A Starr is Born
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zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] › Batman (All Movies)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
17
Views:
6,343
Reviews:
42
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] › Batman (All Movies)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
17
Views:
6,343
Reviews:
42
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own “The Dark Knight, Batman, or any of its affiliates, which are all property of DC Comics. I am not making any profit from this story. Additionally, all locations and characters are fictional.
A Starr is Born
Chapter 1: GET ME OUT!
9:40pm.
Rather, 20 minutes till closing.
I stood behind the counter at “Dough from Joe Schmo,” the local fast-food coffee chain place in our normal and generic suburban town, which was situated outside the limits of Gotham City.
“Ughh,” I thought. Time goes by so slowly here, especially when you’re alone. Well, normally I’m not supposed to be alone, but Jenn called out, and I called Katie, the general manager, to tell her that. Instead of closing the whole store like I wanted her to, she asked me if I could “step up” as a shift leader and cover the shift. I begrudgingly agreed to do so, assuming a Monday night would be practically empty, and aside from the very few rushes, I was right. I could handle it all. It didn’t really take a college degree to handle a place like this, only common sense. I was lucky enough to have both.
9:42.
I need to stop checking the clock. It only makes time go slower. No one has come through the drive-thru in the past half an hour. It’s just me and some middle-aged guy in the corner of the store. I think he got a medium, dark with skim milk only. It’s scary how easily you adapt to the lingo here. “It’s only for now,” I always promise myself. I fully believe that’s true, that there’s no possible way I can get as wrapped up into this place as Nicole whose been here for nine years, but I’m also starting to feel totally and completely lost.
What am I doing here . . . still?
I got the job here, assuming it was only for the summer after I graduated. It’s been six months now. Something has to happen, but I’m not sure what. I’ve become complacent and static. I’ve accepted my life at home with my family. I need a jolt; something to get me motivated.
9:46.
Shit.
I should really do something. I take the inventory list and do the final doughnut count. I can’t help but feel the lone customer in the store eyeing me from behind, but I decide not to look back. I’m not particularly scared because this uniform is thoroughly unforgiving. I’m in a blue oxford shirt, with regulation khakis. They might even be a men’s size. They fit me on my natural waist, which I can’t imagine is in anyway flattering or remotely attractive. I never quite figured out why they try to make us look so unfortunate and standardized. Maybe the customers would be intimidated by a little sexuality? Maybe they just want to believe we’re robots. My only distinguishing feature is my hair, which is long, a deep shade of coppery auburn, and extraordinarily curly. No visor can truly contain the beast. It was the cause of a lot of anguish when I was in elementary school, but it is now my distinguishing feature.
Two chocolate frosted, one old fashioned, one chocolate cake, three Bavarian Cream . . .
Can I possibly care any less about this bullshit? I never wanted to be a shift leader here, but I figured I should take it when they offered it to me. I was promoted in record time as a result of my “phenomenal work.” That’s a hard compliment to take. Who doesn’t like being called phenomenal, but who cares when it’s for Dough from Joe Schmo’? It’s kind of hard to be a boss at a job you just couldn’t give a shit about, but I guess the extra fifty cents an hour plus the prestigious blue shirt is worth it . . . barely.
I put the inventory list down and look up hesitantly at the clock.
9:55.
Oh, thank god.
I look at the man in the corner of the store. He’s smiling back at me. Has he been looking at me this whole time? I would describe him, but he’s so generic looking that I wouldn’t even bother. He looks like the father of anyone I could have gone to high school with. Maybe he knows me? I get that a lot, “do I know you from somewhere?” Gees, I need to get out of this town.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to lock up now,” I say to him in my, “wow, look at that customer service” voice. It’s a slippery slope because I try not to be phony, but I don’t really care about representing “Joe Schmo’”. Still, that’s no reason not to be polite.
He smiles back and nods making kind-of intense eye contact with me. In order to end the awkwardness, I pretend to be filling something out in my inventory list. He goes to throw his things away. Please, just leave.
“Have a good night, sir,” I say to him, looking up only briefly. I’m not in the mood to encourage any lingering. Closing this place alone is a royal pain in the ass.
“You too,” he responds, and he turns to go.
I look back down, doodling on the sheet.
“You have to close this place up all by yourself?”
Is he really not going to leave?
“Yeah, but it’s not too hard. They pay us minimum wage for a reason,” I respond. Again, while I want him to get the fuck out, there’s no reason not to be friendly.
He laughs.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he approaches the counter, “what is a girl like you doing at a place like this? Are you still in school?”
I ask myself that question every day.
“No, I graduated.”
“Oh yeah? In what?”
“In creative writing.”
“So . . . what are you doing here?”
“Just biding my time, you know, trying to figure things out before I move into the big city.”
He smiles. He’s kind of cute for a middle-aged father type who I would never be attracted to.
“Well, good luck to you. Have a good night.” He opens the door and leaves.
10:00.
Time to close.
10:45
I sit in the back area on a make shift chair made out of a garbage bin. It isn’t glamorous, but it’s comfortable. Closing this place by oneself is a bitch, but I finally cleaned everything and took everything out, or rather, I made everything look clean and taken out.
Done.
I slip the envelope into the office door mail slot.
10:50.
Are you serious? Normally it takes 15 minutes to close this place. Not only that, Nicole scheduled me for 6am the next morning. I try not to hate on her, but I couldn’t help but acknowledge the fact that she is a stupid bitch.
I un-tuck my shirt and let my hair down. The long locks fall down to the middle of my back. I look into the reflection of the oven window to straighten myself out. My tresses look deformed by a hair elastic, but I hope that’s one of those things only I notice. It’s not like it isn’t going right back up in a few hours when I go back to bed.
I don my forest green blazer and my earth toned silken scarf, which is in stark contrast to my regulation khakis and non-slip shoes. Good thing no one would be outside to see me.
I walk to the back door. Lights off. Time to get the fuck out.
I walk out to the back area, letting the door shut behind me. I don’t even turn around to see if it locks. I really don’t care at this point. I’m done. I try to make this act very quick because if I stop to look into the darkness, it’ll scare the shit out of me. I always start to make up scenarios if I stop to think for long enough.
I walk around to the front of the store where my car is parked, fumbling for my keys quickly, so I can make a quick get away. I look up towards my car, which should be parked in the back of the parking lot, alone.
But it’s not alone.
I look up to see that parked a space away from my driver’s side is an unmarked white van. I stop in my tracks. I remember a few months ago my mother sending me an e-mail about ways to avoid getting raped, murdered, and kidnapped. I remember it said something about being wary of unmarked white vans parked next to your driver’s side in deserted parking lots. I underplay it, though. This isn’t Gotham City; this is Cheshire. It’s probably the delivery order or something. Just to be safe, I approach the passenger side with my keys ready. I think that’s what you’re supposed to do. I would call company security, but I’m pretty sure that’s me tonight.
I get to my car, quickly. There’s something eerie in the air. I fumble with my keys and this only makes it harder to open the car. Shit, shit, shit.
SLAM.
In the next instant I find myself pressed against my passenger door, my arm wrenched, painfully, behind me. I try to turn around, but I can’t.
The attackers face comes right next to mine.
“If you scream, I go over to your house on 165 Whitney Drive and murder your whole family, but not before I, uh, rape your two sisters in front of your parents.” He cackles. “You understand?”
He twists my arm, and I gasp.
The nasally and demented voice comes right next to my ear.
“You understand?”
I nod.
“Good,” he whispers.
He relaxes his grip on me, slightly, and pulls back, all the while keeping me restrained. That laugh can only belong to a maniac. I catch the reflection in my car window. I can make out a white face with dark eyes, and a smile that stretches unnaturally beyond where one’s mouth should end. Even in my small town that laugh and that face are unmistakable.
The Joker.
9:40pm.
Rather, 20 minutes till closing.
I stood behind the counter at “Dough from Joe Schmo,” the local fast-food coffee chain place in our normal and generic suburban town, which was situated outside the limits of Gotham City.
“Ughh,” I thought. Time goes by so slowly here, especially when you’re alone. Well, normally I’m not supposed to be alone, but Jenn called out, and I called Katie, the general manager, to tell her that. Instead of closing the whole store like I wanted her to, she asked me if I could “step up” as a shift leader and cover the shift. I begrudgingly agreed to do so, assuming a Monday night would be practically empty, and aside from the very few rushes, I was right. I could handle it all. It didn’t really take a college degree to handle a place like this, only common sense. I was lucky enough to have both.
9:42.
I need to stop checking the clock. It only makes time go slower. No one has come through the drive-thru in the past half an hour. It’s just me and some middle-aged guy in the corner of the store. I think he got a medium, dark with skim milk only. It’s scary how easily you adapt to the lingo here. “It’s only for now,” I always promise myself. I fully believe that’s true, that there’s no possible way I can get as wrapped up into this place as Nicole whose been here for nine years, but I’m also starting to feel totally and completely lost.
What am I doing here . . . still?
I got the job here, assuming it was only for the summer after I graduated. It’s been six months now. Something has to happen, but I’m not sure what. I’ve become complacent and static. I’ve accepted my life at home with my family. I need a jolt; something to get me motivated.
9:46.
Shit.
I should really do something. I take the inventory list and do the final doughnut count. I can’t help but feel the lone customer in the store eyeing me from behind, but I decide not to look back. I’m not particularly scared because this uniform is thoroughly unforgiving. I’m in a blue oxford shirt, with regulation khakis. They might even be a men’s size. They fit me on my natural waist, which I can’t imagine is in anyway flattering or remotely attractive. I never quite figured out why they try to make us look so unfortunate and standardized. Maybe the customers would be intimidated by a little sexuality? Maybe they just want to believe we’re robots. My only distinguishing feature is my hair, which is long, a deep shade of coppery auburn, and extraordinarily curly. No visor can truly contain the beast. It was the cause of a lot of anguish when I was in elementary school, but it is now my distinguishing feature.
Two chocolate frosted, one old fashioned, one chocolate cake, three Bavarian Cream . . .
Can I possibly care any less about this bullshit? I never wanted to be a shift leader here, but I figured I should take it when they offered it to me. I was promoted in record time as a result of my “phenomenal work.” That’s a hard compliment to take. Who doesn’t like being called phenomenal, but who cares when it’s for Dough from Joe Schmo’? It’s kind of hard to be a boss at a job you just couldn’t give a shit about, but I guess the extra fifty cents an hour plus the prestigious blue shirt is worth it . . . barely.
I put the inventory list down and look up hesitantly at the clock.
9:55.
Oh, thank god.
I look at the man in the corner of the store. He’s smiling back at me. Has he been looking at me this whole time? I would describe him, but he’s so generic looking that I wouldn’t even bother. He looks like the father of anyone I could have gone to high school with. Maybe he knows me? I get that a lot, “do I know you from somewhere?” Gees, I need to get out of this town.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to lock up now,” I say to him in my, “wow, look at that customer service” voice. It’s a slippery slope because I try not to be phony, but I don’t really care about representing “Joe Schmo’”. Still, that’s no reason not to be polite.
He smiles back and nods making kind-of intense eye contact with me. In order to end the awkwardness, I pretend to be filling something out in my inventory list. He goes to throw his things away. Please, just leave.
“Have a good night, sir,” I say to him, looking up only briefly. I’m not in the mood to encourage any lingering. Closing this place alone is a royal pain in the ass.
“You too,” he responds, and he turns to go.
I look back down, doodling on the sheet.
“You have to close this place up all by yourself?”
Is he really not going to leave?
“Yeah, but it’s not too hard. They pay us minimum wage for a reason,” I respond. Again, while I want him to get the fuck out, there’s no reason not to be friendly.
He laughs.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he approaches the counter, “what is a girl like you doing at a place like this? Are you still in school?”
I ask myself that question every day.
“No, I graduated.”
“Oh yeah? In what?”
“In creative writing.”
“So . . . what are you doing here?”
“Just biding my time, you know, trying to figure things out before I move into the big city.”
He smiles. He’s kind of cute for a middle-aged father type who I would never be attracted to.
“Well, good luck to you. Have a good night.” He opens the door and leaves.
10:00.
Time to close.
10:45
I sit in the back area on a make shift chair made out of a garbage bin. It isn’t glamorous, but it’s comfortable. Closing this place by oneself is a bitch, but I finally cleaned everything and took everything out, or rather, I made everything look clean and taken out.
Done.
I slip the envelope into the office door mail slot.
10:50.
Are you serious? Normally it takes 15 minutes to close this place. Not only that, Nicole scheduled me for 6am the next morning. I try not to hate on her, but I couldn’t help but acknowledge the fact that she is a stupid bitch.
I un-tuck my shirt and let my hair down. The long locks fall down to the middle of my back. I look into the reflection of the oven window to straighten myself out. My tresses look deformed by a hair elastic, but I hope that’s one of those things only I notice. It’s not like it isn’t going right back up in a few hours when I go back to bed.
I don my forest green blazer and my earth toned silken scarf, which is in stark contrast to my regulation khakis and non-slip shoes. Good thing no one would be outside to see me.
I walk to the back door. Lights off. Time to get the fuck out.
I walk out to the back area, letting the door shut behind me. I don’t even turn around to see if it locks. I really don’t care at this point. I’m done. I try to make this act very quick because if I stop to look into the darkness, it’ll scare the shit out of me. I always start to make up scenarios if I stop to think for long enough.
I walk around to the front of the store where my car is parked, fumbling for my keys quickly, so I can make a quick get away. I look up towards my car, which should be parked in the back of the parking lot, alone.
But it’s not alone.
I look up to see that parked a space away from my driver’s side is an unmarked white van. I stop in my tracks. I remember a few months ago my mother sending me an e-mail about ways to avoid getting raped, murdered, and kidnapped. I remember it said something about being wary of unmarked white vans parked next to your driver’s side in deserted parking lots. I underplay it, though. This isn’t Gotham City; this is Cheshire. It’s probably the delivery order or something. Just to be safe, I approach the passenger side with my keys ready. I think that’s what you’re supposed to do. I would call company security, but I’m pretty sure that’s me tonight.
I get to my car, quickly. There’s something eerie in the air. I fumble with my keys and this only makes it harder to open the car. Shit, shit, shit.
SLAM.
In the next instant I find myself pressed against my passenger door, my arm wrenched, painfully, behind me. I try to turn around, but I can’t.
The attackers face comes right next to mine.
“If you scream, I go over to your house on 165 Whitney Drive and murder your whole family, but not before I, uh, rape your two sisters in front of your parents.” He cackles. “You understand?”
He twists my arm, and I gasp.
The nasally and demented voice comes right next to my ear.
“You understand?”
I nod.
“Good,” he whispers.
He relaxes his grip on me, slightly, and pulls back, all the while keeping me restrained. That laugh can only belong to a maniac. I catch the reflection in my car window. I can make out a white face with dark eyes, and a smile that stretches unnaturally beyond where one’s mouth should end. Even in my small town that laugh and that face are unmistakable.
The Joker.