This thing's been nagging at me to put it to paper for I-don't-know-how-long, but the creation of a "Dark Knight" Harley Quinn is a task I'm not sure I'll be able to meet, so ... flames are openly requested.

Enjoy. Or don't.

Just give some feedback, please.

ooo

Harley.

Look at these lines under my eyes – and this goddamn make-up is runnin' again.

There's a stitch of fur in my new "manicure" - and the red paint runs down poor Louie's back like blood.

I need to walk.

I cover J with a blanket, and bite my lip at the scarlet lines that "Bats" had made on his cheek – but, if I should try to treat 'em ... well, we'd look like twins – last time I'd tried to run out I few knots in his back, I'd earned a pretty shiner.

J doesn't need to be taken care of, and it's time Harley-girl learned that.

I start walkin'. And wishin' that J'd snagged me some kinda coat on his last heist – but then, I hadn't earned it.

There's a park near here, and I stop.

Some pretty little girl, gives me somethin' like a wave, but then stops – figurin' I'm one 'a those strangers Mommy warned against.

I laugh almost.

And it feels kinda funny in my throat – like cigarette smoke, or a shot 'a J's whiskey, that I'd gotten more than Hell for tastin'

I remember when I was her age.

School books at my feet in a run-down-dump apartment.

Sayin' "car" over-and-over, so I wouldn't sound like some dumb bimbo when I went ta school.

Ca'r'

Cah.

Cah.

Ca'r'

Car.

Car!

"Uncle Jackie! I said "car" right!"

Heh. The closest I'd ever come ta really bein' happy as a kid – tryin' not ta think 'bout my own Mommy, all screwy on Morphine, and layin' there like a tramp in our kitchen sink – while I washed the vomit smell outta my little ballet dress.

I wouldn't be a bimbo like her.

Uncle Jackie told me so.

I wouldn't be no body's whore.

I'd be a good doctor, and tend ta the "fuck up's" a' this crazy-ass world, an' turn 'em "normal."

A true career women.

But how the hell was I s'pposed turn anybody "normal" watchin' him chug down booze and drag my rag-doll-slut Mommy in ta bed, huh?

I was just like those "fuck up's" wasn't I?

ooo

I use'ta love the swings as a kid.

Swish.

Swish.

Almost like flyin'

Flyin' past hell, and in ta some place better – like those places in story books that nobody ever read to me.

Heh.

"You're old."

A tiny 'lil voice says, an' I think I'm more insane than I realize ... till I see her standin' there.

The little wavin' girl – with her blonde blue-eyed dolly.

I never had a dolly.

"Shoo." I mutter, my voice sounds like I swallowed a goddamn razor blade. "Scoot."

"You somebody's mommy?"

Little runt won't take a hint.

"No – Scoot."

"You're crazy."

News ta me.

'Brat turns ta leave, wipin' her little snot nose, and twistin' her blonde piggy-tails.

An' she kinda looks like me.

"That's a real pretty dolly."

Snot turns back to me, an' smiles, lickin' at a scab on her dirty 'lil wrist. "Thanks."

"She got a name?"

"Been callin' Harley – she likes motor racin'"

And I feel like laughin' some more.

"Does she?"

ooo

There it is. Quick and not-entirely-painless.

I like to think, that somewhere – there's a little bit of "Harleen" still in 'er – and that "Mistah J" wasn't the only thing that pushed her over the edge.

Eh ... flame me if you wanna - I admit, it's not my best.