“Yeah, well. Spend a day or two in my leather, clown, and you’ll figure out pretty quickly that the sense of humor develops out of necessity. The other option is to slide down a long slope into gibbering insanity,” she says with a cough, rolling her eyes (and not expanding upon the obvious implication).
She wants to press a palm to the side of her head (that headache apparently requires a lot of nursing. Fucking chloroform…), but the attempted motion of her hands makes her realize they’re bound at the wrists, which are in turn bound to the creaky chair on which she currently sits.
“Alright, Feste. Can the spiel. We’re obviously at the part of this unwanted little exchange,” she begins, her wrists tightening against the bindings when he snakes that filthy little hand of his through her exposed black hair. It’s enough to make her teeth grit with revulsion, and further words are, at this point, practically spit out of her mouth.
“… where you stop showing off your complete lack of talent for interior decorating and pitch whatever deranged offer you have floating around in that empty head of yours. That’s when I promptly turn you down, break out of this chair, and pound that disgusting face of yours into the pavement before being on my merry way. So, let’s get on with it, hmmn?”
”Offer?” The tone of voice he uses to reiterate this seemingly alien concept to him is made perfectly clear to the bat’s main squeeze with the following set of syllables floating away from her lips.
”Now, deary, what could I possibly offer you? And on a more profound and assuredly closer point, why would I want to?” Tsk, tsk, tsk go his unseen lips. All that manage to pierce the veil of obscurity is a row of discolored and unorganized teeth.
”Keeping you aesthetically satisfied isn’t the name of the proverbial game, sweet sweet Selina… oh no, no, no.” Kneeling down in front of her, both of his arms limp at the wrist while they remain perched up on his positioned knees.
”You see, Kitty Cat, what I need from you is quite simple.”
Slowly he stood so that both of his arms could enthusiastically spread themselves across as if he were expecting an embrace from a long lost lover. But no, instead, he’s lowering his arms except for one— his right— which he points towards her and then twists that very same hand to the side while the only erected digit— the forefinger— curled into a sort of hook and gestured to what remained behind her.
” ‘I expect you to… ehrrr… die, Mr. Bond.’ ” There really wasn’t any technical vernaculars to explain the process of some mysterious chemical agent that he’s planned to poison her with. No, what threatens to snatch away Ms. Selina Kyle’s life tonight is nothing more than a double-barreled twelve gauge shotgun cocked and wedged between the chair and a block of cement, at a diagonal angle while it’s barrels are tied in such a way that makes it so that if the rope comes undone or is messed with too aggressively:
It goes off.
”I,” leaning up against one of those gaudily painted horses, “don’t necessarily expect this to scratch your slim little hide, so there’s always a Plan B… but I won’t expose that, no, it’s a surprise, and we wouldn’t want us spoiling that now would we?”
“Mother” by Danzing.