I really do love all the feedback for this, I'm really honored this is getting so well-liked. I appreciate everyone's input, and I appreciate everyone taking the time to even look at this fanfic. From here on, I'm going to have to explain that, psychologically and how they work, Cleveland and the Joker are two entirely different personality-entities. By no means is Cleveland fuzzy or warm, but he's certainly got a soul in there, somewhere. I have no clue where this idea came in, but if it seems out of character and I explain why, I'll kind of wreck the plot I have planned XD I'd rather not do that, though, so here's what's coming out of this. Harvey's mine, so is Cleave. I'm getting to like them both quite a bit. And trust me, I've got a good pile of crap planned for poor Harvey, this is only the beginning.

XxXxXxXxXxXx

It's like marching to a funeral. I take the repulsive, death-box of an elevator up to my floor and perpetually touch at my lips. It's taking a good chunk of time to banish away the feel of cold steel. The threat looms, and my paranoia forces me to wonder if he's not watching me persistently with every time I breathe. Why did the transvestite with a sense of humor…the…'Joker' get so badly under my skin?

Relax, Harvey, people can't watch you from around corners when there are no corners to watch from around.

..Did that statement just make any sense at all?

…Whatever.

The elevator whirrs open with a dull sound. Everything makes me flinch. Something, though, some strange thing about the transvestite with a sense of humor seems so familiar. Worst of all, it's familiar in a bad—

Pause. The flimsy lock on my door clicks, and I push it open. However, something doesn't feel quite right. I feel confused, and I slowly realize that the box I kept on my bed is…gone. There's a paper where it was, a tiny sheet that has an arrow sketched all over the front. I pick it up, and I wonder if it's laced with asbestos. Just like it says, I look up—

And I hate my life to the max.

The cardboard box, containing fuck only knows what, is stuck completely to the ceiling. The bottom, or the top (as if I'm thinking clearly) is duct-taped so copiously that I'm sure a whole roll must have been used. There's obvious weight bearing down on it, and I wonder by what risk I'll slit it open. There's visible globs of crazy glue dried around the edges, and suddenly all my paranoid fear melts into incredible anger.

But all I can do is stare.

Stare and listen to the suppressed peals of laughter exploding from next-door.

He's crazy-glued my valuables to the ceiling.

I expect myself to be enraged. Under normal circumstances I'd be vengeful, violent, hateful, and psychotic. In a typical situation I'd go bat-shit mad and rip it to pieces. I'd lose it, or at least scream.

In this second, however, I have no will in me left with which to scream. So I do the only thing any female would do under situations of great stress, hormones and frustration. I begin to cry. At first, it's a small sound, a whiny, quiet, and desperate. As it goes on it gets worse and worse, a high-pitched, nasal noise that busts into puppy-whimpers followed by great, horrible sobs. I don't know what to do, and in my panic the only thing I'm capable of is something reminiscent of a breakdown. My luck is like a vicious dog waiting for its chance to bite me in the ass.

"Surpri—" My next-door neighbor the funny man peeks in, but when he glances down at me his big, stupid grin seems to fall a little. My best guess is that he feels guilty, though I know it's not guilt. He's disappointed with me. He's disappointed with my behavior. Guys like him don't feel bad.

"Just please," I wheeze, in between sounds of harsh, strangling pain. I sound like a cat being asphyxiated, "Please fucking leave me alone."

Before I can even finish the sentence, the front door to my apartment shuts with a click and all I can see is his bare, pale back retreating.

I can only cry hysterically and glare up at the box that taunts me from the ceiling. I'm too short to reach, if I try to cut it open I'll break everything I own and only succeed in hurting myself. I'm living in a fuck-hole, I can't sleep because there's a blinding light in my window, I have no money to go anywhere else, my parents have no place to take me into anymore, my next-door neighbor is a complete psycho who's already making my life a living hell, there's a crazy guy in clown make-up pushing a blade into my face…

And all of this only succeeds in making me have an episode. It's been a day and a half (why do I consistently harp on this fact?) and already I'm having mental breakdowns.

How's that for 'Surprise!', fuck-face?

I suppose I can't unpack.

I can kill myself, though.

Who am I kidding?

"Ya know," There's a sudden, nasal tone I'm familiar with. I'm becoming too familiar with it, anyway, "I always wondered, since it takes heat to dry up crazy glue, what'd happen if you tried to paste something down in Antarctica? Would it stick?"

I just shrug. Cleveland or whoever-the-fuck-he-is grins at me, his arms awkwardly swaying at his sides. He creaks forward and back on the tips of his toes, then rocks on his heels. He needs to do something with his body, I suppose, all the time. He's a fidgety kind of guy. I don't know why I notice these things.

"I'd say it'll take a full-sized freezer to get that box down. Maybe Battsy's willing to help, I'm pretty sure his attitude could do the trick."

I'm confused.

Does he really feel bad?

I have no fucking clue about this guy.

"Ya know, you oughta smile more. 'Round you, with how you act, I'd figure right off the bat life's a funeral all the time. Ho, right off the bat!" He cackles to himself, but doesn't even move. I just glare from the middle of the floor, but it's not like I've stopped crying at all. "Maybe it's…uh...your attitude we should be dislodging that box with, Miss Tinkle."

Something sparks my nerve, but I ignore it. The way he just said 'uh' in the midst of that sentence is familiar, but I pass it off as déjà vu. Who am I kidding? It's nothing…