Jokingly Ever After

Chapter 7: Just A Joker


"So how was work, Puddin'?" Harley cooed, playing with his hair and sitting on his lap as he finished the meal of cooked fish she'd made him.

"Lousy," he grumbled, taking a swig of iced tea, "You'll never believe the news I heard!" he frowned.

"What is it?" she said, frowning too.

"Seems Gotham's really trying to 'put an end' to me and my legacy," he sighed, "They've taken almost everything I've done to this town. Every hideout and smile I've placed upon this city has been cleaned up and wiped out, savor my destruction of the South Harbor..." he smirked.

"Actually, Puddin,'" Harley swallowed, "Remember how I caught the fish?"

"So! They still had the smiles on them, didn't they?"

She grimaced. "Er...Well..."

"Oh that's just great! Fantastic!" he said, throwing up his arms, "Guess there really ain't a whole lotta' me left here after all." Joker looked to the floor.

"There will be, Puddin'! As soon as we get the plan rollin'..." she paused, knowing it best not to rush or pester him, slowly petting his head.

"They took down the Ace Chemical Facility..." he sighed, "After all of those years of being the birthplace of my name! Now it's just doomed to the memory of a few, last, rotting old hags still left limping their way throughout Gotham..."

"They'll remember," she thought.

Joker pushed the empty plate away and tossed his elbow onto the table, resting his cheek on his right hand. "I was just a young buck when I first fell into that vat of chemicals…"

"You're not that old now, Puddin'!" Harley said.

He smiled. "Well, thanks to my careful planning, we both came back into being right around the time of our mid-twenties to early-thirties!" Joker pursed his lips. "I don't have any direct dates…Never could get ahold of the birth records for our two victims." He frowned again. "But that's not what I meant, Pooh! I was just cutting my teeth back then, for the first time, as a solo man, the one in charge!"


(Flashback)

A man with a black mustache, grey suit, purple tie, and matching grey fedora with a violet band around the middle stands behind a cherry wood desk. He pours a bottle of scotch whiskey into two shallow-bottomed glasses filled with ice as a lit cigarette hangs from his mouth. On the desk sits a brown ash tray, black telephone, two stacks of money, and a golden, metal lamp with a green shade. The room is dark, with the windows directly behind the desk blocked out by a drawn down set of charcoal-colored blinds. In front of the desk is a wooden door with similar blinds pulled down over the window, and two men in matching black suits and hats standing on opposite sides of it. To the left of the desk is a tan armchair, where a man in a brown suit, fedora, black shoes, and tan gloves sits sharpening a six inch Bowie knife with a small white stone.

"That was some nice work on the Beaumont Job," the man with the mustache says, handing one of the glasses to the one in the chair, "How hard was it to track him down?" he asks, leaning back against the desk.

The man in the chair looks up from his knife, smiling evilly. "Well you know, Sal, those Americans stick out like a big sore red thumb over there!"

"So he was hiding where Reeves said he was?" Sal says, taking a sip of whiskey.

"Right down to the cozy little hotel room window," the man in the chair smirks. He looks to the glass of scotch and swishes the contents around with the twirl of his hand, pursing his lips.

"Good, good. So how'd ya do it?" Sal asks.

"I used the single action .30-06 rifle," the main replies, "A quick shot under the chin as he stepped out onto the balcony from a little hiding spot over the seawall. Then it was 'oops' with the gun into the water and back on a plane to America right in time for supper," he grins.

"You got rid of the gun?" Sal says, standing straight up and widening his eyes.

"It was evidence!" the man says, trying to look embarrassed, "How was going to sneak a thing like that onto the plane!"

"You always get ridda' your guns!" Sal says, setting the glass down and throwing his arms in the air, "Even the knives!" he yells, motioning towards the Bowie blade. "Those things cost money, you know! And every time you go on killing somebody, we lose another weapon!"

"You also lose a pain in your ass and a worry over your shoulder with the death of another 'problem,'" the man cuts in.

Sal frowns and walks around the desk. He sits down and looks at the stacks of money, putting one away. "Three hundred," he says, tossing the one stack to the far end of the desk.

The man in the chair leans forward, dropping his jaw. "Three hundred! That'll barely cover the peanuts I ate on the flight!"

"I've gotta' make up for my loses somewhere, Jack," Sal says, "And you wasting weapons isn't gonna' help this organization grow."

"That gun didn't cost nearly what you've just deducted from the pay you quoted me for!" Jack says, standing up. He approaches Sal's desk and slams the knife down into the surface. "Don't try to screw me over, Sal!"

Sal looks up at him, then frowns. "Ya see now? That's one more thing I'm gonna have to pay for!" he says, motioning towards the knife.

Jack growls and pulls up the knife. He spins it around in his hand and leans forward, pressing it up against Sal's neck. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

Sal swallows hard and stares wide-eyed at the blade.

"Ya know, Sal, you're a real pain…calling me your best hit-man ever, and then treating me like absolute crap. Maybe I'll just take over and call my own shots from now on," Jack says, inching closer, "After one last hit, that is," he chuckles. There is the familiar sound of rounds being chambered behind him. "Ah, so that's the way it's gonna' be," Jack whispers, "Fine," he says throwing Sal back into his chair. Jack tosses up the knife and tucks it into his coat pocket. "Well consider yourself out one good hit-man!" Jack says, strolling towards the exit, "And I do hope you enjoy your stay at the top while it lasts!" he says, opening the door. He grins maliciously as he turns back to Sal. "Because if there's one thing I'm going to make certain, it's that I'll be the one who gets 'the last laugh'! Hahaha!" he says, slamming the door shut.

(End Flashback)


"Of course I did get the 'last laugh' on the greedy old man. You know that story, but that wouldn't come for some good years later. First came the trials and torment of attempting to establish a name for myself!" Joker said.


(Flashback)

A heavyset man in a light grey suit and matching hat waves his arms in the air as he stands in front of a small, cream-colored, metal desk with a fake wooden top. Behind him stand four more men in suits and hats of various shades of blue and grey. The other men stand, some arms folded, some scratching their heads, watching as the heavyset man runs his mouth at the person behind the desk, Jack. There is a cold, concrete floor and far flung white walls with bits of newspaper tacked about them. Most of the room is covered in darkness, savor a single hanging light bulb that shines down on the heavyset man in the middle of the floor. Jack sits back with his shiny black shoes propped up on the desk, his torso and face out of the light and concealed in the shadows, eyes floating.

"And I don't know who you think you are, Bud," the heavyset man says, "but this ain't like the boy scouts! You can't just decide to 'rank up' and start your own troop and expect everyone to just follow suit! You need drive, commitment, a plan! Money! And quite frankly, you ain't got much of a plan or money...In fact, your plan don't even make a whole lotta' sense..."

"What are you saying, Bernando?" Jack whispers darkly.

"I'm saying that there ain't no way this plan is gonna' work or that I'm gonna' be a part of it! This whole thing is just a sham! A joke! And I'm not being a part of no joke!" Bernando replies.

"But Bernando..." Jack whispers, lowering his gaze, "You're already the punch-line..." There is a flash of light in the darkness beside his eyes as Jack fires a round straight through Bernando's head. The heavyset man lurches slightly back upon impact and then falls forward, collapsing to the floor. Jack's teeth flash in the shadows, reflecting bits of light as he grins. A silver muzzle dips into the bulb's rays as he lowers the smoking handgun.

"Ah-" one of the other men gasps. The four remaining individuals stare in shock at the blood splattered wildly about the hole in the far wall.

Jack smirks as he takes in their terrified expressions. "I call that 'cutting my losses," he chuckles, "So, would anyone else like to throw in their two sense or are we good to go?"


A few days later, Jack is recovering from his accident at the Ace Chemical Plant. He walks down a dimly-lit hallway with dusty brick walls and a concrete floor in his old hideout. Jack turns left into a small bathroom with a white tiled floor and lime-green painted walls. Putting his hands on a white porcelain sink, he gazes at his reflection in a mirror, grimacing. "I look like a circus freak! A clown!" he thinks. Jack lowers his head and slowly raises his eyes back to the mirror, gritting his teeth. He punches the mirror, sending a spider-web of cracks out from a center crater. As he looks at his heavily-breathing reflection, the corners of his mouth begin to jerk upward. Grinning now, Jack begins to laugh. "HA-Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaaa a!" he laughs, rearing back and closing his eyes as he grips the sink. "So I'm a 'joke' am I?" Jack says, grinning maliciously from ear to ear and lowering his gaze, "I guess we'll just have to see how much of a 'joker' I can be..."


An explosion bursts through the windows of a grey building with cobblestone walls and a black sign with white lettering that reads, "Gotham First National Bank." Glass and shrapnel fly out in every direction, as a crowd of terrified pedestrians scrambles for cover behind rows of automobiles parked on the opposite side of the road. In front of the blast, four armed robbers with sub-machine guns run into the street carrying bags of money. The men wear matching grey suits and hats, black shoes, and also sport clown masks over each of their faces. They make fast for an unmarked white van and speed off. Jack, wearing a purple suit and matching violet fedora, drives the getaway car. He takes the gang down to a section of road that meets with Gotham's South Harbor boardwalk.

"Wait here," Jack says, parking the car and grabbing one of the machine guns, "I'm going to set a little trap for our 'law-enforcing' companions in blue!" he chuckles. The men nod as Jack jumps from the van and runs to hide behind a dark green trash compactor sitting in front of a wooden warehouse several yards away. Within minutes, the sound of police sirens can be heard echoing in the distance. The noise grows as three squad cars race down the street and come to a halt just a few feet from the van.

"Get out of the car!" one of the officers yells, holding up a pistol. All four masked men emerge from the vehicle with their hands in the air. As they line up in front of the van, five other officers approach slowly, some holding shotguns, some holding assault rifles. "Keep your hands up!" the first officer shouts.

Jack jumps out from behind the compactor, holding a small, grey, metallic box in his left hand. "Yoo-hoo! I think there's been a mistake!" he yells, "This isn't a robbery," he begins, as the cops turn their guns to him, "It's just a JOKE!" Jack takes his right fist and punches the single button on the remote, detonating a hidden bomb placed on the van's gas tank. The vehicle erupts with a deafening sound as Jack ducks behind the trash compactor. A shockwave ripples through the ground as an immense fireball climbs skyward. Within seconds, bits of shrapnel, clothing, and more come raining down overhead. Jack hides behind the compactor, spying the approach of another vehicle. As the dust and debris settles, Jack stands up and begins coughing. The coughs soon turn to snickers, and then into all-out gut-wrenching laughter. "Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!" A black and white news van drives up the street and parks a few feet away. Jumping from his hiding place, Jack takes the machine gun and sprays the crew with bullets, killing the driver and reporter swiftly. He then approaches the side of the car with the gun. In the rear of the cab, a camera man sits shaking. "Get out of the car!" Jack yells. The man obliges quickly and leaps from the van. "Now grab the camera and turn it on!"

"Y-Yes Sir!" the camera man replies, picking up his equipment. He mounts the camera on his shoulder and does his best to steady it as he begins recording. "W-we're on!"

Jack smiles into the lens, flames from the destruction dancing in the background. "Greetings Gotham! You may be wondering what happened to our little friends in blue back there..." he says, frowning briefly, and then smiling once again, "Seems they didn't understand my sense of humor! Haha! You see, folks, I've grown tired of watching the same old crime rings play the same old game over and over again. So I thought to myself, 'I think it's time we play a new game! One with lots of laughs!' Haha! And so without further delay I give you this!" he says, motioning towards the heap of burning car frames, "Complete and total, whimsical chaos, with no rhyme or reason whatsoever but to let lose and have fun..." Jack grins maliciously, "It's time this city really saw what a demented mind is capable of! So get ready, Gotham, because there'll be a lot more unpredictable mayhem in the days and months to follow! Brought to you by yours truly, the Clown Prince of Crime himself! The one, the only...Joker..." Jack says, darkly lowering his voice. Joker throws his head back and begins building up a hearty laugh. "Hahahahahahahahahaaa!" His moment is quickly cut short by a kick to the face by a black boot.

Joker tumbles and rolls across the ground, losing the gun and landing face-down. As he picks himself up and turns around, he finds Batman standing overhead. "You again!" he growls.

"It's over," Batman says.

Joker smirks. "Oh is it?" he chuckles, "Funny...I think things are just beginning!" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a taser. As he lurches forward, Batman kicks it out of his hand and sends him crashing to the pavement again with a hard punch to the face. Joker groans as Batman grabs him by the collar and lifts him. "It's not over," he says, wincing slightly, "I'll only get better...And you'll only get weaker...In time, you'll come to be the butt of my jokes just like everyone else," he chuckles.

"We'll see about that," Batman replies.

"Oh, yes we will," Joker snickers, "Yes we will..."

(End Flashback)


"Ah...I can remember it like it was yesterday...and it's been all those years ago," Joker sighed, "I spent a lot of time and effort making a name for myself..." he looked down at the table, "Now it's all just...fading away..."

"Come on, Puddin'! What about that Jokerz-"

"A bunch of bratty kids isn't exactly the legacy I had in mind Harley," he frowned.

"I know," she said, looking down, "But you're gonna do great things, Puddin' ...Ya always do," Harley stopped, chocking back a sudden rush of tears.

He looked up at her, smiling. "What's wrong, Pooh?" he whispered.

"Nothin'!" she said softly, "I just...don't think ya give yourself enough credit sometimes..." Harley swallowed hard, "You're the only man I've eva' known who could turn anything he does into...Everything ya do is huge! It's special! It's...fun! There ain't no other man in history...who..." she looked at the floor, pausing, "Eh, whaddya care what I say...I'm just a dumb ol' broad who fell for ya...Pretty madly though," she whispered, looking up and smiling.

"Harley," he said, smiling back. Joker traced circles on the table with his finger. "Why do you think I brought you back?"

"Oh, geez, Mistah J..." she swallowed.

"Come on," he teased.

"I can't!" she shuddered.

"Why not?" he pouted.

"'Cause what if it's not true!" she said, looking at him with big, blue, wet eyes.

"Try me," he smiled.

Harley removed her right arm from its place draped around his neck and rubbed her left shoulder, looking down. "I guess I just wanted to make an impact on your life ...that's all," she quivered, "I ain't a whole lotta' great things, but..."

"Go on," he whispered.

Her eyes filled up and began to overflow. "Just a stupid part'a me that wants ta be loved..." she said, suddenly shaking her head, "But I know that's not what ya do! I know!" Harley stared at the floor. "If I end up the butt'a one'a your next jokes...that's fine...At least we had-...At least I had...this-"

Joker placed a finger over her lips and smiled. "No joke at all Harley," he whispered.

She began to breath rapidly, shaking.

"Honey!" he pouted.

"I know! I know! I know!" she swallowed, eyeing the floor intently, "Dammit I love you," she breathed, tearing up.

"Harley," he frowned, "Now, you're going to have to stop before you give me that condition!" Joker reached up and wiped a single tear that had formed in the corner of his right eye. He looked at the wet knuckle that had touched it, then slowly back at Harley, who stared at him. "Heh," he laughed, "I don't do that often!"

Her voiced dropped low and rattled slightly as she looked to the floor, "Maybe, if it's a joke."

"Pooh!" he said, grabbing her shoulders. He stared directly into her eyes, his expression completely flat, focused on the gaze that he held with her.

As she looked into his eyes, she saw the pools of water dancing inside, the wetness welling, and from all the years knew that he was not faking. His orbs shimmered and moved with the tiny bits of light that met with them coming from a small source in the kitchen.

He bit his lower lip and squinted, looking away. "I'm sorry it's taken' me..." he breathed, "over forty-seven years..." Joker paused, then looked up. "Don't expect to here that often!" he said, the depth suddenly resurging in his voice.

Harley's body shook again as her mouth began to quiver. A small gasp escaped her lips, "Oh, Puddin'!" she said, throwing her arms around him.

Joker embraced Harley tight and closed his eyes.

Harley did the same. She knew it was rare, but she was sure he did care, and regardless of how often such moments would come, nothing could take away from the feelings right there. Harley rested her forehead against his, staring into his eyes.

He looked up at her, motionless. It wasn't something he was used to, an attraction like this. Yet for all the years and the planning, the jokes and the schemes, he was only now realizing the depth of this bond. Still, for him, in that moment, it was easy to grasp, he had his support, his woman, his anchor, and she was right where she needed to be. He smiled and held her, close and warm, petting her head as she lay in his arms.

She leaned in and kissed him, then whispered, leaning back into his body and breathing a heavy sigh as a tear rolled gently along her wet cheek, "Thank you."


Harley sighed, curling up in a ball on the middle of the couch, a pink blanket draped over her body.

"Thanks for listening to the bulk of my story...Get some sleep, Pooh," he said, patting her head, "Daddy's got work to do..."


So, was that last part just a dream? Only one way to find out, STAY TUNED!


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STAY TUNED for Chapter 8: Hectic Humor...Coming VERY, VERY SOON! (Progress Updates on my profile!)