Okay, just straighten yourself out, Harleen. Dr. Quinzel thought to herself as she strode down the halls of Arkham Asylum. You're just here for an interview with one of the most, oh, fuck it, the most screwed up nutball in all of Gotham. All you have to do is get it over with, girl.
Harleen Quinzel's heels tapped against the floor as she passed by a few of Arkham's cream of the worst; the monstrous Waylon Jones or Killer Croc who was just finishing up an entire cow carcass with his filed, fang-like teeth, the former White Knight of Gotham Harvey "Two-Face" Dent who flipped his quarter into the air while his half burned face glared at her with his milky white eye, the scar-riddled Victor Zsasz, the constantly shapeshifting blob of rubbery goo that was once renowned actor Basil Karlo AKA "Clayface", and the green-skinned, red haired dryad of a woman Pamela "Poison Ivy" Isley as she cared for her garden of fanged roses which snapped at the glass prison.
"Yeah, prob'ly best not ta make eye contact with deese freaks, Doc," Harleen's escort told her. "But trust me, dey ain't da worst we gots 'round heres. 'Course, yous prob'ly heard-a him anyway."
Harleen cleared her throat as she noticed Poison Ivy give her the bedroom eyes.
"I've heard of him in more ways than one." she replied, putting her glasses up to her face.
"Then ya know he's one nasty piece o' work."
"Look I just want to get this over with, 'kay?"
"Whatever yous says, lady. It's yer fun'ral." the officer shrugged.
At last they reached their destination; a large, steel cell with one, very small, square-shaped window and a keypad. Whoever lived in this cell must have been the cream of the crop in terms of insane. Even the other Arkham inmates had the pleasure of seeing the outside world in full detail.
"'Ere we are," her escort exclaimed. "Cell 11-9."
With that, the man punched in the numbers 1-9-4-0 into the key pad and the locks unhinged with a sharp hiss.
"Yo, Clowny," the man told the inmate who was currently slumped over against the padded wall. "Yous gots a vis'tor. Try an' play nice fer a change."
"A visitor?" the figure said before letting out a strained laugh. "Been a while since I've had visitors. Heh-heh-heh-heh. The last visitors I had was-"
"Yeah, yeah," Harleen's escort told him. "Th' Bat and his accomplice so they could clean up a mess you started."
"By all means," the figure told him, wheezing out another laugh. "Send her in."
The guard stepped aside for Harleen to enter.
"Good luck," he told her ominously. "If he gives ya any trouble, ya know what to do."
"I'm certain it won't come to that." the psychologist told him, rolling her eyes as she entered the room and came face to face with the man she had arrived to interview.
The man was wrapped up in a strait-jacket while also wearing purple-dyed pants. He wore a pair of black colored sneakers on his feet that had obviously been spray-painted due to how sloppy they looked. What really drew her attention was his face; white, chalky, almost painted to look like a clown with slicked back, green hair and a seemingly perpetual, wicked, pearly-toothed smile splitting out through blood red lips.
"So," the man started, his full attention on Dr. Quinzel. "You're the shrink the good boys at the GPD sent to learn about little ol' me? Learn what makes me tick? See what makes me... me? Hm-hmm-hmmm. Lemme guess, Gordon recommend ya?"
"Actually," Harleen replied. "I picked you myself since, well, there's not much we know about you compared to the other Arkham inmates."
"You got a name, sweet-cakes?" the man asked, letting out an exaggerated growl.
Gag yourself with a spoon, shitface, Harleen thought in disgust.
"Dr. Harleen Quinzel," she responded, adjusting her glasses. "I have an eight year college and three year residency degree in psychology."
"Really!?" the man leaned forward until he was just a foot away from her face, allowing him to scan her with his eyes, starting with her blonde hair tied in a bun to her lithe figure. "Because, if ya ask me, you look more like a supermodel than a shrink."
"I practiced in gymnastics when I was young-" Harleen then realized with this mad-man was doing; he was trying to make this interview about her. "Mister Jo-"
"Please," the inmate interrupted, "Call me Mister J."
"Mister J-"
"Or, you can call me Puddin'." he interrupted again, this time with a wink that made her gag internally.
"I am not calling you that, Mister J," Harleen replied. "Nor will I ever call you that. I came in here to learn about your past. Not so you could learn about mine."
"Ooooo, fiery," the madman let out a much louder cackle. "I like that in a shrink, hoo-hoo-hoo!"
Wow, this piece of shit loves the sound of his own voice, Harleen thought bitterly.
"Let's just cut to the chase, Mister J," she started, pulling out her notepad. "Are there any certain memories you have?"
Mister J shifted in his seat as if trying to think. He turned himself around before wiggling close to the single table in his cell.
"Ah, memories," he started, taking on a mockingly philosophical tone. "Here's the thing about memories, doc."
He then propped himself into his chair and began speaking.
"Memories can be vile, repulsive, little brutes. Kinda like children in a way. Heh heh heh. But, at the same time we can't exactly live without them. Memories are what our reasoning is based upon and without them... well, what's the point, especially when they end up locked away, forever? As for me? Well, let me put it this way, Harleen, was it? Any-who, I'm not so good with memories. As in, my mind is so scrambled that the only thing I remember is what set off my path of becoming the pinnacle of madness you see before you. As for what it was, well, let's just say it was a bad day. That's all it was. Just. One. Bad. Day. Except, even then I don't remember what it was, sometimes I remember it one way, sometimes I remember it another. Though, if you ask me, toots, if I'm gonna have a past, I prefer it to be... multiple choice."
Mister J's smile grew larger upon finishing his speech until it looked as though his face was going to rip apart.
"Can you at least try to remember what that past was? As in, the past that's most clear to you?" Harleen asked as she pulled out her pen, ready to jot down notes.
Mister J's clown-like face then twisted as though trying to think really hard. Just then, his toothy smile was replaced by a snake-like grin.
"I think I've got the perfect one for you. It all started with a poor, down-on-his-luck, average schmoe named Arthur Fleck..."