

---

...and Arnold woke up in his apartment.

Panic, at first. He was walking into the usual subway car to go home, that was the last thing he remembered-- and now he was here, with whatever came in between nothing but an empty, whistling canyon.

He calmed somewhat, recalling the doctors' words. Fugues. That's what they called it when this sort of thing happened. Still, Arnold thought the word was maybe a bit too pretty-sounding, for something so scary. He looked around, checking for signs of anything different. He was lying down on his mattress... No wood on the floor... Good. Glasses were still on... The apartment had no windows, but given the silence of the thin-walled rooms surrounding him, it was likely long past late. He wondered if it was still Wednesday...

His fingernails had been cut.

Arnold held his right hand closer to his face, squinting at it in the glow of the apartment's lone lamp. He knew why they'd been trimmed, of course, even if how and where escaped him; anything longer than evened-off stubs would make it tough to work a particular doll's controls. He couldn't hold back a grieving sigh, though-- he liked seeing how long he'd been able to grow them. Not that they'd ever gotten big enough to risk them being called "girly," no, but still...

His usual nightclothes were also nowhere to be seen. Instead of his gray cotton slacks and shirt, Arnold knew what they had been replaced with by its scent alone. Cedar. All the times I washed it in six years, and it still smelled like cedar. He looked down at the shirt he was wearing. Muddy yellow, slightly fuzzy to the touch-- and four sizes too big for his own slim frame, with the hem dragging below his knees. Arnold would recognize it anywhere... It was the only present he'd been given in more than twenty-five years, after all. He must've tracked down the Goodwill store and bought it back.

He raised his hands to snuggle against the bundled, dangling shirtcuffs, breathing in their warmth. For a moment, his memories returned him to the first of Scarface's many hideouts, years ago... It was shortly after Scarface demanded that Arnold and the doll sleep in different rooms. He remembered hiding under the musty curtain-cloth of his blanket, wondering why Rhino, Scarface's favorite bodyguard, would be visiting his room in the dark of night-- and how confused he was, when Rhino tossed the fluffy tangle of yellow onto his bed. "Keep it. Ain't right tuh let ya freeze," the giant mumbled, then lumbered out of the room.

The gift was probably a pity gesture, since Arnold had no other clothes besides his tuxedo whenever Scarface was in charge... but, then, Scarface preferred to surround himself with henchmen who weren't smart enough to grasp the concept of "mutiny." If Arnold had managed to catch a cold in the drafty side-room he was sequestered to, the effect on Scarface's voice would make it even harder for Rhino to understand his boss's plans than usual. Maybe Rhino never had a choice in giving it, after all, he thought with a frown. Still, the idea had been nice...

Speaking of presents, didn't he get one before he blacked out? Arnold lifted his pillow, revealing his ill-gotten plaster collection. One, two, three, four-- no, nothing new. But I could swear there was-- I didn't just dream that, did I? Oh, I hope he didn't get rid of it!

A twitch from below made it clear his body wasn't the least bit concerned about how many there were. He sighed, closing his eyes. Should I? On any other night, Arnold would wait for his arousal to die down for modesty's sake (not to mention out of fear he'd wake up somebody in a nearby room), but tonight... Scarface had shown he was ready and able to show up at any time. Was it really worth the risk of the doll barging back before he could finish?

He stared at the pieces. That twinging feeling was only getting stronger...

...I'll try to be quick.

After a moment of rearranging, the four bits were lined up in an arched row, all pointing at Arnold. He kept his eyes on them while he tried nudging his groin fully awake, using the same technique as for those other rare times he'd scraped together the courage for any self-pleasuring late at night: he leaned in close against the mattress, gripping into it with shaky fingers, and began pressing and rolling his hips, kneading that burning little scrap of flesh with soft fabric until it hurt to stop... He tried his damnedest to ignore the stuttering chorus of squeaks and groans from the bedsprings. Someone's going to hear...!

Arnold's eyes darted to the apartment's front door... and zeroed in on a small plastic shopping bag hooked from the knob. The hand. Five dainty points poked the plastic's film taut from the inside, beckoning to him. Oh, god, the HAND. The memory of it alone threatened to send him over the edge. He lashed out his arms, grabbing for the bag; a desperate whine rose in his throat as he whisked at, and caught, only air.

Jumping from the bed, Arnold snatched the plaster hand from the bag and slammed back onto bedsprings that screeched in shock at the blow. He swept his lips over the five fingers, kissed the smooth paradise palm... then bucked his filthy, drooling cock into its grasp. Panting, letting its fingers dance over the head like a fickle pied piper, leading him into an aching frenzy. He mewled wordlessly to it, pleading, begging his piecemealed angel to forgive him as he painted it with his stains, forcing it to jerk away at him with the unapologetic boldness of a doomed man. Arnold was no stranger to fear; even with paranoia gnawing at his heels, this was the most turned on he'd felt since-- since ever.

It was no surprise, then, that he never noticed his own right hand dipping to reach under the bed of its own accord...

"HAH! Whaddaya know... Figures I'd come back 'n find ya cryin' ova somethin'!"

"Uhh--!!" blurted Arnold, sitting bolt upright on the mattress at the sound of Scarface's voice. His left hand skittered to try pulling the ends of the yellow shirt down over his erection, but it was too late; his right arm had already returned with a very familiar added weight. There was no gun in Scarface's hand, but everything else on the doll was already remade, blue suit and all.

Arnold's thoughts became a jumbled buzz of nonsense. The sudden war of stimuli was sucking any chances he had for a level-headed explanation into a mental black hole, shrieking NO NOT NOW PLEASE!! all the way down as they fell. Doctors. There were doctors, they said, what did they say. Something. About, this-- about fighting back your other... my other, HIM, what was I supposed to say to him?!! He's right THERE he's gonna SEE me WHAT DO I DO--

His resistance collapsed like a sick rabbit in a wolf's jaws. "You... you're back again..." Arnold murmured. It was the only thing his mind could struggle out.

"Course I'm back again, dummy! Where da hell yuh think I was gonna go?" Scarface shouted. "Sure don't look happy t'see I'm back, dat's fer sure! Had uddah plans, ya cheatin' bastard?!"

The edge of a small wooden hand slapped at Arnold's face, just sharp and fast enough to draw blood. "An' dat's fer when yuh kept trashin' my stuff! Din't nobody evva tell ya it ain't polite ta keep a guy waitin' if 'e's tryin'a get inside sum'place?" the doll sneered, his legs swaying from the sudden whiplash.

The red scrape pooled to trickle down Arnold's cheek. He didn't bother wiping it away; he merely bowed his head, feeling tears sting their way out from his eyes. The stubborn drumming in his groin was making it impossible to string words together properly. "I just thought, maybe, I... I could..."

"Ya THOUGHT! Now dere's one fer da records! Somebody go mark a freakin' calendar!" With a hollow grinding sound, Scarface's eyes rolled in their sockets, taking a look at the plaster decorating the bedsheets. "Humph. See you been busy. What'cha tryin'a do 'ere, anyhow? Buildin' yerself a new buddy soon as I'm on vacation, hah?" The painted pupil-dots rolled downward; Scarface paused, his jaw dangling limp at the sight.

Then the laughing began.

It hurt worse than a cut or a scrape or splinters ever could. All Arnold could do was keep his head down and shudder, trying to keep his eyes away from the sight of his own fattened penis bobbing between his legs like a pointing stool-pigeon: It's him, he did it! He's the one to blame! He wriggled about on the mattress, tugging his nightshirt back down to cover himself, but the bulge didn't have the mercy to shrink away; if anything, it seemed to regard his humiliation as reason enough to throb harder. The blood pounding through his body felt like it was about to explode through the skin of his face at any moment and drown him in his own shame. No, that would be better-- at least he wouldn't have to live through this...

He was silent, even after Scarface's cackling died down. "Now ain't dis a hoot'n'a half! Dummy's got hisself some wood of 'is own! Don't tell me I spoiled yer date?" Scarface kicked at the mannequin parts with a boneless leg. "Figures. S'da only date dat'd put up wit' your sorry ass!"

A chunk taken from an alabaster-white left foot fell off the mattress, smashing apart in a cloud of plaster powder the moment it hit the floor. Arnold winced as it broke, hiding his face with the only hand left to him. "Please... please, don't...!" he begged, his pleas sounding small and brittle.

"Taught ya knew better'n dis, dummy," came Scarface's reply. He could hear the joints in the doll's neck squeak as Scarface shook his head from side to side. "Didn't dat crazy bitch get dis outta yer system back when she found dat stash a' dress-up dolls y'was keepin' around?"

"Don't talk about Mother like that!" the Ventriloquist pleaded through a faceful of palm. "She... she was nice to me!"

"Oh, sure! Nice enough t' make sure ya watched when she burned 'em all!"

"Sh-she... didn't mean to-- only did what, what she did, 'cause she was trying t..to help me!" he managed between the first gasps of his sobbing, then lost hold of his tears completely; the words could scarcely be picked out from the wailing. "S'not natural, wuh--what I'd... what they..."

"C'mon, buck up 'n face it, meathead. She mighta saved yer hide from Dad 'n da rest a' the mob fer a while by runnin' off wit' ya dat one time, but if she really loved ya z'much as yuh keep sayin', she sure had weird ways a' showin' it. Me, I'm glad da hag finally got herself a goodnight kiss from all dem bullets." Scarface nudged Arnold with his shoulder. "Serves 'er right t'have it happen da day after she 'n you came back, hah? Still wish I coulda seen 'er get slugged, tho'. Ya lucky bastard!"

No response. The only part of the Ventriloquist not trying to hide was pressing out eagerly from underneath the folds of his shirt.

Scarface slumped back, sighing to the ceiling. "Aw'right, aw'right... Move it, dummy. Shove ova," he said, hopping closer to settle in front of the Ventriloquist's crotch.

Arnold gasped, snnrrking a sharp, surprised inhale through his running nose. His eyebrows darted up on his forehead like two nervous pigeons. "Scarface!" he yelped.

"Yup, ya got my name right. Congradjalations," Scarface said flatly, lifting up the edge of Arnold's shirt and reaching for his erection.

"No, no! Sir, you don't have to-- no, shouldn't have to--"

"C'mon, ya nevva did like havin' ta touch it yerself anyhow. I got plans fer later t'night, so let's just get it ova wit', hah?"

Arnold relented. After all, Scarface wasn't one to take 'no' for an answer kindly, and at the moment, his own body was more vulnerable than he dared think about. With a reluctant "nngh..." through his teeth, he pulled up his shirt (just high enough to uncover what needed uncovering, though, no more) and spread his legs, letting the doll do what he may.

Scarface eyed the darkened wet spot where the nightshirt had been peeled away. "Heh heh. Sprung a leak already?" the doll said. "Good, den dis shouldn't take long." He began scuffing the satin-sleeved wood of his arms up and down the shaft... though Arnold's conflicted-sounding whimpers only seemed to annoy him. "Ahh, shaddup! If I hadn't'a showed up, ya prolly woulda messed dis up somehow, too," Scarface scolded him, squeezing his arms together for a jerk far rougher than necessary.

"Sorry," the Ventriloquist breathed.

"And quit cryin', will ya? Yer makin' it weird!"

Without another word, Arnold rolled onto his side and smeared his tears dry with his pillow. A few more tugs from Scarface's limp grip, and he came, mouthing a silent "I think I--" before curling and crying out as though the release pained him: "--uhh... uhhh--!!"

Scarface let his arms slide away. He uttered a low whistle at the gouts of slick white slime spat across the mattress. "Sheesh. Like watchin' a cork outta a freakin' bottle," he mumbled between the Ventriloquist's gasps for breath. "Lemme guess. Ya didn't bother rubbin' one out on yer own once since I been gone, have ya."

"It... it just feels-- dirty, if I... touch it..." wheezed Arnold.

The doll stared at him, lying there, blushing through a thin sheen of sweat... and moved Arnold's arm, hopping from his hip to the shirt-pooled crook of his waist. "Ya really are one pathetic sunnuva bitch," Scarface declared. "Yuh know dat, right?"

The blood on the Ventriloquist's cheek swept a thin red line down his pillow as he bowed his head. "Yes sir..." he replied.

"Al'rite den. So. Ya done now?"

Arnold kept panting at the wall. "Yes," he said. His body arched slightly, still coming down from his orgasm.

"Well good, cuz I gotta make some phone calls," Scarface said. He watched Arnold's fumbling attempts to sit up, and the weak, trembly topples back to the bed that followed. Sighing, he added, "An' if yer not yet, then stay put 'till yer ready t'get up 'n do somethin' useful fer once, got it?"

"Okay..." the Ventriloquist whispered. He wet his lips, shyly averting his eyes from the weight perched on his stomach. "Thank you, sir," he mumbled, sounding almost bashfully sated. "Y-you-- it felt really... really good..."

Scarface's squared shoulders jerked upwards and fell. "Ehh, whatta bruddahs for."

There was silence for a moment, save for the pull and fall of slow, uneven breaths. Then, the Ventriloquist's voice: "Mister Scarface...?"

"What?" the doll spat back.

Arnold's lip trembled. He bit down on it, then closed his eyes, trying to build up the courage to speak. "Would it be all right if... if maybe, I could-- hug you, sir?"

He lay there, half fearing the answer, only to hear Scarface's lackluster grumbling: "Ehh, why not."

"Thank you!" Arnold whispered, gathering the blue-suited bundle in his arms. He cradled Scarface close to his chest, nuzzling the small fedora hat with his chin. His arms were still jittery from the combination of happiness and fatigue, tensing and twitching around Scarface's body. "Thank you... so, so much." A pause... before a sniffle, and: "I really do l..luh... l... l-like you, a whole lot, Mist--"

Though the doll stayed motionless, the sigh that interrupted Arnold's stammering was the sort that would likely involve a roll of one's eyes. "I know what yer tryin'na say," Scarface said. "G'wan, spit it out. Might as well learn how. Mommy ain't gonna be hearin' ya no more, wherever she's at. Yer wit' me now, 'memba? Just you 'n me. An' I ain't gonna go psycho on ya just fer sayin' some stoopid word."

The Ventriloquist smiled. "I... I love you, Scarface," he said quietly, hugging the mobster doll closer.

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't go all mushy on me now, kapeesh? Unlike some folks, I still got my pride."

"Of course, sir."

The puppet and puppeteer stayed in their embrace until the Ventriloquist's breathing finally leveled to normal again. "Hey, meathead," Scarface prodded, prompting Arnold to stir clumsily towards the edge of the mattress. "Naw, stay put where yer at. Just wanna say, I been tinkin' fer a while, 'bout... y'know. Stuff."

"Like what, sir?" asked the Ventriloquist. The question was hushed, but the interest in Arnold's eyes gleamed from through his glasses.

"Well, if ya shut yer trap 'n quit interruptin' me, maybe I'll get 'round ta tellin' ya, huh, dummy?" Scarface said with cheery intimidation.

"Right, you're right. Oh-- I mean..." The Ventriloquist gave an obedient nod, leaning back to rest against his pillow.

"Dat's better. So anyways, like I was sayin'. Ya know dat diary dey told yuh t' keep writin' in once in a while, since ya got outta duh looney bin?"

Silently, Arnold nodded.

"Wasn't too smart a' ya ta leave it out'n'a open widdout a lock or nothin', was it?"

The Ventriloquist paused, then frowned, shaking his head.

"So I was doin' some catch-up work from while I was out, y'see. An' I got t' da part from a couple a' months ago, where dey started givin' ya dose one kinda pills so's ya could get some sleep wit'out gettin' nightmares all'a time, and... uh..." Scarface stopped for a moment. "I didn't nevva see much a' Mom, y'know. Got duh evva-lovin' shit beat outta me by Dad 'n haffa da family a buncha times, sure, but... ehh, dat was before I finally got outta dis asspile ya got da noive t' call a body. I knew she went kinda loopy afta one'a da uddah city dons kidnapped ya-- hell, happened a cupple a' times, dinnit?-- but I nevva knew Ma did... y'know. All dat t'ya."

The doll went quiet again. If such a trait could even be found in his temperament, Arnold would've sworn Scarface sounded awkward when he finally spoke. "Shouldn't still be feelin' guilty ova how ya'd actually be gettin' off from it, d'ough. Ya got enuff ta feel lousy about already-- dere's no way y'coulda known what was goin' on back den. An' ya know Ma, once she crawled 'erself inta duh bottle dose last few years... If somethin' was right or wrong, wait ten seconds 'n it'd all change." He snorted. "Guess I kin unnerstand how ya turned out t' be da freak, outta us two. 'Tween her 'n Dad, havin' Mom spect ya t' be duh perfect son woulda been hard enuff ta grow up wit' even if da rules didn't keep jumpin' around... No wonder yer hair was goin' white 'fore ya was old enuff t' drink."

Still feeling overwhelmed to hear validation coming from Scarface, Arnold couldn't help chuckling at his last remark. "Yeah..."

"Kinda makes sense how ya'd end up likin' dolls 'n stuff more'n people, too, when I was tinkin' bout it. Dey don't never talk back, dey don't hurt ya none, dey don't break no promises..." Scarface paused to give a short humph. "I still tink yer nuts, but ev'ry family needs a runt. An' ours only got half a' one, wit' you. No fair always beatin' on somebody who was just born ta be a runt, ain't dat right?"

The Ventriloquist hesitated, unsure what his answer was supposed to be. "I guess so," he said.

"Damn right I'm right!" replied the doll. "So what I'm tryin'na say is... I'm gonna let ya keep dat fake hand a' yers. Fer now, at least, got it?" Scarface added, a threatening edge creeping into his voice. "Just z'long as ya make sure yuh never let'cha self forget who's in charge a' who here. Maybe you can't squash a freakin' fly wit'out bawlin', but duh first thing I evva seen was some mug gettin' his whole face blown off, ya get me? If it weren't fer me, ya'd still be curled up inna corner whinin' how Mommy wasn't comin' home-- if Dad didn't get da sense t' send ya floatin' in Gottam City Harbor by den 'n put yuh outta yer misery! Ya 'memba back when ya was seven, 'n Cousin Leon gotta bunch'a duh uddah cousins t' hold ya down so's he 'n dem could all spit on ya? Callin' ya limp-wrists 'n faggot, 'n all dat, 'till ya passed out?"

"...Yes," Arnold said, paling slightly.

"An' when ya woke up, dey was drivin' off Cousin Leon inna ambulance wit' a busted nose 'n both his arms stickin' sideways, an' nobody evva picked on ya afta dat?"

"Yes..."

"Who ya tink did dat, dummy? You?!"

"No sir."

"An' while you was busy tryin'a find hidin' spots, I was havin' Uncle Vinny teach me how t' use a gun. Readin' up on how I could carve a way outta ya, too. I know dis stuff, see? I coulda gone places! Hell, coulda been sittin' at duh head'a da family sindicate fer years now-- s'not like anyone else runnin' it now'days knows deir ass from a hole inna ground! But nooooo, freakin' Batman 'n da rest a' dose bastards in duh law force gotta come 'n save da borin' one when I try gettin' back in my proppa place, just 'cause you ain't nevva had da sense t' jump ship from yer sorry meatsack! Gotta help ya keep doin' nuttin with' both our lives."

Scarface jerked an arm out towards the room, scoffing. "I mean, lookit dis dump! Dis is da best ya kin do wit' a whole year?! Sittin' here inna brick shit-shack, one step up from a cardboard box, all alone, poundin' off t' a buncha broke furnit'cha 'cause nobody else in deir right minds're gonna do it for yuh? Ya wanna try tellin' me dat's what ya WANT outta life? Face it, dummy. Yer nuthin' wit'out me." The doll lifted one hand to drum the ridge of his palm against Arnold's chest, tapping with the words. "Nut. Tin. Ya got dat? Cuz ya betta 'memba it good from now on. Yer MINE!"

"Yes sir," Arnold said meekly.

"So, ya gonna hand it ova nice 'n easy dis time, or am I gonna hafta do some push 'n shove tuh get back at da steerin' wheel again? 'Cuz oh, I can, y'know. Hell, s'gonna be a piece a' cake now. How'd dat bit ya wrote about yer nightmares go again...?" Before Arnold could answer, Scarface continued, his words arching into a shrill falsetto: "Whassa matter, Arnie? I promise nuttin's gonna happen."

The Ventriloquist's body went rigid. "...was just a bad dream, it wasn'... Please don't-- no..."

"You kin trust yer Mommy, right?"

Arnold shivered. After the third try, his voice finally obeyed him. "Sh-she was... didn't smell right. She'd been drinking!" he protested, closing his eyes tight. "Mother wouldn't've-- It wasn't her fault...!"

"Right, Arnie?" The doll's voice drawled on like a cobra's stare.

"...please...!"

"What's the matter, Arnie?"

He looked up at his mother through short, water-slicked bangs.

She stared back from the other end of the motel bathtub. She didn't seem to notice all her clothes were still on, just hunkered down to join him in the bath... He eyed the big glass bottle she grasped in one hand as a dog would shy from a veterinarian's needle.

"Sorry, I... you were really mad at me after, yesterday," he said quietly. "I don't wan--"

"Oh... Mommy wasn't feeling well yesterday, honey," she interrupted. "I promise nothing's gonna happen tonight." She smiled a lopsided smile at his silence, her voice gaining a dangerous edge. "You trust Mommy, don't you?"

"Yes ma'am."

"That's a good boy." She grinned, even as her mascara began to draw inhuman lines down her face, chasing her tears. "Such a good, good boy... You're the only good one left, aren't you!"

He watched the sobs wrack her body, feeling more helpless than he had in a long time. "Mother...?"

"Y-you know what he said, Arnie? When we got the ransom note? He said this time they could keep you!" she blubbered, dropping the hand not clutching the bottle into the water with a limp smack. "I had to beg and plead with him for DAYS just to get you back... Just 'cause you're not gonna join the family business, get turned into a killer-- God, Arnie, I'm so scared they're gonna steal you, make you one of 'em! That's why we had to leave-- I swear, I'll DIE before I let them take you away from me...!" Her arms swished out to grab for the sides of his face. "Promise me you won't ever join the family, Arnie! You promise me!"

"I promise I won't!" he said, as obediently as all the other times he'd been asked the same question. She asked it so often lately, since she'd taken him with her for a "vacation." They left right before he turned ten. Mother had promised him a big birthday party, but even when the day came and went without a hint of fanfare, he figured something was wrong when their vacation turned out to be spent moving from one hidden-away motel to another. The rooms they stayed in were getting even more dingy and scary as the weeks went on, though he didn't question Mother's plans. She'd always been the only one of his relatives who stood up for him. If she said this vacation was for his own good, she couldn't be lying...

"Such a good boy, Arnie. You're so nice... Nice and-- and pretty..." Mother snuffed her nose wetly and brushed his bangs to the side, staring at him with hollow eyes. The bottle fell from her grip.

As her hand kept stroking down his face, he watched the tendrils of a bourbon-brown cloud belch from the glass into the dim film of soap suds and water. "How'd something so darn pretty come out of a bastard like your father, huh?" he heard her say. When her hands disappeared into the murk around them, he didn't move. "Come on, now, Mommy'll help you get all nice and clean."

His eyes widened, then darted away from where her fingers were exploring, looking at the tainted water instead. "But it's not--"

"Good boys don't interrupt," she snapped.

"Yes ma'am..." he said, and fell silent.

Arnold's breathing huffed and stammered, hyperventilating himself into a panic. Every bit of him was trying to forget, but his mind was fading to the eerie silence of a deer staring into a train's headlights; he felt ghostly fingertips prying into the mouldering, forgotten crevices in his brain, plucking and tearing at long-crusted scabs as they slithered down deeper than even Arkham's doctors had managed to reach. He knew what came next, but he couldn't do a single thing to stop it from being dragged out from the bog of dead memories to writhe before his eyes all over again.

From the outside world, he could hear Scarface's falsetto become a screech. "Why'd ya make me do it?"

His glasses were cracked and askew on his face.

"Why, huh?"

"WHY?!"

There was blood swimming into his eyes from where angry fingernail swipes had sliced his forehead, but he didn't dare cry out loud.

"What the hell is WRONG with you?! Boys aren't supposed to DO that with their MOTHERS!"

Mother reeked of the same bitter stuff she had been drinking earlier. He was in the bed she demanded they both sleep in since she helped him take a bath three nights and two motels ago-- he'd been trying to read, and then she'd come back to their room and the screaming started and the swatting and hitting and now Mother was strangling him. He didn't know how, but if Mother said what they'd been doing in bed at night lately was all his fault, then it must be... He felt like he was going to throw up.

She looked like a fuzzy, blackened blur through the blood. It was easier not to see her, but there was no way he could hide from the thick-tongued screech of her voice. "You disGUSTing-- FILthy little pile of-- Why'd you make me do it?! WHY?!"

She let go of his throat long enough for him to try talking to her, though his voice was broken and hoarse. Almost like it wasn't really his. "M'sorry...! Please... Mother, I'm SORRY!"

Another smack. "Stupid BRAT! You call a lady MA'AM like you're SUPPOSED to!"

"...sorry ma'am...!"

"SHUT UP! Just-- GOD, you're pathetic!"

It was true. He knew it had to be true, because Mother was the only one he had ever known who'd never, ever lied to him...

"Hey. Hey-- yo, Earth ta Dummy! Snap outta it!"

And with that guiding shout, the Ventriloquist found himself back in the present-- shuddering on the mattress, covered in slime-cold sweat, a mixture of tears and watered-down snot drizzling dark blotches onto the fuzzy yellow collar of his nightshirt. He heard Scarface chuckling smugly from the blur still resting in his arms. "Wow, I gotta read dat diary a' yers more offen... I'm gonna 'memba dat line!"

"D-didn't have to, to, do... was gonna let you, wi..without a fight...!" Arnold choked out through his sticky sobs. "Why did...?"

"Just testin' out da new leash, bright eyes. Wouldn't'a been da first time yuh woulda tried somethin' stupid if'n I didn't know how t' stop ya. Now c'mon, quit yer bellyachin' an' get movin'. Ya got a change a' clothes waitin' for ya."

"Yes sir," Arnold whispered, keeping his head bowed as he set down the doll and shuffled his way to the closet.

"An' close duh damn door when yer gettin' dressed, will ya? I seen enuff a' yer junk t'night!"

The door swept shut without making a sound.

---

"Dat's betta!" the doll's voice beamed, once the Ventriloquist stepped through the doorway in his signature suit a short time later. "Yuh look like a millyun bucks. Well, maybe a buck twenny'five... but who's countin', huh?"

"Heh... Thank you, Mister Scarface." Arnold smiled shyly, picking his bow tie into place.

"Quit blushin', yuh sicko. Just sayin' I ain't gonna upchuck from lookin' at ya too long, get me? Sheesh, ain't like we're goin' on a date. Now pick me up 'n let's getta move on!"

The Ventriloquist obeyed, slipping his hand into the ever-familiar carriage carved within Scarface's back. Nestling the doll against his other arm, Arnold stood from the bed and felt his own body begin walking towards the phone. It was such an odd sensation, having Scarface take control... watching mutely as the directions tying together his mind and his movements dissolved, pulled instead by another's strings. There was a milling, skittish dread hovering over Arnold's thoughts, like crows gathered near a busy freeway-- knowing that it was no longer a question of if another blood-soaked catastrophe might unfold before his weary eyes, but when.

Yet there was an undeniable feeling of comfort as well, of enveloping safety, knowing his steps were guided by a more capable mind-- no, a mastermind... and yes, Arnold had to admit, he felt more than a little excitement stirring inside him. Curiosity. As the Ventriloquist, Arnold was granted a front-row spectator's seat to adventures the law-abiding citizens of Gotham dared only daydream about. How many people toiling away at their nine-to-five jobs could say they were witnesses to games of cat and mouse with the City's police, or front-page thefts of treasures Arnold would've never otherwise even known the names of, on a regular basis? Each time he served as Scarface's set of lungs and feet, another new chain of surprises would be revealed, piece by piece. As violent and terrifying as they usually were, Scarface's plots were certainly never boring, Arnold thought, listening to the ch-chk~whrrrr... chh-chk~whrrrr... of the dial phone his fingers were spinning numbers into.

"Rhino. You alone?" Scarface demanded. He moved Arnold's hand to brace his own against the receiver.

The man at the other end appeared to have no sense of volume when excited, Arnold noted, hearing the "Boss! It-- it's YOU!" through the receiver as clearly as Scarface's own voice. That was Rhino, all right.

"Ay, long time no see. Lissen up, I gotta job for yuh. A lil'... get-togedda before da big reun'iun, less' call it."

"I'm on it, boss. Where 'n when?"

"Atta boy. Always dere fer a guy, ain't ya? Get Mugsy 'n a car 'round ta... lemme see, where da hell is dis place, anyhow? Oh, yeah-- duh ole Kane buildin', down on Sout' Tenth street. We gonna be goin' ta..." Scarface paused, sending Arnold's hand fishing for a faded pink business card stuck deep inside his jacket pocket. "Lilli's... boo, tee, kyoo," he read off...

"Boutique," Arnold said numbly.

"Hang on a sec," Scarface said to the phone, then jerked his head towards Arnold in a full half-circle swoop. "Pipe down, genius. Ya tink I dun' know dat?"

The Ventriloquist sputtered nervously. "No, sir, no! I'm just saying, it's pronounced--"

"I know how it's prun'ounced. You tink Rhino knows dat?!" the doll hissed, then swiveled his attention back to the phone. "Where was I. Yeah, Lilli's Boo-tee-kyoo. Middle a' Walker 'n Dowell Street, big froo-froo umbrella sign hangin' ova da place." He paused for a moment. "Yuh writin' all dis down?"

"Yeah, boss!" came the quick reply.

"Well quit it, ya idiot! Ya wanna set up a pile a' evidence all nice 'n tidy fer duh fuzz ta find while yer at it, hah?"

There was a long pause. "Oh! Oh, uh... no, boss, no way!"

"Dat's my Rhino. Quick as evva," Scarface said to the Ventriloquist under his breath, then spoke up once more. "Fuhgeddabouddit fer now, okay? Lucky fer all'a us, I don't keep ya 'round fer yer brains. Just make sure Mugsy sees it before ya take off, else neidder a' ya'll end up in duh right spot. Ya got two hours t' bring a car by here so's Mugsy 'n yuh kin pick me 'n da dummy up, 'n we'll head fer da boo-tee-kyoo from dere. An' make sure t' take along stuff we kin, uh... toast some marshmallas wit', both a' ya. Gonna have ourselves a nice big cookout t'night, if yuh catch my drift. Got all dat?"

"Got it!" Rhino bellowed back.

"See, dere, I knew I could count on ya. See yuh soon, big guy."

The Ventriloquist's hand fidgeted anxiously as soon as Scarface was done using it to hang up the phone. "Sir...?" he tried, fearing another violent rebuke. "Please-- I don't care what else you do, but just please promise me you won't kill her!"

Featureless as it was, the dead-on stare the doll shot Arnold's way could be read as nothing else but a glare of contempt. "Yuh been listenin' ta a word I said t'night? Nobody's ever kept a promise dey gave ya! Not Mom, not duh rest a' da family-- not a freakin' one!" Scarface shouted. He tapped his forehead with a carved hand, crumpling the brim of his hat. "I know better'n dat, see? I ain't never makin' ya no promises, dummy. Should tank me sometime."

Arnold's eyebrows sank behind the rim of his glasses as his gaze drooped to the floor. "Of course... thank you, Mister Scarface," he said quietly, feeling anything but reassured.

---

Whoever the shadowy figures standing outside the front door were, they sure were persistent, Dolly thought. Again, she glanced over to where the silent alarm switch was hidden behind the register counter-- and winced, hearing the door rattle in place from the sheer force of the person knocking it. "We're closed!" she shouted, wielding a whisk-broom and dustpan like a dull plastic shield.

Dolly could hear low muttering from outside; she edged slowly towards the back of the shop, towards the counter...

There was a blur of motion from through the door's frosted glass, a bone-jarring SNOPT-- and the doorknob snapped clean off, fist-cleaved in two from the other side. A booted foot slammed the entryway clear, leaving the door teetering on ruined hinges. The automatic chime dragged out a death-rattle of a beebonnnn, then clattered from the doorframe onto the floor, squawking to silence. "Sorry, lady, dis ain't no Avon callin'!" one of the robbers shouted.

Dolly dove behind the register and tripped the alarm without a second thought. She stayed put, huddling there against the corner wall, and listened to the patter of footsteps weaving this way and that through the shop racks. "Heeeere, kitty-kitty-kitty!" the same person cajoled. Why did that voice sound so familiar...?

"I dunno, boss... You think she's still here?" a second person piped up.

"I know she is, yuh idiot. Took 'im long enuff, but Dummy 'ere gave me duh scoop on how dis place works. She's in here, all right... Maybe we oughtta try smokin' da dame out, eh, fellas?"

"Ehh-heheh! You got it! Rhino, hand me one'a those gas cans, will y--"

A third voice cut in, rumbling lower than either of the others. "Hey! Don't go sayin' my name like that, Mugsy! You want the cops t'hear it if there's stuff in here tapin' us or somethin'?"

A pause. "Well then why'd ya say my name for?!"

"Both a' ya, shaddap 'n get ta pourin' already!" snapped the first. "Once ya got da place good 'n soaked, go 'head 'n try duh regista'. Any cash yuh find, ya can keep... don't say I nevva did nuttin fer ya. I got bizness'a my own t' take care of."

Dolly nearly jumped from her hiding place at the burst of gunfire splintering the air. There was a heavy thud-- something toppling to the floor, it sounded like. "Dat's one down. How ya likin' dis, hah, dummy? Still gettin' ya all hot 'n boddered when dey got airholes in'eir heads?"

"...no sir..."

Arnie! Oh, no--! She raised her head the slightest bit to look over the counter, trying to spy where they were keeping him--

"BOSS! I found 'er!" a sweatered giant of a man shouted through his ski mask, dropping his gasoline canister in surprise.

Dolly bolted for the back rooms as fast as her feet could scramble, but it was no use. In two strides, Rhino reached the counter and grabbed her, his gloved hands engulfing her wrists like brick-solid twin hams. "Let me go!" she hollered to the intruders. "What've you bastards done with Ar--"

"Whoa-hoh! Feisty one, ain't she, boys?" that mysterious voice interrupted. Another spray of bullets served as his punctuation. "Two down, tree ta go!"

Three...? Dolly took silent stock of the store; by now, it was half-covered by a stinking veil of unleaded that a skinnier, similarly-masked man was adding to even as she watched. There was a headless pile of plaster knocked against the far wall, and another lying where a third person in a black suit was hunched over, back behind a rack of Hawaiian shirts... Two store dummies were still standing. What was the robber talking about, he couldn't mean--

The man in black stood up.

"...Arnie?"

Dolly blinked, trying to clear the sight in front of her to something that made sense. "Arnie, what's going on? What's that-- that thing..."

The wooden doll in Arnold's arms snapped its head back in what she could swear seemed like disgust, cutting in with a furious "Ey, 'ey! Watch who yer callin' a ting, lady! Dis ain't no toy, ya know!" The puppet waved the tommy gun fixed in its right hand, sputtering a hole through the nearest standing mannequin's head to prove its point. "Careful ya don't get me angry, see? Big gun like dis, just might go off in yer face early. An' we wouldn't want dat."

Its head swiveled to face the skinnier robber, giving Dolly a view of the angry-looking gash carved into the doll's left cheek. "Y'hear dat, boys? S'one a' dose dubble-ont-ondray tings! Get it?"

"Ohh...! Hey, boss, you're right!" the giant said after a short pause. "Heh. Heh, heh. Big gun."

Arnold finally lifted his head high enough to quiver out a tiny "D-dolly? Oh, god, Dolly-- I know this looks bad, but he's not me!" to the stricken woman. "You've gotta believe me, I didn't want any of this!"

His voice shifted to become sinister, something other, with such speed that it was a feat for Dolly to recognize both came from the same throat. "Quit it wit' da whinin' already! Duzzin' matta if ya want it or not, she's gonna get whacked eitha' way! Dat's duh point!" Scarface said, walking the Ventriloquist's body to where Rhino had Dolly pinned in place. The doll's lower jaw clicked against the top, forming an eerie, gleeful grin. "Gotta hand it to ya, d'ough, dummy. Yuh ain't got half bad taste in wimmin, if she's da one ya might'a had a chance wit'. Wouldn't mind takin' a dive inta dat rack!"

"Sir! Don't say that... She's a nice lady!" Arnold pleaded. A fresh coat of sweat beaded upon his forehead in embarrassment.

His body jerked suddenly, as if the movement came as a surprise to him. One off-balance attempt at a roundhouse kick later, the Ventriloquist was grinding the neck of the last store dummy under his heel, stamping on it over and over, like a toddler lost in a tantrum. "I... do... what... I... WANT!" the doll's voice yelled with each of Arnold's stomps. "You had yer turn! Don't tink ya kin go 'n start tellin' me what ta do or so help me both a' youse loveboids're gonna be drawin' flies t'night! Got dat?!"

Stony silence.

"Didn't even bodder sayin' please or nuttin. I see. I get ya now," said Scarface, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Now dat's low. An' afta I went 'n let ya keep dat hand fer yerself... All dis time, you was ballin' dis chick behind my back. I'm speech'liss."

The Ventriloquist gasped, his lone hand darting to cover his mouth. "Sir! NO! I swear, it's not like that, I'd never--"

"Den why's she callin' yer place?! Pretty damn chummy ta me, yuh slippery li'l--"

"Please, Mister Scarface, I'm tellin' ya, I told you everything! I worked here, I never touched her, I--"

"PROVE IT!" roared the doll.

Arnold sputtered for a moment, then paused, trying to figure out any hope of a proper response. "...How?"

Scarface slumped his shoulders. "Fine. Maybe ya ain't slippin' her one in da sack. Duzzin' matta. Yer attached to her, 'n dat's bad enuff! Yuh'd tink I wouldn't hafta keep tellin' ya by now... I'm da only good ting dat evva happened to ya, dummy! Anyone's gonna decide what's good for yuh, it's not you, s'not her, it's gonna be ME!"

Dolly knew she should be fearing for her life right about now, but the scene playing out before her was bizarre enough to leave her wondering when the men would draw back to reveal the hidden camera and share a merry laugh at her expense. In all the movies she had seen, this was when the heroine would harness her willpower and kick her would-be attackers' butts. Instead, the only thing Dolly felt rising inside her was helplessness. It wasn't fair-- all she could do was wriggle her arms behind her back from within the giant's stone fists, and stare, even as Arnold's doll turned its attention back to her. "Saay. I got a kooky idea," it said, grinning once more.

The smaller masked man stopped flip-counting through the register's meager pile of bills momentarily. "Yeah? What's that, boss?" Mugsy asked.

"So I'm tinkin', Dummy tinks he can give da orders 'round here, right? An' even if he ain't got da stones ta do anythin' about it, guess he's got hot nuts fer dis dame, right?" Scarface spun his head to lock eyes with the Ventriloquist. "Why don't I help ya take a lil' taste a' yer own, fer once? Hell, I kin have ya do 'er right here! How'za 'bout it? You boys wanna see a floor show?"

The Ventriloquist paled to a sick, deathly white, his teeth nearly chattering in terror at the very thought. "PLEASE NO! God no-- Mister Scarface please I'm sorry I'll do anything just not that oh please--" Is he kidding?! I can't tell if he's kidding...!!

"Calm down already. Was just a t'aught," Scarface said cooly. "Knowin' you, ya'd prolly nevva get it up fer somethin' wit' a pulse anyhow, ain't I right?"

"Yes, sir!" Arnold panted between relieved gasps, scarcely hearing anything past those beautiful words 'just a thought'.

Ignoring Mugsy's snickering, Scarface used his host's foot to snap the neck of the mannequin still sprawled on the floor. "See, boys, even Dummy's got a lick a' sense once inna while. A' course, if he's dat scared about 'er skirts gettin' soggy, s'a good ting he won't hafta worry 'bout her no more." He walked the Ventriloquist's body up to face Dolly, then planted his own gun upon her forehead.

"Dolly I'm so sorry...!" whimpered Arnold, and turned his head to the side, his tears still sliding down his face. He couldn't bear to watch.

"Look, lady, nuthin' personal. I just gotta make sure dis idiot ain't gonna get no funny ideas. Can't afford ta keep around competition, see?"

As if in response, a Batarang sliced through the air, snapping off the barrel of Scarface's tommygun in one clean swipe.

"Boss! It's the Bat!!"

"I got eyes, Mugsy!"

The Dark Knight swooped from the shadows above them, his cape trailing down like the ink-black shroud of the Reaper himself. Faster than the puppeteer could hope to move, Batman wrenched the arm holding what was left of Scarface's gun out from its socket. "Nothing personal," he said, dropping the arm to the floor with a wooden clatter.

The Ventriloquist shrank behind Scarface in a panic, but the mobster doll was adamant, raising Arnold's arm to face Batman eye to cowl-masked eye. "Back off, Bats! Dis all's private bizness-- 'tween me 'n da dummy 'ere, got it?"

"I beg to differ," Batman replied. He crossed his arms, standing in front of Dolly like a muscled iron gate. "I'm willing to bet she does, too."

Scarface growled; his jaw shifted to angrily grit his teeth. "Rhino! Torch dese mooks!" he shouted.

With a simple flick-and-toss sweep of the goon's gigantic hand, the shop's floor was kissed by a flaming match. Scarface's gang scattered into the night, leaving the walls around them to explode in a tidal wave of fire. Dolly could hear the shot of Batman's grappling-hook gun only as a dim popping noise; when he yelled to "hold on," she did so, latching onto the black armored rubber as his cape swirled around them both. There was a rush of wind, a burst of heat that faded almost instantly--

...and the merciful darkness of a faint closed over Dolly's eyes at last.

---

The column of charcoal-colored smoke could be seen flaring into the skyline for miles, even from the back window of its creators' getaway car. While his two top goons sat up front, weaving an escape through Gotham's maze of filthy alley byroads, Scarface lounged atop the Ventriloquist's legs in the back seat, watching the city streak past him. "Too bad we gotta run. Wouldn't mind findin' out what barbecued bat tastes like!" he said, his jaws clacking as he chuckled.

Ignoring the volley of "Yeah!" and "You got it, boss!" coming from the front seats, Scarface turned to fix the Ventriloquist with the best attempt at a glare his painted-on pupils could manage. "Sheesh, dummy, yer even more quiet 'n usual!" he muttered. "Ya better not be mopin' ova dat dame, or I swear, I'm gonna--"

"Oh, no, Mister Scarface." Arnold gave the doll a small, reassuring smile, then looked down to rummage through the car's first aid kit once more. "Don't worry, I'm not going to miss her."

"Really now? What brought dis on, hah?"

"Nothing, sir," the Ventriloquist replied, carefully fixing a bandage over the hole where Scarface's arm had been. His worries alleviated, he rested his head against the silky seat cushioning, gazing through tinted windows at the streetlights blurring by. "I guess I've just been thinking, too. You know. About... things."

"Cute. Real cute. I'm gonna toss my sawdust, 'ere... Hey Mugsy, take a right at dat stoplight up ahead, will ya?" Raising Arnold's hand to brace his remaining one, Scarface tugged a small spiral-bound notepad from the Ventriloquist's jacket pocket and flipped past a few pages. He leaned forward to pass it to Rhino. "I got a nice lil' rabbit hole set up fer us 'n da gang at dis here address. Gonna be a shippin' crew movin' in dere afta 'round a month r'so, but should be a good spot t' dump off da emeralds from da heist I got set up fer next Tuesday, too."

Arnold listened to the doll describe his plans, idly watching his own hand move to point out this or that minutiae written on page after scribble-written page. He wondered how long it took Scarface to think up all the details for his ideas. It must be rough to be so smart, Arnold thought. I guess that's just something I'll never know.

But it was better this way, he decided. To be lucky enough to have Scarface stay with him-- protecting him, sticking up for him, all those things Arnold couldn't possibly hope to achieve on his own-- giving up the use of his body was a small price to pay. The Ventriloquist indulged in a grin, a sappy hint at the peace rising from deep within him. Just the two of them together, Scarface and himself... The people Arnold loved always died in the end, but no matter how many times his doll's body was destroyed, Scarface would still be there for him.

Forever and ever...

---

As the last of the fire trucks were pulling away from the curb, Harvey Bullock snapped his case notebook shut and returned it to the sea of pockets within his trenchcoat. He leaned back against the police car he'd arrived in, fumbling for the thermos he held under one arm. "Well, thanks again for helpin' us out, ma'am. You want some coffee or somethin'?" he offered, carefully failing to mention the box of donuts waiting in the passenger seat.

"Darlin', I sure could use some right now. Thanks," Dolly said. She smiled weakly as he handed her the top-cover cup, steaming to the brim... though when Bullock proceeded to chug the rest straight from the thermos with alarmingly loud smacks of his lips, her smile faded somewhat.

"Any news, Detective?"

Harvey stopped slurping his coffee and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Nothin' ya probably didn't already figure out," he said, nodding an acknowledgment to his superior as Commissioner Gordon walked up to them. "S'definitely that puppet wacko on the loose again."

"Arnold."

Bullock raised an eyebrow at Dolly. "Huh?"

"His name is Arnold..." she repeated, staring into her coffee.

"Uh. Right," Bullock said. He looked off to the side, giving Gordon a split-second can you believe this one? eye-bulge. "Beg pardon, Miz Lilli. S'just that this guy's a real slimeball, from what we seen of 'im in the past. I'm sorry y'had to get mixed up in this whole mess."

Dolly sipped from the thermos cap, then started chuckling quietly. "I guess, I don't..." she began, her fatigue dampening her voice. "I don't know what to think. I had no idea, about anything... All I could think about, even when it was happening-- I mailed my insurance payment for the place off two days ago, and I remember saying to myself, why do I keep sending this out when nothing ever happens here? Isn't that funny...?"

Bullock frowned at her sympathetically, then turned to the Commissioner. "Gotta be one easy life that fella's got, huh? Anything he does, it ain't ever his fault, nah-- the puppet did it, not him. Wish I had that kinda excuse sometimes." He cast a quick glance to Dolly, but she said nothing, merely keeping up her staredown with the coffee.

"I wish the crooks in this town were ever that easy to understand," Gordon said solemnly. He paused, then asked, "Sure you wouldn't care for a donut, Mrs. Lilli? It's not much, but... well, you've been through a lot tonight," he added, ignoring the silent death-glare Detective Bullock was sending his way.

"No, that's all right. I'm just gonna have to rebuild some things, that's all," Dolly murmured. "A whole lot of things..."

Gordon nodded, then walked from the curb back to the crime scene. He shook his head, scratching a hand through his hair as he surveyed the cinders of Lilly's Boutique through its new netting of police tape. "I just don't get it," he said, turning to shrug at Batman's brooding form in the shadows nearby. "With all the schemes he's capable of pulling off, why on Earth would Scarface choose a place like this? Guess he's even crazier than we took him for."

"Maybe," Batman said. "Then again, maybe not." He looked down at the broken mannequins, their ghost-white fingers reaching up through the rubble. "Insanity has a way of creating logic all its own, Commissioner... and jealousy is no exception."


-fin-

Back to Fanfiction