Ethereal Nonsense
Issue #2: The First Date
And there was a bang.
And another.
And still another.
After the fourth, he finally awoke, sneering at the alarm clock which was blaring in time with the knocking at his door.
"Puddin-Pie, it's time to wakey-wakey!"
He pulled the blanket over his head and rolled over, facing the wall instead of the light that streamed through the open door. He felt an arm slip around his waist and someone's lips tickle at his ear. The Prince pulled away again, groaning in response to the unwelcomed affection.
"Mister J," she shook his shoulder, trying to rouse him from his slumber, "It's time to get up. There's crime to be afoot!"
"Bats only come out at night," he replied, tugging away from the girl, but finally turning over to face her. He was somewhat surprised at her slim and fetching harlequin appearance. Her tight black and red suit was strikingly familiar, yet unknown to him all the same. Whoever she was, she seemed okay enough. At least she had her head on straight; crime was indeed afoot. Someone had robbed him of his iconic purple suit and dumped him in some alien apartment with no memory of when, how, or why.
"But Puuud-ding," she pouted, sticking out her glossy, crimsoned bottom lip, emanating a sort of childish innocence, "It's time to get up."
"Aaaaaalright," he sighed and checked under the blanket to see exactly what he was wearing. Silky violet pants clothed his bottom half, while his torso was left bare. "Where's my suit… pudding?"
"Mister J," she happily cried, throwing her arms around his neck, "You called me Puddin'!"
"Where's my suit?" he repeated, shrugging her arms from his shoulders, "That's a million-dollar stitch job. Cheap, yes; easy to get, no."
"I just got it dry-cleaned," she pointed to a chair over which a plastic-wrapped purple pantsuit was draped, "You had a few bloodstains on it."
The Prince of Pranks stood up warily, running his fingers through his oily hair and licking his bottom lip; more out of habit that apprehension, however. He approached the chair and reached for the suit. The plastic fell away as he lifted it all up on the hanger and sniffed.
"Whose blood?" he looked over at the young woman curled up on the bed, cocking an eyebrow. He slowly began dressing while awaiting the answer.
She sat up slowly and stretched, leisurely conjuring up the counter to the question. "Bruce something-or-other. You said he killed your dad or someone. The spatter was a bit tacky, and I thought you might like the old sweat stains taken out too."
"I never did like my father," he mumbled as he buttoned the pale-purple shirt and green vest, "Drunken fiend. Murderer. Terrible cook. Couldn't take a joke to save his life…"
"I thought he was the guy who saved this city from hell," she commented, striding toward him, "Didn't he build that train and Wayne tower?"
"No, no, no," the Joker shook his head and began fumbling with his tie, which he had quite suddenly forgotten how to tie, "That's the Wayne family, hence the name. I'm not… Bruce? As in Bruce Wayne. I killed Bruce Wayne because he killed my father… who was actually a fiend; not the glorious guy you're talking about… And Bruce Wayne is Batman… but I wouldn't kill Batman, because Batman is my other half; he completes me; he's just too much fun to kill… and… Who are you in all of this?"
"Mister J, are you okay?" she had finished knotting the tie and brushed the straggly hair away from his face, "Can you even hear me?"
"Who are you?!" he shouted at her, his hands raised skyward, as though begging the question of God himself.
"You really don't recognize your Harley Quinn? Puddin', don't you remember me?"
"What is wrong with this city?" he demanded, suddenly grasping her wrists and jerking her closer, "Yesterday it was you and Bruce Wayne… no. Bruce Pennyworth… claiming I was Batman's brother. Now I'm the son of this city's savior… and you're Harley Quinn? Explains the suit, but why are you here? What is happening to me?!"
Arkham Asylum
8:30 pm
"I don't know if you can hear me," Dr. Quinzel leaned over the sedated man, whispering softly to him, "I just wanted to introduce myself. Not sure how effective this will be, but I thought I would get it out of the way before we begin our sessions. I'm Doctor Harleen Quinzel. You're in Arkham Asylum and you've been badly injured. You fell a considerable distance and managed to come away with just a few broken bones, as opposed to a quite certain death. Your spine was fractured, so you'll be off your feet for a while. I guess that doesn't really matter, though," she paused and considered her words carefully, just in case her previously painted patient could really hear her, "You're under heavy medication, so you should be okay until everything heals. We've got the best medical team calling the shots, so you will definitely--"
"Miss Quinzel, what are you doing?" a nurse approached her slowly, her arms folded and a placid smile plastered on her face, "He can't hear you dear."
"I read that people can sometimes hear what you say when they're out," she countered, "I think he might be able to."
"Your breath to waste, I guess," the nurse sighed and left the room, shaking her head.
Harleen reached for his hand, ever so hesitantly wrapping her manicured fingers around his. "You're going to be okay. I promise."
"You're gonna be okay, Mister J," Harley Quinn assured him again, clutching his hand, "I promise."
"I need ten million dollars, a machine gun, four large knives, and a nuclear warhead aimed at Wayne Tower," he stated sternly after pulling his hand out of her grasp; he continued stalking down the alley between the Gotham Theatre and the abandoned apartment building beside it. "You've got one hour."
"I'll see what I can do, Puddin'," she hugged him quickly before skipping back down the alley in the opposite direction, humming some little tune.
"Something is very, very wrong," the Prince of Pranks, the Thin White Duke of Death, the Joker once again concluded, licking at his freshly painted lips.
Disclaimer: Batman and all related themes and characters are the property of DC Comics. I will not claim ownership (no matter how much I would love to) of any of the characters, especially the Joker and the associated Heath Ledger (RIP).
end transmission
