Paper Planes

IV

"Mishaps are like knives, that either serve us or cut us, as we grasp them by the blade or the handle."
—James Russell Lowell

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Two days.

Ember's sat couped up in the Joker's hideway for a solid two days.

Bleaker had confiscated her cell phone several hours after the bosses generous action of sparing the womans life. They didn't need anyone tracking her or her contacting anyone, so he was ordered to destroy it off the property, to Ember's absolute horror.

The Joker sat in the kitchen, his ass planted firmly on the wilted wooden bar stool as he twisted a freshly sharpened knife between his white and red stained fingers, the clean blade sparkling slightly from the artificial lighting of the room.

His lanky legs lay across the cracked countertop, the toe of his boot toying with a half-full bottle of dark discarded dip as he drifted into a bit of a trance.

"Orders, boss?" Horton wondered, cracking his bruised knuckles together as he wandered aimlessly into the kitchen.

"It's been fifty hours since I escaped, Horton. Do you really expec-t me to have a plan?"

Horton watched intently as his boss spoke. The man was always quite theatrical, even in his speech. The way he clicked his tongue when he spat out his "t's", as well as the amusing way his scars broadened when he spoke the word "plan".

The man forced himself to pry his gaze from the Joker, his shameful feelings coming to light about the painted-face man that lounged before him.

The Joker rose an eyebrow, his thumb pressing harshly against the tip of the blade as he purposely drew a bit of blood. He was infatuated with the sight of the liquid, and he watched intently as it dribbled down the flesh of his finger.

"Wha-t?" He barked, his eyes concentrating on the henchmen as he shifted his weight from one foot to another.

"N-Nothing, sir." Horton stammered, clearing his throat fumblingly.

I'm completely attracted to you.

Joker swung his legs off of the counter, snapping the blade back into place as he shoved it into his coat pocket.

"Horty-Hort-Horton," Joker sang, kicking the stool out from underneath him. Horton flinched as the wood collided shrilly with the cracked tile floor. "There is something you could do for me, act-u-a-lly." He enunciated, the single stream of blood from the tip of his finger sitting neatly upon his flesh as he held it upwards, as if he was giving the man a "thumbs up".

"As you can-uh, see, my hairs grown out a bi-t. Would you be a doll and fetch me some gr-een dye and a pack of cigs?"

He slowly approached Horton, standing an arms length apart as he glared menacingly into the henchmans eyes.

Horton visibly gulped, a feeling of discomfort setting in him at the close proximity of the man he'd grown to truly admire.

"Absolutely, sir." He stammered, his breath hitching in his throat when the Joker suddenly raised his hand to the mans face, the warmth of his blood coming into contact with his plump lips as he forgot how to breathe entirely.