Author's Note: I needed a really dynamic character to function in my series as a comparatively normal foil to the Joker's character. More or less, one sane man in a world of psychopaths. I chose to use one of the goons shown in the movie, one of my favorites; if you watch the scene in which the Joker terrorizes Gambol (the "Why so serious" speech), there are three clowns who come in with him. One is a short white guy with light reddish hair and a sort of... pointy? ...face. He's my inspiration for the main character of this story. And I named him Billy as a nod to one of my favorite stories, "You Can't Spell Slaughter Without Laughter," and its author (also one of my faves), Imogen Kain. Go read it, people!

Banditos

"Everybody knows that the world is full of stupid people,

So meet me at the Mission at midnight, & we'll divvy up there…"

- "Banditos," The Refreshments

Billy very definitely needed a new couch. He reminded himself of this as he lay on his back, the rough upholstery scratchy against his bare shoulders, watching the puny trickle of smoke drifting intermittently up from the cigarette that dangled from his fingers. He had tried to quit several times over the past couple of years, but the things always seemed to find a way back into his hands, especially after the events of the last few months. His old boss, who was crazy, and his new boss, who was not crazy but was very decidedly an angry drunk, and Nana being sick again on top of it all… well, he supposed there were worse vices than nicotine. Except he had burned three new holes in the couch just this week falling asleep after work. The stitching was coming out of the armrests, the springs on the left-end seat were broken, and between the constant friction of sitting and standing and the constellations of cigarette burns, the upholstery was not very comfortable to lie on shirtless. He definitely needed a new one, he reminded himself again. He tacked the memo onto his mental bulletin board – then he sighed as he visualized the memo next to it. The one that had his hours and his paycheck written on it. Maybe by Christmas, he told himself. Maybe all the Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas decorating rushes would give him some extra hours. Billy had gotten his job stocking at Lowe's only a few weeks ago, not long enough to put in a lot of time but long enough to realize that his new boss was a lush with a temper. He hoped that with all of the East side of Gotham coming in for lights and trees and inflatable turkeys and new tool sets for Dad, there would be plenty of hours to go around, which meant a bigger check. But if he knew Manager Dave Arnold (and he did), that little brown-noser Webb and his buddies would get all the hours, while Billy and Dan and all the new hires got screwed over. Again.

Pulling himself up off the scratchy couch, Billy sucked the last bit of nicotine out of the cigarette and smothered it in the ash tray, which had originally been a decorative bowl Dan's mother had given him when she cleaned out her attic. It was wide and shallow, white porcelain with a huge, sloppy, and yet slightly menacing clown face painted inside. Billy hated decorative bowls. He also hated clowns. But Dan's mother had insisted, and he hadn't had the heart to throw it away, so it became the latest in Billy's series of ugly ash collectors. He pushed it back away from the coffee table edge so it wouldn't spill on the carpet and then shuffled into the kitchen. It was Sunday, or so the calendar over the sink told him. That meant no work, no play (the arcade was closed), and no visitors, since Dan always spent Sundays working on his old Corvette. He fumbled through the cabinet for a microwave cup of Easy-Mac. He would go over and visit Nana today, then. He hadn't been by there since Wednesday, and he doubted she'd had many other visitors – their only other relative was his aunt Brenda, a hypochondriac who refused to walk into the nursing home for fear of germs. Nana could use a Sunday afternoon chat.

As the macaroni circled around inside the microwave, he found himself looking over the rest home brochure tacked onto the refrigerator with a "Smile, Jesus Loves You!" magnet. The picture on the front was of a lovely peach-colored building, surrounded by flowers and happy senior citizens, and set against a vanilla and gold evening sky. The whole thing was topped off by scrolling white letters that said "Peaceful evenings at Sunset Oaks!" Billy wrinkled his nose a bit at the picture; the real Sunset Oaks was sort of grungy and run-down looking, like everything else in Gotham, and most of the senior citizens couldn't make it out into the garden for a stroll. The ones that could were usually so cranky they squished the flowers with their canes. But Sunset Oaks wasn't that bad for a Gotham nursing home, and Billy liked the staff. They always said hello when he visited, and his Nana never complained, so he guessed it wasn't so terrible. She had no roommate, so they would often spend an hour or two playing card games or watching old movies (she was a Clark Gable fan), laughing and talking without having to worry about disturbing anyone. Occasionally Mr. Nealey from the next room would drop by in the middle of one of their movie days, and he and Nana would debate the supremacy of Clark Gable versus Tyrone Power (Mr. Nealey's favorite). Billy liked Mr. Nealey, and he hoped he might drop by today. "Gone With The Wind" was playing on AMC – and that was a debate that was not to be missed.

Billy grabbed his macaroni from the microwave, burned his fingers, and grabbed it again with a dish cloth. Sticking a plastic spoon in his mouth, he wandered back into the living room and leaned against the window. An ugly Pontiac with a bad muffler sputtered by the apartment complex, followed cautiously by a little black Volkswagen with a scratch on the door. A white cargo van was parked on the other side of the street, in front of the Laundromat. Billy grimaced around a mouthful of macaroni; the cargo van reminded him of his old job. And the Boss. He was lucky to have made it out of that racket in one piece – the crazy hours, the crazier demands, the unbelievably crazy Boss… he'd take Arnold at Lowe's over that any day. He hadn't seen any of his old coworkers since the business went belly up; probably they were all either working stock like he was, dealing in the Narrows, or in jail. Billy opted for the latter. Not a lot of the guys he'd met on that job were exactly the upstanding citizen type. He had seen the Boss, though – on TV. The day they led him up the steps of Arkham in a straight-jacket. Billy looked back at the clown ash tray and shuddered.

Dumping the empty Easy-Mac bowl in the trash, he headed into the bedroom for a shirt. Normally he would just pull one off the floor-pile, but his Nana always noticed wrinkles and stains. He picked one of the few clean ones out of the top drawer – the black and gray flannel – and threw it on. Gentlemen tuck in their shirt tails, William, he heard his Nana say, a memory from the childhood summers he used to spend with her in the suburbs. He tucked; then he un-tucked again. His jeans were tight, and the shirt tails gave him lumpy hips. Sorry, Nana, he thought to himself. He didn't figure he was much of a gentleman anymore anyway.

Grabbing his keys off the wall hook and his leather jacket off the back of the one-armed easy chair, he stepped out on the balcony into the October wind, double checking the door to be sure it was locked. Then jogged down the steps, hopped onto his motorcycle – "that death trap," as Nana called it – and headed off in the direction of the park and Sunset Oaks.

"Aft'noon, Bill." Walter nodded brusquely in greeting as he pushed his janitorial cart past Billy in the foyer. They all recognized Billy as one of the most regular visitors, and liked him all the more because of it; an admirable trait that, in old Walter's mind, "made up for the boy's tight girl-pants and that pointy streak of bangs hangin' in his face like a fairy." Walt had never understood the current generation's penchant for the skater style, having grown up in an age when all good boys had crew cuts and lace-up shoes; but he liked Billy just the same. Not enough kids coming to visit grannies and uncles and what-not these days. He reckoned Billy was a good kid, even if he did look like a bird with its feathers down in its eyes.

"Hey, Walt!" Billy replied in passing, heading for the nurse's station that sat at the juncture of the nursing home's two main hallways. Rhonda sat at the computer, doing whatever it was that head nurses do when they aren't nursing. She looked up when she saw Billy.

"Hey, sport. Back again?" She wiggled her fingers down into her huge perm to scratch her head. "We're gonna have to get you your own room before long."

"Nah, I just thought I'd join Nana for a movie. 'Gone With the Wind' is on today. Figured she and Mr. Nealey would want a referee."

"Frankly, Billy, I don't give a damn." Rhonda laughed hysterically at her own joke, and Billy wrinkled his nose in what he hoped was an imitation of amusement.

"Yeah, that's…. that's a great one, Rhonda." He patted the desk absently and then headed off down the left corridor toward his Nana's room. Rhonda swiveled in her computer chair and called after him.

"Hey Billy?" He turned to listen, and Rhonda scratched through her perm again. "Might want another chair from the group room. Your Nana had some visitors earlier, and I don't know if they're still there or not. Probably already left, but if you need another chair, ring the desk."

"Visitors?" Billy asked, curious. "I don't know who it would be…. What did they look like?" Rhonda considered for a moment.

"Some guy around your age, and a pretty little blonde thing with him. Said they were friends of yours." Billy thought about it; his only friend was Dan, and Dan had never taken a notion to visit Nana before. Still, Dan was a guy with a habit of doing things on a whim.

"The guy – what did he look like? Was he kind of tall? Dark blonde? Sort of… goofy look on his face?"

"Maybe," Rhonda replied. "Dunno if goofy is the word I'd use, but his voice sounded sort of silly."

"That sounds like Dan…." Billy conceded. "I'll see if they're still there. Thanks, Rhonda."

"No problem, sport," she said before swiveling back to her computer. Billy shuffled down the hallway toward his Nana's room, wondering what in God's name Nana and Dan could find to talk about without him there.

Nana's door was pulled almost shut, which would have been odd, except Billy remembered she liked to close it for movies. It kept out the fluorescent lights and cart wheel squeaks from the hallway. Billy eased the door open quietly and listened to see which scene the movie had gotten to. The TV wasn't on.

"Nana?" Billy ventured, his nose wrinkling at the smells as he stepped into the short entryway; urine. And it wasn't coming from the bathroom. Was Nana back on the bedpan? He supposed it was possible. If she was, it needed to be emptied. Billy shuffled further into the room, noting that Nana had at least pulled the curtains to darken the room for the movie. There was a nurse in red scrubs in the corner, writing something on the wall chart; she was probably here to get the bedpan, too. He turned to the bed and absently adjusted the pink chenille blanket as he approached. "Hey, Nana," he said quietly. "Wanna watch 'Gone With the Wind' today? Get Mr. Nealey over to watch with us?" Nana didn't answer. Billy stopped adjusting the blanket and looked her over. His Nana was sitting all the way over against the railing of the bed, holding her pink chenille blanket up to her chin. She looked cold. Cold, and… afraid? Billy turned to the nurse. "Hey, Nurse, could you—"

"Just a sec, Puddin'," the nurse simpered, walking over in the direction of the bathroom and reaching for the rubber glove box on the back of the door. Billy looked back at his Nana, his eyebrows wrinkling with concern. She didn't just look scared, he thought. She looked terrified. Her eyes were huge, blue half-dollars, wide with fear and looking even more sunken than usual; her papery skin was stretched tight over her face, and now he noticed that her knuckles digging into the blanket were white with tension. He sniffed the air again, and realized that the smell of urine was coming from her bed. His Nana had wet herself; the blankets were stiff with it. She was staring rigidly at the empty bed across the room, and Billy glanced over in the direction of her gaze. The blue tablecloth-fabric curtain was pulled around the other bed – and the bedside lamp was on, revealing a silhouette propped up against the pillows.

"Nana, when did you get a roommate?" Billy asked her, turning back and leaning over her. She still didn't answer him, didn't even move. Scared stiff, Billy thought, finally understanding the term. His Nana was absolutely petrified of whoever was in that bed. But why? "Nana?" he tried again. Nothing. He attempted to pull the blanket out of her hands, which also proved useless. "Nana, let go of the blanket. Nana? Come on, it's me, Billy-boy. Nana, are you okay?" This time he did get a response – a faint murmuring sound escaped the old woman's lips, and her eyes flickered up to him before returning solidly to the other bed. "Nana, what's… what's wrong?" he tried. Nothing now. She was practically catatonic. Billy stood up straight and looked for the nurse. "Hey, Nurse…. Excuse me, Miss…." The nurse was gone. This was starting to get weird, a little too weird for Billy's liking. He took a step toward the other bed, hesitating as he imagined frightening the little old lady behind the curtain, then walked across the room; if she had frightened his Nana so much, chances are he probably wouldn't give her a heart attack. Billy reached out and flung back the curtain.

"Do you MIND?" the figure cried, and Billy shrieked in terror, shuffle-stepping backward. The Joker glared up at him, holding a tattered Harlequin romance chastely across his chest in mock fear. The sleeves and collar of his blue-patterned dress shirt poked out of the cuffs and lacy neck of a long pink flannel nightgown, and his green-dyed hair was half-tucked into a pink mesh nightcap. Making a disgusted snorting sound deep in his throat, the Joker snapped the book shut and placed it daintily on the bedside table. "Can't a guy lounge in his nightie and read a good smut story without being rudely interrupted in the middle of the sex scene? Geez, Billy, way to cock block." The Joker gave Billy a reproving glance before reaching up to drag the nightcap out of his hair.

Billy slapped a hand over his mouth and swallowed his vomit, fighting a sudden attack of vertigo. He was back in his childhood nightmare, the one with the grinning face in the corner. As a child he had walked in on his parents watching the movie It, and the few minutes he had seen before being shooed back to bed had given him recurring dreams about the evil clown with silver eyes, the satanic grease-painted specter that ate up children to feed on their fears. He had seen that face in the corner above his Ninja Turtles lamp every night for the next two months, and the moment his eyes picked it out of the darkness had always made him sick enough to throw up. Once or twice he actually had. Looking at his former boss's smeared grin, he could taste it again.

"But you were in Arkham," Billy spat weakly around his hand. The Joker swung his legs off the bed and pulled a pair of pink footies off his dirty suede shoes.

"A… temporary inconvenience, Billy-boy. That's, ah… that's what we're calling you now, right?" He snapped his eyes up at Billy amusedly, gesturing toward Nana in a convivial manner. "Or is it too soon to start calling you by a pet name?" He chuckled to himself without waiting for an answer and began half-singing "Billy Boy" under his breath. Billy rubbed his lips to wipe away vomit that wasn't there and stumbled backward a step or two, catching himself against the railing of Nana's bed. The physical reality of the steel bar brought him halfway back from his nightmare, and he had a moment of clear thought. His hand slid quickly along the railing toward the strip of call buttons. Emergency Call was the one with the raised edges. His fingertips scuffled around desperately in search of it.

"I wouldn't." Billy froze and snapped his attention back to the Joker. His clown face was hidden behind the wad of nightgown he was extracting himself from, but his voice had turned ice cold, and Billy shook in spite of himself. He watched, finger frozen above the Emergency button, as the Joker peeled the pink flannel gown away from his head and tossed it onto the floor. Arching his neck awkwardly, the Joker stretched as if awakening from a long nap, groaning almost sensually as he popped the joints in his arms and shoulders. He pulled a wisp of green hair back into place as he leveled his eyes with Billy's. "Y'see, I know… that we've been apart for a while, and I know what that can do to… a… relationship, but," he simpered, taking a step toward Billy. "Have you really forgotten that much about me, Billy-boy?" His words were gleeful and menacing at the same time, and he nodded expectantly toward the strip of buttons beside Billy's hand. Slowly, shakily, Billy turned and looked down at the call buttons. His stomach lurched as he saw the stray red wire that led from the Emergency button to his Nana, connected to something under her blankets. He heard the Joker clear his throat but didn't take his gaze off the wire. "Now I think… that your Nana would prefer if you didn't press that call button. Don't you agree?" Billy lifted his head slowly and saw the Joker's eyebrows raised, waiting expectantly for an answer.

Without warning, Billy lunged for the gap between the Joker and the door. There was another emergency button near the bathroom entrance, and if he could get to the hallway, he could yell all the way to the nurse's station. He made it about three steps before the nurse in the red scrubs reappeared, stepping out of the bathroom to block his exit.

"What's the matter, Puddin'? Visiting hours aren't over 'til 8:00." She smiled a dimpled smile that in any other situation would have been ravishingly sexy, but which Billy currently found absolutely terrifying, and he noticed the full hypodermic needle perched delicately in the fingers of her right hand. Billy's nerves nearly shattered. He whirled around to face the Joker again, glaring with all the hatred he could muster.

"You bastard," he said flatly. The Joker looked up from straightening his tie and collar and smiled over at the girl in the scrubs.

"See, Harley, I told you he missed me." The girl grinned again, flashing white teeth and blood red lips. The Joker winked at her suggestively and reached across the bed to where his pinstripe suit coat lay folded on a pillow. Billy clenched his fists convulsively and stomped back to his Nana's bed, standing protectively between her and the Joker.

"What do you—"

"You know what I want, Billy, don't ask me what I want," the clown grumbled as he tried to find the sleeve of his jacket. "I… want… sleeve, c'mon, c'mon… where's the… there it is. Now. I… want… you, Billy." He slipped on the jacket as he spoke, a sarcastic grin twitching at the corners of his scars. "Can't you see, Billy-boy? I want you, I need you, oh-baby, oh-baby." The Joker smacked his lips in appreciation of his own joke, and the girl held the hypodermic away from her body as she laughed merrily, leaning against the ivory-papered wall for support. Billy stared for a moment, comprehension not setting in.

"Wha—"

"Bil-ly," the Joker scolded, shaking his head in mock exasperation. He took a step closer and leaned down like he was telling Billy a secret. "I want you back, Billy. I'm, ah… I'm starting up the business again, and well, let's face it, you're just the best darn floor manager I ever had. You know the racket. You're …handy." He stood up straight again, crossing his arms. "That, and you're the only one of my old goons who's not dead, drugged, or in jail. So, I'm making you a job offer. My number two guy. Step up from last time, same wages, but better perks. Better missions, bigger gun. All the pleasures of being on top. Except for the girl. She's mine. But I'm sure we can find you one." The Joker leaned down again, raising his eyebrows and nodding as if to help Billy agree. "That's what I thought. Harley, get my coat." Humming busily, the Joker began walking toward the doorway, where his girl stood holding out a long purple wool coat. Billy didn't move.

"No."

The Joker froze in his tracks, half in and half out of his coat. He turned sharply on his heel like a dancer, shoving his arms the rest of the way into his sleeves, and re-crossed the room in what seemed like one long stride. "What?" he growled softly, as if he hadn't heard Billy properly. "Could you, um… could you repeat that please? I must have had a piece of C-4 stuck in my ear."

"No," Billy repeated, clenching his fists hard enough to dig his nails into his palms. The Joker's face took on the appearance of concrete, but his eyes were blazing.

"No?"

"You heard me. No more. I'm not going back to that. I've got my Nana to take care of, I've got a new job, which isn't great but it pays, and I've got a couple good friends to play poker with on Friday nights. So no. No more robberies, or beatings, or terrorism, or guns, or bazookas, or armored car chases, or Bat hunting. I'm done. I've been done since the night they arrested you. So you can do whatever you want to me, but I'm not leashing myself to you again." Billy exhaled shakily and tried to compose himself after the string of words escaped his lips. The Joker was staring at him angrily, head cocked to one side, one hand squeezing his purple leather gloves like a rotten fruit. Then suddenly, the clown's face changed, almost softened. He put his hand against his heart, looking insulted.

"Do? To you, Billy? No, no no no. You've got me all wrong. I'd never do anything to you. What do you think I am? A Nazi?" The Joker dropped his hand and began walking slowly around the room, gesturing like a professor giving a lecture. "No. No. I… don't torture a person to make them do what I want. I…help people make decisions. You see, Billy… it's all… about… choices. You have to be free to choose your own actions, not bound by any… fear of persecution. I …provide …the options. You choose. If I hurt you… during that process…." The Joker put up his hands as if to suggest utter failure as he walked over to stand on the other side of Nana's bed. "Then it wouldn't really be your choice, would it? No, Billy, I have absolutely no intention of hurting you." As he spoke the last word, he laid his paint-smeared hand gently on Nana's shoulder. And Billy completely understood his meaning.

"You bastard," Billy said again, his face beginning to take on a stony look comparable to the Joker's. Watching him carefully, the Joker began to grin widely.

"See, Billy… I'm a reasonable man. I want you back in the game. You want your Nana to make it to her next birthday. It's a compromise waiting to be made. And that's what civilized society is all about, right? Compromises?" The clown nodded slowly to help Billy agree. Completely nonplussed, Billy turned a blank face to the girl the Joker had called Harley. The flint-sharp sexy smile dropped a centimeter or two at the edges, and for the first time she looked uncertain of what she was doing. She's new at this, Billy thought absently as he stared at her. There was a momentary look of displacement on her face, and then her eyes flashed back to the Joker and the hardness returned to her features. Billy followed her gaze.

"Compromise?" he spat finally. "Some compromise, Joker. My life for my Nana's, right? And you call it even?" The Joker, who had been mockingly tucking the blankets around Nana's shoulders, looked up disgustedly.

"I'm not taking your life, Billy, I'm accepting your labor. And I never said I would take hers either. You assume too much, Billy-boy. And… you know… what that does to you." Standing up straighter, the Joker raised his eyebrows steeply and tucked his chin downward, what Billy recognized as his "making-a-point" face. Billy's forehead wrinkled as he struggled to gain control of the conversation.

"You said—"

"I said nothing," the Joker sneered, "about your Nana. I said I wouldn't do anything to you. And I meant it."

"You implied…" Billy began. The Joker scoffed and took two long steps toward him, his scars twisting as his face turned dark again.

"Of course I implied. I implied that I would do nothing to you and several very unpleasant somethings to her. I never said I would kill her. And that's the point, Billy. If I wanted to kill her, I would have. But killing her takes away my leverage. You should know that, unless you're losing your touch. Why would I want to kill her, when I could keep her right here, safe and sound, in a run-down nursing home I can easily infiltrate, where the nursing staff can get the blame for every, ah… bed sore… I leave on her when you try to run off on me? No, no. Nooo, I want her alive, Billy. And I think you do too. Alive, and without any …how do I put this …any of my calling cards on her face? Which is why you're going to say bye-bye to Nana, put on a smile for the front desk people, and drive back to your apartment with us so we can get lunch and stake out a new base of operations. You're in, Billy, whether you like it or not. Unless you want to try to explain to that sweet old lady there why you let her be tortured so you could keep your comfy cushy life."

Billy looked over the Joker's shoulder. His Nana was still frozen, huddled against the bedrail, the blanket falling askew from where the clown had tucked it. He felt an almost overwhelming wave of love and gratitude for her – all the bowls of ravioli she'd made him over the years, the secret five or ten dollar bills slipped into his jacket pockets, the pumpkin pies when it wasn't Thanksgiving – and he knew what he was going to do. He closed his eyes.

"What's our next move, Boss?" he mumbled into his shoulder. The Joker grinned widely and motioned to the girl again, clapping paint-smeared hands.

"Come on, Harley. We're in business!" A cackle started in his throat, and he smothered it as he and Harley headed for the door. Billy put his face in his hands and groaned.

So much for that new couch.

Half an hour later, the trio turned down Billy's street. The Joker leaned back against the white leather headrest of Harley's passenger seat, half-lidded eyes watching Billy's cycle putting along a cautious distance ahead of them. He had surprised him. Maybe he was out of touch after a few months in Arkham, or maybe Billy had grown a pair after escaping the Prewitt Building fiasco. Either way, he hadn't expected him to put up so much of a fight. A little protest maybe, that was natural. But getting his back up like that and saying a flat "no?" Hmph. This was a new Billy. And this was all going to be a bit more difficult than he had imagined.

He did need him, though. It was like he had said before, Billy knew the racket. The Joker normally kept most of his goons in the dark – it saved him the trouble of worrying about who knew what and what they were doing with that knowledge. But it was always good to have one henchman who knew what he was doing; he could supervise the other goons (once the Joker recruited them), and he could be a fall guy if one was ever necessary. The Joker wrinkled his nose as it occurred to him that Billy might not be so easy to sacrifice this time, if he had manned up as much as it appeared. Buuuuuttttt… it was a risk he had to take. He couldn't get anything going again on his own, and Harley… well, Harley was still learning how to load a revolver.

One eyebrow raised, the Joker looked over at Harley appraisingly, watching her as she drove. She was still in the red scrubs she had stolen out of the nurses' lounge, and although they were frightfully baggy and unflattering, the way she was sitting had pulled the legs of the pants tight around her thighs. He gnawed at the scar tissue inside his cheek for a moment, then reached out and gave her right leg a good squeeze. Harley jumped, and her foot reflexively gunned the gas pedal. Up ahead, Billy swerved nervously, reacting to the burst of speed.

"J, what d'you want me to do, run over him?" Harley squeaked scoldingly – but her look was one of interest, and she was half-grinning. The Joker squeezed her leg again and leaned his head back, laughing.

Billy looked over his shoulder nervously. Every now and then, the Joker's girl would gun the engine of her little Bug, and it worked on his raw nerves like a swinging pendulum in an Inquisition chamber. The first time she'd done it he had almost spilled the bike and gone headfirst onto the asphalt. Billy gripped the handlebars tighter and looked over his shoulder again. That chick was a hot mess. In every sense of the phrase.

He had to admit, his first impression of her had been immediate attraction. She was a little blonde bombshell, that one. He wondered where the Joker had found her. She obviously wasn't a criminal – there had been too much hesitation in the heat of the moment. She hadn't liked the Joker's threats toward his Nana. She had been uncomfortable, and still looking to the Joker for affirmation. He wondered why she was tagging along with the Joker; he supposed it was possible that they could be romantically involved, but the thought of someone being attracted to the Joker was a little too absurd for him. And while he had seen the Joker scurry off with a hooker once or twice in the past, he'd never brought any of them along on a job. It had always been a "slam, bam, thank you ma'am," sort of thing. And… strangely enough, Billy remembered… he had never seen the Joker with a blonde before. In fact, he had seen the Joker avoid a few blondes – like he had some weird aversion to them. So what was he doing now, dragging around a pretty little blonde henchwoman who looked like she'd never held a gun in her life? Billy shook his head as his apartment building came into view. It was puzzling on all sides.

Glancing behind him one more time, Billy guided the bike into the lot behind his building. As he rounded the giant, ugly bush that sat at the building's corner, he noted that there were no other vehicles in sight. Good. Fewer casualties to add to the list. Shutting off the cycle, Billy waited until the Joker and his girl had gotten out of the Bug before leading the way up the echoing metal staircase.

There was a nerve-wracking few seconds when the key wouldn't turn in the lock, and Billy's hands fumbled with the set as the Joker loomed behind him, mumbling "C'mon, c'mon…." Then Billy remembered he was using the wrong key, switched to the silver one, and jerked the door open. The Joker was inside before Billy could get the keys out of the door.

"Nice digs, Billy-Boy," he grinned, glancing around at the apartment's furnishings. His dark eyes fell on the chipped coffee table, the dingy rug, the seats that were rather the worse for wear, and he raised a paint caked eyebrow. "Although you could stand a new couch," he suggested, and Billy balled up his fists in an attempt to keep back his anger.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, "that was on the to-do list." The Joker eyed him amusedly over his shoulder before flopping down on the sad piece of upholstery in question, head propped on gloved hands. He wiggled for a moment, snuggling down into the cushions, then settled with an aaaahh of contentment. Billy took a timid step toward him.

"Listen, Joker—"

"Say, Harl," the Joker interrupted. He reached out and tugged the seat of the girl's scrubs. "How about some lunch? See what the kid's got in the cabinets."

"Sure thing, Mistah J," she simpered, and trotted off into Billy's kitchen. Billy watched her forlornly, dropping his keys on the upturned-crate-turned-table by the door. He focused on the floor as he listened to the rattling of cabinet doors and pans. After a few minutes, Harley's blonde head popped out of the kitchen doorway. "Hey, Billy, got any Ramen?"

"Fourth cabinet over the stove…" Billy murmured, and as Harley ducked back into the kitchen, he let his forehead drop against the wall.

That was when they heard the horn blaring in the parking lot. Both men snapped to attention immediately. Billy slid over to the window, hoping to block the Joker's view of whoever had pulled in, but somehow the Joker had crossed the room in two steps again and was there behind him, looking over his shoulder. Billy stuck his fingers between the plastic blinds and inched them apart, hoping he could see who it was before the Joker did. His brow immediately furrowed as he realized what he was looking at.

Idling in the space next to Billy's cycle was a 1968 Corvette Stingray, with sparkling chrome and a deep blue paint job that looked brand new. The engine was throbbing tentatively, like a loyal dog waiting for the command to run. Hanging from the rearview mirror were a leather dog collar, a large belt buckle, and what looked like an oversized chain. And stepping out of the open driver's side door was a tall, lanky, clumsy-looking man with a mop of sandy blonde hair and a brown canvas jacket with numerous patches on the arms and lapels. He was still bouncing his head to the rhythm of whatever song had been playing in the car, and the bouncing continued as he looked up at Billy's window and waved. Billy's heart dropped into his stomach. Dan wasn't supposed to come over on Sundays. He must have finished the Corvette's detailing and brought it over to show off. And it was a move that may have doomed him. Billy flicked his eyes to the left to gauge the Joker's intentions, and his fears were confirmed. The Boss was eyeing Dan the way a shopper eyes the last of their intended purchases after searching through the whole store. Billy whirled around, obscuring the Joker's view of the parking lot.

"No, Joker. Leave him alone. Don't get Dan involved in this." He watched warily as the Joker's eyebrow rose, as if to say Go on? He swallowed hard and kept talking. "Just let me go down there, check out the new engine, smile, pat him on the back, and send him home. He doesn't have to get involved." The Joker wrinkled his nose in what might have been disgust or contemplation.

"So, uh… you're giving me orders now, Billy Boy?" He stared at Billy until his eyes dropped, then he continued in his characteristic sing-song voice. "He showed up in your driveway, he's already involved. Plus… he has a sweet ride." The Joker moved Billy out of the way with his shoulder and leaned against the window, licking the corners of his scars. He was eyeing the Corvette hungrily, and for a moment Billy saw a tiny sliver of the ordinary guy that might exist under the costume. He raised an eyebrow.

"I never figured you for a motorhead, Boss." He watched as the Joker half-smiled without taking his gaze from the car.

"You never figured me for… a lot of things, Billy." The clown twisted his neck, popping it. "There's a little bit of a motorhead in every guy in America, if he's got enough testosterone to be worth anything." He went quiet for a few seconds, then his eyebrows furrowed. "I want that car, Billy. Your friend, too, if he wants to come along and drive, but I'll have the car with or without him." Billy cringed as the Joker stood up straight and fixed him with his gaze. "With him means he keeps his face intact. Let him know that little…um, factoid." For a moment, Billy hesitated, and the Joker raised his eyebrows, shooing him toward the door with a quasi-playful swish of his gloved hands. Billy's lip twitched as he considered refusing… and then he caught a glimpse of the picture of his Nana on top of the TV. He tossed his head to the left to get his bangs out of his eyes, then he slowly opened the door.

Billy's footsteps seemed to echo coldly off the concrete and metal of the balcony and steps as he hurried down to the parking lot. Dan's head was still bobbing to the song that had already gone off as he greeted his friend.

"BILLYYYYYY," he growled in imitation of some character Billy vaguely recalled from a movie. Billy approached him unhappily, hands in pockets.

"Hey, Dan. Get the car finished?"

"Aww, yeeeaaaahhhhh…" Dan replied, grinning with all the dopey pleasure of a Great Pyrenees showing his master a stick. He leaned over and drummed his fingers on the hood in a rapid rhythm. "Got her done last night…. Duuuuude, I was up all night with the radio on in the garage. I aired up the tires at like ….FOUR in the morning…. Auh… man, I'm just glad I didn't try to do anything while I was hammered... Dude, I came home from The Hangar last night and I could barely walk, let alone work on the car…!" His speech descended into a goofy laugh, and Billy shook his head. The Hangar was the plane and pilot themed bar not far from the garage where Dan worked on his vehicles, and Billy could imagine what would have happened to the Corvette if Dan had tried to work on her right away after getting home. The Hangar's "Jet Fuel" shots were legendary.

"She looks great, man…" he mumbled as he shifted from foot to foot. He was thinking rapidly. Maybe if he could look like they were making small talk, he could warn Dan off, Dan could drive away in a hurry, and he could tell the Joker that Dan had left before he could broach the subject of joining. It was dangerous, but it was worth a try. He scratched the back of his neck uneasily. "Listen, Dan, I—"

"Hey, you wanna take her for a ride? Aww, dude, we could take her out to the track next to the airfield!" Billy put out a hand to stop his friend's ramble.

"Dan, listen. I'm in something deep, and I don't want you in it too, so right now, I need you to get in that car and drive out of Gotham. Anywhere, I don't care right now. Just get yourself out of here. I'll explain later."

"Well crap," Dan murmured, his Midwestern accent getting thicker in his bewilderment. "Dude, I thought we were gonna take her out for a test drive when she was finished…. What kind of trouble are you in, man?"

"Just…" Billy struggled with how much he should tell him. Dan was only vaguely aware of Billy's old entanglements, and the less he knew, the better. "Let's just say, an old friend stopped by, and I'm trying to get rid of him before he ruins your life along with mine. So please, just—"

BANG! They both jumped and turned at the sound of the slamming door. Billy cursed under his breath. The Joker and Harley were strolling down from the second floor walkway; the girl had changed out of the red scrubs into a skin-tight red and black cat suit, complete with a matching jester hat that she was in the process of stuffing with her blonde hair. The Joker walked in front of her carrying a large bowl of Ramen noodles, which were steaming in the October breeze. He took the stairs nearly at a run, coming down sideways in a shuffle that resembled a little dance. Crossing the sidewalk in one long stride, he stopped just short of the Corvette's hood and began pulling a forkful of noodles up from the bowl, twirling them around the tines. Billy glanced over at Dan; the young man's blue eyes had gotten as big as saucers, and his prominent square jaw was completely slack. He began bouncing his knee nervously as he tapped Billy's elbow.

"Aw, man…. That's the Joker…" he whimpered, his accent getting even thicker, dragging out his vowels as his voice dropped. If he had been a dog, his tail would have been tucked between his legs. As it was, Billy could almost see his ears drooping. The Joker noticed too, because he was grinning from ear to ear, the scars stretching dramatically.

"Ah, you are correct, sir," he grumbled around a mouthful of Ramen. "Would you be the owner of this… gorgeous piece of machinery?" For a moment, Dan didn't reply. His jaw moved silently, and he continued to stare at the Joker in dumb shock. Billy elbowed him in the ribs.

"Oh, uh… hawh…" he stuttered. "Oh, yeah….um… I, uh, yeah, I restored it… that's a 1968 'Vette… I, uh… I fixed her up…." His voice trailed off into silence. In the quiet, the Joker's dark eyes fell on Billy and dug into him.

"Well, Billy Boy…. Aren't you going to introduce us? Have some manners… geez." He stuffed in another mouthful of noodles and waited expectantly. Billy sighed.

"Joker, this is Dan. Dan, this is the Joker. My former… former Boss." He looked up at Dan, who was rocking back and forth on his heels tensely. Dan shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and leaned over in Billy's direction.

"I thought you said you got out of that racket, man!" he whined in what he considered a whisper. Billy grabbed his hair in frustration.

"I did! He came back! He had my Nana strapped to a bomb, what was I supposed to do? If you hadn't shown up today, you wouldn't be in this mess with me!" He knew he was losing his whisper as well, but his emotions were finally catching up to him. Dan bobbed his head two or three times, as if hearing a song on an internal radio. Then he screwed up his face in a mask of frustration that was almost comical.

"Well crap, man, how was I supposed to know I couldn't come over because you had a psycho clown terrorist in your living room?"

"Umm, boys?" They both looked over to where Harley sat on the Corvette's hood. "We can hear you, ya know…" she simpered, and Dan reverted back to his tail-tucked-dog look under the Joker's painted gaze. Handing off the remaining noodles to Harley, the Joker straightened his coat lapels and cleared his throat importantly. He leaned over and put a heavy arm on Dan's shoulder.

"Here's the deal, uh… Dan? Is it Dan?" He nodded before Dan could reply and continued his spiel. "See, I'm a guy who appreciates a nice car. However, they aren't as easy to come by as the other things I appreciate… say, gasoline, or gunpowder. They're …how shall I put this… they're a rare item. You… have a nice car…. I… have an opening in my team of associates."

"Goons…" Billy ventured to correct. The Joker's eyebrows shot together angrily, and Billy held his gaze only for a moment before lowering his head. The Joker turned back to Dan.

"My… team of associates…. So… how would you, Dan, like to join that fine team?" He reached over and patted Dan's chest almost convivially, eyes round and open with mock innocence. Dan's mouth opened as if to reply, but the Joker reached up and tapped it shut with a purple leather clad finger. "Now I know you've probably got some prior commitments, but I think it would be in the best interest of you and this beauty of a car if you became a part of our little group. See, the Corvette is coming with me either way. With all the work you put into it, why not come along for the ride? Otherwise, we'll have to sign papers and shift ownership, and that takes …so… long… And I really don't think you'd want me to, uh… leave any… permanent… signatures… on your face… do you?" Dan stared at him for a moment, still slack jawed, before replying with a half hearted grunt. The Joker patted his cheek. "That's my boy, Danny." He took a long step toward the car's passenger side, this time humming "Danny Boy" under his breath. He looked over the car's roof at them as he opened the door. "Well, come on, people, get in! Dan, you're driving. Harl, you're in the back with Billy. If he can't keep his hands to himself, shoot him somewhere that isn't vital to survival." He climbed in, and the other three followed him, Harley trying to scoop the last of the noodles out of the bowl and the men staring at each other in numb silence. Finally, Dan seemed to come out of his coma.

"Humh…" he grunted. "Auh… where are we going? I dunno, I might have to gas up—"

"Don't know," the Joker said amiably as he rifled through the stack of CDs in the console. "Just drive. Now, let's see what you've got here…." As Dan turned the key and put the car in gear, the Joker pulled up a handful of CDs and began flipping through them. "Crap…" he announced, tossing the first disc over his shoulder into the floor at Billy's feet. "Crap… crap… crap… hmm, what's th— Oh, it's the re-release version. Crap… Crap…. Crap…." The clown sighed disgustedly and fixed Dan with a gaze of disapproval as they headed toward the street. "Really, Danny Boy? Not one good CD in the whole bunch?" He started to cross his arms petulantly; then Dan gave a turn signal before pointing to something on the dashboard. The Joker grinned widely. "Satellite radio?" Dan nodded, and he tilted his head sideways in a gesture Billy recognized as mild approval. "I knew you wouldn't let me down, Dan. You'd better watch out, Billy," he murmured, turning to look over his shoulder. "I might have a new favorite goon before long." Turning back around, he began punching numbers until the radio landed on a station playing '90s alt rock and grunge. "Now that's more like it," he grinned, leaning back against the headrest. Feeling less out of place, Dan began bobbing his head back and forth to the song on the radio, and they hit the freeway as the band hit the chorus.

"Yeah, everybody knows that the world is full of stupid people. / Well, I've got the pistols, so I get the pesos — yeah, that seems fair."