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Harley skipped through the door to the hideout, a canvas sack slung over one shoulder. "Ooooh, Puddin's gonna be so happy with me when he sees what I got 'im! He's been feelin' down eva since that fight, an' I know when my Mista J needs a li'l pick-me –up! Hey, Curly!" she called out to one of the goons "where's Mista J?"
'Curly', a large black youth with a bald head, pointed a shaky hand towards the torture chamber/breakfast nook. Harley smiled and bounced off "Thanks Curly! Ya should take some Pepto or somethin', ya look kinda queasy!"\
- - - - -
It's fair to say that Matt Chambers (now known as Laurel due to his lanky frame and bowler hat) was not a squeamish young man. Born in Metropolis' infamous Suicide Slums to one of the few white families, Matt had learned to fight at an early age. But the Slums are an equal opportunity killing field- anyone can play regardless of skin color. By the time he was thirteen, he was already a multiple murderer, having blooded himself in the areas many gang wars. By sixteen, he was a wanted man, a high profile criminal due to a robbery gone wrong- which meant it was time to leave Metropolis. When the city's hero moves faster than a speeding bullet and can see through walls, the wise felon is advised to skip town unless he's got powers.
He'd spent the next four years freelancing in a number of places- Star City, Central, even a brief stint in Europe working for Intergang. Every thug he'd ever worked with bragged about how tough his neighborhood was- whether that be the Corsican district of Marseilles or Hard Luck Row in Star City. He'd laughed at them all, and told them stories of the Slums that had made them keep quiet. But now he was seeing that Gotham bred a whole different kind of nasty- and vowed that, if he survived this job , he'd give the town a wide berth. About two states distance at all times seemed about right. If he survived.
'Laurel' had been chosen to be the Joker's audience - an official post that was normally filled by Harley Quinn. But whenever she was away, as now, Laurel had to fill in. Currently, his employer was playing Piñata with the luckless minion Harpo. Harpo, it seemed, had been unable to get the helicopter into the air in time to rendezvous with the Joker due to a lack of familiarity with that models controls- and now he was paying the price.
Harpo was hanging from the ceiling, suspended by a rope five feet off the ground. Both his arms and legs were tied together, leaving him in what is known among professional torturers as the Swan position- Laurel thought he looked a bit like the letter U. Below him, the Joker wandered, blindfolded, laughing and dizzy, taking random swipes with a Louisville Slugger. The crazed clown had already landed several solid hits, cracking a few ribs by the sound of it, but was quickly becoming bored with the whole game. He took another swing, connecting with the side of Harpo's left knee.
What truly impressed Laurel was that none of the hoods from Gotham seemed to think this was all that unusual. They had bound Harpo with a quickness and ease clearly born of experience, and then lost all interest in the proceedings, as though they'd seen it all before.
Whump! Another blow.
"MMMPH!" The ball-gag muffled Harpo's screams of pain and pleas for mercy, which Laurel was grateful for. This was bad enough already; he didn't need to hear the guy screaming. Just when he thought he could take no more, Harley came in and motioned for Laurel to take a break. He fled, renewing his pledge to avoid Gotham City like the plague.
"Hiya Puddin'! Whatcha doing'?" Harley giggled a bit at her inadvertent rhyme "Ooh! Piñata! Can I play, Puddin'? Pleasepleasepleaseplease PLEAASSSE?"
"Not much point, Harl, this guy's a little too tough for the ol' Slugger. Hmm… I know! Bring Daddy the other stick! HAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!"
"MMMPH! MMMMMMPH!!" Harpo had been dreading this. The 'Other stick' was a relatively slender piece of wood, about the width of a pool cue. It had no balance, no heft, no hitting power. What it did have however was a foot-and-a-half long machete blade affixed to the end. Harley dutifully handed it to her love, and gave him a spin. Joker stumbled around for a moment, then steadied himself and took a big swing at his former henchman.
The blade sunk into Harpo's abdomen just above the groin, and tore open his stomach. His shrieks muffled by the gag, all Harpo could do was watch as his intestines fell out of his body. It was the last sight of his life.
The Joker whipped off his blindfold "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA! Look at that, Harl! I win!"
"Yay Puddin'! Woohoo!" Harley cheered, applauding and whistling enthusiastically. Joker took a few stage bows, before straightening up and heading for the door.
"Have one of the boys clear that up, would you Harl? Oh and give the prizes to the hyenas; Bud and Lou could do with some fresh meat. Now, where were you? You took off right after the fight"
"Yeah Puddin'. I know ya felt a little down after those Titans turned out to be Try-an's, so I wanted ta getcha something nice . I know ya like models to help ya plot so I went to the toy store and gotcha something special!" She began to rummage through the canvas sack she'd carried with her "ah here it is! A complete set of Talking Titan Action Figures! Five plastic punks with their own individual catch phrases!"
The Joker smiled and patted his girl on the head. "Ah, Harley. I'd say you were too good to me, but we both know that's impossible. Let's open 'em up! " Harley handed over the bright red and black colored box, which the joker quickly tore open.
"Oooh! Looky looky Harley! I always wanted my own little Robin to play with… again. Let's see what he has to say for himself!" Pushing a button on the back of the toy, Joker roared with laughter when a tinny recorded voice shouted "Titan's GO!"
"Pffft, yeah right. Titan's GONE more like! Lets see if the others have more to say for themselves!"
A few minutes passed while the Joker tried out his new toys, mocking their catchphrases as he did so. Other goons wandered into the room, drawn by the noise, chuckling as their boss mocked the teen heroes who'd made their lives so difficult. Finally he came to the Beastboy figure. "Oh this oughta be good. I hear the little mutant thinks he's a comedian"
The Beastboy toy shouted out: "Dude I'm the King of Jokers!"
Total silence descended on the room.
- - - - - - - - -
Meanwhile at Titan's Tower, Robin sat at the main computer, logging in a report of the day's shameful defeat. Beside him, Batgirl reviewed the data, looking for weaknesses and errors. From the doorway he heard someone clear their throat and someone else cough. He turned to see his team standing in the entryway to the room, all looking somewhat ashamed. Cyborg (newly repaired following his battle with Cinderblock) stepped forward, apparently acting as group spokesman.
"rob, we wanted to talk to you about what happened out there today. We been talking and we realize that the reason we lost today was because none of us took the Joker seriously. Even after everything you said, we just wrote him off as some weirdo in a bad suit. Even me, I never thought he'd have serious muscle like Cinderblock workin' for him. I thought of him as small time, and I paid for it." Robin nodded at this. Cyborg had lost an arm to the granite monster, his left hand having been crushed in the battle. Fortunately, all his parts were modular and replaceable. "Point is, Robin, we know we messed up. We were arrogant, we were stupid, we were stubborn…and we're sorry."
"Very sorry" Starfire said, nodding vigorously.
"Sorrier than you can ever possibly know" droned Raven
"Yeah." Beastboy finished "So, now that that's out of the way, commence chewing our asses out."
Robin raised one eyebrow "I dunno, you guys seem to have done a pretty thorough job already. Not much I can really add. We'll up our training starting tomorrow, and me and Cassie will be up tonight making new strategies. Get some rest guys, we'll resume training tomorrow- prepare for pain."
"Oh. Joy." Raven said, before Beastboy grabbed her hand and yanked her from the room, headed for the kitchen.
"C'mon Rae let's go, I got a good feeling about tonight." The changeling exclaimed s he went to prepare a picnic supper.
- - - - - -
There are any number of urban legends surrounding the Rogues of Gotham. They say that the Riddler is incapable of answering a question without using riddles, that the Penguin is an Orinthophile, that Harvey Dent dyes his hair (but Two-Face is all natural). These rumors rise in popularity, then fall into obscurity, as the public tries desperately to understand the monsters Hell has unleashed upon them.
One of the more persistent rumors states that the Joker's face is stuck in a permanent toothy grin- that he is incapable of altering his expression. This is plain nonsense to anyone who gives it a moment's thought-if it was true, how would he be able to speak? Yet despite all common sense, the rumor persists.
If anyone were to see the Joker's face as he held the Beastboy Talking Titan, that rumor would be put to rest, for the Joker's face was contorted into a hideous snarl of pure rage. He triggered the toy again.
"Dude I'm the King of Jokers!". Again. "Dude I'm the King of Jokers!". The Joker clenched his fist with such force that the toy shattered. Plastic arms and legs rained onto the floor.
"P-P-Puddin'?" Harley simpered, more frightened now than she'd been in…well, at least a couple of months. "are y- OOMF!!" The Joker drove his fist straight into Harley's gut. He followed that up with a kick in the chest that sent the hapless Harlequin sliding across the floor into the opposite wall. The thugs took this cue to flee as the Joker, heedless, began to deliver a savage beating to his moll. He punched, he kicked, he headbutted, and he threw her around like a ragdoll. He made no sound, nor screams of rage or maniacal laughter, so much as a grunt. That was what really frightened the thugs in the next room. They'd never heard the Joker so quiet- all they could hear were Harley's cries of pain and the sound of the blows.
All the while Harley kept thinking about her poor, ill-treated Puddin'. He'd worked so hard to establish himself in the world, make a name for himself as a criminal legend, and some green punk just starts claiming to be King of Jokers. 'Nossir,' she reflected after a particularly vicious body blow 'the world is never fair to Mista J'
As suddenly as he'd begun the Joker stopped his attack. Straightening his clothing, he turned away from his brutalized gal pal. "But perhaps I've been too harsh on you, Harley. No matter how abysmally stupid bringing that abomination here was (and it was, it really really was) you didn't make the thing. Nor does all the blame rest with the toymakers, though they'll get their punishment too in time. No, the REAL villain here (apart from me) is the noisome brat who declared himself MY king!" Casting his gaze down at the floor, he saw the fallen green head from the toy. He carefully crushed it underfoot, grinding his heel to be sure he obliterated it totally.
"HAR-LEY! Clean yourself up and then meet me upstairs! I have plotting to do!"
"S-Sure thing Puddin'" Harley said, blood trickling from her nose.
A/N
Dunh-dunh-dunh-dunh-dunh-DUNH!