Chapter 3
The weekend came and went, though for Harley it had creeped by like a slug in a rain storm. She'd done everything she could to keep her mind busy from simply watching the seconds tick by until she'd get to see her husband again. She'd been through three packs of cigarettes, two coloring books, and had offed at least half a dozen henchmen, simply from boredom. But finally, the day was here and as she lifted her arms for the security guards to frisk her, she had to bite her lip to keep herself from giggling with glee.
The buzzer sounded and the locked, armored door creaked open to reveal the bleak, grey walls of the initial interview room. Their first session would be closely guarded, given The Joker's current outbursts. The steel table and chairs were bolted to the concrete floor, and there he sat in his straight jacket and shackles: his green hair was disheveled in his face, his face gaunt from a lack of food, his lips cracked and pale, his one eye blue and green from bruising and swollen shut, the other blood shot, darkened, and cloudy. It took everything in Harley's power not to weep at his condition.
She sat down gingerly across from him, taking care not to startle him in this state. She laid out her notes and got a pen ready to start writing, keeping her eyes trained on the fallen clown king before her. Once the door slammed shut and locked behind her, she reached out to touch his face.
"What the hell have they done to you?" she whispered frantically, trying to hide how much her voice was shaking. These sessions were not recorded or monitored due to patient confidentiality, but she didn't want the guards outside to hear her either.
The Joker moved his face away and a grin cracked across his face, but not like she'd seen in a long time. He looked maddened, furious, like a caged wild animal ready to attack at the first chance he got.
"Easy now doctor," the word clung to his breath in a mocking tone, "I am married, after all. Not that you care. The opportunity to speak with The Clown Prince of Crime. I'm sure you're just looking for your claim to fame hm? What school did you graduate from hm, doctor? Which cereal box did your PIECE OF SHIT DIPOLMA COME FROM?!"
He had no idea who she was, no idea that his wife was even sitting in front of him. Anger bubbled in her stomach. They must have given him enough sedatives and anti-psychotics to knock down a bull elephant. And given The Joker's ability to metabolize toxins, all it was doing was tearing through his metabolism with enough force to give his psyche whiplash.
Harley stood and walked over to the emergency button and slammed her fist into it, bruising her knuckles, but she was beyond caring. The guards rushed in, rifles pointed at the clown, but they paused and looked back to 'Dr. Clawson' in confusion.
"I want Dr. Newman in here. NOW."
"Dr. Newman's at lunch, Dr. Clawson," the guard replied, keeping his gun trained on the Joker as his laughter began to fill the room.
"Wow Doc I think that's a world record! The shortest session I've ever had in the history of my stays here at Chateau Arkham!" he cackled. "Where'd they find this one? Must be slim pickings out there!"
"Did I stutter?" she asked the guard. "I want him to see exactly how his patients are being treated. Now go grab him before I do!" One of the guards marched away while the other stayed with 'Rebecca' to protect her, which was almost laughable in of itself. A few moments later, Dr. Newman raced in, huffing and out of breath.
"Dr. Clawson, what is the meaning of this?" he panted.
"Dr. Newman, I apologize for the inconvenience but I thought you would want to be informed as to just how your patients are being treated. This man has been beaten, starved, and is drugged beyond belief – explain to me how I'm supposed to treat a man's mind when you're clouding it beyond recognition of what is even happening around him?" Harley struggled to keep her accent under wraps as her temper rose.
"Dr. Clawson, this was my order for your own protection."
"Protection?" she echoed. "Have you not even read his file?" And awkward silence filled the room – apparently the answer was no. Harley sighed in frustration before continuing. "The Joker's ability to metabolize nearly any toxin makes sedatives and the like have the opposite pharmacological effect." Even The Joker had stopped laughing at this point, his eyes trained on Dr. Clawson as though he were trying to peer through a fog.
"You seem familiar…did I buy girl scout cookies from your troop last summer?" J asked her. She mentally thanked her husband for further proving her point.
"My apologies, Doctor," Newman replied, shamefully shuffling his feet. "From now on I'll entrust all aspects of The Joker's recovery with you solely - save for a few safety protocols."
Bingo.
"Thank you, Dr. Newman." Harley looked to the guards now. "I want him taken to a private room in the infirmary at once. Tell the nurse I want IV fluids and a glucose drip on this patient at shock doses." They hesitated, but did as she asked. "I'll be right behind you," she called after them, her tone nearly threatening.
Her plan for The Joker's escape would need to be tweaked now, but every staff member in here would feel the wrath of a woman scorned.