A Long Night

The rain was pouring, causing annoying pitter patters on the ninety-eight-dollar-rent apartment building. One of it's attendants was a mid twenties blonde woman named Harleen Quinzel.
She didn't mind the rain, as she was a born-and-raised Gothamite: and it always rained in Gotham. However, the dreary weather made the girl feel extra dreary that day upon opening a long awaited response letter from Arkham Asylum.
She wanted to be a psychiatrist; but it seemed like no company would take her.
"Thank you for your interest in Arkham, but we regret to inform you....." Harleen muttered to herself as she read over the piece of white paper the millionth time. It was ridiculous. She knew that she could get accepted one day! Unfortunately not today....
And unfortunately no one seemed to think that she had any talent in healing the mentally ill.
Harleen frowned to herself but then rolled her eyes; who needs that? She already had a good paying job.
And speaking of: she was going to be late.

"Margie, I'm here!" Harleen announced, slipping through the back door of her workplace. She shook off her black umbrella and took off her coat to hang on the golden racks on the wall.

"You're late again." The other woman responded with a frown, walking into the room and past all the other girls who were fussing over their makeup.

"Well, I got rejected again." Harleen sighed but quickly changed her clothes into a red bra and matching panties, in which she covered up with a semi-see-through red dress.

Margie shook her head. "Those damn hypocrites. Don't know real talent when they see it."

"Whatever. I'm glad I've got this job. I'm glad I've got you and the girls."

A red head suddenly turned around in her chair from her makeup booth and smirked at Harleen. "Fuck yeah, Harley. You love us. And we love you."

Harleen blushed and blew a kiss to her friend. "Of course Pamela."

"C'mon, c'mon I think you're on in a few minutes." Margie suddenly shooed at Harleen to go to the stage.
She worked at Gotham's finest strip club. But she wasn't ashamed. If anything, it made her more confident about herself. And besides, she was one of the girls who simply sang, danced, and waitressed, nothing more– she was treated nicely there.
However, Friday nights were always the worst; with Gotham's toughest and grimiest. And so were Monday's.
But Saturday's were the best; all of Gotham's wealthiest came; silver foxes, classy men. Men who just wanted to be men after a hard day of business. Not like that criminal group.
Luckily, it was Saturday night again.
As Harleen strode on stage, she received whistles and cat calls— surrounded by men in suits. "Hello boys..!" She grinned a red lipped smile.
As she sang to them, she'd always admire their double to triple digit gold around their fingers and wrists— they really were classy.

"Here ya go Mr. Black Mask, sir." Harleen set down a square glass of bourbon on the table for one of Gotham's most feared mob bosses.
The man was deranged obviously— one of the city's theatrical characters; he wore a skull mask.
Harleen had always wondered why the skull mask, and wanted to desperately pick his brain about it (it was the psychiatrist in her), but obviously she couldn't do that.
He was a criminal— like all the rest of them. But they were criminals with class.
And as long as they played nice, Harleen didn't mind.
"Thanks, doll-face." Black Mask replied gruffly.
Harleen smiled and turned to waitress another table that was in need, but something (or rather someone) caught her eye.
He was surrounded by an entourage of bodyguards, but you could clearly see him from a mile away. His hair was a toxic green, and his skin was pale– littered with gang tattoos. He wore a white tux blouse with a loosened black tie, and a purple crocodile skinned trench coat sitting upon his shoulders.
He was incredible to look at; so different, so dangerous.
Harleen knew who exactly he was.
He was The Joker.
He was the worst of the worst; his wealth was dirty and the blood was stained permanently on his hands.
He was the definition of criminal.
Suddenly, there was a rude whistle- causing Harleen to jump and come back to reality. It was her other customers.
The man calling her was growing angry from the wait and held his empty glass in the air.
Breaking her gaze from the madman gangster, Harleen ran over to the other table to assist them, apologizing profusely.