Edward Nygma had not laughed this much since he had seen that one man stumble over the ten thousand-dollar question on 'Family Feud'.

When asked the question in the final round, 'name a type of ache', the poor man had been so caught in the head lights that he answered, completely bewildered, "Fillet of fish?"

Eddie had nearly given himself a heart attack laughing when the man's brother had answered something equally stupid that involved fish. Eddie of course knew that acetylcholinesterase (or AchE to it's friends - if it had any - and scientists) WAS in fact relevant to fish. In a recent study of the effect materials dumped in the ocean had on fish, the lower brain acetylcholinesterase activity was monitored to try and come to some form of conclusion.

Eddie did not for one moment think the men on the gameshow were clever enough to realise this tenuous link and had bungled it in the spotlight (missing out on the money simply by failing to realise the best answers would have been 'stomach' or 'head'). He laughed because of the acute irony of the situation and in triumph at his own intelligence in recognising it in the first place.

The reason he laughed at us that fateful evening in The Iceberg Lounge was that we had just got to the Disco Dent part of our account of just why we hadn't been in The Lounge much recently.

So much for our supportive friend Eddie.

We swirled the Jacks and Coke that Sly had sympathetically placed in front of us, watching the ice cubes bob beneath the dark surface. We slammed it down on the bar irritably.

"It's not that funny Eddie!" we spat.

He tried to control himself, wiping tears from his eye. "Whew. You're right Harv. You prancing in here like some kind of seventies icon is in fact. . . not. . . the funniest thing I've ever heard!"

And he was off again.

We sighed, and wondered over to the Iceberg's pool table. After fumbling around in our breast pocket for a dollar coin (no, the irony isn't lost on us either) which we needed to work the table, we found one and shoved it viciously into the slot. The balls were released and rumbled down to the little holding area. We began to rack up.

We struck the cue ball with such force that when it cannoned into the pack it sounded like a pistol shot. We noticed out of the corner of our eye some of the lesser known rogues ('gimmick less newbies' Twoface savagely thought) had dived under their tables. The red and yellow balls scattered like people within smelling range of Huge Strange.

Eddie appeared beside us, taking the second cue uninvited, and lined himself up for a shot. His expert shot guided a red ball smoothly into the pocket.

"I don't know what you're worrying about Harv." Eddie said, lining himself up a second shot. "Maybe you just haven't found yourself the right woman yet?"

"Maybe I have." We spat bitterly. "Maybe we let her slip through our fingers like so much sand. Just like the sands of time, ebbing away."

Eddie miscued violently, his shot missing a red altogether.

"Whoa." Eddie said. "Easy cow boy. Don't talk like that Harvey. We both know it's not true."

"Do we?"

"Sure. Maybe your past relationships weren't meant to be? Know what I mean? Perhaps your being saved for greater things."

We snorted bitterly.

"You may have a point there. I mean, the big guy upstairs sure does owe me some luck for that whole 'acid in the face resulting in a life of crime' thing. And what about Gilda - you forget about her? You're lucky. We can't."

Scratching his brow, Eddie looked at us with concern. We slammed the cue into the white ball, sending it cannoning into some yellows. One leapt off the baize, landing on a nearby table.

We went to retrieve it. KGBeast glared menacingly at us and then down at his Goulash soup, which had a yellow ball floating in it. As he glared up at us again, we noticed the flying soup had spattered his clothes.

"What the fuck are looking at, comrade?" we spat at him. Beast's glare deepened, until suddenly his face broke into a smile and a hearty laugh.

"You are funny little man friend Dent. Beast like your jokes and will not be ripping out little man's spleen. You are lucky yes?"

We were about to reply that his breath was a fate worse than having our spleen ripped out when we felt an insistent tug at our elbow.

Eddie lead us back over to the Pool table (we were still snarling like an angry poodle at Beast's laughter). We noticed as he handed us a cue that there were suddenly two shot glasses full of liquid that smelt suspiciously like tequila on a nearby coffee table (that had not been there when we went over to Beast), along with two slices of lime and two small piles of salt.

"Well that's what we're having, what are you having? After all, we got this two fetish thing going on. . ." Eddie wisely ignored our bad tempered jibes and spoke excitedly.

"You ever played Crazy Golf?"

"No - why, what have you heard?" we said sarcastically, as if he had accused us of robbing Gemini Jewellers again. He ignored this too. We think he picked up that trick from Selina. The two of them handle me like dog trainers. A slightly rough dog trainer in Selina's case, it must be said.

"Well, this is a little game I like to call Crazy Pool!"

We clapped our hands together in mock excitement.

"That's great Eddie, because all the paint I was watching has finally dried - I mean, I could go watch grass grow, but I could probably free time in my busy schedule for Cah-razy Pool!"

"Aaw come on Harv! Tequila - it makes me happy. It will probably work for you as well!"

"Was that song being used in the sentence as a really poor excuse for humour Eddie?"

"Guilty as charged your honour."

***********

Ivy and we don't talk an awful lot. You know how it is. When a relationship ends in a veritable tsunami of bad feeling, neither party is particularly inclined to talk to the other. In fact, the last contact we had had was when she had schemed so brilliantly to embarrass us at Mad Hatter's Tea Party.

That being said, it should perhaps come as no surprise has to how we reacted when Eddie suggested we go and talk to her. We, instead of neatly slotting the black ball into the corner pocket and thus winning the game (which would inevitably be followed by some manly gloating and whooping) ripped a nasty looking gash in the green baize with the cue.

We looked over apologetically at Oswald, who was fuming at the bar. He tutted at us like a disapproving parent. Turning to a blackboard he kept behind the bar, he chalked another tally next to our name. This was a new system he was experimenting with since the Disco Dent incident. Essentially, each time a customer committed an act that Oswald took offence to (normally it was the destruction of his bar) he would put a tally against their name (or write it on the board if it wasn't already there). Oswald, who was not a big fan of Baseball, called it the five strikes and out rule. Five tallies would result in a week long barring from the Lounge. Joker for instance had twenty seven tallies next to his name and so would not be back in The Bar for another month or so. Twenty seven offences in (presumably) one evening. The mind boggles.

We now turned to Eddie, scowling.

"Could you please repeat that for us Eddie? - preferably this time in words of one syllable with the content suitably changed to make no suggestion of us talking to her."

"Oh come on Harvey. How long do you intend to be petulant about this?"

"We're not being petulant - you are!" we said, stamping our foot. Eddie gave us a knowing look. We shrugged meekly.

Before we knew what was happening, we suddenly felt a sharp push in the small of our back. We staggered forward, trying to regain our balance, all the while making a mental note to do something unpleasant to Eddie when we next saw him. We teetered, and very nearly fell forward onto the table in front of us. We steadied ourselves using the table, brushing someone else's hand with our own as we did. The hand retracted at our contact. As we stood up, we brushed ourselves down, attempting to maintain some kind of dignity and street cred, all the while looking and feeling like an idiot. The apology we were forming died on our lips as we saw who's table we had very nearly destroyed.

Pamela Isely. Poison Ivy as you may know her.

This wouldn't end at all well.