So I asked myself, 'self, you're too lazy to wait a week, why not just start writing now?', and thus, I did! Welcome to the sequel to Dark Side of the Moon, and thank you for anybody who transitions over here to read this. The storyline, I will warn in advance, is going to get a lot weirder than this in ways I won't be able to explain. I'm winging it completely, here XD I hate having to make up entire storylines, but this opportunity is too rich to pass up. Sick!Harvey and Aw!Cleave both belongs to me, the Joker belongs to DC comics. Thanks to all who made it here, and on with the show!

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Is it morning already? I'll pay to sleep in.

When I wake, my eyes struggle to adjust to the light. There's some kind of tight bandage tied around my forehead, tucked under my hair, and when I touch at my neck I realize there's a scrap of cotton taped there like an attempt to plug up a hole. When I try to pick my head up off the pillow all I feel is a rush, like someone punches me right in the face.

Hey, little girl, is your daddy home? Did he go and leave you all alone? I got a bad desire…oh, ho, ho I'm on fire…

The fading sounds of Bruce Springsteen blast from the inner sanctum, and I finally realize there's a smudge of awkward red across my pillow. Also, another vital fact—my clothes are gone.

The almost-gone bruises left by big ol' Bat-butt are perfectly visible, and all over my thighs are little, minute red marks. I realize they cover my entire body ornately, from my legs to my neck, to my ears. It's a horrifying thought, but—

It stops short, anyway, when I have to trip over myself from the bed (in an oversized, pink, terrycloth bathrobe with a badly drawn bear on the back) and rush to the bathroom to puke so unimaginably that I feel my entire self tremble in a great heave. It's the grip-the-sides-of-the-toilets, clutch-the-porcelain-throne-in-the-aftermath kind of episode. And that's exactly what I do, until I shrink into myself on the floor and hug myself against the wonderful, cold material. Everything is fuzzy, and I realize that my glasses are on the nightstand and my eyes are tearing. And I'm still trying to cope, as hard as I possibly can, really, I am.

There's globs of green dye-or-whatever-the-fuck-it-is stuck to my fingertips. They stain it this mint jell-o color.

"Well, good morning, toots!" The man of the hour, of course. He ruffles my hair and, oddity of oddities, leans over to kiss me atop the head before lavishly dropping himself on the edge of the bathtub to stare at me. I can't be a great sight. I'm almost as pale as he is, "What's with the deer in the headlight roo-teen, Harv-cakes? How's that ol' canoodle of yours feeling?"

Canoodle.

Canoodle: the act of senseless sex with a man who likes to dress up as a clown.

Canoodle: my thoroughly damaged skull.

"Canoodle?" I mutter, and grope stupidly at the jiggle-handle. I have to smack it, but it flushes and I listen to my life spiral down the drain. My stomach turns again, and I swallow so hard that the taste of vomit almost makes me want to vomit more, "Canoodle's feh—fine."

"Well, ya know, that was a hell of a fall you took. Had ta get rid of my favorite rug—it was—ah—it was covered in Harvey-blood." The worst part of that sentence is the fact that he cracks a wide grin. Cleveland, I just think, Cleveland, you sick fuck.

The first question out of my mouth is, "Motrin?"

I watch a small, glorious, white capsule skitter eagerly toward me, and he holds out a tiny paper cup filled with water. I almost consider that he's shoving more drugs in my system, but I wonder what the purpose for it would be. He's sedated me enough in the past few hours to last a lifetime.

"I'll—ah, haveta change those in a bit. Not lookin' so sterile, if ya know what I mean." He prods at the side of my head, the spreading, splotchy disease of dark blood staining the material. I repress the urge to lunge in hostile irritation—but then, I forget just why I'm angry at all.

The puking, I want to say, the puking is a bad sign.

But he reads my mind.

"With a beam to the noggin like that? You're gonna be a little—ah…" He pauses and glances around for the right word, turning the mechanical toothbrush on and off, "—nauseous, disoriented and confusified for a good 'nother week or so."

He spins the head of the thing in reverse, and forward, idle and fascinated. It even makes little race-car, revving sounds.

My legs feel like spaghetti, and my entire body shakes with the need to regain my senses back to full throttle. I admire, though, that despite my 'incident' (see: disaster) all over this room, it seems pretty well cleaned. No traces of blood or, as I would have expected, vials full of my blood sitting around anywhere.

Then again, I'm sure he's got to have some of it around, somewhere, for his own…personal pleasure.

There's a dull beep of a sound, and like Batman is nipping at his heels, he bolts out of there and into the kitchen. All I hear is the music—

Unos, dos, tres, catorce..!

Coincidentally, the minute that line ends, I yet again toss my cookies. It's all literal, too, but I can't remember what I ate yesterday besides a bag of Milanos. My muscles spasm and give out, and I hit the floor with a bit of a bounce. My entire body feels lighter than air.

When I fall away, and not of my own accord, it's to the melodic sounds of Bono.

Lights go down, it's dark, the jungle is your head, can't rule your heart…

Fast forward an indeterminable amount of time (see: forever).

I'm back in bed again and crammed under the blankets. Next to me, on the nightstand, there's a piece of toast, and atop it are two eggs that make eyes and a bacon-mouth that attempts for a good ol' fashioned smiley face. I'm reminded of The Brave Little Toaster.

"Boy-yee, you're more trouble than you're worth. How'd ya manage to black out again right after wakin' up? Gotta gift for it or something? If getting into accidental trouble was a major in college, you'd graduate val-lee-dick-tore-ree-ehn, I promise you that much."

Fuck you, is what I want to say.

But all that happens to come out is, "I swear to G-God, if I'm pregnant."

And the slip of the tongue makes his eyebrow arch straight up.

And, in a synchronized fashion, we both go stark-pale.