Harley twirled in front of her full-body mirror, examining herself from all angles. She struck a pose, admiring her handiwork. She looked absolutely stunning, if she did say so herself.
"You've become quite the tailor, haven't ya', Harl'?" she asked herself, blowing her reflection a kiss.
The Joker was in the middle of one of his intense planning spells. They happened every so often. He'd become unresponsive to all stimuli and barricade himself in whatever space was currently serving as his "office". Then he'd sit there, day and night, concocting sick schemes to bring about Batman's demise. During these periods he wasn't interested in food, sleep, sex, nothing, and for the most part Harley went largely unnoticed. Her attempts to seduce him were generally disastrous (at least, more so than usual) and more often than not resulted in her being thrown out of their lair.
But this time would be different, Harley assured herself. She'd spent the morning (well, the portion of the morning not dedicated to watching cartoons) perfecting her outfit. She'd paid painstaking attention to every minute detail. And now her masterpiece was finished, and the only thing left to do was present herself to her Mistah J.
Joker scribbled away furiously at what moments ago had been a clean sheet of paper. His pencil was shortened to a nub from excess usage. A monumental heap of crumpled wads of paper spilt over the rim of the overfilled wastepaper basket in the corner. The room's lone, grimy light bulb illuminated the Clown Prince of Crime hunched over his desk, mumbling under his breath.
"If I just… No, no, that'd never work. Batbreath'd see that coming a mile away… Maybe it'd be less obvious if I replaced the giant chicken with…Nah, then the punchline wouldn't be half as funny…"
He rubbed his chin, fingers brushing against the rough stubble cropping up along his pale jawline.
"Maybe I should just add a lot more nitroglycerin! Eh, the plan'd still need work… Oh, where's my inspiration gone?" he moaned, throwing his hands up in an exaggerated gesture of resignation.
Someone cleared their throat behind him.
"Did I hear someone say that they needed a little… inspiration?"
He growled and clenched his fists. Harley throwing herself all over him was not what he needed at the moment, thank you very much. He continued scribbling fervently away at his notebook, hoping that maybe she'd go away if he ignored her she'd get the hint and leave him alone. Of course, that had never worked before, and there was no indication that it would work now, but still, there was a fist time for everything, right?
"Ohhhh, Puddin'!" Harley sing-songed, prancing over to where the Joker sat, apparently oblivious to her presence.
"I'm busy," the Joker deadpanned. "And by 'busy', I mean not interested in-"
Harley looped her arms around his lanky chest and pressed her lips to his ear.
"That's what you always say, Puddin'," she giggled, cutting him off.
"And I always mean it, too!" He pushed her arms off roughly without even bothering to look back at her.
"Aww," Harley moaned, pouting. Her puddin' wouldn't so much as look at her.
She made her way around the desk and hoisted herself on top of it, knocking off several stacks of paper. She extended her partially bare leg in front of the Joker's face, hoping to get his attention.
Joker snarled and raised his head, preparing to launch into a leave-me-the-fuck-alone tirade.
His jaw dropped.
"Harley? What in Chaplin's name are you wearing?" he asked incredulously, his eyes wide.
She sat before him, one leg extended, leaning back provocatively. She was clad head to toe in crimson and indigo leather. A short red cape was fastened around her neck by a white ruffle. Her corset bared her midriff as well as a good portion of her cleavage. A belt of bullets (which was probably not doing anything to hold up her barely-there booty shorts) was slung around her tiny waist. Her hair had been dyed to match.
"Oh," Harley (at least, he assumed it was Harley. She'd far surpassed the point of unrecognizable) giggled, flashing him a mischievous grin. "D'ya' like it?"
The shock melted from his face.
"Like it?"
He wrapped his arm around Harley, who squealed a little at this sudden gesture of affection.
"Like it?"
He pulled her closer, closing the gap between them.
"I absolutely hate it!" he shrieked, slamming both his hands onto the desk.
Harley's entire body wilted. "Bu-but what don't 'cha' like about it, Puddin'?" she stammered, deeply hurt.
"Oh-ho, 'what don't I'…" the Joker mumbled. "Where do I begin? It's positively the filthiest outfit I've ever laid eyes on! (And I've suffered through quite a few episodes of Jersey Shore, so I know what I'm talking about.)"
Harley cringed, beginning to wonder whether this had been such a good idea after all.
"I mean, just look at yourself! You look like an emo crackhead who dressed herself in the dark! Hell, you probably stole that outfit from an emo crackhead,"
"Didn't neither, Mistah J!" Harley countered, but Joker didn't seem to hear.
"It's egregious! It's ignominious! It's…eh, those are the only big words that come to mind at the moment. What in the name of all things funny were you thinking when you pieced that unholy abomination together?"
"Well," Harley began nervously. "I was just thinkin', I've had the same ol' outfit for years. Wearin' one thing over an' over again can get pretty borin', ya' know? An' the otha' day I was over at Eddie's house and we got to talkin' about how everyone's updatin' their looks these days, so I might as well, too. So I made myself a new outfit, one that's more modern and all that jazz. Trust me, edgy is very 'in' these da-"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the Joker interrupted, waving his hands back and forth. "I see two things wrong with this picture. The first is that you actually took fashion advice from a geek with a spandex fetish, but more on that later. The main problem lies in the fact that, unless I misheard you, you claimed this was your 'new outfit'. Were you actually planning on wearing that out it public?"
Harley genuinely considered that question for a moment. "Uh, maybe?" she squeaked in a barely audible voice.
Joker's eye twitched. "Did you honestly think I'd approve of this terrible affront to comedy?"
Harley opened her mouth to respond.
"Because I don't!" the Joker continued. "I'm giving you an executive order to burn that thing (with or without taking it off, it's all the same to me), flush the ashes down the toilet and then nuke the water sanitation plant!" He crossed his arms in a gesture of finalization.
"Now get out," he added, almost as if as an afterthought.
Harley wondered for a moment whether or not he was kidding about wanting her to nuke the water sanitation plant before sighing dejectedly and sliding off the desk. Her shoulders slumped as she made her way to the doorway under the disapproving glare of the Joker. She felt crushed, all traces of the enthusiasm she'd possessed moments ago gone. The worst feeling in the world was truly knowing she'd displeased her Mistah J.
But, never one to give up so easily, she turned around to take one last stab at accomplishing her original goal.
"Say, Puddin'. If ya' hate this outfit so much, why don't cha' help me get it off?"
"Whaaaaaa-!" Harley screamed as she sailed through the air. She landed (rather roughly) facedown in what she hoped was a puddle of mud.
"And don't come back!" the Joker called from the doorway, his shoulders heaving.
"Bu-but Puddin'!" Harley pleaded, picking herself up. "Where'm I supposed ta' go?"
"Turn yourself in! Jump into the river! Hell, join the Suicide Squad for all I care!"
And with that he slammed the heavy door shut and clicked the lock.
"Hmph," Harley huffed indignantly, climbing to her feet and wiping mud off of her face.
"I do not look like an emo crackhead!" she shouted at the closed door. No response came, and she turned away from the door to face the alleyway. If Mistah J didn't want her around, so be it. She'd just give him a few days to cool off and then he'd welcome her back with open arms. And in the meantime, she'd do something really spectacular, something that'd make him regret tossing her out.
"Hmm," she wondered aloud. "Where can I sign up for the Suicide Squad?"