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Jokers Wild

By: allthewayin



It was their second Christmas together and their relationship was quite sound. It had begun as a fully D/s arrangement and progressed to a Master/slave interaction seamlessly. She was one to do exactly as she was told even though she sometimes didn't really like the twists and turns along the way. He was a good Master and a great dad for her two kids from a previous soured relationship.

Why does He send me to do these things alone? skye scowled silently. She'd been sent to get her hair colored and trimmed and her nails done. The first time in forever for her nails but she still preferred His company rather that doing things alone.

Gone for nearly two hours she was pulling back into the house and she saw that his vehicle was gone...dang.

Inside she found a note and a card hanging on the Christmas tree and her belly did a huge flip flop. She was informed that the kids were gone for the night and she was to follow His instructions as written out exactly. There was a tub already drawn for her and she was to wear the clothes already laid out.

In the bathroom, sure enough the tub was full of lavender scented water, hot as could be. A simple red plaid skirt and green bare midriff top were spread on the bed and a pair of shiny patent leather boots sat on the floor completed the outfit.

She was to go to the hotel that they had used for some BD/SM play before and go straight to room 218. The drive would take less than five minutes and she had been given a strict time table. She was to watch the time on her cell phone and at precisely six pm she was to open the door with the keycard that had been left with the instructions.

Standing outside the room now she trembled but knew she would be safe...no matter what plan He had been made she was safe. Her phone flipped to six pm and she pushed firmly on the door and stepped into the darkness.

The door was pushed roughly out of her hand and a dark hood dropped over her head plunging her into a blackness that had no measure making her heart race faster than a hummingbirds.

Pulled now into the room her hands were held firmly by two different people at least and her hood was held on by a third. She felt more hands grasp her and in the silence of human noises she could hear furniture being moved along with the faint teasing sounds of zippers and belt buckles. 

She was not able to resist even if she wanted to and certainly wouldn't have even if she could have. Flung over some kind of bench or stool she felt her clothes being pulled away and fingers roughly probing up into her suddenly exposed pussy. Her arms were pulled upwards, above her head while her top was removed and then just as suddenly pulled back down.

She was moved to a position that had her more or less straddling a bench which she now recognized as being similar to the one at home. Pushed forward, she now laid on it with her hands being quickly tied near the floor and her feet being drawn up so her ass was raised up and in the presentation position. Her feet were being tied now and another rope wound around her waist, preventing even the slightest movement.

She felt something cool and wet, probably lube, she thought vacantly being drizzled across her upraised crotch and then she felt the pressure of a hot hard cock against her eager pussy. As it began to wedge its way into her the hood was lifted up partway and she heard the unmistakable husky baritone of a black male say, Lick it slut, lick that black cock.

Skye's head swam with visions of what the room might look like...her tongue shot out to do as she was told and ran the length of an impossibly long cock. In her hopeful mind she saw men, all black of course in every corner and recess of the room as eager to take her as she was to be taken. She longed, in a way to have her hands free so she could feel their hard cocks first before they entered her. But equally, she loved to be bound. 

She licked as much as she could while the other guy slid in deep. Fucking her unresisting pussy all the way to his huge heavy balls his motion increased over the next few minutes until he could no longer bear the pleasure. His big hands clutched at her hips and he gave a deep grunt and she could feel his cum jet inside of her.

He slowed but his body shuddered as he gently withdrew his spent meat. He and the guy at her mouth changed places and her pussy was quickly filled with cock again. The scent of musky man cum filled her nostrils and all reservations departed her. She licked hungrily at his cock, lapping the thick fluid that coated it like glaze on a huge brown candy cane.

The guy fucking her lasted barely as long as the first and he soon had his cum spattering inside of her too. A third and fourth took their turn filling her pussy with cock and cum before a fifth finally and deliciously pressed against her ever so eager soft and ready ass hole. At least as big as anything or anyone that had ever entered her there before she could feel it stretch her anxious hole to its most extreme limits. The depth that he reached inside of her were mind numbing and she reeled with orgasmic pleasure, cumming herself for the first of many times on this sensational evening.

The guy held her firmly by the hips and worked his massive cock in and out of her for nearly twenty minutes straight. Several other guys grasped her head and she could tell by the taste and even the smell that they were never the same man twice as they took turns rubbing their swollen cocks over the exposed portion of her face. Eventually the guy in her ass thrust in deep and hard, lifting her and the bench up off of the floor a few inches and he furiously spewed cum up her aching ass.

No sooner than he pulled out than she was untied and lifted from the bench and moved to the bed where she was placed on top of another guy who lay on his back with his throbbing tool standing straight up. She was lowered onto him, impaling her quivering, cum dripping slit onto him and then shoved forward and a second cock slammed ungraciously up her ass for a mind blowing thirty minute DP session that brought her to orgasm more times than she could count.

That session ended with barely a moment between it and the very next as she was taken again by a fresh pair of equally hung black stallions and fucked into a state of near unconsciousness.

After four, maybe five of these DP settings were repeated she was just brought up onto her knees with her head down and the hood slipped off enough so she could see what reminded her of a closely grown grove of trees. Looking back from between her legs she could see just barely to their knees but there were so many... He had warned her that there may be ten or twelve for her first black cock gangbang but from what she could see there were at least twenty pairs of legs on just this side of the room.

She swooned as the first guy in the crowd stepped up behind her and slid his cock deep into her dripping ass hole, sending his own donation of thick cum into the rivers that flowed down the inside of her thighs after a couple minutes of vigorous pumping.

One by one they took their place behind her, each fucking her hot ass hole with a tempo that seemed to surpass the previous. Skye happily lost count at twenty five and the line continued for well over an hour after that. 

As the last man finished she could hear the hands slapping and the thanks for being included while each of them located their clothing and made their departure. When the last was gone the hood was finally removed completely from her head and she rose as much as her trembling thighs would allow her. She looked down at the twin puddles of milky man sauce where her knees pressed into the mattress. 

She turned her head up to look into the smiling eyes of her Man. You did good girl. I'm so proud of you...Merry Christmas.

How many? She asked with a tremble in her voice.

He handed her a box from a deck of cards, Each guy took a card after he'd cum in you girl.

She lifted the flap on top of the box and shook out two cards that remained doing the count mentally...Jokers.

Joker's Wilde Pt. 01



In this story, I take liberties with places and people created by DC Comics. The setting of my story is Gotham City and the main characters are Dr. Harleen "Frances" Quinzel/Harley Quinn, The Joker, and Dr. Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow. These and all other specific details (Arkham Asylum, the Falcone Crime Family, E.Nigma/The Riddler, Alyce Sinner, Alfred Pennyworth, et al) are inspired by the Batman comics, movies and shows: especially the episode "Mad Love" and the movie "The Dark Knight". I'm not a stickler for continuity outside of my own story, which is entirely my fantasy. 

Part One of Joker's Wilde contains two chapters- the first is non-erotic and the second contains a non-consent sex scene. 

***** 

Chapter One: Meet Joe Kerr 

The inside of Arkham Asylum lived up to its unsettling outward appearance. Lights flickered constantly, wind whistled through the barred windows, screams could be heard down every hall, doors shrieked open and made a doleful creak as they closed. If it weren't for the fact that Frances had seen its corporeal staff and patients, she would have believed the rumors that the decrepit Gothic structure was haunted by Amadeus Arkham himself. 

Frances had been warned that few interns ever lasted the entire semester without cracking under the pressure- apparently treating Gotham's most troubled citizens combined with the asylum's own gravitas was too much for them to handle. But the risk was outweighed by the fact that the chief of the psychiatric staff, Dr. Jonathan Crane, was well-connected throughout the city, if not all of the state. Besides, she could take it. 

After all the shit she'd been through growing up- one of the reasons she was passionate to help others- Frances felt like she could handle a few madmen who were actually restrained and unable to cause any harm. Physically at least. The other part was emotional, as Dr. Crane had explained. 

"This particular patient is rather manipulative and his IQ is...formidable. As is his thirst for blood." He rifled lazily through a stack of pictures depicting a grisly murder scene- presumably by the hands of her next patient. Crane left them spread out on his desk and studied his intern with a cool, inscrutable gaze. 

Frances couldn't help feel that underneath his strikingly beautiful face and slim, poised figure was a well of sinister thoughts and emotions. She never wanted to be on either side of psychoanalysis with this man. Either this was a test or he just wanted to see her squirm. 

"Do you still think you can handle it? He may try to prey on the fact that you are an attractive young woman." Dr. Crane's ice blue eyes surveyed her body with clinical interest. 

"He wouldn't be the first man to have tried," Frances replied confidently. "I think I can handle myself, as well as Mr. Kerr," she added, catching a glimpse of his name on a folder next to the gruesome photos. 

"Well, I admire your veracity, Dr. Quinzel," he chuckled. "He's proven to be difficult to control so far- even heavily medicated. I look forward to hearing your opinion. He's got me at quite a loss," he said with a frown, handing over the thin dossier labeled "Joe Kerr", quotations included as if that wasn't his name at all. 

Even his mug shots were surreal- staged almost. Mr. Kerr wore a plum colored suit, dark shirt and pinstripe vest with ink-bottle green tie that matched his greasy hair. His face was ghostly from white paint and the unforgiving flash. Two black splotches on his eyes and a red line across his lips in the approximation of a smile stood out starkly against the pale background. The colors seeped into the lines in his face, making the effect even more lurid. 

Frances flipped through her patient's file until she found an impressively long list of attempted medication. Currently he was on a Risperdal-Compazine-Diazepam cocktail. Would he even be able to speak? 

"It doesn't say anything about his history. Any prior arrests or institutionalizations?" 

"Most likely. It seems he was involved with an organization known as The Black Glove, where he acquired quite a reputation on the streets as the Joker. Has a fetish for dressing up like a clown, as you can see- God knows where that came from. 

"He had identification for one Joe Kerr, but the police found nothing on that name older than a couple of years. For all we know, this man's a figment of his own disturbing imagination. He'd been living in a lavish hotel room but the only personal items found were a handmade suit, a greasepaint kit and a collection of knives." 

"Hmmm..." The woman smirked as if amused by this piece of information. "Thank you, Dr. Crane." 

"Many people are afraid of clowns. Ironic, since they are symbols of mirth and merriment. Are you one of these people, Dr. Quinzel?" 

"Not at all. Are you?" Frances asked rhetorically before walking away. 

It was a long trip down a narrow hallway to the High Risk ward and then a routine security check before she could scan her badge and enter. A guard stood outside the patient interview room as well- he eyed her with a faint smirk and wished her luck before she scanned her badge again to unlock the door. 

Frances entered the sterile room with a stainless steel table in the middle and a man slumped on the other side. Without his bizarre getup, he was actually an attractive young man in his early thirties- tall, muscular, a dirty mop of blonde hair crowning a handsome face. He was so nonresponsive that Frances wondered if he was even aware of her presence. 

But as he looked up and Frances beheld a pair of deep-set green eyes glittering deviously, she realized the abject expression was only a mask. His face was apathetic but his malice was so evident that Crane seemed positively charming by comparison. 

"Hello, I'm Dr. Quinzel," she said slowly, determined not to let her nerves show. 

Her patient didn't respond verbally, but instead broke out into a maniacal grin. It was like he'd put on another mask. Clearly he wasn't sedated beyond communication, but he wasn't in a cooperative mood either. 

"Joe Kerr, very clever," mused Frances aloud, sitting across from the shackled man in question. "Would you prefer me to call you Joe? The Joker? Or would you like to tell me your real name?" 

"What's your first name, Doctor Quinzel?" he deferred, his speech perfectly pronounced. 

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours, Mr. Kerr." 

"Maybe I could guess yours. Yes- that would be a fun game." This was a live one. 

"Do you like games? Is that what murder is to you?" 

"Amber," he said, ignoring her question. 

"I've seen the photos and it doesn't look like that was your first time." 

"Brandy?" her patient continued, his fiendish smile cutting a wound across his face. She could imagine bright red extending it even further and realized how much more intimidating he would look in his war paint. 

"Dr. Crane told me that you were one of the most intelligent criminals he's ever come across. But all the mess you left behind was quite sloppy. Amateur if you ask me." 

"I appreciate the flattery," the Joker sneered. 

"You lost control. Unless you wanted to be caught," Frances concluded, giving him a pointed look. 

After a long pause, during which she thought this Joker might be composing a longer response, he merely said, "Corrine?" 

"I think you have a serious illness. One that I'd like to help you with. But I can't if you won't admit it." 

"Daria? Erin? Fiona?" he guessed in rapid succession. 

She was slightly relieved that he didn't say "Frances". 

"Or maybe you know you have a sickness but you enjoy the power it makes you feel," she posed, switching tact. 

"I know- Georgette." 

"Have you ever been hospitalized before? Not every doctor wants to change who you are. I think genius is often paired with a mental illness; but there are ways to express yourself without hurting others." 

"A doctor once told me that if he was allowed to kill a patient, he would kill me then and there. He would slit my throat and throw my body in a dumpster like the filth I was." He giggled, as if the idea was a hilarious prospect. 

"Do you know what I did to that doctor, Harleen? Well, do you!" he growled. 

Frances realized she was shaking. For a moment she forgot that he was chained securely to his chair and was about to run for it. No, calm down. I'm safe. 

"Very good- you already found out my first name from Dr. Crane," Frances said, attempting to compose herself. 

"You don't remember me, do you Harley Quinn?" the man asked, looking slightly disappointed. 

No one had called her that for a very long time. Not since she started going by her middle name, Frances. Not since her father... 

Crane did say the Joker was manipulative. He certainly had a knack for getting personal, but then again, so did she. Since asking about his past didn't work, Frances decided to focus of his present. 

"It says here that you've been diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder. 'Psychosis paired with acute mania'," she quoted. "Do you understands what this means?" 

"Fucking crazy with a side of nuts." His jeering face did nothing to contradict his statement. 

"'Loses touch with reality and is compelled to perform violent or otherwise illegal acts.' Would you agree with that?" 

"On the contrary- I'm never as lucid as when I'm doing something despicable," he drew out the last word so malevolently that Frances shuddered at the implications. 

"But I am compulsive," he admitted. "I'm not one for planning per se. I just open my bag of tricks and viola," a flourish of his shackled hands alluded to some feat of legerdemain. 

"You thrive on chaos," she inferred. 

"Yes- how very succint of you, Harley." 

"Then it must seem very surreal here to you- in a structured environment where you can no longer instigate said chaos." 

The Joker raised a skeptical eyebrow. "But on the contrary- Arkham is pure chaos. If you're looking for realism then look no further. Take Edward Nigma for example- a bit paranoid but that doesn't mean they're not out to get him. Or my old friend Spades who just wants to bash someone's face in to watch it bleed. 

"And then take our dear Dr. Crane who is supposedly in charge of this little utopia of free thinkers. He's so sick it makes my skin crawl. Thought he'd hypnotized me once and you won't believe the things he said..." 

"So only the insane are sane," Frances summed, ignoring his bait about her superior. 

"I'm not insane. I'm the product of an insane world. I am the child of Chaos and Fear. I am the King of Arkham. If there's anyone here who needs his mind adjusted it's Crane himself. 

"But that's not really what you want to talk about. You want to pin down why I seem so very familiar," he drawled evilly. 

He did seem oddly familiar, but Frances decided not to respond. "I'm concerned that your medications seem to be completely ineffective. Would you agree?" 

"Harley Quinn and The Joker make quite a nice pair, don't you think? There's sort of a ring to it," the man continued, undaunted by her lack of a reaction. 

"I'm going to suggest you have more extensive blood-work done and see if we can't figure out a more effective medication regimen." 

"Still have your daggers, Harley Quinn? Ever let them loose once and a while, see what you can hit?" 

"Unless you object, I'll give my recommendation to Dr. Crane this evening." 

"If you really don't remember, why don't you ask the good Doctor to hypnotize you? I'm sure he'd enjoy the opportunity to get inside of that pretty little head of yours," he said gruffly. 

"The next time we meet, I'd like for you to call me Dr. Quinzel. And focus more on why you're here and how I can help you get better. That's the only way you'll get out again." 

"Oh, I can think of a few more," the Joker said slyly. "But you're right- you will help me get out of here, Harley Quinn. I swear it on my mother's grave." 

For some reason, this last statement haunted Frances most of all. 

She hurried past Dr. Crane's office, through security and out the front door. Once outside, Frances gulped the fresh air like she'd been holding her breath for the last twenty minutes. She thought she had gotten over anxiety attacks. 

Just as she was about to get in her car, a limousine pulled up behind it. Crane got out and said good-bye to someone that Frances couldn't get a glimpse of before the door slammed shut and a dark tinted window obscured her vision. One of his "well-connected" friends? 

"Dr. Crane- I was just about to get some lunch," Frances said smoothly. 

"That seemed brief. Any difficulties?" he asked, scanning her face as if he was trying to read her mind. 

"Not at all. I just didn't want to push my luck. We'd developed a sort of rapport, I think." 

"Well that's excellent." Crane took her by the arm with more familiarity than she cared for. "Why don't you let me drive us somewhere to eat and discuss your breakthrough. Do you like Italian?" 

Frances loved Italian but she was too on edge to eat much. Luckily, Dr. Crane didn't ask many questions about her first interview and Frances decided not to ask whether he'd somehow revealed her first name. Crane might suspect the patient had gotten to her and she didn't want to be taken off the case. 

Dr. Quinzel's other patients were standard enough: a drooling schizophrenic who like to start fires; a wise-guy who was obviously pretending to be insane; a burglar with delusions of persecution and a penchant for riddles. None of them intrigued her quite like the so-called Joker. She'd made it a personal mission to find out who he was and whether or not they'd met before. 

Frances did some of her best thinking when she was working out, so she changed directly into a pair of biker shorts, a sports bra, tank and tennis shoes and headed to the gym. To counteract a somewhat sedentary job, she liked to stay fit and limber. And besides, it felt good to know that she could defend herself if necessary in a place like Gotham City. 

After warming up around the track, she found an empty studio with mats, a punching bag and plenty of space. Frances took out her earbuds and got down to business. She jabbed, hooked, elbowed and punched while practicing her blocks and dodges. Pounding the shit out of the bag felt good, but without any protection her knuckles were soon raw. She kicked a few more times before giving her victim a rest. 

Sweaty and red-cheeked, Frances stretched in front of the mirror. She had a lean, toned body paired with a generous bust and hips, cinched tight at the waist. Before she'd developed all of her womanly curves, gymnastics had been one of her favorite past-times. Her father had even paid for lessons, back when he could afford to care. 

The thought of him made Frances want to punch something again. Instead of maiming her hands even further, she reset the room and decided to see if she still had it. Cartwheel, back flip, somersault- it was a good start. Heart racing now, she went to the corner of the room and tried a few front handsprings in succession. Back handsprings were scarier but easier to do. She even managed to land one with a layout. 

As her physical memory started to take over her rational mind, Frances soon found herself remembering how to do a roundoff, a front tuck, and a back walkover. After going through her tumbling repertoire and finding herself giddy with exhaustion, she felt like she could take on anything. Dripping with perspiration, Frances skipped the shower and went home to make a call she thought she'd never make in a million years. 

"Hello?" A television was blaring in the background and he was still chewing. Potato chips from the sound of it. 

"Dad, it's me." 

Her father swallowed and turned down the television. It was still audible. 

"Hey, girlie. I didn't think I'd ever hear from you again," he slurred. Of course he'd be drunk. 

"I didn't ever think I'd ever call you again," said Frances brusquely. 

"If you need money you're hittin' up the wrong sugar-daddy," he chuckled, crunching on another chip. The sound of his mastication made her ill. 

"I don't need anything from you. Except answers." 

"Oh? Well that depends on your questions," he said, taking a swig of what she presumed was the cheapest beer he could find. 

"Did I ever dress up as a Harlequin when I was young?" 

Her dad coughed for a minute, during which Frances secretly wished he would choke- but then she'd never know. 

"You mean other than the Halloween you dressed up like a fucking circus slut? Not that you weren't always dressed that way- a slut, I mean," he clarified darkly 

"When I was a little girl, I mean," she pressed on despite his vulgarity. 

"Maybe. Your mother liked to parade you around in costumes. Yeah, now that I think about it, you went as Harlequin for Halloween when you were five or so." 

"Was anyone dressed up with me?" 

"It was Halloween, what the fuck do you think?" he spat. 

"I mean to match. Like a fool. A joker," Frances said patiently. 

"How the hell should I remember?" Deception was clear in his voice. 

"Why don't you try? I'm sure you can remember how I looked that night. Was there a boy with me who was several years older? In a purple suit, with green hair and facepaint?" 

"Who have you been talking to?" he accused furiously. 

"Is that a yes?" she persisted. 

"The past is past. This is a road you don't want to go down, girlie," her father warned. 

"Who was he? What are you trying to hide!" 

"Don't fucking call me ever fucking again. You're dead to me- both of you- do you understand me? Leave me the fuck in peace!" he yelled before hanging up. 

Frances had never heard her father sound so frightened in her life. And, having worked for Sal Maroni and by extension the infamous Carmine Falcone himself, her dad had seen his fair share of violence, murder and mayhem. What could be so much worse about this boy turned Joker- who had, in some way or another, been a part of her formative years? 

If crime ran in his family like it did in hers, then Maroni might be part of their connection. Frances stuck that in her "maybe" pile. She'd seen a child psychiatrist around the same time she would have been dressed as Harlequin; or rather, "Harley Quinn" as her mother had dubbed her since birth and her father had since twisted it into a painful reminder. This she also considered a possible common ground. 

Something that connected them on another level was the loss of their mothers- that is assuming the Joker was being honorable when he made his vow. But Frances decided that wasn't a topic she could broach, even if it could serve as a bond. Their first encounter had been peculiar enough and she had the feeling their second would be even stranger. Discussing something that personal was more than even she could handle. 

Frances brought an assortment of her own tricks to her next session with the Joker. 

Dr. Crane had politely listened to her recommendation for a rigorous blood analysis of "Joe Kerr", but assured her that he'd already investigated the matter to his satisfaction. Frances had pointed out that it would be helpful to her learning experience, but didn't press further. So she broached her new idea with some trepidation, but Crane had an unusually enthusiastic response. 

"Oscar Wilde said 'Man is least himself when he talks as his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.' Perhaps this will prove true with the Joker," he commented thoughtfully. "As long as it doesn't disturb any of the patients...more than they are already...then yes. I'll allow it." 

"Thank you, sir. Before I go, may I ask for your notes on the hypnotherapy sessions with Mr. Kerr? There seems to be no record in the file," she said sweetly. 




Joker's Wilde Pt. 01



"Oh, those," he said, furrowing his eyebrows. "They proved to be rather unsuccessful. He turned my efforts to find the truth into a mockery. I thought there inclusion would be distracting from any pertinent information." 

"Have you hypnotized other patients in the past with positive results?" she asked cautiously. 

Crane seemed to study Frances's face as if she had the answer. "Like medication, shock therapy or any other treatment, the success of hypnotherapy depends entirely on the subject. In the Joker's case, he was not receptive to the process. As the old saying goes, you can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink out of a straw. 

"I've found most people are quite open to the idea of exposing their minds. With the proper practitioner, a hypnotized subject can tap into the roots of their obsessions, release latent abilities, recall suppressed memories or, if necessary, have them completely erased." Dr. Crane expounded with an air of self-sastisfaction. 

"Fascinating. I'd be interested to see your techniques." 

"If you'd like, you can experience them firsthand. I've hypnotized several interns in the past and they all expressed a sense of liberation after surrendering their conscious control. Of course, I use my home office for these sessions. It's far more comfortable than the asylum. And private." Crane smiled meaningfully. 

"Thank you, Doctor. I'll take your offer into consideration," said Frances, quoting his reply about the Joker's blood work almost word for word. 

Dr. Crane's smile thinned considerably. "I hope you will." 

The Joker waited in silent repose but was quicker to don his signature grin in greeting. This time, instead of shock, Frances found it somewhat endearing. Refreshing even, after Crane, whose passive aggression and innuendo was tedious to navigate. At least with there was some modicum of honesty with the Joker. 

"Good afternoon," Frances said pleasantly. 

"Is it, Doctor Quinzel?" he queried, emphasizing her title to show he'd remembered her request. 

One by one, Frances set out the three pots of grease paint under his watchful eyes. 

"You tell me," she said casually. 

A subtle change came over the Joker's face- his eyes sparkled like emeralds as he licked the corners of his mouth to prepare them for a real smile. It tugged at the corner of his lips with genuine glee. 

"Why Doctor, I believe you've had an epiphany!" 

"I'd like to play a game with you," Frances said. 

"Not another name game, I hope. I won that already," he smirked. 

"This one's simple. I have three colors of paint and three questions. For every question you answer truthfully, I give you one color. If you answer all of them, you get your face back," she explained. 

The Joker considered these rules, eying the paint covetously before nodding. "But no cheating," he warned, his tongue darting out like a hungry snake. 

"I wouldn't dream of it," Frances assured him. "How long have you known Sal Maroni?" 

"Ole Sally and I go way back. I was introduced to him when I was a boy. I used to be afraid of him, actually. Until I realized that he was scared of me- scared witless and shitless!" The Joker giggled drolly- "a ha ha ha, a hee a hee". 

Frances removed the lid from the white pot and slid it across the table. He eyed the offering suspiciously at first, but soon dipped his fingers in with lubricious relish. When the paint first touched his face, he moaned softly as if he was applying a balm to a painful wound. After he'd covered his forehead, cheeks, nose, chin and neck, the Joker began to look for like himself. 

"Now, I'm guessing this isn't your first institutionalization. How old were you the first time you were hospitalized for mental illness?" 

"I did a very bad thing when I was eleven years old," he said contritely. "They said I did it because I was mentally deranged. I tried to tell them how perfectly normal I felt but of course only crazy people think they're sane." 

"What did you do?" Frances pressed. 

"Tsk, tsk, Doctor. That's another question and I already answered the first. No tricks, remember?" he snarled. 

"Fair enough," conceded Frances, passing him the black makeup. 

This he smeared around his eyes, like a raccoon. Or a morbid clown. The Joker was almost complete. 

"Do you want to ask what I did now?" he whispered menacingly. 

Frances contemplated the possibility, but stuck to her plan. "How do you know who I am?" 

At this, the Joker positively erupted with shrill laughter. There was an animalistic quality to his otherwise human expression. "Because, my dear, we are the same! 

"Now I know you were hoping to make some spurious connection because your father was one of Maroni's thugs or because you had to go away to the loony bin for little loonies after your mother died. Believe me, I know how many degrees you tried to put between us to keep your precious professional distance. But behind that wall in your head, you know the answer to that as much as I do." 

Frances swallowed hard and looked down at the bright red circle of grease paint. "You're cheating," she accused, idly spinning the pot with her fingers. "If you want to put a smile on that face, you'll have to give me a straight answer." 

"How's this for straight then- I've known you since birth, Harley Quinn. I know you got that name because you have a diamond-shaped birthmark on your inner thigh. I know you still have nightmares about your daddy and dreams about your mommy. 

"I know you because you're my sister." 

The last word echoed in Frances's head. Almost instinctively she looked down to her thigh where her grey slacks concealed the lopsided red mark shaped like the card suit. He had to be lying. She was an only child... 

"Now are you going to keep your promise or are you as much of a coward as Crane?" the Joker asked silkily. 

"I'm nothing like Dr. Crane," Frances snapped, sliding the last prize across the table. 

The Joker applied the red more carefully than the rest, stretching his natural grin halfway up his cheeks. This was more than a folly- this was an extension of his psyche. 

"How do I look, sista'?" he asked finally. 

"Wild," was all she could manage. 

"You should try it," he suggested quietly. 

They were past games now. This was real. 

"All right. Pass them over," Frances accepted. 

"Oh ho ho, not so fast. I have three questions of my own. Turn about is fair play, wouldn't you agree?" 

"Okay," she said, her voice trembling from nerves and excitement. 

"When's the last time you talked to our daddy?" 

"The other day. I was asking about you. I must have struck a chord because he told me off and said to never call him again," Frances admitted. 

The white paint skidded over like a hockey puck. She caught it in her hand. Very gingerly, Frances dabbed a white mask across her own face by feel alone. The Joker watched as if she was doing something extraordinarily intimate. 

"What's the last memory you have of our mommy?" 

Hareen closed her eyes and kept them closed when she quietly answered, "She was brushing my hair. She was always rough when she brushed it but that time she made me cry. I couldn't stop crying. Then she put me in pigtails. I hated pigtails." 

When she opened her eyes again, they were watering. Frances hadn't visiting that memory in a long time. 

The red came over next. This she dabbed in the middle of her lips, almost like a heart. It seemed like the right thing to do. 

"And now the sixty-four thousand dollar question," he began dramatically. "Do you remember me now?" 

The Joker stared at her expectantly. It would have been easy to lie. But Frances could already picture his hair dyed green, a purple suit with vest and tie in place of his white uniform. 

"Yes." 

Instead of haphazardly blacking out her eyes, Frances carefully traced two diamonds and filled them in. One for love and one for hate. 

"That's my girl," the Joker beamed. "Now tell me. How are we going to get outta this hell hole?" 

Chapter Two: A Date with The Scarecrow 

Arkham Asylum was built on the coast as the private residence of an eccentric billionaire who went insane and hanged himself in his study- a fitting beginning for a madhouse. Situated on top of a hill, its front faced the city and its back was flush with a perilous drop-off that went straight down to the rocky shore. There was only one break in the craggy teeth guarding the land from turgid waters, which could be reached via a treacherously steep path down from a side loading bay. 

Before the main road was built, a dock had been built in the gap with a long pier for ships to deliver supplies to the isolated mansion. All that remained of this was the dock itself, water logged and dilapidated after decades of disrepair. The side door- made entirely of steel, quite strong despite its archaic appearance- had been locked up and long forgotten, its access partitioned away over the course of several remodels. Frances visited City Hall to study Arkham's blueprints, but for some reason the most recent changes made to the basement within the last ten years weren't on record. 

When she investigated the layout herself, she discovered that almost all of it had become a restricted area accessible only by two people- Jonathan Crane and Alyce Sinner- the Facility Director whom Frances had only met on one occasion and didn't care to repeat. That meant that not only would she have to acquire the key itself- if it was still in existence- but also the proper security clearance to even be able to reach the door. 

Once they reached the dock, then there would be the matter of having a boat waiting to take them to a safe house. The Joker had alluded to being able to handle these details as long as she could get them out of Arkham. Frances almost voiced her opinion that it seemed too risky- especially since she'd never done anything more illegal than shoplifting and this was a felony- but then she decided it would only serve as encouragement. 

Besides, as she considered the other possibilities, that was seemingly the only feasible plan. If they could somehow make it out the front door and past the watchtower sentries, then there would be the front gate and its security waiting. The length of the tall, barb-wired fence was shaped like a horseshoe, each end meeting the ocean, and the whole length was patrolled by guards with dogs. Even if they somehow made it to a get-away car, the road lead directly into Old Gotham making it easily for the GCPD to intercept. 

Frances couldn't believe that she was even planning the escape at all. Not only did it mean she was orchestrating the release of a psychotic murderer, but she also planned to offer herself up as a hostage on the good faith that he wouldn't kill her once he was free. If a connection was eventually made between her and the Joker, not only would it mean the end of her career but most likely a stay in Blackgate Penitentiary. That place made Arkham Asylum look like an opulent hotel. 

The only other person who could confirm the Joker's claim to be her brother was currently refusing to answer his phone. Stooping as low as to visit her father seemed even more daunting to Frances than staging this convoluted escape. Besides, his attempt to deny that the boy even existed had given her all the proof she needed. 

Somehow, the Joker being her brother was the only thing that made sense. They had been through something horrific together- that altered them both for better or worse- and only she could understand him now. Locking the Joker up was only making him sicker but so far that seemed to be the only solution anyone had given. 

Dr. Crane couldn't help even if he wanted to, since it was apparent that he didn't. None of them could. Except Frances. So in spite of the possible consequences, she went all in on the Joker's scheme. 

Frances realized that her endeavor wouldn't be totally unaided, however, when a playing card fell out of a stack of her mail. Looking around to see if anyone was watching, she picked the card up and flipped it over. A Joker, of course. 

A message had been typed next to the jester in his motley. "Call from Dr. Crane's tonight. 11:00. Ask for the Jack of Clubs." Below was a phone number with an unfamiliar area code. 

Frightened that she didn't know who had left this in her mailbox and equally frightened that she would soon find out, Frances memorized the number and tossed the card into the incinerator. It was hard to tell which would be worse: dealing with the Joker's henchmen, or paying a visit to Dr. Crane's home. She doubted that any of her brother's goons would expect her to go down on them. 

Instead of trying to avoid Crane at lunch that afternoon, Frances hurried to catch him in his office. She had touched up her lipstick, brushed out her blonde locks and undone the top two buttons of her blouse. It had been a long time since she'd dolled herself up for a man and the fact that it was her boss made her feel even more uncomfortable. But she had to play the cards she'd been dealt. 

"Dr. Crane!" she blurted out, opening his door without knocking. Unfortunately, there was already a beautiful woman in his office. 

A tall goddess spun around on her red heels and gave Frances a look of intense dislike. It was Alyce Sinner herself, impeccably dressed in a black pencil skirt and a scarlet silk-blouse. Everything about her coloring was so fully saturated- rich bronze skin, sapphire blue eyes, thick golden hair- that Frances felt pathetically washed-out. The Facility Director was in her mid-forties and her body could still put younger women to shame. As could her glare. 

"Excuse me, I didn't mean to interrupt," Frances apologized, inwardly comparing her feeble charms to this bombshell's lethal arsenal. 

Alyce Sinner gave her a simpering smile and turned back to Crane. "I see you have other matters to attend to. We'll talk about this later." 

"Of course. A pleasure as always, Alyce," he said, leading her to the door by the hand with the air of someone escorting a queen. 

"Good day, Jonathan," she said, clasping his hand a moment longer. "Dr. Quince," Ms. Sinner said with a curt nod in her direction before leaving the room. 

Frances didn't bother to correct the Director, since she was sure the woman knew her real name. She mumbled another apology to Dr. Crane but he waved it away. 

"Really, it's quite all right. Ms. Sinner and I were just ironing out some kinks in our latest pharmaceutical trials. You'll be finding out more about this new drug very soon, I'm sure. But all in due time," Crane said with a crooked grin. 

"Actually I'm glad you stopped by. I wanted to say bravo on your performance with the Joker the other day. Not only allowing him to wear his hideous makeup, but putting it on yourself...Genius." 

Frances blushed modestly, waiting for the catch. 

"But I dare say I expected for you to have found out more than a spurious connection to Salvatore Maroni and a potential Juvenile Detention record..." Crane finished, obviously disappointed. 

Frances did her best to appear equally dismayed when she said, "I know, Sir. I'm afraid that you might have been right about me not being up to the task of treating the Joker. I was just so flattered that you had such faith in me and I didn't want to let a great man like you down." She batted her eyes helplessly at Dr. Crane. If she couldn't be sexier than Ms. Sinner at least she could be more sycophantic, which he might find just as alluring. 

"On the contrary, Doctor. I've never had more faith in your abilities," he said, putting a hand on his troubled intern's shoulder. 

"You're too kind..." Frances faltered as he drew closer, his hand caressing her shoulder now. She swallowed hard and proceeded in a quieter tone. "I was wondering if your invitation for a private meeting still stands, Dr. Crane." 

His pale eyes dancing around Frances's face, Crane leaned in with parted lips as if to kiss her. Instead, he whispered hotly into her ear, "The offer's been standing since I first laid eyes on you. Come over to my place tonight and I'm sure you won't be disappointed." 

"Consider it a date," she exhaled in relief when Dr. Crane let her go and brushed himself off in a businesslike manner, as if remembering they were still at work. 

"I live in the Heights. I'll text you the address," he said coolly. 

"Thank you, Sir," Frances murmured. 

"See you at nine, Dr. Quinzel." 

Frances felt very conspicuous driving her beat up Volvo wagon into the parking garage beneath Gold Tower. Named for its owner, the wealthy Cyrus Gold, it was an Art-Deco style building with gleaming gold accents inside and out. Its elaborately fashioned elevator was operated by a distinguished-looking older gentleman in a crimson suit with large gold buttons, who looked like he'd been working there forever. 

"Which floor, Miss," he in a charming British accent. 

"Nineteenth, please," Frances answered, flashing her only real smile of the night. 

On the way up, the elevator operator stood stock still with his hands folded in front. She'd been expecting a bit of small-talk, but undoubtedly he'd been trained not to bother the elite residents. Exceedingly nervous, Frances straightened her tight black dress and checked her reflection in the shiny gold doors. 

"You look extraordinary, Miss. If you don't mind my saying," he told her reassuringly as they were nearing Crane's floor. 

"Oh, thank you! This was the only nice thing I had to wear," she confided. 

"I've always thought that a beautiful dress doesn't make the woman; a woman makes the dress beautiful," he said with a wink. 

After the elevator and its doors opened, Frances fished out a five note from her bag and offered it to the elderly chap. 

He refused the tip saying, "I appreciate it, Miss, but all of my compliments are free." 

"Thank you, Sir. My name is Harley," she said on a whim, extending her empty hand. 

"You're welcome, Harley," he said, shaking it heartily. "Alfred Pennyworth at your service," the gentleman introduced himself with a slight bow. "I do hope you'll have a good evening." 

There was hint of a frown on his otherwise cheery face, as if he knew that she wouldn't. 

"I'll try," she said weakly. 

Frances waited until it was exactly 9:00 before knocking on the door marked 1903. She did her best to return Crane's smile- which distorted his features in an unnatural way- and not to recoil from his greeting of a kiss on her cheek. 

"You look fantastic, Dr. Quinzel," he said, looking her up and down while she surveyed his open-concept apartment. 

Instead of the dark, antiquated abode she'd been expecting, it was a modern masterpiece- white surfaces and clean lines with hints of Hemingway in Cuba. Uncluttered without appearing bare, lived-in without being personalized, Frances guessed he'd had a professional stage the whole look. It was much to at ease to be of his own design. 

"You have a lovely home, Dr. Crane," she remarked, examining an assemblage of framed inkblots. 

"Please, call me Jonathan," he said, standing next to her with his hand resting on the small of her back. "They're unpublished Rorschachs. I acquired them from a private Swiss collector some years back." 

"I hope you won't want to know what I see in them," Frances joked. 

"No, I consider them to be rather rudimentary psychological indicators. But they are still...intriguing," Dr. Crane mused. "Would you care for a glass of wine? I've been letting this excellent Merlot breathe." 

"Yes, please. I don't know much about wine, except how I feel when I drink it." 

"That's all you really need to know," he said, pouring a generous amount for his guest and markedly less for himself. 




Joker's Wilde Pt. 01



"What do you prefer to go by? Harleen?" 

"Frances," she corrected him. Although recently the name Harley Quinn had begun to grow on her again. 

"Cheers, Frances. To new friendship," Crane proposed. 

Their glasses clinked and Frances drank a large gulp, but she certainly didn't consider them to be friends. 

He lead her around, pointing out several other prized possessions including a wire Harlow monkey, a box of Don Pedros cigars that had belonged to Sigmund Freud and one of Ivan Pavlov's infamous brass bells. Frances couldn't help notice that he had no family photographs; even she had pictures of her mother around. 

They ended up on his balcony. Somehow her glass had been emptied and refilled and she felt quite tipsy, leaning against the railing to take in the view of Gotham. From the two tallest skyscrapers- GothCorp and Wayne Tower- to lowest tenement buildings in the Narrows, from River Liberty to the Atlantic Ocean, it all spread out before her like a miniature city. Frances looked down to the street below and stumbled backwards into Dr. Crane. 

"Are you afraid of heights?" he inquired mildly, taking hold of her with his arms. 

"I just got dizzy, Doc- Jonathan," she recovered. "All the wine." 

"Believe me, it wasn't my intention to get you drunk. I just wanted you to relax," he informed her softly. 

Frances turned around and looked up into Crane's face. The shadows gave it a gaunt appearance. She closed her eyes and pressed a kiss against the only place where any fullness remained. he grabbed her head and returned the kiss fiercely, opening her mouth and invading it with his tongue. It was less passionate than it was furious as he dug his fingers into her flesh and assaulted her lips with his own. 

Finally, Crane broke off with a look of triumph mixed with disgust. Frances couldn't tell if he wanted to fuck her or kill her. Or both. 

"Would you like to see my office now?" he asked, roughly stroking her hair. 

"I'd rather see your bedroom, Jonathan" she replied, voice trembling. Frances scolded herself for having too much to drink. The plan was to get him to pass out, with the aid of a little sedative. But the time to spike his wine was past which meant she'd have to go with Plan B. 

"After I freshen up for a moment," she added, trying to remember where she'd left her purse. 

"You're already fresh as a daisy," he cooed, inhaling her aroma with a shudder. "But if you insist...At least let me show you my office first. It's right this way." 

Frances followed him to another set of glass doors off the balcony. She guessed that he intended to show her more artifacts from notable psychologists, just to make sure her panties were wet enough. As she entered his office- another mix of Colonialism in the Tropics meets contemporary chic- Frances prepared to act dazzled. 

"Remember those pharmaceutical trials I mentioned?" Dr. Crane asked, striding to his desk. 

"Yes..." answered Frances uncertainly, surprised by the sudden professional tone. 

"The drug started out in tablet form, but it couldn't be ingested. So we devised this. See," he held out a small contraption that looked like a cross between an inhaler and a pistol. "It releases a dry aerosol powder. This meter controls the concentration," his fingers adjusted a round dial. "Right now its on the lowest setting. It will deliver a mild dose of a neurotoxin, causing impaired motor function and disturbing hallucinations lasting approximately two hours," he informed her pleasantly. 

"You're testing a hallucinogen?" Frances murmured, examining the strange inhaler. "But how is that therapeutic?" 

"Oh, it's not," Dr. Crane chuckled as he sprayed her directly in the face. 

Screaming, Frances squeezed her eyes shut and tried frantically to wave away the toxic mist. But she'd already inhaled it deep into her lungs, and it was going directly to her head. As the initial reaction of muscle control loss took over, Crane unzipped the back of her carefully chosen black dress and ripped it off her ragdoll body. 

"Now, Frances, we're going to play Doctor..." 

Frances flailed uncontrollably as he dragged her across the room with one arm around her bare midriff towards a fainting couch. Once he tossed aside the woven Persian kilim, used as a throw in Victorian fashion, he revealed it to be a sleek, black examination table with matching straps at the head and foot. Its leather upholstery glistened dangerously, and she knew it was really a deadly creature in disguise. 

Crane threw her down on the firm cushion and secured her with its restraints. Not only had objects begun echoing and sounds breathing, but her mind was reeling with terror as the world turned warped and wicked. This was the end. 

"No! Let me go, let me go, let me go!" she screamed, trying not to look at Dr. Crane's face that shifted into her father's face, then her brother's, then back to his own. 

Testing her bonds one last time, Dr. Crane went back to his desk and opened up another drawer. Frances squeezed her eyes shut but the hallucinations only got worse. The darkness took shape; first as a swarm of bugs, then a colony of bats and finally a murder of crows attacking her face. When she opened them again, the crows scattered, frightened off by Crane's return. She screamed again when she realized why. 

"What do you think of my mask? Not quite as garish as the Joker, but I've found it to be effective." His voice felt like claws raking over her skin and tasted like blood. "Jung said our persona is the mask we wear for society. The persona may manifest itself in our dreams as a tramp, a beggar, or a scarecrow." 

The Scarecrow sat next to his captive, still pleading for release. The chaise lounge was a bog, swallowing her down. Frances sank so low she could have touched the ceiling if her hand was free. The stitched-together burlap hood had fused with Dr. Crane's face- she could see his blue eyes burning holes through the roughspun fabric. 

"When I'm the Scarecrow, I can tap into a person's deepest fears and darkest nightmares. All the skeletons they've hidden away from the rest of the world so they can be normal. And Frances, I've just been dying to find out what keeps you up at night..." he said, running finger between her breasts and down her tummy. He skipped over her sex and brushed the top of her thigh to her knee. 

"Please, let me go. I'll do whatever you want. I'll suck your cock, Jonathan. I'll let you fuck me. Whatever you want," Frances whimpered, watching as the Scarecrow's face turned into wax, melted and reformed all over again. 

"Oh I know how eager you are to please. I'm sure I could have gotten you to go down on me in my office, or taken you for a quickie when you walked in the door. I know a slut when I see one. But you can't rape a slut. Not without a little help," he murmured. 

Frances watched as his fingers slithered like worms, with mouths like snakes, on the gusset of her panties. 

"Let me go and I won't tell anyone. I'll let you rape me, I'll..." 

A cloud of noxious laughter seeped out of the Scarecrow's mask. 

"You'll let me rape you? Surely you can see the inherent paradox in the very idea. No, I think I'd rather hear about the first person who raped you. It was your father, wasn't it?" 

Frances shook her head. The crows came back, pecking for blood. This time, she could see a figure behind them. Her father. 

"Go away!" she shrieked, thrashing harder. 

"Shhh, shhh, stay still or this will leave a mark," the Scarecrow warned gently. He had a knife in his hands and Frances could see her face in the blade. She had three eyes lopsided eyes and all of them blinked at different times. 

Afraid that the edge was laced with lethal venom, Frances stopped moving. With surgical precision, Dr. Scarecrow slid his knife under the middle of her bra and sliced it open. His hands prodded her breasts like he was looking for lumps, then lightly traced a circle around her areola with the tip of the knife. She watched her nipples harden and pucker as he flicked them with the back of the blade. 

"Did he hurt you- your father? Or did he seduce you?" 

Cotton filled Frances' mouth. She spat it out and said, "I don't know! He forced himself on me. And he made me feel...I don't want to feel it!" 

The Scarecrow was pulling off her panties to continue examining his pinned specimen. 

"You don't want to feel the pain? Or the pleasure?" he growled, forcing open her thighs to see her shaved pussy. 

"Neither. I don't want to feel anything at all," Frances sobbed. Her body betrayed her yet again as the Scarecrow's fingers caressed her open sex. Even tied down by this maniac- afraid that he would slit her throat once he finished his cruel game- it responded to the sensation of pleasure. She could see ecstasy blooming in the vitreous fluid of her eyeballs, like a red inkblot in the shape of a Harlequin. 

"Face this fear, Frances. Don't try to run away like you have all these years. You felt it then as you feel it now- that if you allowed yourself to enjoy being raped you would be less of a human. That if you gave in to what your body wanted, your mind would fall apart." 

The Scarecrow unbuttoned his man suit and shed its pieces until he was naked. His real skin was a patchworked landscape- she could see the different tones shimmering and undulating. Attached to his crotch was a wooden codpiece where a man's penis would be- sleek and huge and deadly. The Scarecrow wielded it with it with a stitched up smile, running it up and down her slick furrow. 

"Do you want me to fuck you now?" 

"No...No don't, please don't Daddy," Frances begged. The Scarecrow was Dr. Crane, but he was also her father. He was no man and he was every man who had hurt any woman. 

"Don't fight it, Harleen. Daddy's gonna fuck you and you're going to like it." 

"No! Stop!" Frances howled as he filled her with his huge cock. 

"Hush, you don't want Mommy to hear," he chided. 

"Mommy already knows," she murmured. "Mommy already knows..." 

The figure behind the crows wasn't her father anymore. It was her mother. As the crows flapped and quorked, Frances got a glimpse of something sticking out of her mother's heart. A dagger. 

Still have your daggers, Harley Quinn? Ever let them loose once in a while, cawed the largest crow. See what you can hit? 

See what you can hit! chorused the murder. 

"I didn't mean to!" she yelled aloud at the crow, who transformed into the Joker. "I'm so sorry, brother..." 

The Scarecrow paused his strenuous plowing. "Brother? Another character in your twisted tale," he cackled in delight. "Did he find out too?" 

The crows were carrying her brother away as he laughed and laughed. 

"No! Come back! Help me..." 

"No one is going to help you," the Scarecrow told her, gliding his pole in and out of her wet cunt. Frances could feel it ripping through her, splintering and scraping and it hurt so good... 

Something like an orgasm wracked her body but he just kept stabbing her over and over again. The red ink wasn't ecstasy, it was her blood. Frances watched in flow in horror before the feathers rained down over her mind's eye. After he killed her, the Scarecrow died with a primal yell and filled her up with his essence. They were one... 

When the murky visions of all manners of torture and deaths faded, Frances realized that her wrists and ankles were unfettered. The Scarecrow was gone and only Dr. Crane remained- fully dressed and making notes at his desk. She felt exceedingly woozy, and everything still looked holographic and sounded metallic, but Frances managed to sit up. 

"You're awake," Crane remarked, apparently noting the time before tucking his journal away. "Wait a moment. We don't want you to have a fall." 

For once, he had something akin to a bedside manner when he sat by her side and helped Frances put her dress back on. 

"How long was I out," she ventured to ask. It felt like forever. 

"Subjects overestimate the amount of time that has passed while hallucinating- especially if they become unconscious. What may have felt like hours to you was no more than fifteen minutes. It's not even eleven o'clock yet." 

Part of Frances jumped. Something was supposed to happen at eleven o'clock... 

"I told you it still had some kinks to iron out. Even a small dose, lasting no more than what- an hour and a half with your metabolism- is still so intense that it leads to loss of consciousness. And I'm sure you're still experiencing the aftereffects." 

Ace of Clubs. 

"What did you say?" 

"Can I freshen up? And I'm so thirsty," she said, the sound of her own voice unfamiliar. 

"If you're sure that you're quite alright." 

Frances was pretty fucking far from alright. But the telephone number left on the Joker's calling card peaked out through the fog in her mind. 

"Yes. Will you help me up, please," she asked quietly. 

Crane lead her to the open door into the hall. Frances turned towards the living room. 

"The bathroom's that way," he said, pointing her in the other direction. 

"I just need my purse." 

"I suppose I don't need to remind you that reporting his to the police would be an act of futility. I have friends in low places too, you know," he smirked before letting her go. 

Frances stumbled into the living room and scanned around for her bag. It seemed so far away that she was surprised to reach it in only a few steps. Still adjusting her depth perception, she fumbled around for something sharp. A syringe. 

Ever so cautious with its stinger, she palmed it as best she could. Carrying her purse on her shoulder and concealing her secret weapon, Frances made her way back down the hall. 

Dr. Crane appeared to check on her progress. "You look white as a sheet, Dr. Quinzel. Are you sure you don't need to sit back down?" 

"I think I do," Frances panted, nearly falling as she reached the good Doctor. 

"It's alright. Lean on me," he ordered. 

Obediently, Frances draped her arm around his shoulder. "Thank you, Dr. Crane," she whispered. Then she jabbed him in the neck with the needle, pulled the plunger back to draw in a small plume of blood, and injected him with enough Immobilium to last the rest of the night. 

Crane took a couple of steps before collapsing onto the plush carpet. Frances removed the syringe from his vein and dropped it in her bag. She knelt down to take his pulse, and saw that it was time. Satisfied that he was sufficiently knocked out but still alive, Frances stepped over his limp body. 

Without even thinking, she dialed her brother's henchman from Dr. Crane's office chair. 

"A-a-ace of Clubs?" Frances stuttered after an awkward moment of silence, during which she could hear heavy breathing on the other end. 

"Harley Quinn?" he answered finally. 

"What do I do now?" she asked, hoping she wasn't supposed to respond with a special code phrase. 

"Open the door. We're waiting outside." 

Frances tried to remain as calm as possible with a gun pointed to her head by a man in a rubber clown mask. Two other masked men rifled through Crane's desk for his badge and key. Apparently they found them because one barked, "Watch her," and both men stalked off into another room. 

"You can trust me, you know. The Joker does," Frances said quietly. 

"Well I don't trust the fucking Joker," he said, pressing the muzzle into the side of her head. 

"If you hurt me, you'll be sorry." 

"Oh really? And who the fuck are you, the Joker's whore? Or the Scarecrow's" 

"He'll flay you alive- starting with your little cock," she went on evenly. 

"You wanna see my cock, bitch, and tell me how little it is then?" the clown threatened, pushing the loaded gun into her mouth. 

"Hey, the Joker said not to touch her!" yelled one of the other henchman, who'd come back in to replace Dr. Crane's belongings. 

"She called my dick tiny, Ace" he protested. 

"Your dick is tiny, Jack . Now get your gun outta her mouth and let's scram. That Doctor gives me the heebie-jeebies," he said, gesturing to Crane. 

Reluctantly, the clown called Jack obeyed but still kept Frances in his sight. 

"You'll get a delivery tomorrow with everything you need," promised the Ace of Clubs. 

And as swiftly as they'd stormed in, the clowns disappeared. 

Afraid of an embarrassing encounter with Mr. Pennyworth, she was nonetheless disappointed that he was no longer operating the elevator. Frances didn't bother checking her reflection because she knew it would be terrible. But she was alive, and by the grace of God drove herself home on auto-pilot. 

Before she crawled into bed, Frances examined a souvenir she'd taken before leaving. Dr. Crane's journal. The last entry he'd made was headed "Subject 6-C. White Female, Age: 25, Weight: 128, Height: 5'7" 

She fell asleep rereading the last sentence: "Results inconclusive, re-evaluate at increased dose within two weeks." 

The hell he would...



Joker's Wilde Pt. 02



In this story, I take liberties with places and people created by DC Comics. The setting of my story is Gotham City and the main characters are Dr. Harleen "Frances" Quinzel/Harley Quinn, The Joker, and Dr. Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow. These and all other specific details (Arkham Asylum, Sofia Falcone Gigante, Rachel and Mrs. Dawes, Jim and Barbara Gordon, Alfred Pennyworth, et al) are inspired by the Batman comics, movies and shows: especially the episode "Mad Love" and the movie "The Dark Knight". I'm not a stickler for continuity outside of my own story, which is entirely my fantasy. 

Part Two of Joker's Wilde contains two chapters- the first is non-erotic and the second contains a non-consent sex scene. 

***** 

Chapter Three: Two Black Crows and a White Knight. 

Frances found herself in a dark field wearing a Harlequin outfit- the same one she'd worn years ago for Halloween. It was a body suit, blocked in red and black, made out of PVC material with a wet-look finish. It fit like a glove, with sewn-in boots and a matching Jester's hat holding up her hair. 

For some reason she couldn't move her limbs and her back felt strangely rigid. She had been tied to something wooden. Her arms were stretched out to her sides, affixed to a pole. Looking down, Frances noticed her ankles were bound as well. The terrifying thought occurred to her that she had been hung on a cross and left outside to die. 

But she wasn't alone. There was movement in the field; a rustling amongst the stalks of corn. Someone was watching her. 

Scarecrow. 

"Hello? Hello! Please, help me down!" Frances tried to shout, but she barely breathe. Her heart was beating funny too, like it might give out any minute now. A cold laughter erupted in the field around her, coming from the rows of grain. Every stalk bent and swayed, chuckling at her plight. One laugh stood out above the rest- a man's, hallow and malicious. 

Scarecrow. 

"Hello?" she squeaked cautiously. 

No response. 

Frances decided that if she could lift herself up slightly, she could take a few deep breathes. Even though she'd learned that the theory of crucifixion resulting in death by asphyxiation is false, attempting to do something was better than doing nothing. But as she pushed her arms down to lift up, Frances realized that she wasn't just attached to the cross. It was part of her body. 

Scarecrow. 

"Help me! Ple-e-e-eease!" Her scream died with a whimper. 

The laughter ceased and a voice spoke from behind her. "You've been a very bad girl, Harley Quinn." 

"My name is Frances," she insisted, as if that would save her from his judgment. 

"It's time to suffer for your sins." 

"I didn't do anything! I swear," she plead. 

"You killed her." 

"Who?" 

"And then your brother took the blame." 

"I didn't kill anyone!" 

"He bore your cross, Harley Quinn." 

"No! I'm not who you think I am. I'm just Frances!" 

"And now you'll stand guard over what you've reaped until it is ready to be sown." 

"I'll die!" 

"You'll be reborn, Harley Quinn. And you'll never be Frances again." 

Scarecrow. 

When Frances broke through the fog and woke up in her bed- no longer a Harlequin Scarecrow but an ordinary human female- she had a dull ache in her shoulders. It was from being restrained while lying down, though, not hanging up. She tapped her phone and saw that it was 2:14 p.m. Frances panicked for a moment, sure that she was late for work and had fucked up everything. But then she reminded herself that it was Saturday. One more day. 

Frances rolled on her back, aware that she had terrible headache and was seriously dehydrated. And as nice as it would have been to continue sleeping, she seriously had to pee. Pushing herself up to sit and then gradually finding the strength to stand, Frances stumbled into the bathroom. She sat on the toilet until the room stopped spinning. Time was skipping forwards and backwards like a bad disc. Her mind couldn't piece together a cohesive narrative that linked her movements with her surroundings. Every thought was cloudy and slipped through like murky liquid in a sieve before she could grasp what it was about. 

The only option was to push through the aftereffects. She washed her hands, then turned the faucet to cold and slurped up the water as it pooled into her cupped palms. It felt like she spent hours leaned over the sink, trying to quench her insatiable thirst. Once satisfied, Frances got the shower as hot as it could go and tried to waken her numbed body and mind. Even as she washed the delicate skin of her abused sex, she felt virtually nothing. No sadness, no outrage. Just nothing. Stepping out, red as a cooked lobster, she was somewhat glad that the mirrors had gotten too steamy to see her reflection. 

Oddly devoid of emotion and still staggering to catch up with the present moment, she went through the motions of beginning her day. Frances wrapped herself in a fuzzy robe and sat down with a cup of coffee and a plate of toast while she read the morning paper. An unmarked manila envelope had been left by her front door, underneath the newspaper. It laid in the center of the table, unopened. All in due time. 

Vaguely, she registered the details of a rather sensational news story- Sofia Gigante had allegedly been abducted. The article said that she was last seen the previous Saturday evening at the Monarch Theater, attending a production of "Mefistofele"; an opera about Dr. Faust's beguilement by the Devil's worldly vices and his redemption by God's grace. Rocco Gigante stated that his wife went to the restroom during the intermission and never returned for the second half. She hasn't been seen or heard from since. Both her husband and her father, Carmine Falcone, were offering a substantial reward for anyone with knowledge of her whereabouts. 

If someone did abduct Sofia Gigante, they should be given an award; if only for the feat of making the whale-of-a-woman disappear in the first place, Frances thought, looking at Mrs. Gigante's photograph. What would the headlines read next week? Mad Murderer Absconds Asylum with Innocent Intern? Or would it be Deluded Doctor Liberates Psychotic Patient From Arkham? She crunched on her toast and flipped through the sections for the New York Times Crossword. 

Frances was distracted by a macabre cartoon in which several caskets are being removed from a packed hearse. A passerby asks one of the pallbearers, "What happened?" The pallbearer replies, "An entire clown troupe died doing their fireman routine." "Could no one put out the fire?" the passerby asks in astonishment. "Well, that's how they died- the elephants tried to stomp out the flames," concludes the pallbearer sadly. 

Frances scrunched her brow, thinking about the previous night. What cogent details she could remember became more and more fragmented every time they were recalled- like an old book that's pages disintegrate with each handling. They were on the balcony, and Frances was drinking wine. Then Dr. Crane took her to his office and sprayed her with the toxin. She was stripped and tied down, and began to vividly hallucinate. Dr. Crane disappeared and the Scarecrow emerged, as if the Scarecrow wasn't his mask; the Doctor was. 

At the time Frances thought he must have taken some pleasure from the experience- even though forcing intercourse is more about the power than the sex, it's still sex. But looking back on the disjointed images of him fucking her- his body a horrific chimera of man, beast and myth- it was an act of pure violence. To punish her, to manipulate her, to frighten her; Frances wasn't sure. But the benefit he reaped was obvious- complete control. 

After he had his wicked way, Frances turned the tables and knocked him out with an injected sedative. Then she let the Joker's henchmen inside. If Crane wanted to, he could have her arrested for assault. Perhaps he was arranging it that very moment, as she was eating her late breakfast. But no, that would require him to report to his police cronies that he'd been left incapacitated by a female. Besides, the only thing missing was his journal. 

His journal. It had all of his "pharmaceutical trial" notes. Frances finally circled back around to the original thought, sparked by the clown cartoon. The Joker's henchmen referred to Crane as the Scarecrow, and seemed to be quite nervous around him even though he was knocked out. Scarecrow had been using his fear tactics for a while now. He possibly had friends even lower than crooked cops. Friends who would help him recover his journal. 

Somewhat alarmed that she was basically a sitting duck in her apartment, Frances tossed the paper aside. In her bedroom, she secured her damp hair into a bun and got dressed in jeans and a tee. She threw an extra outfit into a satchel bag, figuring it would be suspicious if it looked like she'd packed too much. 

Her only valuables were kept in a fake can of soup: a wad of cash and a gold locket on a chain. This was the only piece of jewelry her mother had owned that Frances was able to save. She hid it away when things got tough and her father sold everything they owned of any monetary value. Inside was a picture of young Frances and a lock of blonde hair. 

Looking at the blank oval, it occurred to her that it must have framed a picture of her brother at some point. 

Frances studied the pale hairs clasped inside and wondered if his were still mixed in with hers. How could I have forgotten him so completely? She clamped the locket shut and put the chain around her neck, with the heavy pendant resting underneath her shirt in between her breasts. 

She crammed the cash into the bottom of the bag, under her clothes. Frances slid the manila envelope inside as well. The last thing she had to pack was the journal. She examined it more closely. It's glossy leather cover had a buckled closure and was monogrammed "JIC". Inside was an unlined, 5x7 Moleskine journal. Such a small thing to cause so much fear. 

Frances hurriedly finished packing everything she needed into her satchel, put on her sneakers and pulled the bag's strap over her head, across her body. She peeked out into the hallway to make sure no one was waiting, crept downstairs using the stairwell, and exited the building out the back. 

Once she made it to her car, she was nearly too afraid to start it. What if it was rigged to explode? But then again, it didn't seem like his style to dispose of her so impersonally, or so quickly. It started without incident and Frances began to drive. The only problem was, she didn't know where she was going. 

On her way into the city, Frances could swear that she saw a black domestic sedan following several cars behind. To test whether or not she was just being paranoid, Frances veered into the left lane and turned just as the light was changing. The black sedan pulled out and ran the red to follow her. Fuck! She had considered the possibility of calling on an old friend who lived in the area, but if someone was following her... 

She tried to shake her tail, but of course the other driver pursued her with ease. The traffic was thick and there were a lot of pedestrians out, making it difficult to navigate the streets in a car. But the congestion would make it easy to blend in on foot. Heading towards the nearest parking deck, black sedan not far behind, Frances prayed she'd have enough time to elude her predators. 

Thankfully the entry gate delayed them long enough to give her a decent head start. Frances zipped up the levels, skidded into a parking space and ran for the stairs. She locked the door behind her and descended the flights to the ground level. The drumming of her heartbeat in her ears couldn't drown out the sound of the door above her being shaken violently. Frances took the south exit and sprinted to the nearest busy street, darting between honking cars and crashing into other pedestrians. She didn't care. Pure adrenaline could do wonders for an otherwise cautious girl. 

Pausing at last to catch her breath, Frances got her bearings and decided where to head next. Hiding in public was possible, but only for so long. And she couldn't stay on foot forever. Frances pulled something from her satchel and slid it under her bra strap, then headed for the nearest Gotham City Railway station. 

Catching sight of a familiar black car, she took her chances with an alley shortcut and came out only a couple of blocks away from the Prosper Street station. Just as she neared its doors, the black sedan screeched to a halt in front of the building. Frances heard one of the car doors open and someone get out, but she didn't turn around to see who it was- she just kept running. 

When she got to the turnstile, Frances pulled her SmartTrip card from her bra-strap and scanned it. A man was cursing loudly behind her, obviously not prepared with fare. She dashed down the escalator, not even bothering to say she was sorry to the people she collided with anymore, and found a rail on the Green Line that was about to depart. 

Frances slumped down in her seat, gasping for air. 

No one else on the rail car took any notice of her, other than a vagrant who was glowering at everyone while he rambled incoherently about how crazy people were these days. You're not kidding, man. The city passed before her eyes as the railway trundled along- sometimes above ground, others below. The slow and steady movement was threatening to lull her to sleep. 

At the next stop, most of the car emptied and two men in black bomber jackets embarked. Frances eyed them warily, but they were too engaged in conversation to pay her any mind. She looked out the window again, her eyelids getting heavier. Frances was beginning to succumb to the overwhelming drowsiness that followed her adrenaline-spike. 

Just as she allowed herself to relax, Frances noticed that the car was peculiarly quiet. Only the homeless man was talking now. She could make out the words, "goddamn lunatics running Gotham" followed shortly by "the fucking scum that live in the sewers." Frances scanned the reflection of the car in the window, and saw that the two men had separated. One of them was behind her now, and the other to her right. They were watching her. 

Frances closed her eyes again and pretended to sleep. Carefully, she slid her hand into the opening of her satchel bag and clutched the leather bound book inside. This is what they want. She forced herself to breathe calmly, waiting for the rail to decelerate. As it did, she could see in the window's reflection that the men were shifting restlessly in their seats. They were about to make their move. 

As they approached the next station, she clutched a suspended handhold with one hand and the notebook with the other. The doors opened and everything happened in a flash. Frances hit the man approaching from behind with her elbow and dodged past the one in front by ducking low. But instead of running again, Frances held out the leather bound book over the gap. 

"Is this what you want?" she shouted, dangling it out so they could see what she was holding. The embossed initials "JIC" gleamed in the fluorescent lights. 

"Just hand it over, bitch, and we'll let you go," one of Crane's crows said, stopped in his tracks. The way his tongue flicked nervously over his lips betrayed his lie 

"Go fetch!" Frances cried, and hurtled the journal out of the doors like a Frisbee, watching it soar over the confused heads of the other GCR passengers and land on the concrete platform. 

"Fuck!" they cried in unison. 

As they ran after their prize one way, Frances leapt out the opposite doors to the platform on the other side. 

"Shit- stay with the girl!" one crow squawked at the other. 

"I'm getting the book, you get the girl!" the other one retorted. 

By the time they'd delegated their duties, Frances was out of sight. 

Out on the streets, she found herself on the north end of Midtown. Her mind raced faster than her body, trying to decide where to go. Everyone she passed was staring at her. Any of them could be working for Crane: the men in black coats were his crows; the women in red heels his spies; the policemen his cohorts. 

Afraid that she was still being followed, Frances joined a crowd of people crossing the street. Breaking free of the herd when they reached the corner of the intersection, Frances sprinted across one of the adjacent streets. But an approaching vehicle caught her eye and she tripped on the edge of the sidewalk. Falling headlong in slow motion, she managed to tuck in her arms and land on her side with the satchel to cushion her fall. But it still stung like a motherfucker. 

The black car screeched to a halt and the driver door opened. Frances tried to get up but she had another bout of vertigo and only succeeded falling on her knee, sending another sharp wave of pain. She flinched when a hand gripped her shoulder. "Please, don't hurt me!" Frances whimpered, scrambling backwards into a trashcan. 

"Miss, calm down. It's me, Mr. Pennyworth, Miss," said a soothing British voice. 

Frances looked up and saw the same elderly chap she'd met in the elevator only last night, except dressed in a fine black suit and leather driving gloves. The black car he'd been driving wasn't a domestic sedan, it was a luxury car with a winged "B" hood ornament. 

"Mr. Pennyworth?" she repeated in a daze, wondering if this was actually a dream- a good one. 

"Yes, Miss. Let me help you up," he insisted, courteously extending his hand. 

"Thank you," Frances whispered, accepting his much needed help. Once she was standing, he continued to support her weight. 

"Are you alright? Have you been injured?" Mr. Pennyworth asked with concern. 

Aside from an abrasion on her forearm and a throbbing pain in her hip and knee, Frances was physically unharmed. "I just got a little banged up," she answered tremulously. "I'll be fine, thank you." 

"You need to sit down. Come, it gets rather dull driving around while I wait for my master to finish his supper," Mr. Pennyworth said as he lead her towards the passenger side of the car. "Mademoiselle?" he offered gallantly, opening the door and revealing the plush, toffee leather interior. 

Frances could think of no reason to refuse, other than pride. "Thank you," she murmured, sitting down gracefully as possible. Mr. Pennyworth gently held her by the arm until she was safely inside and then closed her door. Even though the windows were opaque black eyes from the outside, Frances sank low into the capacious, buttery-soft seat to make sure she wouldn't be seen. She could barely feel or hear the car as it started moving- just the delicate strains of classical music coming through the speakers. 

"I don't believe you're being pursued at the moment, Miss," Mr. Pennyworth remarked, as Frances furtively scanned the cars behind them. "If you'd like the lay down, the seat reclines quite nicely." 

"I'm afraid if I do that, I'll fall asleep," she chuckled, straightening herself up until her back was supported quite comfortably by the seat cushions. "I'm sorry for causing you any trouble. I truly appreciate your help," Frances thanked him solemnly. 

"It's no trouble a 'tall, Miss. I'm just glad I had an opportunity to aid a damsel in distress." Frances smiled, feeling quite lucky to have her own personal White Knight. 

"May I ask if you have a particular destination in mind?" Mr. Pennyworth queried gently. 

"Oh...No. Anywhere you'd like to drop me off is fine." 

Mr. Pennyworth scowled. "It's nearly dark, Miss. I won't be leaving you on these streets at night with no place to go." 




Joker's Wilde Pt. 02



"Really, I-" 

"Please, Miss. I have a friend- a dear lady- who would be all too happy to have your company. May I take you her house- so I won't be worried about you all evening?" 

If having her trust abused had taught her anything, it was when to place it and with whom. Now was the time, and Mr. Pennyworth was the person. "Yes, I would be very grateful. But under one condition- that you call me Harley." 

"I accept, under the condition that you call me Alfred," he replied with a grin. 

Frances was relieved that he didn't ask any questions about why she was running, figuring that he assumed the obvious scenario: a fight with an abusive boyfriend. They shared a few moments of comfortable silence. 

"I like this song," she commented, recognizing the solo piano piece that had begun playing. Frances first heard it play in the movie Empire of the Sun and became obsessed with finding out what it was. "Chopin's Mazurka Number Thirteen in A minor," she said fondly, closing her eyes. "I read that a mazurka is a Polish folk dance, but this has such a somber tempo," Frances mused. 

"Lento, ma non troppo. 'Slow, but not too much,' as Chopin noted," Alfred informed her. 

They listened as the central theme tripped and traipsed over the keys with a drunken cadence; coquettish with its initial flourishes but slowly stumbling into melancholia. Towards the end it begins to rise, teasing the listener with the prospect of resolution like an orgasm. But just when it's about to peak, it dissolves back to its slow build, only to surprise you with a piercing clatter of major and minor keys before dying in a staccato recapitulation of the theme. 

It was sad but not with the mourning that comes with endings; it was rife with the mourning that comes with new beginnings. The start of a revolution. The music stirred emotions deep within and Frances found herself weeping. 

"It will be all right, Harley," he said, offering her a soft handkerchief. 

She accepted it and dabbed her face delicately. "Thank you, Alfred. I think it will be." 

The door of the brownstone house they'd arrived at was opened by a curvy older woman with silver hair and twinkling eyes. She wore a floral house dress and apron, and reminded Frances of the grandmother she used to dream about having. 

"Alfred! Oh my, if I knew you were stopping by I would have fixed my hair," she said, straightening her loose curls self-consciously. Frances had expected her to be British, like Mr. Pennyworth, but she had strong Mid-Atlantic accent. The "r" at the end of "hair" lingered in the air, unfinished. 

"You look lovely as ever, Edina," he told her with a wink, and kissed both of her cheeks, eliciting a childish giggle from the old bird. 

"Oh, Alfred, ever the charmer," she cooed. "And who is this? Pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf!" The woman drew Frances closer by the arm and instinctively put a hand to her forehead to see if she had a fever. 

"This is Harley, a new friend of mine. Harley, this is my dear friend, Mrs. Dawes." 

"Mrs. Dawes, a pleasure to meet you," Frances said shyly. 

"Help me bring this poor dear inside, Alfred. I will not have her fainting on my front porch," Mrs. Dawes clucked, and together they guided Frances inside. 

Mrs. Dawes' parlor looked the way Frances thought her dream-grandmother's house would look as well- striped wallpaper with wainscoting, overstuffed sofas and chairs, spindly legged tables and Oriental rugs with rich colors and designs. Every surface was covered in doilies, pictures and tchotchkes like Hummel figurines and white porcelain kittens. Frances set her satchel by her feet and got situated in a deep cushioned chair. Mrs. Dawes actually lifted her feet to prop them up with a mauve pouf and spread fluffy blanket over her like she was a sick child. 

"Thank you," she said bashfully, having never had such attention paid to her before, and by a stranger no less. It was humbling. 

"You relax, honey. I was about to put a kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea? Something to eat?" 

Frances declined but Mrs. Dawes didn't stop bustling around until she'd made a tray full of restorative foods and drinks. There was a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup, saltines, a cup of pudding, fruit filled cookies, hot tea with lemon, and a glass of water. Even Alfred appeared amused by the array of food their hostess had thought necessary. 

"Is there anything else I can bring you? Sugar? Cream?" 

"Oh, no thank you," Frances said before Mrs. Dawes could name anything else. "This is perfect." 

"Well dig in, don't be shy. I'm going to have a quick word with Alfred," she said authoritatively, striding off with Mr. Pennyworth on her heels. 

They talked only a moment before emerging again. 

"I'm terribly sorry to dash- Harley, Edina- but I must return to my employer before he reports the Bentley as stolen. Oh no, don't get up," he told Frances, who'd begun picking up her tray. 

"I just wanted to thank you again, Alfred. I don't know what I would have done without you," she said sincerely. 

"The pleasure was all mine, Harley m'dear." He winked and bowed again before Mrs. Dawes escorted him to the door. They were whispering to one another, and Mrs. Dawes began to muss up Alfred's white hair affectionately. Frances smiled and turned away, hearing the sound of lips smacking and Mrs. Dawes giggling again like a schoolgirl. 

Frances downed the water first. The tea needed to steep longer, so she tried the piping hot chicken soup- thick egg noodles, large chunks of chicken, carrots and celery; all in a broth seasoned perfectly with bay, thyme and tarragon. The cookies were flaky, buttery and not too sweet, with seedless raspberry jam in the middle. She found the tea was a refreshing blend of peppermint and ginger- perfect for her knotted stomach. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Dawes had resumed watching Jeopardy! and knitting. Somehow, she was making two socks at the same time on a pair of thin needles connected by a long plastic cord. The toes hung down, like Christmas stockings, and she worked them in a curious way that looked like magic; her fingers a blur as they moved in a steady rhythm of throwing and stitching and cord pulling that Frances couldn't fathom. The needles clicked and Mrs. Dawes hummed, occasionally calling out an answer or a wager. 

Having eaten all she could of the soup and cookies, Frances had set the tray down and held her mug of tea to warm her hands. Soon the final Jeopardy! tune was playing, and she was trying to puzzle out the answer along with Mrs. Dawes: This Sci-Fi short-story by Harlan Ellison is one of the most reprinted stories in the English language and was written in only six hours- now that's making good time! 

Frances laughed wryly when she heard the question: What is "Repent, Harlequin!" Said the Ticktockman? 

Mrs. Dawes changed the channel to a cooking show, and Frances thought to ask her a personal question. "How long have you known Mr. Pennyworth?" 

"Alfred? I dare say I've known him longer than you've been alive, my dear. We were both employed at Wayne Manor, before the terrible tragedy," she said, shaking her head. 

Frances could only assume she was referring to the murder of legendary entrepreneur and philanthropist, Dr. Thomas Wayne, and his wife, Martha. It was quite a scandal when Frances was a child, and remembered feeling very sorry for their son, who'd apparently witnessed the attack. 

"I was dismissed that year, but Alfred remained. Even after the young master disappeared, he remained ever loyal to the Manor and its family's name. I doubt if he'll ever leave, now that the rascal's returned," she said with a hint of bitterness.  

That was a more recent scandal- Bruce Wayne was legally dead one day and back as Gotham's Prodigal Son the next, picking up right where he'd left off: being a billionaire playboy without a care in the world. Frances found him much less sympathetic as years went by. So that's whose luxury car Alfred was chauffeuring. 

"Alfred's a very sweet man," Frances remarked, thinking he must have a good deal of patience indeed to put up with capricious Bruce Wayne as his master. 

"Yes. Yes he is," Mrs. Dawes agreed, a misty look in her eyes. 

Eventually, Mrs. Dawes insisted that Frances lay down in her daughter's old bedroom, since the young woman kept nodding off in the comfy chair. The door was decorated with pink wooden letters that spelled out "Rachel". Inside was a preserved glimpse into the past- a double bed with a canopy, white wicker furniture, a vanity mirror covered in magazine clippings and stickers. Mrs. Dawes showed her the bathroom with a claw-foot tub, rose-shaped soaps on the vanity, black-and-white hexagonal tile on the floor, and lace-edged towels hung neatly on the towel bar. 

"Well, good night sweetheart. I'm just down the hall if you need anything," Mrs. Dawes said, giving Frances an unexpected hug and kiss goodnight. 

Once in the cozy bed under an impossibly soft pink comforter, Frances reached into her satchel- which she'd tucked in beside her- and pulled out a book with a brown Kraft cover and black binder stamped "Journal" on the front. It was one of her more clever ideas: taking Crane's journal out of its cover and replacing it with one of her own books. They'd managed to acquire a terrible pop-psychology book from the nineties called "Attitudinal Beliefs"- an apt choice considering it was about breaking free from the cycle of fear. 

Flipping through his actual journal, Frances examined the sketches drawn in ink alongside his flowing cursive script. Fine details in some spots, sparse economy of lines in others, all meticulously rendered- there were several iterations of his Scarecrow masks; crows nesting in the rafters of a chapel; an open flower with pointed petals, and the same flower in shriveled form, nestled in prickly leaves. 

In his more recent entries, there were portraits of Frances herself. One in a three-quarters profile, staring down. Another of her full profile, down to the braids in her hair. The last was head-on, eyes closed, lips parted. I'm asleep. She shuddered to think of him watching her, especially while she was sleeping. 

Frances went back to the beginning of the book and examined what he'd actually written. She found that only his duplicitous trials were detailed in English. The rest had been written in Latin, which Frances had studied but never excelled at translating. Even the words or phrases she understood still didn't make sense. 

Crane called the flower had drawn "flore caeruleo timoris"- the blue flower of fear, that grows only in the mountains of Bhutan. Could that be related to his fear-toxin? Who or what was "Ra's al Ghul" and the Foedus Umbrarum- Shadow's Treaty? There was mention of Crane belonging to a Pinacotheca Furciferorum- The Gallery of Scoundrels? What were these- secret clubs for villains or band names? 

Frances chuckled when she deduced that Peccatori Scortum, literally "the Sinner Whore", must be code for Alyce Sinner. She fell silent, though, when she came across the words Insana Scurra, the Insane Clown, in a sentence ending with interficietur, meaning "he will be murdered". And later, Soror Scurrae, the Joker's sister, paired with incarcerabitur: "she will be imprisoned". Imprisoned in Blackgate or admitted to Arkham? 

She slammed the book closed. Her mind was reeling. Either he was a criminal mastermind or completely insane. Or, mostly likely, both. But she knew one thing for sure: Soror Scurrae relicta libertate eritis. The Joker's sister will remain free. Semper. 

Chapter Four: Exposure Therapy 

Frances found Mrs. Dawes' home deserted the next morning, which alarmed her until she found a note on the kitchen table: Morning, Harley! Gone to church. Fresh coffee, breakfast in the oven, fruit and orange juice in the fridge. Please make yourself at home! Of course, it was Sunday and Mrs. Dawes was undoubtedly in her finest clothes. She'd left a griddle of pancakes and sausages, still warm, on the oven rack. Frances only took one of each to be polite. Then she took a large portion of fruit salad and poured herself a glass of juice. 

After breakfast, she showered and dressed feeling clear-headed once more. Alone in Rachel Dawes' old bedroom, Frances finally opened the manila envelope. Her security badge was inside- modified, she assumed, with a new magnetic strip. There was also a freshly cut brass key and a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, she found that it was a CAD blueprint of the asylum's basement, with a dotted blue line leading from the stairs down, through several hallways, a room, and finally out the side door. 

Stashing the loose items away in her bag, Frances looked at the empty envelope and had an idea. She searched for the address of the friend she wanted to see in the first place. They hadn't spoken much since high school, but she couldn't think of anyone more trustworthy. In Rachel's old desk, Frances found a pad of flowery paper and used it to write a note, which she affixed to the journal with a rubberband. 

Babs, Please make sure this notebook is placed in your father's hands. It belonged to Dr. Jonathan Crane. I believe he is testing dangerous drugs on patients at Arkham Asylum. This journal details his experiments and more. He must be stopped. -F 

She sealed this inside of the envelope and addressed it to Barbara Gordon. Her father was a kind man who let all of Babs' friends to call him "Jim"; not to be cool, just because he preferred the informality. He was a Sergeant in the GCPD but that wasn't the only reason Frances wanted him to have the journal- considering how corrupted the police force apparently was. 

Like his daughter Babs, wherever there was injustice, Jim Gordon would rise against it. He'd had words with Mr. Quinzel on a couple of occasions about the care and treatment of his daughter. It had pissed her father off, but it did stop him from hitting her in the face and keeping her from going out with friends. She was even able to keep a small portion of her earnings from work every month. Frances wished she could have included a personal letter of thanks letting him know how much she'd appreciated his concern. 

With the journal's fate decided, she returned Rachel's room to prior state of tidiness, straightened the bathroom, and started washing the dishes. Mrs. Dawes came home while Frances was drying plates and putting them away. She was wearing a bright peacock green dress with a floral shawl and a cloche hat. Frances noticed that her Bible seemed to have a bookmark or ribbon between every other page. 

They chatted over coffee while Frances helped her peel and chop potatoes and vegetables for a stew, but she finally had to ask her hostess for two favors. She prefaced the first by saying it was odd: to wait until Wednesday for Frances to return for the addressed package; and if she didn't retrieve it, to please have it mailed. Mrs. Dawes looked perplexed, but agreed- refusing the money Frances tried to give her for postage. The second was more straightforward- a ride to her car. 

Obviously not wanting to be nosy, Mrs. Dawes asked tactfully, "Are you really sure you don't want to stay any longer? It's no trouble, I assure you. Alfred told me to keep you safe, and that's what I intend to do as long as necessary." 

Looking around, Frances could think of nothing more she'd like to do than remain in Mrs. Dawes home, with it's very own rhythm set by the soft ticking of clocks and clicking needles. "Thank you, but I must be going," she said dolefully. 

Mrs. Dawes had Frances save her name and number in case she needed anything- anything at all- and then left her by her car in the cold parking deck. 

For a moment, she thought she'd been given a ticket. But on closer inspection, Frances found that it was a playing card underneath her wiper blade. A Joker. Inside her car, she saw What has four legs that is black and white and dead all over? typed on the back and the answer on the face of the card: Two Crows. Below that was one word: Tonight. 

Not surprisingly, Frances found her apartment in a complete state of disarray. They must have picked the lock because the door was still in tact. But hardly anything else was. Drawers were emptied on the floor; cushions cut open with their stuffing pulled out like entrails; bed disassembled in pieces on the wall; every cabinet ajar, their contents strewn around haphazardly. She surveyed it all with bitter amusement. 

Once it all sank it- that this was a life she could never return to- Frances called Dr. Crane. 

"Dr. Quinzel, how nice to hear from you," he answered wickedly. "I hope you've been enjoying your weekend." 

"I've had better," she said through gritted teeth. 

"You shouldn't have fucked with me, you know. You have no idea what I'm capable of, Frances." 

"I have some idea- you can drug and rape defenseless women and then have your goons clean up the mess. How are your crows, by the way? Any of them not come back to your rookery?" she asked coyly. 

"All of my rooks are pawns: useful but expendable." 

"They didn't retrieve your precious journal. It's in the hands of someone who will put an end to your sick game," she bluffed. 

He laughed coldly. "Oh yes, that. I was hoping to contain any nasty leaks but it's no matter. The gambit has been set in motion already. And as I'm sure you're aware, I'm not the only one playing this game." 

Crane's just a pawn as well. Of Ra's al Ghul? 

"I, on the other hand, am in possession of your King at the moment," he continued coolly. "I dare say he's more valuable to you than any of the pieces I have on the board." 

"What do you want with the Joker?" Frances asked in a would-be casual voice. 

"I was hoping he'd join our ranks, you know. Brilliant, ruthless, sociopathic- a perfect match really. But he's proven so uncooperative that I've been force to consider other means of persuasion. I was thinking I'd set it to 800 milliampers, 120 Hertz. A two millisecond pulse should do the trick, for- what do you think a good duration would be- ten seconds? It should deliver 1,000 millicolombs of total charge." 

"You'll kill him!" she protested, unable to hide her emotions. 

"A shame, but a necessary precaution." 

"What do you want from me?" 

"How do you know I want anything from you, dear Frances? I've been inside your mind and body already," he drawled. 

He's lying. They weren't just after the journal. "Then why did you try so hard to get me back? You know you only scratched the surface. A man like yourself isn't satisfied until he's explored every nook and cranny." 

"Hmmm. I was hoping to dig a little deeper into your subconscious. Find out what you actually remember about your sordid past..." 

Frances shuddered- not only did she not want the Scarecrow poking around in her brain, she didn't want any of the thick cobwebs in her memory to be disturbed period. 

"You won't harm him?" she asked warily. 

"Still so eager to be the martyr, aren't you? No. If you submit to me- in every way- he'll do nothing but rot away in a cell. Deal?" 

Not on your life. "Deal." 

Crane instructed for her to wait until nightfall, when the asylum was at its most magnificent and ominous. Frances had straightened up her apartment for a while just to have something to do. Then she dressed in her work clothes and made sure that she had everything she needed on her person- badge, locket, map, key, cash. She had considered taking a small knife along- or a large one- but it would be a futile move against such a clever foe. 




Joker's Wilde Pt. 02



Frances sat on the hood of her car for a few minutes, taking in what was actually a stunning view. Arkham's grey, stone façade glowed silver in the moonlight and looked striking silhouetted against the starry sky. Its pointed arched windows were alight, showing off their elaborate tracery behind the wire grates and the grand, circular Catherine window in the middle was its watchful eye- singular and piercing. 

The wind coming from the ocean blew in salty and cold; it sent the feathery clouds scuttling across the sky, over the waxing gibbous moon- so close to her full glory- and disappearing past the horizon. She took a deep breath and headed to its grand double doors. 

Security greeted her with mild curiosity. "Working the nightshift, Doc?" one guard inquired over his copy of the newspaper. 

"Dr. Crane called me in," Frances said evenly. 

"Yep, ole Dr. Crane can crack his whip when he wants to." 

"You're telling me," she agreed, continuing to a portion of the hospital she'd only passed through- the electroconvulsive therapy room. Frances had heard many horror stories about the abuse of what was formerly called electroshock therapy from the 40's all the way up to the 80's- patients lined up on mats on the floor, carted in and out on a stretchers and then laid back down on the floor to wait for their next session. 

The Joker's face was covered in a thin layer of perspiration, his makeup flaking and running. Still smiling though, the sick fuck, Frances thought fondly, even with a rubber mouth-guard between his teeth to keep him from biting his tongue. He'd been strapped down to a gurney with electrodes in the bitemporal position, wires hooked up to an antiquated looking ECT machine. There were no automatic resuscitation machines on stand-by- just a manual device called an Ambu bag. Another examination table had been brought in, equipped with folded out stirrups. As if she wasn't anxious enough. 

"You made it," Dr. Crane said, approaching her from the shadows. He grabbed her forcefully from behind, with more strength than she knew he had, and began running his hands all over her body. "Just making sure you don't have any surprises," he snarled, being extra thorough around her breasts and inner thighs. 

Finally he pushed her away, having checked even the most improbable places for a person to effectively conceal a weapon, and directed her towards the middle of the room between the two medical tables. The Joker was able to turn his head and look at her, but she couldn't read his expression. Was this part of his plan? Or did he really not have a plan in the first place? 

"Alright, I'm here. Are you going to swing a watch in front of me and tell me to count back from twenty?" she asked flippantly. 

"Take off your clothes, including your underwear," Crane said formally. 

"What? But I thought-" 

"I've decided hypnosis will be virtually impossible with you, Frances. It requires a level of trust between the practitioner and subject that frankly, I don't think we'll ever share. No, I think exposure therapy will be more effective. Not to mention entertaining," he chuckled. "Undress, or I'll start the machine." 

Knowing that only was Dr. Crane watching, but her brother too, Frances cast her gaze down to the white linoleum tiles as she kicked off her flats and unfastened her belt. She glanced at her brother, blinked away her tears, and peeled off her pants. Closing her eyes as if that would keep her from being seen, Frances pulled her blouse off over her head and dropped it on the growing pile. She felt the full chill of the room now, standing in only her underwear and socks. 

Frances started to turn around to unhook her bra, but Dr. Crane said, "No, no, no. That won't do. You can't be modest, now. This is part of the therapy. Eyes open too," he added sternly when she squeezed them shut in preparation to completely exposing herself in every sense of the word. 

So she looked directly into her brother's deep green eyes- a near mirror of her own except flecked with a strange acid green instead of gold. Her breasts bounced free of their satin cups, nipples hard and areolas puckered from the cold. The Joker's eyes narrowed. Then she dropped her matching white panties to show him her bare pussy, its lips outlined in the diamond-shaped gap between her thighs. His pupils dilated significantly. 

Frances stood on display in only her knee-high dress socks, which were appropriately Harlequin patterned. Dr. Crane looked her over and licked his lips, but refrained from touching her. Instead he croaked in a hoarse voice, "Take out his cock." 

For a moment, she thought he must have been speaking in the third person. When she hesitated, Crane clarified, "Take out your brother's cock." He moved closer to the ECT machine, idly running his slender fingers over the dials. 

Frances took a deep breath and cleared her mind. It's just a cock...It won't bite. The words in her head struck her as familiar. Like déjà-vu. Without looking at what her hands were doing, Frances began to pull down the elastic waistband on the Joker's loose cotton pants. 

"Stay in the present, Frances," he urged her, coming up from behind again so that his clothes brushed her bare skin. "Look at what you're doing. Take it into your hands. It won't be the first time..." 

Her hands looked so tiny around his penis, even when flaccid. It began to come alive as she cradled it between her palms. Frances felt a twinge in her sex when she saw and felt his response to her touch. 

"Get it hard," Crane murmured softly. 

The Joker groaned as she obeyed, stroking his shaft tentatively. Soon it was erect and roped with swollen veins, its head a flushed purple. Frances watched with fascination as his cock continued to grow. 

"Suck it," ordered the Doctor, his own erection flush against Frances' ass. It pressed in harder as she bent over, throbbing over her wet sex. He swept her hair back and held it with one hand as she wrapped her lips around the Joker's cock. "Yes, that's good," he said as she began bobbing her head up and down, slurping on her fat meat lollipop. 

There was no way that her brother wouldn't enjoy being fellated- physically if not mentally- but Frances was somewhat horrified to find that she herself was excited by performing such a taboo act, with another man behind her. Crane had begun rolling her nipples between his fingertips, but she suspected it was only to elicit a response from her rather than for his own enjoyment. She began moaning as she sucked the Joker's cock, grinding her pussy against the Scarecrow's hardness. 

Crane laughed, backing away enough so Frances could no longer stimulate herself. "Underneath that demure exterior, you're nothing but a fucking whore," he mused, letting go of her hair and unbuckling his belt. Frances squirmed, frightened but also strangely aroused by the thought that he was going to fuck her as she was giving head. 

But instead of taking off his pants yet, he snapped the belt in half and then struck her ass with all his might. Spitting out the Joker's cock, Frances howled in agony. "Shit!" 

"Don't stop," he growled, grabbing her hair roughly and forcing her head down. As Frances swallowed her brother's dick again, Crane continued striking her with somewhat less force. It stung so hard that tears began to fall down her cheeks onto the Joker's belly. 

The doctor's fingers traced the red welts that had begun to rise on her buttocks. "But don't make him cum, either," Crane added, swatting her almost playfully now. Over the sound of her own slurping and breathing, she could hear the tell-tale sound of Dr. Crane jacking himself. Inch by inch, Frances began moving one of her hands closer to the buckles to her brother's restraints. 

Crane spanked her forcefully several times in a row, but he must have been too absorbed in the spectacle to notice what her nimble fingers were doing. He was grunting in pleasure, his hand moving even faster. 

Even though it had been a while since she'd given a blowjob, Frances could still tell when a man was about to cum in her mouth. Having also accomplished goal of loosening the Joker's left arm restraint, she released his cock. Hard and unsatisfied, it flailed around against his abdomen searching for hot wet bliss. 

"Good...good...I want you to lay down now. Put your feet in the stirrups." 

Frances gave the Joker a meaningful look before turning around and walking up to the intimidating table. As embarrassing as it was, it was also comforting to know her brother was there with her. And if she could distract Dr. Crane enough, he might soon be free. 

She approached the table so slowly that Crane whipped her back to hurry her progress. Frances cried out, crying freely as boosted herself onto the plastic covered table. Her sore flesh burned when she laid down. With an almost sympathetic expression, the doctor placed her little feet into the stirrups. Then he grabbed her hips and pulled her bottom closer to the edge so her sex and ass were completely spread open. 

"Now look at me. Look at me!" he ordered. Crane had pulled down his pants and had his stiffness clutched in his fist. "I have a story to tell you," he resumed, not entirely unkindly, when Frances complied. She followed him with her eyes as he opened one of the metal drawers and pulled out a tube of electrode jelly. 

"About a very disturbed patient I hypnotized when I was still a medical student. This patient, I'll call her Jane, had a father who was a fiend. He killed for a living, and if that wasn't enough he entertained himself with Jane and her brother, Johnnie." 

He poured a glob of cold gel out directly onto Frances asshole. She whimpered, biting her bottom lip to keep from cursing at him. 

"What he didn't know was that Johnnie was teaching Jane how to defend herself with a knife. He filled her head with dreams of running away and joining the circus together as a brother/sister act. Johnnie had a few loose screws, but he was her only ally in a family of traitors. 

"And so they went until one All Hallows Eve, when their father thought he'd play his tricks for his own treat. He went off crazier than usual, beating Johnnie senseless and then going after Jane in her pretty costume. Jane was hiding in her closet, praying that he'd be too drunk to find her." 

Dr. Crane paused, dropped more jelly into his palm, warmed it up with a little friction and applied it to his hard cock. 

"When she heard her closet doors open, Jane only did what her brother taught her to do. In a blind rage, she stabbed, hard, pushing and twisting until her hands were covered with blood. But it wasn't her father that Jane had killed." 

He dipped a slick digit into her rectum, sucking a deep breath in through his teeth as he plunged deeper. The uncomfortable pressure turned into pain and then, to her chagrin, an incredible burst of pleasure as his finger retreated. 

"When Jane's father came upon the tragic scene- wife dead and daughter screaming, covered in her blood- he did the only thing he could think to do. He had Johnnie take the blame. Everyone knew what a worthless piece of shit he was- no one could conceive of the truth. I was brought in to perform my magic trick so that not even Jane would be the wiser. 

"She grew up never remembering that she committed matricide- Jung himself never found a better case of the Elektra Complex in action. And, even more conveniently, she completely forgot that Johnnie had ever even existed. Poof- a flawless vanishing act." 

Dr. Crane stood on the pull out step at the foot of the table, positioning his cock near her rear entrance. 

"Now you may wonder why I'm telling you this. Why I would spoil such a perfect illusion by revealing my secret. The answer is simple: because I want you to hurt, Frances. And the truth hurts. I mean, it really hurts," he said, driving into her snug asshole. 

Frances could hardly breathe, she was sobbing so hard from the pain of his unwelcome intrusion and the devastating revelation. It rattled around in her mind, ripping down the cobwebs and stirring up echoes of the past. He's lying! He has to be lying! her conscious mind screamed. But the little voice inside of her hissed Wake up, Harley Quinn! You're a murderer. It's in your blood. 

One minute, Dr. Crane was fucking her hard, their flesh slapping and table creaking. And then next he was completely still, frozen halfway inside of her, his look of triumph replaced with terror. It was then that Frances realized the gurney next to her was empty. 

The Joker was standing behind Dr. Crane. He'd picked up the discarded belt and fastened it around Crane's neck like a choke collar. It dug into his throat as the Joker continued tightening, the skin around it becoming whiter and whiter: until at last Dr. Crane's eyes rolled back and he went limp. Not dead, just passed out. 

"Sweet dreams, Scarecrow," the Joker said, letting his body fall to the ground. "You know sis, I really hated his bedtime stories." 

While Frances dressed herself clumsily, feeling like she was all thumbs, the Joker hefted Crane's body on to the gurney and strapped him down. Whistling a jaunty tune, he located a sterilization pouch of surgical instruments. He unsealed it and chose a curved, sharp-point Bistoury knife with a bright mirror polish. Using its razor-like blade, he cut off the electrode and stripped the wires. 

"Would you like to do the honors?" asked the Joker, holding up the twisted wires formed into a loop. 

Frances nodded, and slipped the loop onto Crane's shrinking erection, still glossy with conductive jelly. Her brother stuck the mouth-guard into the doctor's mouth and practically skipped to the ECT machine. 

"This should make him come around," the Joker giggled, setting the milliamperage to 500, pulse width 0.75 milliseconds and the frequency to a mild 30 Hertz. 

The machine hummed to life and with the cracking sound of an electric pulse, Dr. Crane's eyes snapped open. 

"Oh, tee-hee-hee he-hee, that must have been quite a shock, Doc," he said, his voice shifting from high titter to a low growl. "Now don't worry, this treatment will cure you of your perverse desires." And with that assurance, the Joker dialed up the intensity for a longer jolt. Crane's knuckles turned white from gripping the table, his screams caught in his throat. 

"That's enough. We have to go," Frances said, touching her brother's shoulder. She'd never been this close to him before, unshackled. At least that she could remember. 

"Third times a charm," he chuckled, the dials set to 700 mA, 1.5 msec, 100 Hz. 

Crane's eyes were wide and panicked, sweat building on his forehead. Frances could smell burning skin. She felt like she might be sick. 

"I said that's enough!" she shrieked. 

The Joker stopped and looked at her. Not angry, but impressed. 

"Alright. Let's blow this joint, Harley Quinn." 

The Joker held the Bistoury knife against Frances' pale throat to get past security and into the basement. She slid her badge so they could enter the restricted section. They walked down a hallway with wire-gridded windows looking into a laboratory on one side and an observation room on the other. When they passed through the next door, Frances noticed the lighting was significantly dimmer, floors shabby and walls filthy. This hallway was full of cells- old, concrete dungeons with bare metal beds.  

Screams followed them as they walked past. Frantic voices demanding freedom. And they all ended their plea with the same word: Scarecrow. 

"Where's the map?" he hissed. 

"My pocket," she murmured, wishing they had time to set these victims free. He slid his hand down into her side pocket and pulled out the folded paper, using it to guide them through the twists and turns. Scarecrow! Scarecrow! Scarecrow! 

The next door they entered lead into a dark room that smelled of ammonia above all else. The Joker turned on a switch and a yellow bulb flickered alive, casting a sour light in the middle of the room. Frances felt even more ill when she saw a large tank, half the height of a dumpster, covered with a clear plastic tarp. That was the source of the strong odor- bodies dissolving in lye. 

The last door was to a utility closet. There was a solid wall where the door was supposed to be. The Joker tapped around to find the studs, and then traced an X with his fingertip to mark the spot between them. Then he punched effortlessly through the rotting drywall, stopping short of the solid steel hidden beneath. 

Using a piece of scrap wood like a crowbar, he began uncovering the studs that had been mounted a few inches out from the door. Frances joined in, pulling at the soggy plasterboard with her bare hands until the lock and handle were exposed and they could pass through. She produced the key hidden beneath her insole of her shoe and held it out for him. 

The wind blew the door back so hard that Frances was afraid someone was waiting on the other side. It had begun to drizzle and the moon was covered with a thick blanket of clouds. She could barely see well enough to climb out of the hole in the wall and prayed she wouldn't fall off the slippery concrete landing that no longer had any rails. 

We should have brought a flashlight, she thought as they began to descend the steep stairs next to a long winding ramp. In the distance, she could hear the warning siren being sounded, dogs barking and men shouting orders. They were almost there, though: Frances could hear the ocean breaking against the rocks. 

He held onto her hand, holding her steady whenever she began to stumble. By the time they reached the bottom, Frances' eyes had adjusted to the all encompassing dark and she saw the dock jutting out into the water. Several meters from the end of the dock was a speedboat manned by two pale-faced clowns. It would be a bit of a swim, but that was the least of her concerns. 

"We did it, sweetheart," the Joker crooned as they stood on the dock. She could hear the an outboard motor being started. "You were amazing." He kissed her lovingly on the forehead. "But I'm afraid you're not ready to join me yet." 

"What?" Frances asked, confused. 

"You have some unfinished business to attend to. Our father still has to pay. And you have to be the one to make him. It's the only way." 

"The only way what?" 

"That you'll truly be my Harley Quinn. Well, that, plus a little concoction I cooked up with an old flame." With that, the Joker felt around the edge of the dock for something, which he showed her with a flourish. It looked like a syringe filled with an acid green liquid. 

"What is that?" 

"Don't worry, Harl. It won't hurt. Much. And when you wake up, you'll be right as new. Good as a fiddle. Fit as rain." He cackled, then stuck her in the arm and administered the thick serum. 

Suddenly Frances felt like her whole body was on fire. She screamed and fell to the ground, rolling around as if it might somehow put out the invisible flames. The Joker bowed farewell and jumped into the water. As she started to black out, Frances could hear the sound of dogs and men getting closer, and a motor fading off into the distance; its wake slapping loudly against the dock. She couldn't even get one last glance of the madman across the water.



Joker's Wilde Pt. 03



In this story, I take liberties with places and people created by DC Comics. The setting of my story is Gotham City and the main characters are Dr. Harleen "Frances" Quinzel/Harley Quinn, The Joker, and Dr. Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow. These and all other specific details (Rachel and Mrs. Dawes, Rags n' Tatters, Rory Regan/Ragman, et al) are inspired by the Batman comics, movies and shows: especially the episode "Mad Love" and the movie "The Dark Knight". I'm not a stickler for continuity outside of my own story, which is entirely my fantasy. 

Thanks to everyone who commented or emailed me- I hope you enjoy! 

***** 

Chapter Five: The Rebirth of Harley Quinn. 

Harley Quinn had been lurking in the deepest, darkest rift of Frances' subconscious ocean for so long that she had evolved into a blind, pale creature who'd forgotten the world above. Thanks to Dr. Crane, she'd nearly been lost in the inescapable chasm of the unconscious mind; but as Frances sank down into its unfathomable waters, Harley Quinn rose up once more. 

When she resurfaced, every fuzzy thought or inkling Frances had ever had was solidified with crystalline clarity. Not only were her childhood memories restored, but she felt like she could access anything she'd ever seen or heard: From the first record her mother ever played in her presence- Brahms' Requiem- to the license plate of the black car following her yesterday; whose reflection she must have glimpsed for only a split second as she dashed inside the GCR station. 

The first thought that came to mind about her present situation was that she was in a medical hospital. It was too modern to be Arkham. Harley Quinn looked down and noticed the gown she wore was patterned with two overlapping G's: Gotham General. Though connected to various monitoring devices and an IV, she was not restrained in any way. 

We must have been in pretty bad shape. Harley mentally scanned her body for injury but felt no pain or discomfort. Not even where the Scarecrow had beaten her. In fact, Harley felt more refreshed and energized than ever. What the hell did the he give me? She remembered her brother's birth name now but that wasn't who the Joker was anymore; just as she was no longer Frances. 

As she pondered her curious metamorphosis, a nurse came bustling into the room. Her eyes grew to the size of saucers when she saw that Harley Quinn was wide awake. 

"Ms. Quinzel!" she gasped, approaching the bed to examine her patient. "Thank the Lord, honey. We didn't know...when you'd wake up." Harley had the feeling the nurse was going to say "if you'd wake up." 

"How are you feeling?" Nurse Slater asked, taking her pulse. 

"I feel fine," she said truthfully. "What day is it?" 

"Wednesday, dear." Good. We don't need Gordon's help anymore... 

"I've been out two days then?" Harley confirmed. 

The nurse frowned, her eyebrows furrowed. "No, honey. It's been more like sixteen days," she corrected softly. 

"What?" There's no way that's right... 

"Relax, hon," she advised, pressing gently against Harley's shoulder so she'd lay back down. "Dr. Ledger will be in soon to talk to you about your condition." 

"My condition? What's wrong with me?" she snapped. 

"You experienced a near fatal poisoning, with a temperature of 106 degrees, massive organ complications, and cerebral edema We induced a coma to prevent brain damage and used peritoneal dialysis to filter your blood. The doctor will explain what all of that means, Ms. Quinzel." 

"But I'm okay now?" Harley asked impatiently, biting her tongue so she wouldn't blurt out that she already understood what that meant because Frances was a doctor. 

"As far as we can tell. Shortly after your symptoms abated, your vitals returned to normal. Better than normal, actually: You appear to be in the best shape of your life," the nurse added blithely. 

"How is Dr. Crane?" Harley asked with false concern. 

The nurse thought for a moment and then said, "Oh, he was released after a night in observation. There were no sustained affects from his asphyxiation. You were both very lucky- that madman nearly killed you!" 

Harley wanted to say that Dr. Crane was the real madman. She was perplexed, though, that apparently he hadn't made mention of Frances' role in the Joker's escape. Or her participation in administering his own electroconvulsive session. It would have been the perfect opportunity to have her declared legally insane and locked up in Arkham for assault and aiding the escape of a prisoner. But he'd kept his mouth shut, if not flat out lied in Frances' defense. What game was he playing at now? 

Soon Harley Quinn was visited by the doctor who told her basically the same things that Nurse Slater had said. When she asked Dr. Ledger if he knew the nature of her poisoning, he said that S.T.A.R. Labs hadn't fully analyzed the toxin yet. Preliminary tests showed that it was partially plant based and contained unidentifiable inorganic compounds. In other words, they had no idea what it was or how it had been manufactured. 

After he left, Detectives Cohen and Kasinsky came in to question her. Harley played it safe and claimed to remember virtually nothing. She mimicked Frances' innocent deer-in-the-headlights look to a tee. 

"The hospital personnel records show that you weren't on duty Sunday evening. What were you doing at Arkham that night in the first place?" Cohen inquired. 

"Dr. Crane called me in to assist with an electroconvulsive therapy session on the patient Joe Kerr," Harley answered in her best attempt at a timid, breathy voice. 

"Ha, Joe Kerr. Joker. Get it Cohen?" Kasinsky chuckled. Detective Cohen wasn't amused. 

"Do you recall anything else, Dr. Quinzel? Did Dr. Crane do or say anything...out of the ordinary?" He suspects Crane is involved instead? Perfect... 

"No more so than usual. I mean, I thought it was odd that he wanted me to come in that night but then again, Dr. Crane is kind of odd. Gives me the creeps sometimes, to be honest with you," Harley confided, trembling like a frightened bunny. Her dewy eyes spoke volumes. 

"Yeah, tell me about it," Detective Cohen agreed grimly. "Did, uh, Mr. Kerr say anything to you while he held you hostage? It would be outside of the realm of Doctor/Patient confidentiality." 

Harley scrunched up her brow as if trying to recollect any more details, but then shook her head in the negative. "I'm sorry, it's all just a blank. I must have been drugged already." 

Detective Cohen opened his mouth as if to ask something else, but closed it and nodded. "Well if you remember anything, please don't hesitate to let me know," he said, placing a business card on the cart next to her bed. 

As they turned to walk away, Harley blurted out, "Oh, Detectives! Is Sergeant Gordon still on the force?" 

Cohen spun back around, his eyes narrowed. "No ma'am. Gordon hasn't been a Sergeant in a while. He's Lieutenant Gordon now. Why? Did you hear his name mentioned?" he asked suspiciously. 

"No. I was just curious. Fr- I used to be friends with his daughter." 

"Babs Gordon?" Kasinsky perked up with a broad smile. "Now she's some dame..." 

Cohen glowered, elbowing his partner to get that dumb grin off of his face. "I can tell him that you said hello if you'd like, Dr. Quinzel." 

"Harley Quinn," she interjected flatly. 

"Beg pardon?" 

Resuming her Frances routine, she explained more sweetly. "I only go by Dr. Quinzel when I'm on duty. Please, call me Harley Quinn, Sir. And do tell Jim Gordon that I send my best regards." 

Detective Cohen tipped his hat politely and his partner, who gave a respectful nod, followed him out. She let out a long sigh of relief. Finally, something had gone her way. 

After another evening under medical observation, Harley Quinn was released from Gotham General. Dr. Ledger asked that she make a follow-up appointment in the next couple of weeks and assured her that she'd be alerted when they received a conclusive toxicology report; so never. 

Before she left, a different officer named Detective Cavallo informed her "not to worry 'bout a thing, sweetheart," because her apartment would be under 24 hour surveillance. That plus the shit-eating grin on his partner Wise's face made her suspect that the pair wasn't as aboveboard as Cohen and Kasinsky, who at least seemed genuinely interested in solving the case. Harley Quinn shot daggers at them with her eerily green eyes before strutting away. 

She had no intention of returning to Frances' pathetic little apartment. 

Harley Quinn took the rail back to Arkham, where they'd allowed her car to remain in the lot for the time being. With a mixture of regret and relief, she registered no sign of a Joker card or note of any kind. Just a lot of bird crap and muddy paw prints. Why doesn't that damn cat kill those fucking birds? 

She decided her first task should be confirming the whereabouts of Crane's journal, if not Crane himself; as his outgoing message stated that he was currently attending a non-existent psychiatric physicians' conference in Seattle. Was the Scarecrow scared or did he have bigger concerns than the Insane Clown and his meek sister? 

When Harley Quinn arrived at the journal's last known whereabouts, she realized immediately that Mrs. Dawes's house was deserted. Peeking through the drawn sheer curtains, she saw the floor was littered with open boxes, the furniture had been shifted around and the carpets had been rolled up and placed against the wall. She suspected the Scarecrow's involvement. Walking around to the back and knocking just to be sure, she pressed the doormat against one of the backdoor's windowpanes and punched through it. Harley Quinn reached her hand into the resulting hole and unbolted the locks. 

The kitchen was in much the same state as it had been before, but many of the decorative plates were missing as was all of the cutlery. Feeling a bit peckish, Harley rummaged through the fridge and found some luncheon meat that hadn't expired yet. She milled around, munching on slices of turkey while she accessed the evidence. The home had been abandoned in a hurry. For what reason? 

Then she began to fit the pieces together. Fresh scuff marks and gashes marred the hardwood floor around the front door. There was a pile of dirt nearby and the remnants of a broken pot. Many of the carpets were flat out missing, as were several pieces of upholstered furniture. There were a few stray spots of reddish brown on the blue and white wallpaper. And what was that on the guest towels? Greasepaint. 

The gruesome scene played out in her mind. Mrs. Dawes had opened the door for them without a thought and realized her mistake all too soon. The Joker or one of his men must have interrogated her and undoubtedly she refused to mention anything about Frances. But eventually the poor woman broke for her bloodthirsty brother and told him everything she knew. He took his time. He enjoyed it. 

That motherfucker...On instinct, Harley Quinn picked up a poker to dig around in the cinder grate. Amongst the ashes, she discovered remnants of the charred manila envelope that Frances had addressed to Barbara Gordon. 

Fuck- I don't want Gordon to have the Scarecrow's journal either but you didn't have to murder an innocent woman! She wanted to punch something- hard. Mainly Frances for getting Edina Dawes involved in the first place. It was yet another loose end that the Joker had to attend to personally. Harley finished the last slice of meat and threw the empty package into a nearby box. Wiping off her hands on a random doily, she exited the front door of the late Mrs. Dawes. 

"Excuse me! What were you doing in there?" An angry voice called after Harley as she opened her car door. Turning around, she saw a beautiful brunette woman with lovely flashing grey eyes. 

"Oh, hi! You must be Rachel," Harley extended her hand. "Your mother told me so much about you." 

"My mother?" The woman shook her hand but still looked skeptical. "Who are you?" 

"My name is Harley Quinn. I met your mom through a mutual friend- Alfred Pennyworth." 

"You know Alfred?" she said, her anger softening as she perused Harley's face. Then Rachel's eyebrows raised reflexively as if she recognized her suddenly. "I know who you are: You're the intern from Arkham Asylum who was held hostage by that nut they're calling the Joker! I heard you were still in a coma." 

So we did make the news. "Yes. But obviously I'm awake now. I was just released from the hospital and since I have no family in Gotham, I thought I'd pay Edina a visit." 

"How did you get inside?" 

"The back door window was busted and the door wide open. I was worried, so I came inside. Did Edina move? Is everything okay?" 

Rachel's eyes began to turn red and glassy with tears. "Not particularly...My mother is...I mean she was..." Her words turned to sobs and the woman began crying in middle of the street. Not being completely heartless, Harley Quinn reticently took the shivering creature into her arms and whispered the meaningless platitudes people usually say to the grieving. 

"Should we step inside? I can make tea," Harley finally offered, her shoulder now thoroughly wet. Rachel sniffed and wiped her eyes roughly with the hem of her shirtsleeve. 

"Honestly I'd rather break into Mom's liquor cabinet," she chuckled, sketching a wry grin. "She was murdered- my mother. Some lunatic broke in and...She didn't even have anything worth stealing- just some old costume jewelry and a silver service. And they didn't even take that!" Rachel was shaking again, but with rage. 

"How about we have a nice stiff drink then? It's what Edina would have wanted," said Harley earnestly. 

"You're right- Harley Quinn did you say? That's an unusual name," Rachel remarked, leading her back inside. 

"Well, I'm an unusual woman," shrugged Harley, linking arms with her new friend. 

Edina Dawes must have been a lush for sherry wine and brandy fruit liqueurs as there was quite a variety to chose from. Rachel seemed to have inherited Edina's affinity for sweet alcohol because she decanted a good deal of apricot brandy for herself after her guest refused any. Fortunately for Harley Quinn, there was a bottle of Beefeater dry gin that she suspected had been procured for Alfred. She poured a large glass and added three cubes of ice and a splash of canned pineapple juice. 

Owing to the state of affairs downstairs, the ladies took their drinks up to Rachel's room, where Harley had so recently slept. She selected an CD from a stack on her desk and slid it into her stereo. A heavy base line dropped, backed by a slow drum beat, and was soon joined by an entire section of strings. Then a DJ started scratching a record in a lazy, trip- hop fashion. She could tell it was Portishead live before Beth Gibbons even began singing in her haunting contralto voice. 

"We suffer everyday- what is it for? These crimes of illusion are fooling us all." Rachel sang along somewhat off-key but her voice was pretty; warmed by brandy, chilled by sorrow. "It's only you who can tear me apart. And it's only you who can turn my wooden heart." 

Frances had a rather low tolerance for alcohol, but Harley found herself barely affected by the drinking. What was truly intoxicating her was the way Rachel swayed to the rhythm, her eyes closed as her sultry lips formed the words. She's so beautiful...But it wasn't Harley Quinn's thought that arose, it was Frances'. 

Is that why the real reason you never dated much? You weren't a prude after all- just a lesbian, huh? 

Let me out! Frances cried out, her voice gurgling under the waves. 

No. It's my turn now. 

Let me out, Harley. This is my body! 

You had no idea what to do with this body. Now go back to sleep, sweet girl, Harley ordered, pushing her back down with such force that Frances was carried away by the undertow. You're about to have the best dream you'll never remember... 

The song had changed and Beth was complaining about how tired she was playing with her bow and arrow. "Give me a reason to be-eeee a woman!" Rachel belted out in a husky wail. "I just wanna be a wo-a-man..." 

Harley Quinn leaned over and captured her next word with her open mouth. Rachel gasped in surprise- her eyes popping open before they closed again- and then began to return the other woman's kiss. Her mouth was so soft, so yielding, that Harley began to understand Frances' fascination. 

The two women fell down on the bed together, limbs entwining and lips mashing furiously. They rubbed each others tits through layers of fabric before ripping off their obtrusive tops and bras. Rachel took to Harley's heavy globes like a nursing baby, suckling on one nipple while her fingers twisted and tugged the other. 

Rachel's breasts were ripe little peaches- both firm with a dark ruby pebble on a dusky rose bed. They responded beautifully to her biting and lapping, her pinching and licking. And when Harley reached her hand inside of Rachel's panties to feel her forbidden cleft fruit, she found it dripping with juices. She traced the other woman's succulent lips with those glistening fingertips before sliding them into her mouth to suck clean. 

"Have you ever eaten out a woman before?" Rachel murmured in anticipation as the rest of her clothes were being removed. Harley Quinn noticed that the girly, slightly cloying fragrance still lingering in her teenage bedsheets had now matured into a spicy, exotic perfume on Rachel herself. 

"No, but I want you to be my first," cooed Harley, admiring another woman's pussy for the first time. It was bare but for a trim, triangular patch of dark curls above her nether-lips. Harley herself had been waxed so often for so long that she rarely needed to maintain her smooth shave. She dug her nose into the wispy little muff. It smelled like a musky wildflower by the seashore. 

Rachel cried out as she nuzzled the pink flesh of her sex and parted its petals with her tongue. Her mysterious flavor was fresh and salty; floral and slightly acrid. And when Harley exposed that shy, hooded pearl and began lapping it with relish, she felt Rachel grasp her head with fierce urgency. 

"Yes, yes! Oh fuck...oh fuck yes!" she sang more passionately than ever. Harley hooked two fingers and shoved them in her glory box, twisting around to find that extra special sweet spot. Rachel howled. Harley clamped her mouth down, still fingerbanging her sodden cunt. 

"Ooooh god, oh fuck...Oh- Ahhh! Uh huh, uh huh, uh huhmmm...mmmmm- Oh fuck!" 

There was no mistaking the sound of her cumming, much less the feel of it. Her pussy began convulsing around her lover's fingers as fluids came gushing forth. Harley Quinn didn't stop- she kept sucking on her clit and working her quivering quim until Rachel clenched her thighs tighter than ever. To Harley's delight, she issued a final squirt of cunt juice with a grunt of ultimate satisfaction. 

"Mm mmm, you're good to the last drop, darlin'," Harley purred, licking up her delicious lady-cum. 

"Oh, Harley- that was incredible," Rachel muttered. 

Not bothering to wipe off the excess left behind on her face, Harley kissed her paramour with her briny mouth. "See what a tasty treat you are?" 

"Mmmm...Do you want me to, you know..." 

"Not right now. I just want you to enjoy yourself," Harley Quinn assured her, walking her fingers down over Rachel's sternum, over the center of her belly, and back to her pussy. She slanted her mouth over Rachel's and inserted her tongue and fingers at the same time. Harley grazed her pointy nipples with her palm, wanting to pleasure her gently. 




Joker's Wilde Pt. 03



After countless climaxes, Rachel began to doze off in her lover's arms. The late afternoon sun slanted in through the blinds, casting the soothing golden hues before sunset onto the pink walls. 

Stroking her hair, Harley Quinn confessed, "My mother died when I was very young. I watched her get stabbed to death." 

Rachel mumbled something that was probably "I'm so sorry," but Harley just shushed her and continued. 

"I would have given anything to have changed it when I was a girl. But now I see that it made me the woman I am today. I wanted to do that for you because it's what she would have wanted so long ago: To be loved so tender. To feel so special." 

"Who? Your mother?" asked Rachel groggily. 

"Frances. Poor little Frances Quinzel. But don't worry, puddin'. She will have her revenge on Gotham. As long as there is breath in this body." 

She waited until Rachel was sound asleep to sneak out of bed. Harley Quinn borrowed a pair of hip-hugging satin panties that showed a little cheek, and a white sundress that showed plenty of everything. The bust of the dress was stretched tight over her tits, which spilled out over the low-cut neckline. Their mother's locket still rested between them. Harley Quinn was still wearing those school-girl sexy knee-highs and Mary-Jane style flats, so it seemed fitting to put her hair up into two high pig-tails. She tied a black ribbon around one and a red around the other. That, plus some of Rachel's bright red lipstick, and her look was complete. 

It would suffice until she could find a good Harlequin suit. There was surely an abundance of them in the Halloween section of any department store or the various costume outlets, but they'd be flimsy and sweaty. What she really needed was a dominatrix suit and some wicked boots. 

Knowing she needed to go on a shopping spree, Harley Quinn stopped by the bank and emptied Frances' account. 

Harley got chills when she walked inside of "Leather Bound". It was the only specialty boutique that advertised as sell high-quality fetish gear, and they lived up to their claim. Numerous male and female forms had been outfitted in harnesses, corsets, lingerie, pants, dresses and bodysuits- all made out of leather- ready to play with masks, hats, shoes, collars, crops and cuffs. Most were simple, though impeccably made, but others had more of a flare. 

There was steam-punk submissive in a Victorian-style brown corset and matching boy-shorts with a lace-up ass, elaborately gartered stockings, button-up shoes, fur lined wrist cuffs and an aviator hat with blacked-out goggles. One male mannequin looked like a sadistic priest- his vestments lined in oxblood red, various chains adorned with crosses and crucifixes, cat-of-nine-tails whip in hand with a rosary wrapped around his wrist. An exquisite white patent-leather Naughty Nurse uniform was on display too, down to the nurse's cap and shoes; her gloved hand held the leash leading to a male slave's collar. Harley rather fancied a crotchless catsuit that laced up the front, accessorized with black fur lined boots and a thin mask, but decided it was too impractical. 

"Welcome to Leather Bound, I'm Madame Mercedes. How may I help you this evening?" She didn't pronounced her name like the car make, but rather in a faint Spanish accent- the "e's" sounding more like "a's" and it ended with a soft "z" sound rather than a hard "s"- alluding to a merciful virgin with dark side. 

The Madame was an olive skinned beauty- ebony waves bobbed along her sharp jaw-line; almond-shaped eyes the color of a stormy sea; cupid's bow mouth curled in an inquisitive smile. She was not very tall but looked imposing in her floor-length black leather gown with a corseted bust. Long, fingerless gloves were laced-up the sides of her arms past the elbows. 

"I'm looking for a full body suit. Black matte, zip up front, no bells or whistles." 

"A purist? Excellent. I think I have a few for you to chose from. You look like a double D and I'm guessing your measurements are, what, 35, 24, 35? 170 cm?" 

Oh, she's good. 

Mistress Mercedes hung the options up in the spacious dressing room and left her to try them on. Several of them were ill-fitting, but two of them were nearly perfect. She modeled these for the mistress of the boutique, who insisted that she buy the first because it made her ass look divine. Harley put the suit on again and examined her appearance in the angled mirrors. Not only did she look damn good- especially when she lowered the zipper halfway to reveal her ample cleavage- but she felt good in the secure embrace of leather. She felt like a black mamba ready to go to a sex club. 

Still wearing the suit, she let Madame Mercedes help her try on several styles of boots. Harley's favorite was hands-down a pair of black, short heeled boots that could be zipped all the way up the calves, or folded down to reveal its pop of red lining. The whole ensemble felt comfortable enough as she stomped around the shop, but how would it fare in combat? 

"May I try something a little strange?" she asked the Madame humbly. 

"Of course. You can try something very strange if you'd like. It's no matter to me," chuckled Mercedes. 

Harley grinned and launched into a tumbling routine. Madame Mercedes watched the most curious test of her merchandise that any customer had ever performed before- if not the most arousing. The black blur somersaulted, flipped and rolled around the hard wood floors of her shop. She executed a butterfly kick variant that moved into a flying kick and landed in a split for her finale. 

"Wow! Either you have a Dom with very particular tastes, or you are the harshest Mistress I've ever met," Mercedes declared. 

"Call it a little bit of both," answered Harley Quinn, rising up stretching like a cat. 

"I knew I sensed a duality in your nature. When I first saw you, I thought of the wolf in sheep's clothing," she noted perceptively. And now I'm the wolf in cows' clothing. "Do they meet your expectations?" 

"Exceedingly well. I'll take them. Now- what accessories do you have in cherry red?" 

Having selected a practical pair of gloves with padded palms, studded knee and elbow pads, a heavy fiberglass cane, and a well-fitting shoulder holster- all in her favorite color. After removing the suit and boots, she also tried on separates for a more casual look- finally deciding on a red bustier and black shorts, plus a sharp peplum jacket since the weather was getting chilly. 

Coming back out in her former attire, the Madame rang up her sizable total. "And how will you be paying for this, dear Mistress?" 

"Cash. And I'm Harley Quinn. Mistress Harley Quinn," she added with a wink. 

A drugstore was Mistress Harley's last stop. Red and black hair-dye, a face paint kit, several pairs of tights and assorted beauty products. Plus a bag of Blow Pops. She needed to give something a good blow right about now. 

With several boxes and bags in tow, Harley headed uptown looking for the place the Joker had been staying in before he was apprehended: The Royal Hotel. A reputedly haunted establishment that nonetheless had its fair share of respectable and not-so-respectable patrons. Done in a Baroque Revival style- resplendent with architectural details and lavish carpets, artwork and draperies- it was aged but immaculate; every crystal sparkling and flower freshly picked. 

"Good-evening, Miss. May I help you?" the concierge asked rather curtly. 

"I'd like a room," she slurred around her cherry candy, its paper-stick protruding from the corner of her mouth. 

"For the evening?" His eyes looked up and down her slattern's attire, that had been so recently enhanced with a tight-fitting jacket. 

"At least. Longer if I find the accommodations suitable," she replied after popping the sphere out her red stained lips. 

"And what is your name?" 

"Harley Quinn. Harley like the motorcycle company, Quinn like the medicine woman." 

The man glared at her while he entered her alias in the system and then studied the screen with some confusion. "Ms. Quinn. I beg your pardon, but you already have a room checked out in your name for the rest of the month. Perhaps there's been some kind of mistake..." 

After several keystrokes and a dubious squint at the results, he put on a professional smile. "It looks like you're in room 713- one of our finest suites. Do you need a key, Miss?" he asked with the utmost courtesy. 

"Please. I assume you offer adequate room service? I'm famished." 

"Yes, yes of course Ms. Quinn. May I recommend the coq au vin- it's splendid! Just call from your room and I'll take the order myself. Anything you'd like will be our pleasure to provide, Ms. Quinn!" Was there a tinge of fear in his voice? 

"Thanks, puddin'," Harley Quinn drawled. "And would you be a dear and send these up too? I had quite an excursion today." She plunked her packages from Leather Bound onto the counter and strode towards the elevator, crunching merrily on the thin candy layer surrounded her sucker's bubblegum center. Mistress Harley hoped he would peak inside. 

The room proved to be more than adequate, with a comfortable king-sized bed canopied in velvet and a splendid marble soaking tub. Its carpets were so plush, the fabric so abundant and the walls so thick that she felt cocooned in its antiquated splendor. They'd disguised the modern amenities but they were still there- a flat screen television behind the painting over the fireplace; a vintage-looking record player equipped with satellite radio; a gilded, mother-of-pearl telephone with portable handset. She could see how her brother would have been smitten. 

Dinner was delicious, accompanied by the sort of white wine Frances would have ordered. The bottle was nearly emptied by the time she dozed off to "Hellraisers". That night she had a blissfully dreamless sleep. 

Harley ordered breakfast in bed at noon. A stack of blueberry pancakes, an omelet, three strips of bacon and several wedges of cantaloupe arrived on a cart along with a pot of coffee, a carafe of orange juice and a bottle of champagne with all the required drinking vessels. She tipped the bellboy a twenty and ate a leisurely meal in bed while watching Rob Zombie's "Halloween" with detached fascination. 

After she was thoroughly sated, Harley Quinn set about dying her hair. She decided to color the right side black and the left side red, making sure to apply some Vaseline around her hairline so she wouldn't stain her skin. It was rinsed and conditioned during the second part of Mike Meyers' gory tale and nearly dry by its conclusion. 

Harley brushed out both sides and put them in low pigtails towards the back of her head. 

Dressing in her new streetwear, with the addition of mismatched tights- one red and the other black and white striped- she folded her boots down for a more playful look. Heavy cat eyes and nude gloss played into the whole "hooker haute couture" look. 

Harley buttoned up her jacket, strapped on the satchel that still had its fat roll of paper money and headed out to find her daggers. 

Chapter Six: The Ragman Cometh. 

Frances hadn't been to a pawnshop since her father hawked their mother's jewelry. The one Harley found looked more like an antique store that hadn't been changed since the 70's: The 1870's. As she approached the counter, she could see that there was a small selection of guns and knives- predominantly for display or hunting- with a sign that read simply, "More Available Upon Request". That could prove interesting. 

A man emerged from the back. He had an unruly mop of curly black hair, thick brows over chocolate brown eyes, a hint of a beard and absolutely kissable lips. His clothes were patched and frayed, but otherwise he appeared well-groomed and presentable. Tall, dark, and undeniably handsome, he had a sort of charisma that Harley found instantaneously attractive. 

"Welcome to Rags n' Tatters, I'm Rory. How may I help you?" he recited with a flash of his brilliant smile; the corners of his eyes crinkled and an adorable dimple appeared on his right cheek. She appreciated the fact that he was actually looking her in the eyes when he spoke. 

"I'd like to buy some knives," Harley said matter-of-factly. 

"Kitchen knives?" 

"Combat." 

"Okay," he said, slightly amused. "Are you talking fantasy role playing knives, or do you need a gift for your boyfriend?" he wheedled. 

"I'm looking for a set of throwing knives, a fixed-blade dagger, a double action out-the-front auto, a Balisong knife and a tactical switchblade. A throwing axe if you have one. Holster and sheathes. A whetstone and cleaning cloth too," Harley ticked off briskly. 

"Whoahoho!" Rory said with a low whistle. "That's a lot of steel, little lady." 

"I'm starting a collection," she said honestly. 

"Hmm, I can tell..." He looked her over quite shrewdly and not at all in a salacious manner. "I stock most of my weapons in the back. I have to lock up the shop if you'd like to take a look," Rory said at last. 

Harley Quinn appraised him much in the same manner, though she couldn't help but have a few lustful thoughts while doing so. Then she nodded and he proceeded to flip the "open" sign over, shut the blinds and triple-lock the door before setting an alarm. In this neighborhood, she couldn't blame him. 

The back of the store contained an impressive arsenal as well as a display of war memorabilia. Inspecting one shadowbox in particular, Harley saw the mounted medals and ribbon bars of a Major General Regan. There was a photo of him in a dark blue dress uniform with two stars on its epaulettes. She could see where Rory had inherited his boyish good looks. 

"The merch is over here," Rory said, waiting by an open display case of knives next to several more that were still locked. "Are you looking for any brands in particular?" 

"Schrade, Boker, Spyderco, OKC, Benchmade: Whatever's sharp and durable." He gestured for her to help herself, and Harley Quinn began picking out knives and twirling them around. She felt like a kid in a candy shop. 

Harley noticed that on the opposite wall there hung several slices of a willow log painted with concentric red circles. "May I?" she asked, gesturing towards the targets. 

"Knock yourself out," he shrugged. 

First she hung up her satchel and jacket to improve her range of motion, which conveniently provided Rory with a clear view of her merchandise. Then she selected a heavy handled knife and pinched it by the blade. Harley got into a comfortable stance, raised the knife along side her head with her wrist straight. She took a few practice swings, like she was chopping wood, as she shifted her weight to create forward momentum. Angling her wrist towards her forearm just a fraction, Harley finally aimed at the bull's eye and threw. The tip sank into the soft wood, three rings away from its intended destination. It was better than her first attempts so long ago, under her brother's tutelage. 

"Not bad," Rory noted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "May I?" he asked, offering her another knife. Harley nodded and allowed him to step behind her and adjust her stance. "Relax your shoulders," he directed, tapping them lightly. "And it's not about force, it's about finesse," Rory added. 

He held the knife over her hand and guided her through several practice swings. "You have to follow through. No- keep your wrist straight at this distance. Okay, good. Now try." 

Harley felt a little disappointed when he let he go. She took a deep breath, letting his advice sink in. Exhaling out of her mouth, she aimed and threw. The knife hit the mark with near precision. It's not just my mental memory that's improved, it's my physical memory as well. 

"You're a natural," declared Rory, clearly impressed. 

"Looks like," Harley Quinn agreed and picked up a balanced throwing knife to compare the feel of it. 

"Listen, I'm not looking to stick my nose in anyone's business here, but I hope you're not planning on doing anything you'll regret," Rory said softly. 

Harley held this by the handle and lined up in front of the targets again. "I don't plan on regretting anything anymore," she promised, nailing the center of the bull's eye on her first try. 

"If it's revenge you're after, that path leads to a dark place." 

Picking up a butterfly knife now and flipping out its blade, Harley considered his words and replied, "I'm not just seeking revenge; I'm bringing about a reckoning. There's a cancer growing in Gotham City and I will cut it out."  

Rory nodded and took out his keys. "Well, it's clear to me what I must do," he said with an air of finality. "Take whatever you need. Don't worry about the price- you can have them." 

"Come again?" Harley stuttered as he began unlocking the other cases. 

"I couldn't agree with you more. The City decays and crumbles with each passing day. Whether it's the Russian Syndicate or the Irish Mob, the Cosa Nostra or the Yakuza- it's all one Mafia. The Italian Eastsiders, The Blackgaters, the Escabedo Cartel- just one big gang. And the police, the DA, the judges even- do you see them doing a thing about it? 

"Badge, suit, black jacket or robe- it doesn't matter: They're all getting fat while the rest of us forage for scraps. Who will rise against the injustice but the citizens responsible for putting them in charge?" 

"Well, I'm not exactly this paradigm of a 'responsible citizen' of which you speak, and I won't take anything from you. Gifts usually have strings attached," Harley pointed out meaningfully. 

Rory appeared a bit indignant but continued calmly. "Maybe if you knew a little bit more about me, you'd understand why I want to help." 

"Alright. I'm all ears," she said crossing her arms. Rory's eyes flitted down to her pushed up tits then swiftly returned to her eyes before he spoke. 

"My father opened Rags n' Tatters when he came back from the Vietnam War. He wanted to create a legacy that wasn't built on senseless violence. He hoped I'd take over eventually but I had no interest in running the store. When I turned eighteen, I left Gotham and went to make my own name. 

"Not finding much success financially or otherwise, I enlisted in the Army; thinking that somehow war would bring me peace. I eventually trained in sub-Saharan Africa and served in Afghanistan. Wounded in my leg and scarred in my soul, I returned home to show my father the mensch I'd become: But I found him on the verge of death and practically penniless. 

"My father's shop had been taken over by Meroni's thugs and was being used as a front for dealing drugs. I was enraged but I didn't know what to do. I felt powerless; a boy once more. And my father, who was once so strong, was too ill to help either. 

"I broke in one night - into my family's own store- in hopes of at least retrieving his war medals. And that's when I found the true legacy my father had intended to pass down on me. Not a building or even a weapon but an artifact. The Collector's Artifact. Passed down since the time of Abraham, it has been destroyed and re-forged in many forms. It's been purifying polluted souls for millennia; absorbing their talents and abilities and imbuing its wearer with their powers. 

"My father constructed its current incarnation- the Cloak of Souls- and it is what I wear to purge the streets of evil," he concluded soberly. 

Is this guy serious? "The Cloak of Souls? Now is that like the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat or is it more like a Superhero's cape?" she scoffed. 

"Don't be fatuous. I'm telling you this because I know you're different; I could tell the moment you walked in. You have an unusual aura- rich scarlet infused with a neon green glow. I've never seen anything like it," he trailed off thoughtfully.  




Joker's Wilde Pt. 03



Oh wow, he's completely insane, Harley mused. Patient is suffering from PTSD, resulting in daylight hallucinations and a Messiah Complex. 

"Do you want to see it?" 

"My double-aura, so bright and so vivid?" she asked sarcastically. 

"The Cloak of Souls, Harley Quinn," he said tersely. "Once you see it, you'll believe. But I must warn you- it feeds off the energy it's given. It will harm those with impure intentions." 

She realized that he'd called her by her name- her real name- and she certainly hadn't told him what it was. "Sure. What the hell," Harley answered shakily. 

Without a word, Rory led her through a doorway that had been covered with a quilt. It was appliquéd with mystical Jewish symbols, the stitches nearly invisible. Before she passed through, Harley noticed a Mezuzah case affixed on the right side of the door post; marked with the Hebrew letter "Shin" for Shaddai, or God, it held a parchment inscribed with the words of the Shema- the Prayer of Israel. This blessing was for what seemed to be Rory's bedroom. Well, at least it had a bed in it. 

Is this the cost of his "gift"? Harley was beginning to think 

"Here it is," he said proudly, standing next to a vintage dressmaker's dummy cloaked in a rather ordinary cape with a cowl. "You don't see it," Rory deduced from her skeptical expression. "I forget sometimes that normal people don't see the way we do." 

We? Like the royal "We"? 

"The Ragmen," he clarified, as if reading her thoughts. "My name is Rory Regan, son of Gerry Regan, and I am the last Ragman," he pronounced. 

No matter how cute or sexy Harley found this tatterdemalion to be, she could no longer indulge in his elaborate fantasy. "Well...I'm really flattered that you wanted to reveal your secret identity to me or whatever, but I have to be going now." 

"Wait! Just touch it," Rory insisted, grabbing Harley by the arm as she started to step. "I'm not lying, I promise!" 

"Let go of me!" He released her so promptly that Harley Quinn was more surprised than she would have been if he'd hit her. Studying Rory's face, she could tell that he believed every word that he'd said; but that hardly made it true. 

"I don't want to hurt you," Rory told her, showing her his palms and backing away. "I just want you to touch the Cloak. Please." 

Harley approached with her hand out, fully expecting to feel the coarse texture of its roughspun cloth. But it became apparent upon contact that this was no ordinary material. It was smoother than silk in a breeze, slightly tacky like a spider's web, and felt like it was undulating- or breathing- even though it was visibly inanimate. It was what she imagined a cloud would feel like; an angel's sigh; a cool flame. She giggled in delight, as if she were petting some ephemeral newborn lamb. 

"That's amazing!" murmured Harley at last. 

Rory gave a crooked grin. "So you can feel it- the souls woven into the fabric?" 

She withdrew her hand squeamishly, as if noticing that the cloak was made out of a thousand cockroaches. Harley Quinn inspected her palm halfway expecting to see a spirit clinging to it like a wisp of smoke. 

"It doesn't want to hurt you. It likes you," Rory said, speaking of the Cloak like a sentient being. 

Harley touched it again, this time knowing what to expect, and could feel it tugging at the core of her being; like it wanted something from her. "What does it want?" she wondered aloud, all judgment suspended. 

"Don't worry- it doesn't want your soul. It wants to link with you: It senses your power." 

"Sounds kinky. But I don't have any power," Harley said bitterly, breaking away from its inexplicable draw. 

"Of course you do," Rory assured her, resting his hand on her shoulder. "You aren't a victim, Harley Quinn. You're a survivor. And whatever happened to you has made you stronger. I can feel it. Here," he said, his fingertips lingering above her heart. 

Harley gripped his hand and pressed it harder into her breast. "This- this here- is broken! And whatever has happened to me is changing me into a freak from the inside out! I can feel it," she confessed. It was more than the arbitrary facts that popped up into her head or her enhanced acrobatics- even the surge of strength that made her feel like she could snap his hand in half right now if she wanted to. I'm turning into him. 

"You can control it," Rory insisted. "I could help you, but you'd have to trust me. You'd have to trust yourself." 

"How could you help me? No one can help me!" she sobbed and threw herself against Rory's chest. He held her close, stroking her hair as she cried. 

"The Cloak can form a link with a person's psyche. Through that connection, it draws on your essence and returns it to you even stronger than before. Purer, you could say." 

Like spiritual dialysis. "How does it work?" 

Rory seemed to be trying to word his next statement very carefully. He brushed away the tears that had spilled down her cheeks as he thought. "Well, I have to wear the Cloak, of course, and then we'd have to have, um, a period of close physical and emotional contact." 

"If you wanted to sleep with me, Rory, you could have gone through a lot less trouble," Harley sniffed, gazing up at him with a ghost of a smile. 

He blushed considerably and stammered, "It doesn't have to be sex! I mean, that is certainly one method but there are others and I don't want you to think that I'd-" 

"It sounds like the best method to me," Harley Quinn said, pressing a finger to his lips to stop his babbling. "I know that's the one I would choose." 

Rory stroked the side of her face fondly and slid a hand behind her head, raking his fingers through her mismatched hair. Harley felt the stubbly terrain of his cheek and jawbone before wrapping her arms around his neck. She closed her eyes as he leaned down to kiss her; first tasting her lips, then parting them with long, tender kisses so he could slip his tongue inside. 

As he taught her how sweet kissing could be, Harley Quinn reciprocated with her own probing swirls and ardent nibbles. Rory's hands roamed down her back and around her waist, finding the bare flesh between her bustier and shorts. She was much more forward with her own groping, squeezing his firm buttocks with both hands and chuckling mischievously. So this is what it's like to want a man... 

"You don't have to wear anything under your cloak, do you?" she whispered hotly, flicking his earlobe with her tongue before tugging it gently between her teeth. 

"No...not really..." Rory mumbled distractedly, breaking out into goosebumps as she continued licking and sucking his ear. 

"Good. Because I'm dying to see what you look like underneath your rags and tatters," she murmured, taking off his worn Carhartt jacket and plaid shirt. 

"I'm guessing you don't look too bad yourself, even without your kinky Halloween costume," he teased before kissing her with more intensity. It was just on the verge of being rough, which to Harley Quinn was just right. She pulled off Rory's shirt and ran her fingers through his coarse pelt of dark chest hairs. Just as she'd hoped, beneath his baggy clothes was a sculpted torso- bulging biceps, chiseled pects and washboard abs. What Harley hadn't accounted for were his tattoos. 

Most were military related: an upwards facing dagger over two crossed arrows, cradled by a banner bearing the words De Oppresso Liber; a spadille- the Ace of Spades-in the middle of a red Ouroboros- a serpent swallowing it's own tail; and a naked pin-up girl holding M4A1 Carbine with a green beret dangling from the muzzle. Special Ops. 

It was on his ribs that Harley found the most intriguing inked adornments- the Kabbalah, or Tree of Life, on one side and the Qliphoth, the Tree of Death, on the other. She traced the intricate connections linking the ten spheres of the sephirot on the right and then the ones between their evil twins on the left. Rory laughed hoarsely as she tickled them at the same time. 

"You're beautiful," concluded after Harley Quinn had thoroughly inspected his upper body, scraping her nails along his spine while she gave him another kiss. 

Rory was far more sanctimonious removing her laced bustier, treating her like a fragile gift he got to unwrap. He stood back a bit to admire the magnificently luscious breasts heaving before him. Harley's perky little rosebuds- centered on distinct puddles of pale pink- pointed slightly heavenward and seemed to demand homage. 

Harley shivered involuntarily when his warm palms glided over her back and around to the sides of her breasts. Seeing her rosy flesh pucker in the open air, he traced her areolas and pinched one nipple tentatively, then the other with more confidence as Harley responded with delight. Then, cradling her by the small of her back, he bent in to devour them. 

"You're beautiful," he said breathlessly after sucking each of them in turn. 

Harley's eyes slid back into focus after being momentarily transported by the mere act of his worshipping her breasts. She'd never felt anything so sensual before and they'd only just begun. Never before had she wanted to see a man's cock more in her life. Harley Quinn undid the button and zipper of his jeans and let Rory kick them aside before she tugged down the waistband of his boxer briefs. 

"Now that's beautiful," she murmured, biting her bottom lip as she stared at his erection. It was darker than the rest of his skin, its head flushed maroon and its thick base disappearing into a nest of glossy black hairs. Harley handled it very carefully, wrapping her fingers around his hard shaft to stroke it up and down, stimulating the corona of his glans with her thumb. 

"Mmmm..." he groaned, grazing her neck with his teeth. "You know your way around a cock," he hissed appreciatively. 

"You have no idea," she giggled, grabbing his ass firmly as she got down on her knees. 

"Oh, baby, you don't have to-" But he never got the chance to tell her what she didn't have to do because Harley Quinn was busy doing it so expertly. Rory barely held her by the sides of her head as she performed fellatio, as if he didn't want to do anything to impede her own perfect technique. "Fuck!" he growled, tilting his pelvis forward and his head back. 

"Do you want to fuck me, Rory?" purred Harley, looking up at him as she brushed her smooth lips over his cockhead. 

"Yes," he said raggedly. 

Still gazing into her lover's eyes, Harley Quinn took him into her mouth as deeply as she could and made a swallowing motion in the back of her throat before rising up again, her tongue circling around his fat roped rod. 

"Was that a yes?" she taunted, lapping the underside of his shaft now while she cupped his heavy balls in her palm. 

"God, yes..." 

With that desperate confirmation, Harley stood up again and he kissed her sweet cocksucking mouth. Those miniscule short shorts fell to her feet after Rory peeled them down over her ass. She wasn't wearing any panties. The aroma of a fully aroused pussy rose up to their nostrils. As soon as it was bared, Rory's fingers delved inside her gash, finding her clit with ease. 

"I'm so fucking wet for you," she told him, gripping him tight as his thumb continued to caress her precious pearl and his middle and forefinger plunged into her cunt. 

"Mmmm, you feel so good. I bet you taste good too, babe," Rory cooed into his ear as she practically rode his hand. "Why don't you lay down so I can eat your pussy?" 

"Oh, Rory...Are you going to put on the cloak now?" she asked as he backed away, holding her at arms length. 

"Is that okay? I figured I should put it on before we got too busy," he said gently, taking a step closer so his bobbing erection made contact with her taut tummy. 

"Yes. I want you to," Harley agreed, sauntering over to the bed while his eyes stayed glued on her perfectly round bottom. He was then mesmerized by her jiggling breasts as she laid down with her legs splayed open. Rory began to pull the cloak off of the dummy while she watched him, idly fingering herself with one hand and playing with her tits with the other. 

"I should turn off the light before I put it on," Rory told her, his hand over the light switch that controlled the lamp in the corner of the room. "I don't want to frighten you," he explained. 

"Frighten me? How? I've already seen the monster you've been hiding in your pants," Harley Quinn joked. 

"When I wear the cloak, I change into something different." 

"Like Bela Lugosi?" 

"Like a golem." 

"Oh." Harley tried to imagine him turning into a clay statue. "I want to see." 

"Okay," Rory said warily. "But don't say I didn't warn you." 

He approached the foot of the bed slowly and threw the cape over his shoulders. After a moment's pause, he drew the cowl over his head and Harley saw what he meant. Suddenly he was twice as wide and seemed to be towering inches from the ceiling. His skin turned the color of twilight and the texture of earth. Shadows clung to him, a mist enshrouded him, and Harley Quinn could hear his chest rattling as he breathed- like his lungs were full of sand. Shining out from the darkness surrounding his face were two glowing points of light, like molten gold stars. They were his eyes. 

The room around them seemed to be darker, almost hazy. But she wasn't afraid of his glamour or the spell it wove around them. Harley Quinn could sense Rory within the golem's form; could almost feel his pure heart beating and the soothing calm of his demeanor. Do you still want me? He asked without moving his lips. She knew that his words were being directly transmitted to her mind. Harley dipped two fingers into her honey pot and then licked off the nectar, thinking More than ever. 

The Ragman crawled in between her legs, spreading out his cloak dramatically as his hooded head descended on her sex. Harley cried out at the contrast between his still human tongue and his much coarser lips and face. Again- just rough enough without being painful. Her whole body tingled with a sort of psycho-sexual energy that flowed around and through them. 

"Oh, god Rory, that feels so-oh-oh good," she whimpered. It took only one of his super-sized digits stuffed inside of Harley's cunt to tip her over the edge coming. Damn he's skilled... 

"Make love to me, Rory. I want you inside of me. Take me now, please!" begged Harley, still writhing around his submerged middle finger. 

Without a word he got on top of his willing victim, separating her thighs even more to accommodate his broad frame, and then drew the shadowy garment over them both. She groaned under his weight but whispered for him to continue, please. The darkness consumed all external light, but when Harley looked down she could see their true, luminescent forms. Rory's two mystical tree tattoos came alive, spreading out from roots to branches. His eyes were white-hot embers. 

The Ragman's cock, which looked so incomprehensibly large at full attention, seemed to fit inside of Harley Quinn like it was cast directly from her silken tunnel. She raised her hips up to bring him in even deeper. It was so surreally beautiful to see his shaft sliding in and out of her flared pussy, her breasts bouncing against his brutishly muscular chest. A ball of red passion swirling around their union, growing brighter and bigger as his slow rut increased tempo. 

You're so sweet and tight, Harley, he thought, not wanting to hurt her anymore than she'd been already. Fuck me, Ragman. I won't break, Harley Quinn promised. Rory responded by abandoning all caution and plowing her more mercilessly than she thought possible. They both needed this raw fuck, but the sensation was only part of their pleasure. The rest was a metaphysical transference of their thoughts and feelings, powers and virtues. 

Rory was stroking in and out of her at a rigorous pace while Harley ground her exposed clit against his pubis. The Ragman was taking in all of Harley Quinn's poisonous blood, full of rage and despair, and infusing it with his sense of purpose and hope. Harley was pouring into him her knowledge and abilities so they could join the Collector's Artifact; and loving every fucking moment. 

Ragman seemed reticent to kiss her, but Harley reached into his hood and drew him close by his shaggy locks. His lips were sun-dried clay but her tongue found the inside of his mouth still soft and sweet. Kissing him was a strangely erotic experience. Harley had expected him to taste like her pussy but instead his mouth reminded her of cinnamon and smelled like petrichor- the scent of dust in the rain. 

It was with their mouths conjoined that Ragman made his strongest connection with Harley Quinn. Able to dive even further, he eventually found Frances lying on her preconscious seabed. He kneeled next to her and gently brushed her blonde locks away from her face, like the Prince about to kiss Sleeping Beauty. 

Don't touch her! Harley snapped protectively. She's too weak. 

You're wrong. Frances was born to be strong for you. But now you're both strong. It's time to put Harley Quinn back together again. 

But I'm too scared! 

Trust me. Take her back... 

On the physical plane, Ragman circled his hips around as they kissed, bringing them both close to coming. On another plane, Harley Quinn took Frances' limpid body into her arms. 

Frances' eyes fluttered open and beheld her doppelganger. You! 

It's all right, Frances. You don't need to protect me anymore. 

Harley Quinn bucked against the golem, feeling her orgasm approach. 

I only wanted us to be safe, Frances whispered desperately. 

We're safe now. He'll never hurt us again. Harley and Frances hugged, melting into one woman: Harley Quinn. 

I want to come in you, Harley Quinn...fill you up with my seed. You'll be mine forever... 

"Then I'm yours, Rory," she gasped, bucking against his hardest thrusts yet. 

He was tugging at the very core of her, beckoning her to surrender to him completely. As she did, a blinding white orgasm shot through her body and mind. The Ragman stiffened, his resounding grunts vibrating through her as he too climaxed. Harley Quinn could feel his jiz splashing against her internal walls; exquisitely hot and viscous. It dribbled out in a steady stream once he pulled out. 

Her body felt like it'd just been through an earthquake or some tremendous seismic event; thighs as wet as if she'd been swimming in the sea. Every muscle was turned to jelly. Harley didn't even smoke and she wanted a cigarette. 

"Are you alright?" Rory asked in his normal voice once more: he'd taken off the Cloak of Souls before laying by her side. 

"I'm better than alright," she sighed contentedly. There was a calm deeper than that after mere carnal gratification. "Can we try it without the cloak? Just the two of us?" Harley asked, petting his furry chest. 

"If you'd like," he replied, kissing her forehead. 

"Good." Harley Quinn started going down on Rory again, finding him still at half mast. 

"Right now?" he chuckled throatily as her slender fingers and generous mouth worked his manhood so adeptly. 

"What do you think?" 

Rory definitely had stamina. He was rock hard and pumping her mouth within minutes. "Fuck me, Harley!" he breathed. 

"Mmmm...Oh baby, I intend to." 

After giving him some nice, slow head, Harley Quinn wanted that superb fuck-stick shoved up her cunt. She straddled him with a broad grin on her face, quickly guiding his cockhead to her entrance. This time Rory was watching in awe as she took in all of his substantial length and girth. He grabbed her by the tits as she started bouncing up and down, the heady aroma of sex rising pleasantly to his nostrils. 




Joker's Wilde Pt. 03



"Yeah, take my cock, love," he groaned. Though he was clearly in heaven, Harley was fucking him for her own pleasure: Every slow grind, sensuous hip-roll, or hard thrust just to make her pussy purr. Approaching her glorious peak, she took Rory's hands and interlaced their fingers so she could ride him even faster. 

"Oh my fuck I'm gonna cuuummmm!" Harley's tits flopped without restraint, her eyes scrunched shut and mouth in a wide O. 

"Come for me, Harley Quinn. Come now!" 

On his command, she came over and over again. Rory kept giving it to her as she went limp, shuddering all around him. He shot his load into her womb in one huge burst, throwing his head back howling in release. Harley Quinn collapsed on top of him and they laid that way for what seemed like forever, enjoying the resonance of their heartbeats pressed together.



Joker's Wilde Pt. 04



In this story, I take liberties with places and people created by DC Comics. The setting of my story is Gotham City and the main characters are Dr. Harleen "Frances" Quinzel/Harley Quinn, The Joker, and Dr. Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow. These and all other specific details (Arkham Asylum, Rory Regan/The Ragman, Alyce Sinner, the Joy Boys, et al) are inspired by the Batman comics, movies and shows: especially the episode "Mad Love" and the movie "The Dark Knight". I'm not a stickler for continuity outside of my own story, which is entirely my fantasy. 

Thanks to everyone who's emailed, commented, or voted. Feedback is always appreciated. And an additional special thanks to Combat323 for his editing expertise. 

***** 

Chapter Seven: Father Lucifer. 

Rags n' Tatters closed early that day and didn't open at all the next. Its owner, Rory Regan, was too busy attending to his most valued customer. 

Harley Quinn was taken by Rory as himself, and they made hand-holding, lip-locking, toe-curling love until they climaxed in unison. Then she had the Ragman reappear so she could take him on; a prodigious feat considering just how damn big he got all over. After she came violently and spectacularly on top of him, the Ragman- who had the highly underestimated ability to stay hard at all times- flipped her over and fucked her just as savagely. And so on: pure bliss. 

By around three, they had to eat something besides one another's cum. Harley Quinn had donned her outfit from the previous day but wanted to make herself look more appropriate, even if they were just going to a greasy spoon. Rory directed her to his closet with enthusiasm - he obviously didn't want anyone gawking at his girl either. In the closet, Harley found a black and red flannel shirt that went past her knees. Its sleeves had to be rolled up to her elbows but she could make it work. 

She was just buttoning her makeshift dress when she spotted a familiar face staring out from behind Rory's clothes. Spreading the hangers apart, she saw an entire collage of photos, notes and maps covering the back wall. Thumbtacks holding up the various scraps of paper were interconnected with color-coded strings. The effect was a multi-colored web of the city's most notorious criminals. 

"I see you've found my Rogue's Gallery," Rory said coming up behind her to help button the borrowed shirt over her curvy body. 

Pinacotheca Furciferorum: A Rogue's Gallery. "Why did you call it that?" 

"That's what cops call their criminal Hall of Fame. Call it my obsession." 

So Scarecrow envisions himself as one of Gotham's Overlords. 

The Falcone Family had their own section on the Ragman's diagram, with Salvatore Meroni amongst the organization's Captains. Carmine's son Rocco and his daughter were on the corrupt family tree too. The grainy newspaper clipping of the woman's sallow, bloated face reminded Harley Quinn of her abduction. 

"Did they ever find her - Sofia Gigante?" 

"Yes. Not much has come out about it because they don't want to expose any more weaknesses. I do know that she was being held in an abandoned warehouse - 15 Kane Street. And I have a hunch that this character was involved." Rory traced a woolly green line that terminated on a mugshot of the Joker. 

"That wacko?" she chuckled. Harley Quinn was going to mention his escape from Arkham to see how much Rory really knew, but something else caught her eye. "Foedus Umbrarum!" she exclaimed. 

"Bless you?" 

"The League of Shadows," Harley translated, pointing to the label he'd placed over its chain of command. 

Ras al Ghul was placed at the top with copious notes but no picture. Below him were photos of his second-in-command, a handsome man labeled Henri Ducard. On the same level with him were two women she assumed were al Ghul's daughters- Talia and Nyssa. The bottom row was comprised of the League's members: Lady Shiva/Sandra Wu-San, Bronze Tiger/Ben Turner, The Blood Mage/December Graystone. There were other equally implausible-sounding names with no true identity given: Merlyn, Bane, Whisper A'Daire. Scarecrow, Joker, Harley Quinn. Gotham has quite the cast of wayward saints... 

"Pretty wild, huh?" he said, clearly gauging her reaction. 

"Apparently you don't recall what we've been up to. Now that's my kind of wild." Harley turned around to deliver what she hoped would be a distracting kiss. She ended up making out with Rory for so long that they almost forgot they were heading out to eat. Harley Quinn's stomach growled just as Rory himself growled for different reasons, biting on her exposed neck. 

"We better go before we literally devour each other," he laughed, holding her away at arms length. 

After she found a black plaited belt and knotted it around her waist, put on her jacket and boots, and tied up her J.B.F. hair, Harley looked pretty damn cute. Rory, looking like his usual sexy scruffy self, took her by the arm. Linked together thusly, they walked to the nearest establishment that offered breakfast round the clock. 

When they returned to Rags n' Tatters, Harley Quinn got down to brass tacks; or rather, steel points. Rory was happy to let her pick out the weapons she'd already decided on, but he had a few extra recommendations. 

"See this blackjack?" he asked. He held up a standard police baton- except it was equipped with two copper prongs at the club end. Rory pointed out a meter and switch on the handle. "It's delivers an electroshock of up to 5 kilovolts. Make contact with skin or conductive metal if possible. 

"This is a Special Scout knife," Rory explained, now holding a wicked saw-tooth blade with a metal handle. "The NRS-2. Not only does it have ballistic knife that can be fired up to twenty-five meters with deadly force, but it can also become a silent pistol." Harley Quinn watched carefully as he dissembled the knife, rotated out a barrel, loaded a cartridge, reassembled and rotated and latched some more until it had transformed into a gun. 

Rory re-fashioned it back into a knife in the blink of an eye. "When you're in combat, you'll have to be much quicker. It's only a last resort." 

Harley nodded and accepted the knife. Without a second's hesitation, she duplicated his demonstration in a blur. "That was pretty fast," Rory noted after he watched her turn it into gun and back into a knife again in under a minute. 

"What are those? Throwing weapons?" Harley Quinn pointed to an assortment of oddly shaped knives with three projecting blades instead of just one. They weren't all of the same design either. Some were like daggers welded with a boomerang, others like sickles or spades. One reminded her of a kitty-cat with a bushy tail and another of a flying stork. 

"They're called Kpingas or just Pingas, depending on what part of Africa you're in. Some of them you can throw," Rory said, hurtling one at a target and nearly splitting the log in half. "But they all make excellent melee weapons. You can sweep the legs," he demonstrated with a different Kpinga, stopping short of knocking Harley off her feet by aiming at the back of her knees. "Stab. Slice. Jab. Cleave." Each of these he acted out on the most sensitive parts of a person's body- heart, face, solar plexus, groin. "Versatile. And deadly." 

"I've seen your ranged weapon abilities but what about your close combat skills? Have you ever been trained?" he asked, setting the knife aside. 

"I know a little self-defense." 

In a flash Rory had gripped Harley Quinn's wrists and was pulling her towards him. She sank down low and twisted her elbow into his forearm until he couldn't hold onto her anymore. Once released, she ninja rolled away, snatched up two knives, and sent them whizzing past Rory's ears, one on each side of his head. 

"Well played," he admitted. "Come back here, you clown. I want to show you some moves." 

"Yes Sir!" 

Rory held her tight and started to kiss her with less passion than force. "Fend me off," he hissed into Harley's ear. 

"Mmm...what if I don't want to?" she giggled. 

"Want to," he ordered, grabbing her crotch with cruel force. 

Reluctantly, Harley Quinn broke out of his hold by head-butting him in the face. Wincing in pain, Rory captured her from behind. He bit her on the shoulder while his hand went down to the front of her sex this time. Stamping on his foot, Harley spun around and hooked him in the solar plexus, causing Rory to double over. 

Harley knew that in a normal self-defense situation, a victim should flee from her attacker whenever possible. But while he was still weakened, she crouched down and swept Rory off his feet with a well-placed kick. Rory fell forward and caught her by the ankle, pulling her down with him. This time he got on top of her and started kissing her fiercely, grinding his hardness between her legs. 

Harley Quinn responded to her baser needs and kissed him back with equal fervor. As she did, Rory's vice-grip hold on her wrists relaxed ever so slightly. Seizing the opportunity, she freed one arm and hit him in the throat with the side of her straightened hand. Soon she'd rolled him over and gracefully recovered from her supine position. The next time he caught his agile minx, Rory pinned her to the wall from behind and yanked down her shorts. As his fingers found her wetness, she could barely breathe, much less think of moving. 

Harley's heart beat even faster as she squirmed against his erection. "I said 'fend me off', not 'act like a slut'." He began unbuckling his belt. She trembled at how intensely he wanted to take her, reminded momentarily of Scarecrow. Sensing her panic, Rory eased up. 

"Then stop going soft on me," she snapped, twisting out from his lax hold. Harley freed herself from her partially removed shorts to side-kick Rory before he could reclaim her. The heel of her boot hit him in the ribs with full force. 

An expression of rage came over him. Rory ran for her and despite bracing herself for impact, she fell down to the floor with him on top. They began rolling around, finding their strength evenly matched. Harley was almost down for the count when she got a hold of a switchblade. In an instant, she had it pressed to Rory's carotid artery. 

"You're dead," she panted. 

"So are you." Harley looked down to see that there was a dirk pointed at her heart. 

There was a moment when it seemed that neither one of them would submit. But then, simultaneously, they dropped their weapons and commenced kissing once more. Harley Quinn pulled out Rory's hard-as-steel cock and pressed it against her entrance. The next time they played with knives, it would be for blood. Rory seemed to know this as well. He delved inside and fucked her like it was his last day alive. 

After their pleasant diversion, Rory gave a much less sensual demonstration of Krav Maga- Israeli hand-to-hand combat. He explained its basic philosophy: that if you use an opponent's force against them, you can incapacitate or kill with as little of your own energy as possible. He stressed the importance of staying aware of the environment to avoid untenable positions and unexpected attackers. 

"Anticipate everything; assume nothing." 

"That's just a life lesson," Harley pointed out. 

Then he showed her how to carry all of her sharp and shocking new toys on her body- some exposed, others concealed. Armed to the teeth and as bent on vengeance as Rory knew her to be, Harley Quinn had the stoic air of someone on a suicide mission. He looked at her gravely, choosing his words before speaking. "I know who the Joker is to you. But that doesn't mean you have to go back to him." 

"If you know who he is to me, then you know why I do." 

"If I see you on the wrong side of a fight, I won't go easy on you." 

"The wrong side, huh? Well, if that's truly how you felt, I wouldn't have it any other way, Ragman. But don't expect me to be all sweetness and light," she smirked. 

"I wouldn't have it any other way either. We could leave Gotham, you know." Rory cocked his head, his gaze and words boring into her mind. "Disappear somewhere like Brazil or Australia. Anywhere you want, Harley Quinn. The sky's the limit." 

"In another life, perhaps." She kissed him slowly. Sadly. No matter what he'd done for her, the Joker was her brother. He'd taken beatings for her, tended to her wounds, kept her warm at night when no one else cared. As much as she hated him, she loved him. And as much as she loved him, she needed him. 

"I'll look for you in the Shadowlands, my friend." 

"Look for me in the shadows first. Farewell, Rory." 

And with that, she departed with all he had given her. 

Whistling the theme to "Twisted Nerve", her shiny red cane swinging, and her face painted like a dark clown, Harley Quinn made quite the scene even on the streets of Gotham. Anyone approaching for a closer look noticed that she was belted and strapped with numerous knives and several wicked clubs. She entertained a few of these gawkers with her tumbling repertoire, leaving them with the impression of a lethal acrobat assassin on her way to the night circus. 

The slum-lord's delight where her father lived was in the Narrows. Not the safest place to pass through, much less live in; but Harley Quinn was no longer afraid of what might be lurking in the dark. After her sessions with the Ragman, she could see a person's energy even if she couldn't make out their form. A sickly green-grey mist clung to many of the bums camouflaged amongst piles of garbage. A couple of whores under a streetlamp, not too far from where their pimp's car waited idling, gave off a murky red light. A shaky tweak waiting around the corner could be spotted by his dingy orange glow. 

Harley had a little fun with the desperate drug addict by running up on him with her white teeth bared. He stumbled back on his ass, cursing, and dropped his knife. Harley drew a long Italian stiletto from her boot as he jumped to his feet to attack. Seeing the glint of steel and the toxic green of her eyes - set in the middle of two black diamonds - made him think twice. 

"Crazy bitch," she heard him mumble as he felt around the ground for his lost knife. 

Several blocks past the junkie's corner, she found the dilapidated building where her father lived. Security precautions had been installed long ago, but the buzzer box had long been vandalized and the door busted open. Harley Quinn shuddered as she entered the dank lobby, lit by one naked bulb. The stairwell smelled of urine and the roaches that didn't scatter in time were crunched underfoot as she dashed up the stairs. 

She could hear his television from outside the crookedly hanging door. A familiar game show chant: "Wheel! Of! Fortuuune!" Yes, the Wheel of Fortune- one day you're at the top, and the next day you're lying in a puddle of your own blood. Fate is fickle bitch. 

Harley started cop-knocking- banging with her fist in rapid succession. She could hear a recliner closing and two heavy feet thud to the ground. Harley continued rapping, even as the floor creaked under his stomps. 

"Hold the fuck on! Goddammit. Whoever the hell you are this better be fucking good," he threatened, unbolting and latching his locks. 

"Trick or treat, fuckface!" Harley greeted him with a broad smile. Before any words could issue from his slack mouth, his daughter rendered him immobile with her stun baton. She kicked him aside as he fell, closing his door behind her as she entered his apartment. 

"Nice digs, pops," she drawled, looking around as her father writhed in pain. His sickly aura was the color of piss. "I hear the whole 'putrid shithole' look is really in." He started to stand up again, so Harley administered another judicial jolt to his balls. 

"Hold on to that thought- it's the final round." She sprawled on his recliner and took a sip of tepid beer. It was so foul that she spit it in her father's face. After the banter between Pat and the contestant, the letters were chosen. Harley's father crawled towards the door. Vanna waltzed down touching the lit squares and the audience went silent. The trembling wretch on the floor strained to reach the doorknob. Category- Thing. 

"Diamond in the Rough," Harley deduced. The woman said the phrase not long afterwards. Pat revealed the prize was a brand new car! She turned off the television and dragged her father away from the door. "Why don't you get comfy again," she cooed, tossing him back in his recliner as if he was a bag of laundry. 

"What the fuck!" he sputtered, clearly taken aback by her strength. "You're a little early for Halloween, aren't ya puddin'?" As usual, he tried to play off his fear with humor. But it rose off his skin like a putrid stench. 

Harley Quinn pulled out her tortoise-shell handled Balisong knife and began spinning it around as she spoke. "I was in a coma for a couple of weeks. Did you come visit me, Frank?" 

"Apparently I should have. And put you out of your misery with a pillow." 

"I was held hostage by a mad clown so he could break out of the nuthouse. Didn't you read about it in the papers?" 

"You know I don't read. Saw it on the news. I knew it was bullshit, though: You were no innocent bystander, Frannie my girl. You played Bonnie to his Clyde," he snickered, dropping one arm over the side of his chair. 

Their eyes locked. He reached into the recliner's side pocket, produced a .35, and shot directly at his daughter's heart. But Harley Quinn had spotted the gun during "Wheel of Fortune" and anticipated this move; the wall took the bullet in her stead. He succeeded in shooting the floor where Harley's after-image had been crouching a millisecond before. She cartwheeled over and round-house kicked the pistol out of Frank's hand before he could take aim for a third time. It clattered to the floor. His rapid pulse thumped against the metal-tipped heel pressed to his neck. 

"You're so slow, old man." Harley pinned down his arm with her foot the moment Frank thought about grabbing her ankle. "You should be dead. Hell, before I'm done with you, you may well wish you were. But first, I want those answers I asked you for so fucking politely!" She jabbed him in his hard beer belly for emphasis before standing on both feet again. 

"And since I can't trust you not try any more dirty tricks, I'm going to have to do this." Harley pulled out a cable tie from a pouch on her waist and bound his wrists behind his back. Frank hadn't had someone twist his arms so hard since his father was alive. She bound his ankles as well before sauntering over to his kitchenette to search through his cabinets for something. She pulled out a saucepan and set it over a low flame. 

"What are you gonna cook for me? Pudding?" he chuckled. That had been Harley's favorite childhood treat. 

"Sort of." She poured something like honey from the jar into the pan. "But how can we have any pudding if we don't eat our meat?" 

"You've fucking lost it," he growled. "It's a shame, you used to be such a pretty, sweet girl. And now look at you- a goddamn freak just like your brother." 

"I guess it runs in the family." Harley glided a straight razor down his cheek, leaving behind a thin-red line. "You were in a hurry to get rid of him, weren't you? Mommy's death was the perfect cover. How did you get Crane involved?" 

"He was on Falcone's payroll already. And I wasn't the only one who didn't want a sweet thing like you behind bars when it should have been that little bastard. I know he's not mine. Not like you, puddin'." 

Harley Quinn shook her head. "Not anymore. Where did he go? Mental institution?" 

"Yeah, but even Crane couldn't get through his thick skull. You know he only did a year for supposedly murdering your mother in cold blood? Emancipated and released to work for Meroni. Not bad enforcer for a kid. But he slipped out at fifteen and Sal was glad to see him go. Kid had started up with the clown makeup again." 




Joker's Wilde Pt. 04



For years, we could have passed one another by on the streets and not even known it. 

"Scared a lot of cold fuckers shitless when he rolled back into Gotham last year. Formed a crew with the lowest of the low. The throat cutters of the cutthroats. He was back for one thing and one thing only." 

"Oh yeah? And what was that- -to kill your sorry ass?" 

"No. For you. He came back for you, Harley Quinn. And he's got you in spades. You two always were a little too chummy for brother and sister." 

"Like father, like son." 

"He set it all up, you know- with the help of Crane. Your internship, his committal to Arkham, even that clever escape - all his doing. He set you up." Frank waited for the information to sink in for her; though none of it was very surprising at this point. "I guess he sent you here to make sure you were really all in." 

"No. See, if I was here just because the Joker told me to, your walls would be sprayed with blood already. This, Daddy Dearest, is personal." Harley Quinn gave him a sharp punch in the balls for good measure, then went to check on dessert. "It's almost hot enough," she observed, stirring the viscous goop with a wooden tongue depressor. 

"Why don't you go ahead and shoot me? My gun's right over there. I don't know what else to fucking tell you. I'm a son-of-a-bitch and I treated you like shit. But look at you now- forged in fire. You're young; you're a doctor, not to mention one of the hottest asses on this side of the Liberty. 

"You could find a rich man and be happy. You kill me and your future is history. You follow your brother down the path to hell and you're gonna get fucked by the Devil. Face it, Harley Quinn- you're bringing knives to the ultimate gun fight." 

"You just saw for yourself: I can dodge a bullet. But if I get close enough to stab you, ain't no way you're gonna dodge that. And I just saw for myself that a man who holds a gun gets lazy. A man who holds a gun can afford to be a coward. But there's no room to relax when you're on a razor's edge, is there?" Harley inquired, tapping the seam of his jeans with her razor. 

"How did the good Doctor tear down the wall he built in your head anyway? Did he snap his fingers? Say a magic word? Or was it more invasive?" sneered Frank. 

"Why don't I show you?" Harley stashed the blade and flipped her father over on his stomach, repositioning him over the arm of his recliner. She pulled down his jeans and tidy whities to expose his pasty ass. "As I suspected," she tsked, parting his cheeks to expose his hairy anus. "We'll have to take care of this jungle first, puddin'." 

"You're sick, you know that! If you leave me alive I swear to God I'm gonna-" the rest of his words were muffled by his own underwear being shoved into his trap. 

Harley whistled the same 1960's movie melody she'd performed earlier. She retrieved the pot from the stove and the other necessary implements, cleared off the side table with one sweep of her arm and set up her work station. The last F-note trilled and died away. 

"Now- this might burn," she warned, smearing a steaming hot dollop of wax down each side of his crack. Harley pressed down the white strips of cloth until they'd adhered completely to his skin. "And this is definitely gonna sting like a mothafucka." She yanked both strips off at the same time, leaving behind two smooth rectangles where drops of blood began to well up like tears. 

Frank's screams gurgled in his throat. 

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't give you any warning," she said, preparing his ass for another round. "How about I pull on the count of three? One, three!" Rip! Another pair of furry strips was thrown to the floor. "Silly me- must have forgotten how to count. Let me try that again." 

Harley continued man-scaping her father until there was only one patch of pubes remaining in the middle of an angry red diamond. By this time she'd had to reheat the wax so it would be nice and hot for just this moment. Making sure to coat the area on and around his puckered hole quite thoroughly before applying the last strip, she could see Frank's gluteus muscles tightening in anticipation. 

"I'll count down for this one. Three, two, two and a half, two and three-" Rip! 

"Hmmgghughhh!" 

"And we're done!" Harley Quinn said brightly. She took out a bottle of baby oil from her bag of tricks and drizzled some over his blotchy cheeks. Frank threw his head back at the combination of soothing and agonizing sensations. Paying careful attention to his naked anus, Harl spread the sweet smelling oil until he was glistening with lubricant. With her non-greasy hand, Harley pulled another long weapon from her other boot- a sizable dildo used for pegging. 

"Now is this the biggest cock you've ever seen or what?" She waved the phallus in front of his face so he'd know what he was in for. Harley unzipped the discreet crotch slit of her suit and dug around her wet folds. 

With her fragrant, leather-baby-oil-and-cunt-juice-covered digits hovering in front of his nostrils, she purred, "Do you smell this, Daddy-O? This is what a real woman smells like. Enjoy while you can, because after tonight you won't even be able to fuck yourself." 

After lubricating the end opposite from the molded cockhead, she impaled herself on the fat bulb until it was securely lodged in her snatch. Harley moaned loudly, stroking the dildo with an oil-slicked hand. 

"Alright, puddin'. I'm going to fuck your little virgin asshole and there's not a thing you can do about it," she said silkily. 

"Hmm ughh hmmuuffh!" 

"What was that?" his daughter asked, unceremoniously plunging the thick dildo head into his holiest of holies. 

"Hggghhhh!" was his strangled reply. 

"That's what I thought, bitch!" 

Harley stretched his shy sphincter a bit by developing a slow, steady rhythm of slamming all the way in before pulling almost all the way out again. Every pound sent a shockwave of pleasure into Harley Quinn and a stab of pain into Frank. Increasing to a merciless pace now, she detached a leather slapper from her belt and began teasing his abused cheeks with light thwacks. It seemed to add another dimension of pain to his sodomizing. The closer buggering her father brought her to coming, the fiercer Harley's strikes became. Welts rose up to the surface. 

"I'm gonna cum, puddin'. I'm gonna cum fucking your ass," she grunted, feeling the tension mount in her uterus. "Oh fuck! Yes! Yes! Yesssss!!" 

An orgasm wracked Harley to the core, almost causing her to collapse against her father's back. But she didn't want her tits pressed against his sweaty flesh. Rolling her hips around until the aftershocks subsided, she finally pulled out of his well-reamed asshole. Harley stalked around the recliner to the side where his head was, covered in sweat and tears. Frank was still sobbing. Pathetic. 

With infinite compassion, she removed his underwear from his mouth and used it to dab his damp face. He tried to spit at her, but his phlegm landed harmlessly on his own floor. 

"Still haven't learned your lesson, I see." 

"Fuck. You." 

"How about a shit dick for your shit mouth, old man?" Harley asked, shoving the dildo between his lips and down his throat. "Lick it clean." Frank gagged repeatedly, tears streaming down as she fucked his throat. One red gloved hand gripped his graying hair as she rutted even harder. Another orgasm was building. Harley used two fingertips on her clitoris to bring it up to the surface where it rippled out on still waters. 

When she pulled the dildo out of his throat, Frank was slobbering and coughing. Once he was able to speak, his voice was laced with desperation. "Fucking Christ just let me go, Frances. I'll leave Gotham- whatever you want, Frances. Please!" 

"Frances is gone, dumbass. I'm Harley Quinn. And I'm just getting warmed up." 

Nearly an hour later, Harley Quinn had to thoroughly clean her razor before stowing it back in its holster. Even her cane needed a wiping down. She locked her father's door before leaving him in peace; more peace than he'd ever known. One advantage to living in the Narrows was no one seemed alarmed at anything- gun fire, bloodcurdling screams, even a maniacal looking Harlequin cartwheeling and back-flipping around, laughing heartily at her greatest performance to date. 

Harley was so elated that she nearly skipped past a trio of rubber-masked clowns without a second glance. Stopping in her tracks, she watched two of them force a homeless woman to the wall while the third positioned himself between her legs. The woman was sobbing but not shouting for help. She'd opted to surrender without a fight. 

"Hi ya, gents," the curvy clown called out to them, leaning casually on her cane. "Enjoying yourself this evening?" 

The one with his meat stick out turned to her. "Well, well, well," he said, returning his dick in his pants. "Look at this boys. A Joy Girl. Come to join the party, sweetheart?" 

"Honey, I am the party." Harley Quinn came closer. The woman pinned against the wall stared at her with more fear than she had for her masked assailants. "Let her go." 

"You wanna take her place?" laughed the ringleader. "Don't worry- you'll get your turn!" He reached out to grab her by the arm but Harley struck him across the face with her cane before he made contact. The homeless woman screamed, struggling against her captors. 

"I said, let her go," repeated Harley, not even glancing behind her as she smacked the prone clown upside his head as he slashed at her ankles with his knife. The other two must have known she meant business: they released the woman, but she merely slumped to the ground, paralyzed by fear 

. 

Harley tossed a set of keys at her and said "There's a little white car on the corner of 5th and Morrow. Take it. Go!" she yelled. The woman took one look at Harley with wide eyes- a surge of purple triumph taking over her morose grey gloom- and ran off, clutching the keys with both of her hands. 

Meanwhile, the clown on the ground had risen with a gun in hand. Harley stunned him, kicked the dropped weapon down the alley, and hit the other clown with the baton as he lunged forward. Using her blackjack and cane, she fended off the three men with ease. Their moves were clumsy and predictable, no match for her agility or strength. Finally, the weaker two decided they'd met their match and hightailed it. 

"Hey fuckers! Are you really gonna run away from this bitch!" their leader yelled after them. 

"Just you and me now, Joy Boy," she cackled. 

"You're making a big mistake, cunt. I'm tight with the Clown Prince himself." His voice was confident, but a tremor in the hand brandishing his weapon said otherwise. 

"You mean the Joker? Good. Because I need to have a word with His Highness. Tell me where he is." 

"Wh-wh-what?" he stuttered, backing away as she stepped closer. 

"T-t-t-tell me where the J-j-joker is before I cut off your b-b-b-balls!" In a flash, Harley had taken his knife and was digging it into his crotch. 

"You're her," he whispered. "You're his sister, aren't you? Fuck- I didn't know. He said you'd be looking for him. I'm s-s-sorry! I'll take you myself." She'd backed him up until he was flush against the building. 

"Not a good feeling, is it? Being at the mercy of some sick fuck when your back's against the wall. Not knowing if they're just gonna have some fun with you or if they're gonna slit your throat and watch you bleed out." 

"G-g-geroldy's Amusement Mile," he blurted. "The Fun House- the Joker's in the Fun House!" 

"Now was that so hard?" She tossed his dull knife down the alley. 

"Are you gonna let me go?" 

"Of course, of course. Go about your merry way, little clown." Harley made a sweeping gesture back to the streets. 

"O-o-kay," he stammered, letting out a huge sigh of relief. 

"But not without a parting gift." 

The last thing he remembered was Harley lifting her cane above her head. 

Chapter Eight: Sibling Rivalry. 

Seeing as how she'd essentially donated her old car to a charity, Harley Quinn felt no remorse in stealing the first decent vehicle she came across. And this one so happened to be a silver Jaguar F-type with a vanity plate proclaiming "C0LD0N3". When she barely touched the gleaming metal roof, the car flipped out; flashing its headlights and sounding an alarm. Fuck! Why can't you just shut up and open up! 

As if that plea transmitted directly into the car's computer, it went silent. All the doors unlocked with one resounding click. Harley whipped around, sure that she'd see the owner approaching. The street was empty- but for a stray cat eying her suspiciously. 

Thank you, Ragman... 

"Scat, cat," she muttered, opening the driver's side door 

. 

"Mrrrow!" the cat mewled derisively, sitting down on the sidewalk to groom its ass. 

The V8 engine growled to life with another mental command, sending a jolt of exhilaration into her very crotch. So this is the appeal of a powerful car... The cat arched its back and dashed away. Harley switched to manual override so she could enjoy every moment of her Valkyrie's flight. 

Built in the 1920's by William Geroldy, the amusement park literally spanned a mile along the seastrand. For decades it was the most popular attraction on the East Coast; but as Gotham shifted closer to the riverside, everything on that end of the Trigate bridge slipped into oblivion and became dubbed The Wastelands: Home of Ace Chemicals, Gotham's Light and Power Station, The Monarch Playing Card Company, S.T.A.R. Labs and, of course, Geroldy's Amusement Mile. Its air had turned thick with fumes and the land had become barren from all of the toxic waste. An apropos location for the Joker's hideout. 

As she sped past Arkham, Harley recalled the barbaric experiments being conducted in its basement. She wondered if the Sinner Whore was directing them in the Scarecrow's absence. Looming ahead was the island of industrial edifices, their smoke stacks blinking eerily through the miasma of muddy-orange haze. When she approached the epicenter of the polluted Otisberg District, more lights appeared like beacons in the smog; many of which seemed to be moving. 

Geroldy's Amusement Mile was alive tonight- Ferris Wheel and carousel spinning; Roller Coaster whooshing by; Tilt-A-Whirl a tilting at breakneck speed. There was even the faint smell of buttered popcorn and spun sugar, the sound of calliope music and an organ grinder, drifting along in the salty breeze. So many of the letters have fallen away over the years that the sign over the grand entrance looked like a mouth missing too many teeth; it could now be read as "GOD'S A SMILE". 

Harley Quinn passed underneath it warily, scanning the deserted park for its diabolical carnies. No one welcomed her to step right up, or seemed to be running any of the vacant rides or concession stands. But she could feel the eyes on her; see the faint wisps of auras skittering between the shadows. 

On instinct, Harley followed a sinister cackling until she reached its source- a giant motorized Jester's head that was the entrance to the Fun House. Its gaping maw was a spinning red and white tunnel that occasionally closed when the clown paused to grin; his eyes rolling around in their metal sockets. 

"Ha ha ha! A hee hee hee! Ha ha ha ha!" 

The timing wasn't particularly difficult, but Harley watched the Jester laugh and smile repeatedly, wondering what would be in store. Steeling her will, she tumbled through the rabbit hole. When Harley stood up she noticed a red balloon floating to her right. There was a tag tied on the curly string: Take a good look at yourself, Harley Quinn. 

Cute. She slid through a series of foam covered rollers, and climbed a set of crooked, sliding stairs until she found the Hall of Mirrors. An infinite number of Harley Quinn's stared back at her from all angles; stretched, squashed, wavy, convex and concave. On one of the flat mirrors was the message You might as well face the music scrawled in red greasepaint. The mechanical calliope must be housed here somewhere- she'd seen the steam rising from the back of the funhouse. 

When she found the brass pipes whistling their merry melody, Harley saw one of them had a cord tied to it with a tag attached. "Pull" was typed on one side and "Don't Look Down" on the other. What the hell... Puzzling over this odd request, Harley pulled the pipe down by the cord and immediately realized her error. A trapdoor dropped open beneath her and she fell straight down onto a mattress. To her chagrin, it was in the middle of a cage. 

The small space was warmed by the boiler operating the calliope above. Animals must have been caged inside as an attraction at one point; it still smelled faintly of hay, dung, and urine. It was one hell of a greeting compared to what Harley Quinn had been expecting. 

"Ho, ho, ho- I wouldn't try that if I were you! You might find a nasty shock in store," laughed the Joker, dancing out of the shadows and into the spotlight. Harley lowered her hands, thinking better of rattling the cage. 

"Very funny. Is this all the thanks I get for setting you free?" 

"As you no doubt have learned already, I was only in Arkham by choice. But even so, surely performing an act of kindness is thanks enough," he said, shaking an admonishing finger at his sister. He too wore a pair of gloves- purple. And they went splendidly with his fine four-piece suit, complete with a large pink flower stuck in a buttonhole. 

"You're looking dapper, brother," she observed, lying down on her side instead of balancing in heels on the squishy surface. 

"Harley Quinn, you are a sight for these sore eyes. I can't help but notice just how sharp you've become. Not planning on doing anything that I would do, are ya? 

" 

"Why don't you let me out of this cage and find out. Unless you're too scared of little ole' me?" she teased. 

"Seeing you in that cage does have a profound effect on me- but I'd hardly call it fright. I find you so disarming that I really think you should go ahead and disarm yourself before I can let you go." 

"Fair enough." Harley Quinn unbuckled her belt and slid it from around her waist while he watched. Then she unclipped her thigh holsters, arm bands, shoulder harness, the short knife concealed on her right wrist and the auto-front razor on her left. She even added the dildo to the pile after tossing on the stiletto from her boot, which elicited a wry laugh from the Joker. 

"Use that on Daddy, did you? Naughty girl," he growled. "A girl as naughty as you needs to take off everything before I'll believe you don't have at least one trick still hidden up your sleeve." 

"Is that the only reason you want me to undress?" Harley Quinn asked slyly, unzipping her boots before kicking them off. "Or did you want another look?" 

"What can I say: I like to watch." 

"Did you tell Crane to rape me or was that his idea?" 

"You had to be broken before you could be fixed. I wish there'd been another way." He appeared unusually sincere about this statement. 

Harley now lowered the zipper in the front of her suit. The Joker licked his lips furiously in anticipation. "What about the serum? How did you know I could tolerate it? I nearly died," she pouted, unzipping the sleeves and ankle slits as well. 

"Because I..." he began, but found himself too distracted to finish his sentence. Her plump breasts had popped out as she freed her arms. Then she lifted her ass up to peel the suit down to her thighs and off her legs. 

"Yes?" Harley said sweetly, placing the leather shell on top of her armory. "Because you survived it? That's what we call anecdotal evidence. Do you know who made it? Is that how you knew for sure?" The only thing remaining on Harley's nubile body was a pair of bright red gloves, and they were currently exploring her breasts. 




Joker's Wilde Pt. 04



"Your turn to answer one. Did you leave him alive?" 

Two fingers disappeared between her thighs as she shook her head in the negative. The Joker's aura had calmed from a spiked neon corona to a gentle green glow. And it seemed especially vivid around his manhood. 

"Do you want to let me out or would you rather join me?" She sucked her fingers like a lollipop. 

The Joker flipped a lever and the hum of electricity died. He unlocked the door and backed away. Harley crawled to the door, her breasts swinging like heavy pendulums, and pushed the unlatched door open. Her brother eyed her hands to make sure she wouldn't try anything funny, but she made no attempts. 

Harley Quinn stood naked before the Joker, who walked around her to drink in the sight. Finally they stood face to face again. Unable to contain his excitement, the Joker's face broke out into a wide grin and he pulled his sister in for a hug. He smelled so surprisingly heavenly that she buried her face into his chest, inhaling deep so she might never forget their reunion. 

"Did ya miss me?" he asked, taking in the fragrance of her hair, the feel of her curves, her heat and energy. 

"More than I knew," she admitted. Harley could hear his heart pitter pattering beneath her ear. 

"Do you want me?" The Joker pulled back and looked at her. Not as a brother would; but as a lover. It was hard, at this point, to even tell the difference. 

"More than you know." 

He lead her through a curtain-covered door into a room lit with black lights. A mural of Gotham at sunrise surrounded them on all sides. Or maybe it was sunset. The round bed in the middle was glowing white against the black carpet. Their eyes sparkled like emeralds against black backdrops. The contrast of ebony on white was stunning under the ultraviolet incandescence. 

The Joker removed his gloves to touch her face. He smeared the red on her lips with his thumb, stretching her smile to mimic his own. Then he slanted his mouth over hers for a kiss. He was so hungry for Harley that he drew blood with a particularly sharp bite on her lower lip. She licked the tangy metallic flavor and offered it back to him on her tongue. 

After a while, she pulled him down on the bed, trying to unbutton his shirt. 

"Don't," he snapped. "Not just yet." 

Harley could tell that he didn't like to be touched, so she allowed him to do the touching. For all of his ferocity, he explored her body with a childlike sense of wonder. How her nipples elongated as they stiffened; how her belly quivered when he ran his fingers along its center; how smooth her thighs were and the firmness of her calves; how wet and responsive her sex was. The slightest tickling of her nether lips sent Harley into a fit of throaty laughter. And when he pinched her swollen clitoris she gasped in pleasured anguish. 

The Joker pulled something out from thin air- a long, pale ostrich feather. It looked like it had been plucked from an angel's wing. Harley writhed under its light strokes as the Joker teased her neck and around her breasts; down her belly and across her hipbones. 

"Do you like that, Harley Quinn?" he breathed when the feather's tip danced over the cleft of her sex. She nodded, eyes dark and lidded. "Open yourself up for me." 

She spread her legs more so the feather could descend upon her slick pink folds. The Joker blew on her nipples, then grazed them with his teeth. With the gentlest of sensations vexing Harley Quinn, her pussy ached for a firmer touch. 

"No, no, no. You must be still," he chided when she tried to press herself against him, her hands reaching down to the bulge in his purple trousers. Once she'd obeyed, the Joker produced another feather- a stiff black one that had been used for flight. While the ostrich feather continued to whisper over her sex, he dragged the leading edge of the iridescent black feather over her nipples one by one. Harley grabbed hold of the white sheets to help resist the urge to rub her clitoris, which was peeking out at full attention. 

Switching the feathers' duties, the Joker now began taunting her juicy quim with more pressure. Harley giggled as the ephemeral plume dangled over her ribs and the visceral quill scraped against her labia. Carefully, so as not to bend it, the Joker inserted the raven's feather into her entrance, fanning the barbs out. When it he pulled it out again, ever so slowly, they came back together. Harley squeezed her vaginal walls to hold on to the fleeting penetration. 

The soggy feather tapped against her clit lightly, the quill's tip just making contact. The dry one floated just so around it. Harley Quinn bit down on her sore lip. How could this bring her so close to a climax? Every nerve ending was about to ignite. And then it all diffused as both feathers retreated. 

"Oh fuck!" she whined. The Joker chuckled mischievously. 

"Not a nice thing to do, is it? Bringing someone so close to death and not finishing them off." 

"You heard him - Crane told me not to let you cum," Harley retorted. 

"That's not what I'm talking about. Bring him in, boys." 

And with that, a familiar clown barged in through the curtain, drawing it open for two more Joy Boys who were dragging someone in between them. It was their father. Jack of Clubs laid out a sheet of plastic on the floor. Harley Quinn tried to cover up her nakedness with a sheet but the Joker ripped it from her hand. 

"Full House, Spades- Let him go," said the Clown Prince. Frank landed with a pained groan. "Now I'll admit to telling my fair share of white lies and half-truths, so I'll forgive you that. But to have mercy on this filth!" His roar died; the Joker appeared to be apoplectic with rage. Harley took the opportunity to speak. 

"He doesn't deserve to die. Killing him after I was through would have been a mercy. I left him alive to suffer with his guilt and shame, as we've suffered with ours." 

"He called the police on you. They found your car with a sweet little lady inside- but it wasn't you. Her body's on the way to the morgue now, where Dr. Crane will identify her as one Harleen Frances Quinzel. Reclusive, single, no surviving relatives. I'm sure no one will make a fuss about disposing of her remains in all haste, considering how messy her suicide was," he chortled. The evident glee this incited was even more off-putting than his temper. 

"I was trying to help her!" Harley shrieked. 

"Just like you were trying to help me? Like you were trying to help Mommy?" 

"Shut up!" 

"Like you were trying to help Daddy? Huh! Answer me!" 

Harley Quinn reached up to the nape of her neck and pulled out a short, double-edged razor from its bobby-pinned nylon holster. He should have checked my scalp. Within a second, she had the blade between his lips, cutting into one corner of his mouth. She had his head in a firm grip and the Joker raised his hands in the air in submission, trying hard not to laugh. 

"It was my life to spare," Harley Quinn said slowly. "I killed once by accident. I won't kill again unless it's with purpose. This isn't sport for me, brother. Do you understand?" 

The Joker couldn't hold back anymore and began chuckling hysterically. 

"Stop it!" she hissed. The razor's edging was cutting into his tongue and sides of his mouth. Suddenly, he grabbed her hand and forced the knife through his flesh, half-way up both of his cheeks. 

Harley Quinn backed away in horror, dropping her knife. Thick black blood dripped down his face and neck, trailing all the way down his beautiful suit. The Joker continued to laugh, even with his face gaping open, bleeding profusely. Harley and the Joy Boys stood frozen, watching the chilling spectacle until the Clown Prince reached down for the sheet and used it to staunch his wounds. 

After he'd soaked up most of the surrounding blood and wiped off his neck, he looked back up at his sister. "Ta da!" he proclaimed, grinning as per usual. The cuts were already fused together and scabbing over. He waggled his tongue, and Harley Quinn saw that it was completely healed, but for a few scars. 

"How did you do that?" She stepped closer to inspect his face. The Joker grabbed her wrists so she wouldn't try to touch him. 

"It's magic," he answered coyly. "You possess it too. You might even say it runs through our veins." The edges of the scabs had begun to peel up as he spoke, revealing the silvery, bumpy scar tissue beneath. It was a miracle of science; and to think it was being wasted on them. 

"This isn't what I want anymore: this power, the senseless violence, all the hate I feel. I just want to be with you." 

"And what do you think we're going to do together, Harley Quinn? Make Gotham a happier place where everyone has a smile on their face? Play nice and turn the other cheek and all? This is kill or be killed. Which one will you be?" The Joker picked the bloody razor off the floor and wiped it on his sleeve before proffering it to his sister. 

Frank was waiting on his knees, hunched over and drooling. Harley Quinn couldn't stand the sight of him. Standing behind her father, she yanked his head back by his hairs. Harley's eyes stayed directly on the Joker's as she did the deed, slicing swift and clean. Blood sprayed over Gotham at sunset. Or maybe it was sunrise. 

Harley Quinn was sprayed clean with a hose- during which the Joker frisked her himself just to be sure- and then returned to the cage to sleep. It had been emptied of her clothes and weapons but was now equipped with several long chains anchored to the thick bar at the top. She was still naked when he bound her wrists and ankles with fur lined cuffs to the four corners of her cell. Straddled over her chest, he attached a red leather collar around her neck and secured that to the final chain. 

"Why are you doing this to me? I did what you asked!" she yelled at him after he locked the door. 

"Go to sleep, Harl. You'll feel better in the morning." The lights went out and she was left alone, shivering, until finally passing out around dawn. 

She had no way to gauge what time it was when she woke up. Tugging against her restraints reminded her of her date with the Scarecrow, and Harley began to cry out for help. After her throat had gone hoarse, she heard footsteps approaching. The drifting mist of white on the inky black told her that it wasn't the Joker. The light was blinding. 

Once her eyes had adjusted, she watched the hulking clown called Full House unlock her cell door. He carried in a tray of food and a bottle of water. Behind his lifeless mask, Harley knew his eyes were running up and down her vulnerable body. 

"Thirsty?" he asked gruffly. Harley nodded her head and he poured some water into her mouth. Half of it spilled out but what made it down her throat was incredibly refreshing. "Hungry?" He offered her a piece of toast. She chewed it slowly so as not to choke. After she'd finished the first triangle, he offered her more water. This time he poured more carefully so not a drop spilled out. 

"Hmm?" Full House held out a spoon of eggs. 

There was a naïveté to this Joy Boy; an innocence that she guessed resulted from developmental delay. He was big and brawny on the outside but soft and sweet on the inside, like George from "Of Mice and Men". This might have been the first time he'd seen a woman naked. 

"More water, please," Harley said, watching him as she took a drink. "Thank you. You're very kind." 

"Hmm. Eggies?" 

"Please." She ate the heaping spoon of eggs and swallowed hard. "I have to go to the bathroom." It was actually the truth. 

"Water?" 

"No- I have to pee. Can you let me out to pee?" 

"Hmm. Toast?" he waved the toast in front of her. 

"I need to go potty. Do you understand me? You have to let me go. Please!" 

"Hmm," he grunted and put the cap back on the water. 

"Wait, wait! Come back! I want some more to eat!" she called as he started shuffling back to the cage door. 

"How 'bout a cock sandwich," another voice replied. Harley Quinn turned her head and saw another clown had been supervising Full House. 

"Yeah- why don't you bring it over here and I'll take a bite," she told him. 

"I'd knock out your teeth first. Well go on, lock it," he ordered Full House. "Not nice of you- trying to get the big guy in trouble. He's not right in the head like me and the other guys. He's a fuckin' idiot, ain't ya Fool House!" Righty slapped the larger guy on his back. 

"Yeah- and you're his sidekick," Harley said acidly. 

"Hey- I ain't nobody's fucking sidekick!" Full House started laughing at Harley's jab. 

"Knock it off, dumbass. It ain't funny," snapped Righty, hitting his partner on the back of the head. "See ya later, bitch," he called out as he walked away with Full House lumbering behind him. The dullard stared at her a minute before turning off the lights. The door clicked shut behind them and once again, Harley was all alone. For a while she struggled against the chains, trying to will them to break for her; but it didn't seem to work that way. Exhausted and about to burst, Harley Quinn fell into another troubled sleep. 

When she woke up, she was aware of two things- she'd wet herself during the night and the lights were on. Someone was in the room with her. 

"Hello?" she wailed. "Is that you, brother?" 

A shockingly cold, hard spray of water hit her crotch to wash away her waste. She was so thirsty that as the stream approached her face, Harley opened her mouth took in several swallows before that someone turned off the hose. Shivering, she waited for the silent clown to speak but there was no sound but retreating footsteps. 

"Come back!" screamed Harley, chains clanking against the cage as she flailed her limbs in an exercise of futility. She sobbed, helpless, fully expecting the lights to turn off any moment. But then she heard someone walking towards her with a distinct gait. The Joker. 

"Are you ready to rise and shine today, Harley?" he asked, coming into view. 

Harley Quinn nodded, her long leash jangling. 

"I hope you realize that I've only done this to teach you an important lesson," the Joker informed her. "Can you guess what this lesson is?" 

"That you're more powerful than me? That you're in charge?" she croaked. 

"No. The lesson is that I am just. I've done nothing more to you than what has been done to me for your crime, and I will do nothing - we will do nothing to Gotham that isn't warranted by their transgressions."  

"And what did Edina Dawes do?" Harley posed. 

"She was going to hand that journal over to someone much more meddlesome than the police. You shouldn't have gotten her involved." 

"I'll concede that point. But we can't sneak behind each other's backs, keeping secrets. Agreed?" 

"If you'll make peace with me." 

"You know I don't want to be your enemy, brother." 

"We only make peace with our enemies, dear sister. It takes true love to make a true rival." 

"Then let me go so we can make peace." 

The Joker entered the cage and knelt on the wet mattress by her side. He frowned as he traced the diamond-shaped birthmark on his sister's inner thigh. "I am sorry," he whispered, undoing her collar first. 

"So am I." Harley could see the deeply scarred skin underneath his bright red greasepaint smile. The Joker took her to a bathroom and left her there to tend to her long ignored needs, including a hot shower. She came out in the red dress he'd left hanging for her on the back of the door. It was cut low with a flouncy skirt and a black sash around its empire waist. The addition of knee-high socks and Mary Jane's made Harley feel like a full-sized baby doll. 

"Shall we?" The Joker offered his arm and lead her out of the fun house. 

Amusement Mile was ablaze against the night sky. This time, Harley Quinn saw Joy Boys everywhere- the masked carnival workers leered at them without expression. Skipping along with his sister in tow, the Joker took her to get popcorn and cotton candy before taking her on the Ferris Wheel. At the top, he pointed out all the buildings: Ace Chemicals, where his nemesis Dr. Thomas Oscar Morrow worked; the Monarch Playing Card Company where all of his joker cards came from; S.T.A.R. Labs where they had Harley Quinn's blood sample. 

"Had?" she inquired, letting a clump of spun sugar dissolve like a cloud on her tongue. 

"It's been sent off to Seattle," he commented. 

"Shit- that's where Crane is!" 

"I know. Don't worry- my old friend will take care of him. You could say I have a plant at the other S.T.A.R. Labs." 

"Who helped you make the serum?" 

"Red," he sighed wistfully. "You'll meet her soon enough." 

Her? Harley felt a twinge of jealousy but kept it to herself. "She's a scientist?" 

"A botanical biochemist, to be specific. A strong, intelligent woman- like you- who was once betrayed by her superiors. But- like you- she's transformed to into something they never imagined possible." 

"What else is in it? Besides plant matter?" 

The Joker laughed at her persistence. "I can't explain it all now. I'll just say that it's out of this world." 

The next stop was for caramel apples and a shoot-out at O.K. Corral. Harley Quinn shot all the bad guys and left the women and children unharmed. She won a giant white teddy bear. Then he insisted on the bumper cars, during which the Joker took great pleasure in ramming her repeatedly. The Toppling Tower was next- taking them up and dropping them down as they screamed their lungs out. He dragged her on the Dippy Dipsy Daisies and then the Whirling Dervish- the shifts in g-forces were thrilling once she forgot about how antiquated they were. They noshed on corndogs and lemonade while they tossed coins into goldfish bowls. The Joker won a novelty top hat in purple velvet trimmed with green. 

After they took a tour through the Mansion of Mayhem on a rickety cart, and Full House gave them balloons, they strolled through the Eternal Labyrinth. Somehow, despite the sterile soil, its hedgerows were thick and thriving. Red's doing? Harley sipped on the dregs of her lemonade, walking arm and arm with her brother who was naming off rides he still wanted to go on, like the Swings and the Alpine Express. 

"I'm tired," she said, after he mentioned something called the Helter Skelter. "Why don't we go back to the Royal." 

"The Royal? Why would go there?" 

"Why wouldn't we? You paid up for the month." 

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he insisted. 

"Crane?" 

"That's a little too generous for his taste. No, I think you must have a secret admirer," the Joker said knowingly. 

"What aren't you telling me?" 

"Someone's had their eye on you. Ever since he started watching Crane." 

"He who?" 

"The Batman." 

"Who the fuck is that?" 

"A Caped Crusader who thinks he can save Gotham's soul." 

"What does he want with me?" 

"Oh, to save you I suspect. Or deliver you to so-called justice if you don't convert. A very boring agenda for such a fascinating character." 

"I take it you want me to use his virtuous pursuit to your advantage?" she inferred. 

"Our advantage, Harley Quinn. But we can talk about the Bat later. For now, I think we have a little more peace-making to make in peace." 

The black-light activated mural of Gotham had been repainted, giving Harley the impression of walking into the imagination of Vincent Van Gogh. The brushstrokes swirled around in hues of day glow orange, primary blue, flamingo pink, twilight purple, and neon green. "Did you do this?" 

"No. Full House is our resident artist." 

"Really? He's a savant," she speculated, feeling the thick impasto texture. 

"They say that after da Vinci died, they found a dirty old paintbrush where his cock should have been." The Joker had pulled out his erection and held it with his gloved hand. "With this lighting I could really rub out a masterpiece in here."