[An infomercial airs in Gotham, its late night on New Years. 4 AM. The spot is 26 seconds long, short compared to the sex toy ads and girly phone call bits that come onto the air at this time of night. The camera is a good shot, cinematic, theatrical. There's a stage with a wooden judge's chair strung up in blinking lights and garlands. The image at first only captures the man's legs and torso. Purple pinstripe suit, classy with the clash of a green vest.]
Happy New Year, Gotham! [And the hands, scarred through violence or just self-infliction, they're bloody palms. The camera stays forcused on the chair, even when the man steps, jaunts, twirls closer, Texas two-steps and dosey does closer.] We've got some openings in my human resources department. [A 'What can you do' kind of shrug brought those bloody hands back into focus. Still, the image only caught his chest, that forever tacky, lovable suit of so many nightmares.]
So if you're looking for a job and have the kind of criminal record that put your grandmother into an early grave, come on by the old Fairgrounds!
[Then a bloody hand reached, grasping the camera lens and tilting it up to glimpse that epic, that unforgettable, that savage smile of scar tissue and good humor.] We've got ice cream and guns! Hell, bring the kiddies!
[Then black, the ad cuts out and its back to the girlie commercials for the late night lonelies.]
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