Since tasting the forbidden fruit, Lauren Findley had fallen for the thrill of being with Martin. She called him almost daily, and he nearly always answered, only missing calls when swamped, but always texting back. As a seasoned charmer, Martin knew how to soothe a young woman in the throes of passion. Jessica, Lindsay, Hathaway, Elizabeth, Alexandra, Megan—they'd all been won over this way. As a incubus, he was meticulous with his "collectibles."
Having set Lauren on her fitness path and letting her savor the taste of intimacy, Martin dove into work. Days were spent editing Inception in the cutting room or doting on his "veterans" at the Beverly Hills estate and his "newcomer" at the silver beach villa. Lauren, transitioning from girl to woman under Martin's conquests and blossoming through fitness, began revealing her stunning beauty.
"Honey, I just realized how gorgeous our little treasure is!" Lauren's mother exclaimed.
"Of course! Back in the day, I was a heartthrob myself," her father boasted.
"Oh, really? News to me," she teased.
"Hmph, don't play coy. Would you have married me otherwise?"
One day, after "pampering" Lauren, Martin drove back to his Beverly Hills estate. "Megan, you're here," he said, spotting her emerging from the bathroom, wrapped in a white towel.
Megan paused on the upstairs landing. "Martin, you're back!" she said, delighted. "Can you grab the lotion I just bought from my purse on the living room couch? I forgot it, and this way I don't have to go downstairs."
"Sure," Martin said, but didn't move. From his angle, Megan's towel hid nothing, accentuating her curves. Under the chandelier's glow, her radiant skin was mesmerizing, her long, slender legs hitting his aesthetic sweet spot. His throat bobbed.
Megan, puzzled by his stillness, then smirked, blushing as she stepped back. "Darling, hurry up. You can help me apply the lotion later."
Martin's eyes lit up. "Deal!" He bolted to the couch, then stormed upstairs, scooping her up amid her squeals, vanishing into the bedroom.
June 2, 2009, arrived. After a massive May media blitz, The Joker premiered at Hollywood's Grand Theatre, with over 3,400 early screenings across the U.S. Despite being a Thursday workday, theaters showing The Joker were mobbed by enthusiastic fans after 5 PM. The frenzy overwhelmed some unprepared venues, but order was restored as the first wave of viewers entered. Martin's films often sparked excitement, but never had early screenings seen such fervor. Theater chains, stunned, gained confidence in the film's potential.
"Why's it ?" asked a disguised Brad Pitt, watching the chaos with Quentin Tarantino, also incognito.
Tarantino mused, "I've studied this. The Joker's pre-release marketing was stellar, Martin's trailer was gripping, and the online buzz was key. It started with praise, then a flood of negative comments sparked huge debates, boosting its heat. Neutral fans got curious."
Pitt's heart sank. Motherfucker. His relentless online rants against Martin, nearly breaking his fingers, had inadvertently hyped the film. He felt like a clown.
At the Grand Theatre's red carpet, Martin, arm-in-arm with Cameron Diaz, faced reporters. "Martin, are you confident in The Joker?"
Instead of answering, he pulled his mouth into the Joker's iconic grin. "Are you all ready to go mad?" he said casually.
"Why make a film centered on a comic book villain?"
"Let the superheroes die—long live the Joker!" he shouted, wild-eyed.
"Joker forever!" the crowd roared back. "Screw superheroes!"
The atmosphere turned electric. Martin, calming down, grinned at the frenzied fans. "See? That's why. People are sick of superheroes." He left the stunned reporters, pulling Cameron into the venue.
"You madman," Jack Nicholson muttered, having watched from the sidelines. He had to admit Martin was a better "Joker"—even in real life, he could slip into character effortlessly.
"Thanks for the compliment," Martin smirked.
He glanced around. "Where's your Diamond Doll?"
"We broke up. Not a good match," Nicholson said, eyes flickering awkwardly.
"Liar. You couldn't keep up with her," Martin teased.
"Asshole, I'm fucking 70. Wait till you're my age—you'll know what it's like to run out of steam," Nicholson admitted, defeated.
"Seventy? You're 72, old man," Martin jabbed, rubbing salt in the wound.
"Fuck you, don't remind me, you fucking bastard," Nicholson growled, glaring.