A Word from Our Sponsor
About seven minutes before the big countdown, many thousands of people, both physically in attendance and watching from the safety of their living rooms, shall witness the dapperly dressed mayor approaching the main podium, positioned close to the massive digital display. Leaning in to the cluster of microphones, he announces a very special message from the local celebrity flavour of the month, coming to you, Gotham City, live via satellite. The crowd bustles obligingly, cheering and waving.
A full minute passes, and still no message. Technical difficulties, they say, but before the stock statement of reassurance can be issued, the screen flickers and finally lights up. Blurry picture, no sound. Someone moving too close to the lens. "-ot it. Aaand we're live." The voice is wrong. Muffled and strange noises. The event staff flies into a professional low-key panic-this is not the guest they were expecting.
Presently, the camera angles up to show the made-up image of a man that, by this point, Gotham knows quite well: white face, blacked-out sockets, a red smear across his mouth. He is wearing Uncle Sam's star-spangled top hat, and what appears to be a coat with a fur collar. How seasonal. How festive.
"I gave you a present this year, Gotham." Someone in the crowd screams; it triggers a flood of copycat shrieks and learned unease. He ignores it and goes on, lilting almost pleasantly. (This must be another recording.)
"Did you get it? I think most of you did. Look how many of you made it through the holiday season. So many. Look around. Take a look at your neighbours, at alllll the people who had themselves a merry little Christmas. Look at you out there in the street, with your little...hats on, and everything." He leans briefly, like he's trying to see over someone's head. "I'm liking the scarf, Gordon, that's a good colour on you."
(Or not.)
"The ball's going to drop in just a couple minutes, so I'll say good-night now. Enjoy your frosty block party, kids... But, while you're counting down, I want each and every one of you to remember..." Now he draws in close to the lens for an intimate moment, shared just between him and some ridiculous number of his very best friends. These next words are hard-edged, pronounced very carefully:
"I let you have Christmas. I let you have it. And I'm letting you have this, here, right now. The fireworks, the sparkly drinks, everything you planned on having this year... you're free to celebrate, unmolested.
Consider it my gift... to you."
The picture jiggles, and he reaches past the lens for something, but there comes an afterthought amidst the erratic giggling: "Oh, and if you thought this year was good... you're in for a real treat." The audience is granted a blurry flash of his yellow teeth before the signal switches abruptly: it cuts to a wide-eyed and momentarily speechless celebrity guest star. The right one, this time. She blinks her big doe eyes and stammers, unsure how to follow that act.
Well. Now what, Gotham?
(please read this.)
A full minute passes, and still no message. Technical difficulties, they say, but before the stock statement of reassurance can be issued, the screen flickers and finally lights up. Blurry picture, no sound. Someone moving too close to the lens. "-ot it. Aaand we're live." The voice is wrong. Muffled and strange noises. The event staff flies into a professional low-key panic-this is not the guest they were expecting.
Presently, the camera angles up to show the made-up image of a man that, by this point, Gotham knows quite well: white face, blacked-out sockets, a red smear across his mouth. He is wearing Uncle Sam's star-spangled top hat, and what appears to be a coat with a fur collar. How seasonal. How festive.
"I gave you a present this year, Gotham." Someone in the crowd screams; it triggers a flood of copycat shrieks and learned unease. He ignores it and goes on, lilting almost pleasantly. (This must be another recording.)
"Did you get it? I think most of you did. Look how many of you made it through the holiday season. So many. Look around. Take a look at your neighbours, at alllll the people who had themselves a merry little Christmas. Look at you out there in the street, with your little...hats on, and everything." He leans briefly, like he's trying to see over someone's head. "I'm liking the scarf, Gordon, that's a good colour on you."
(Or not.)
"The ball's going to drop in just a couple minutes, so I'll say good-night now. Enjoy your frosty block party, kids... But, while you're counting down, I want each and every one of you to remember..." Now he draws in close to the lens for an intimate moment, shared just between him and some ridiculous number of his very best friends. These next words are hard-edged, pronounced very carefully:
"I let you have Christmas. I let you have it. And I'm letting you have this, here, right now. The fireworks, the sparkly drinks, everything you planned on having this year... you're free to celebrate, unmolested.
Consider it my gift... to you."
The picture jiggles, and he reaches past the lens for something, but there comes an afterthought amidst the erratic giggling: "Oh, and if you thought this year was good... you're in for a real treat." The audience is granted a blurry flash of his yellow teeth before the signal switches abruptly: it cuts to a wide-eyed and momentarily speechless celebrity guest star. The right one, this time. She blinks her big doe eyes and stammers, unsure how to follow that act.
Well. Now what, Gotham?
(please read this.)