Wow, 29 reviews. I am just so pleased.
Lauralot: I just wanted to tell you that you are my absolute favorite author on this site! I love your stories, and I'm so honored you reviewed my fic. I am humble before you.
J-Horror Girl: No, don't report me for Scarecrow abuse. I'll have a serious problem writing this from prison, or wherever they send you for being cruel to Batman characters.
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The Scarecrow found his opportunity to be geeky after only three minutes. While he was attempting to escape from the Joker, who was stilling singing Johnny the Mop Man and had added a few new and off-key verses, Crane came across Harley. She was in the kitchen, using an entire roll of paper towels to soak up the water that had leaked from the floor above.
"Child, do you have any idea about how wasteful that is? Paper comes from trees, and trees keep our planet from turning into Venus. Use a dish towel, or retrieve the mop from upstairs." Crane said.
Harley grinned sheepishly. "Oh, yeah. Red's always tellin' me that I got to be more environmentally aware. Thanks for remindin' me."
"Good job, Spooky. It's great that you're trying to save the rainforests, you hippie." The Joker said. He actually patted the Scarecrow on the back.
"Yeah, way to be green, Professor. I'll have to tell Red next time I see her. She'll be real happy at least one of us is trying to save the planet. See, she's pretty mad at Mister J because of all the hideouts he's burned down and all the nasty chemicals he uses. She says he's got a carbon footprint the size of New Jersey, and if he doesn't stop she's gonna feed him to her giant flytrap. I named it Mel." Harley said.
"Harley-girl, Red is a plant-o-phile." The Joker said. "She probably has a special pussy willow that-"
Crane could listen to some really weird shit, but Poison Ivy's sexual habits were not included. Before the Joker could make any more smutty comments, the Scarecrow exited stage left.
The Joker drowned out Harley's jabbering about how Red was neither a lesbian nor some kind of botanical pervert who got off on pansies and goldenrod. He was too busy watching Crane make a bee line for the stairs, and the false protection of his bedroom. It really was rude of Spooky to run away before even hearing the punch line of the pussy willow joke. Was he honestly such a wimpy prude he couldn't handle one itsy, bitsy, harmless, anti-feminist joke involving a vibrating flowering tree? If so, it looked like Johnny was going to get strike 12. And a good kick to the head for being so offensive
"Hey, Johnny. When I'm telling a joke, you sit back and enjoy it." The Joker said. Harley heard the cold undercurrent, as dangerous as a riptide, and wondered how much foam the average fire extinguisher held.
"If you ever manage to find a good one, I'll listen. Until then, torture Harley with them." Crane replied from halfway up the stairs.
Harley slapped a hand to her forehead. That was a d'oh move if there ever was one. You could insult Mister J's…well, you couldn't really insult Mister J's anything without him taking a tire iron or an exploding rubber chicken to you. But of all his things you shouldn't insult, his jokes were without a doubt the number one item on the list. The only people who would even think about it were suicidal masochists and disgraced college professors who somehow, for all their brains, had zilch in the way of survival instincts.
The Scarecrow was more perceptive of his mistake than Harley gave him credit for. He knew, as soon as the words left his mouth, that he had just shot himself in the foot. With a bazooka. Once, in Arkham, he had made the mistake of telling Two-Face that his coin was, without a doubt, the most asinine coping mechanism Crane had ever come across. He had ended up with a size 12 shoe print stamped on his face and a broken nose. As protective as Two-Face was over his coin, it was as valuable as a fast food wrapped on the side of a major interstate compared to the Joker's jokes. After all, Two-Face didn't call himself 'the Coin Flipper' or 'Captain Can't Make Up My Own Damned Mind'.
The Joker appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his hands on his hips. He was scowling, which was never a good sign. The fact that Harley was standing well back was also ominous. If Harley was nervous, Crane also had a reason to be.
"Spooky, did you just dare question the quality of my jokes? I have over fifty thousand guaranteed gems! Do you know how much time and energy it took, how many joke books I had to read, how many comedians I had to cut up?" The Joker demanded.
"Not enough, apparently." Crane muttered. He was not stupid enough to say it to the killer clown directly. Sarcasm right now might be as lethal as playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun.
"Harley, how many comedians did I cut up?" The Joker asked.
"Uh, hold on a second, Mister J. There was that guy who wore the stupid hat, the guy who told the worst Yo-Mamma jokes ever, the lady with the bad hair, the guy who said he was the funniest Asian alive, but wasn't funny at all-" Harley said. She counted off her fingers. When she ran out of digits, she started over again.
The Scarecrow stopped three steps from the top landing. As much as he wanted to retreat to his room, and maybe use Lou as a barrier, a morbid curiosity gripped him. Unless his math was wrong, as if that was possible, Harley had named 17 unlucky and untalented comedians the Joker had finished. It was just like Hannibal Lecter killing and serving the musician who ruined the symphony with his horrendous playing. Crane wondered if the Joker had sent bits of the failed comedians to their friends, warning them to either polish their jokes or hang up the rubber chickens.
"Right. The point this, they had bad jokes. I have all the good jokes. You don't have a sense of humor, so you don't have the right to judge. Apologize for being such a prejudiced, judgmental bag of straw." The Clown Prince demanded.
"Of course. As soon as you apologize for eating me out of house and home, assaulting me, cutting up my single set of sheets, leaving your underwear in my lab, contaminating my workplace with all manner of bodily fluids, and forcing me to crawl through the window." Crane replied.
"This isn't about you and your little problems. You insulted my jokes! I am my jokes. When you insult them, you insult everything about me; my snappy suit, my girl, my girl's pets, my hair and my stylish good looks." The Joker said.
"It is about me! This is my house, you're my unwanted guests, and it's my physical body that's been repeatedly damaged and abused!" The Scarecrow shouted.
"I thought you were going to turn down the whining. You're worse than Harley when I leave the toilet seat up." The Joker said.
Crane stopped retreating. He had done a good deal of running during his life, usually from a great winged black shape intent on stopping his legitimate research, and he was not going to do the same for an incorrigibly criminal clown in a purple suit. He was making his stand on this staircase, at least while he had the higher ground and the Joker was unarmed.
Like two duelists ready to shoot each other dead over some petty offense, the Joker and Crane approached each other. The Joker did the majority of the approaching; the Scarecrow took all of three baby steps. He wanted to give up as little of his all ready pale advantage as possible. History and courtesy might have two duelists meet in the middle of a field, but no would-be gunslinger had ever had to go up against the Joker.
There was still perhaps a three foot gap between the clown and the Scarecrow. The Joker bridged this distance with his arm, poking Crane in the chest with one long, white finger.
"Are you going to take it back now, or am I going to have to do some more of that damaging and abusing you just mentioned?" The Joker asked. He jabbed the Scarecrow a few more times for emphasis, and then again just because he knew it would offend Spooky.
"I all ready explained that I will apologize as soon as you do. Also, please refrain from touching me with your disgusting, pale fingers. You've got hands like Voldemort." Crane said.
The Joker withdrew his poking finger. "Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"
"Is what a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Having fingers like this Voldemort guy. Who is he, a mobster, a thug, a geeky friend of yours from the few years you might have actually had friends?" The Joker asked.
This was awkward. The Scarecrow had been quite sure everyone, even the Joker who probably read as often as he donated money to orphan children, knew who the evil wizard Voldemort was. They had made movies, hadn't they? Surely the Joker was physically incapable of escaping the knowledge that a British woman who now owned about half the money Bill Gates didn't had written a series of worldwide best sellers. Wasn't he?
"You honestly don't know?" Crane asked.
"No, I don't. I want you to enlighten me right now. Who have I got fingers like? Are they famous? I think the name makes him sound French. Is it the French president? Are you insinuating something?" The Clown Prince demanded.
"The French president's name is Sarkozy, not Voldemort. I know you don't watch the news, and neither can I since the television was executed, so I won't blame you for being oblivious to that." The Scarecrow said.
"Forget the sex jokes and the fingers. You actually know the President of France? I hardly know the President of America! You, Johnny, are now officially a certified nerd. I win, you are a geek, and I still want to know who Voldemort is so I can celebrate without having anything to nag me. Except Harley, that is. I think I'll keep her around." The Joker said.
"He's an evil wizard from a book."
"Strike 13, for backup! Ha!" The clown said.
Crane shook his head slowly. He honestly found himself more amused than angry over the end of the Joker's unscientific game. He had avoided getting in a fight he would almost certainly lose, hadn't gotten any teeth knocked out over a fictional wizard, and was now free. As a bonus, he'd be able to get some food. And, he figured, a first aid kit wouldn't be such a bad idea, either.
"I'll just head off to the supermarket then, all right?" Crane asked.
The Joker had been expecting, upon the experiment's completion, a violent, loud, annoying reaction from Spooky. This calm, laissez-faire, what the hell ever attitude wasn't any fun. He wanted Crane miserable.
"Not until Harley and I make shopping lists. I don't trust you to buy anything good. You don't know what I like." The Joker said.
"Cupcakes, gummy worms, and spaghetti that comes in a can." The Scarecrow replied.
"That isn't all I like." The Joker said.
"Gotham supermarkets don't usually carry atomic weapons or exploding confetti." Crane pointed out.
"I mean all I like to eat. Now, shut up, Spooky. I have to go and have a long conversation with my gut. Go tell Harley to make her list." The Clown Prince ordered.
Crane gave the clown a mock salute and marched past him. The Joker gave him a sharp whack on the back of the head as he passed. The Scarecrow barely avoided losing his balance, and decided to be off before the brainless clown pushed him down the stairs and into a broken neck.
Harley was in the living room, sitting on the couch. She was resting her feet on Bud, who was sleeping in a scrunched up lump. When the Scarecrow, looking decidedly more annoyed than he did five minutes ago, stepped off the staircase, Harley waved.
"Hi, Professor Crane. I heard that you're now officially a nerd. That's okay. At least we all get to eat." She said brightly.
Harley Quinn, as ebullient and bouncy as a beach ball. The Scarecrow was jealous of the blonde's never-ending energy and cheer. How insane was she, truly, to be able to giggle and find the sunny side after the years she had spent as the Joker's personal doormat?
"Your demented, sick, twisted, Puddin' wants you to make a shopping list. He apparently doesn't trust me." Crane said.
"Actually, Professor, it's probably for the best. If you came home with broccoli, he'd force-feed it to you until you died. Mister J actually did that to someone once." Harley said.
Along with Poison Ivy's sexual fetishes, the Scarecrow had no desire to learn about how someone had been killed with greens. It was surely a graphic tale, and he would never be able to eat another salad or stir-fry without flashbacks.
The Scarecrow crouched down next to the sleeping hyena Harley was using as a footrest. "And what about you, Bud? Do you and Lou want anything special? Ostrich chops? Wildebeest roast? Leg of antelope?" They hyena yawned and snorted. He probably had been born in captivity, and didn't know a zebra from a UFO.
"Mommy knows what her Bud wants! Ramen noodles and lots of them. Right, baby? Yes, Bud loves his beef-flavored noodles. Yes he does!" Harley slipped off the couch and onto the floor. She began to play with the hyena's ears, and continued to speak to him in baby-talk.
Crane had never been a major fan of animals, as the mice down in his lab would happily testify. As much as he could tolerate Bud and Lou, watching Harley fawn over them as though they were actually her children was a little too much to tolerate. He left Harley to squeal at her precious mutt, as though the mangy thing was a member of the bloody Beatles fresh from England, and decided to get a drink of water while the Joker planned out his own death by sugar-stroke.
The Scarecrow did not waste money on bottled water. Unlike most people, he was entirely satisfied with what came from the tap. Until someone's city water caught on fire coming out of the faucet, he wasn't going to spend a dollar and a half on the most abundant resource on Earth.
Three glasses of water, much finger-drumming, some pacing, and some swearing later, the Joker finally finished writing his list. The clown proudly handed Crane a novella. The handwriting looked like it came from a kindergartner who had been born with the wrong number of fingers.
"This isn't a shopping list, it's a magazine!" Crane exclaimed.
"A clown's gotta eat, Johnny. Besides, you never set a limit on what I could ask for." The Joker said.
The Scarecrow scanned the first page of the list. The whole thing had to be at least as long as Santa's list of children from China. Even worse than the length and the absurdly poor penmanship were the contents. Crane had no idea what some of the items were. He wasn't even sure they were sold in American stores.
"You have six flavors of Ben and Jerry's ice-cream! Jesus please us, that's ridiculous." The Scarecrow moaned.
"No, it's not. See, I need them all, because they all have something different that I like. Chunky Monkey is banana-flavored. Half Baked has cookie dough. New York Super Fudge Chunk speaks for itself. S'mores just rocks beyond your level of comprehension. Triple Caramel Chunk has enough caramel to drown a goat in. Oh, and Harley likes Chocolate Therapy. I get her that when I want her to shut up and leave me alone for the night. It works every time." The Joker said.
"You're mad. You're absolutely starkers. I am not going to get you six different kinds of the same brand. There is no way in hell." Crane said.
"Flip to the last page, Spooky." The Joker said.
The Scarecrow did as he was told. On the back page, written in red magic marker, was a long message. The Joker had provided another list; this time, on the various ways he would torture Crane should he fail to provide everything. The Joker threatened everything from clogging up the toilet with the remains of the bed sheets, to stomping on Crane's fingers until they were no longer recognizable as fingers.
"Someone should shoot you." The Scarecrow said.
"Read the back of the last page." The clown replied.
"'If I die before you get back, my ghost will haunt you until you either convert to a religion so an exorcism can be performed, or until you kill yourself.' That's hollow. Ghosts don't exist. It's scientifically impossible." Crane said.
"Fine, then. Just don't be surprised when I float through the wall like Julius Caesar." The Joker said.
Crane threw up his hands in defeat. Of course, the Joker wouldn't believe in proper scientific procedure, but he had faith in exorcisms and ghosts. And he honestly believed there was something that would drive the Scarecrow to religion. That proved how diseased the clown's mind was.
"All right. I'll go and get this, as nonsensical as it is. Harley, are you finished with your list, yet?"
"Yep! I put Bud and Lou down on my list, 'cause none of them can write." Harley said.
Harley's list was much shorter, but her handwriting reflected that she had once studied medicine. Her handwriting was almost as awful as her boyfriend's. It was no wonder her patients tended to end up even crazier. No pharmacist in the world could correctly read what she prescribed. The only thing that allowed the Scarecrow to decipher the chicken scratch was his own background at Arkham.
"Brownies, nachos, 60 pounds of hamburger! What?!" Crane yelled.
"For Bud and Lou, Professor. They gotta have meat." Harley said.
"How do you propose I carry 60 pounds of hamburger? Child, this will break my back. I will come home slumped over like Igor." The Scarecrow said.
"I'm sorry. It ain't easy feedin' those two." Harley said.
"Between you and the Joker, this is impossible! I can't do it. I'll have to steal a flatbed truck to carry the food with. I can't drive a big rig, I don't have a Class A license, and I am not getting my face smashed in by a trucker." Crane said.
"Then you'll get your face smashed in by me." The Joker warned.
Crane felt his blood pressure rise into the stroke and aneurysm zone. There was no human way for him to get all those supplies from the supermarket back to his house, not without help. Totaled, the products on the two lists probably weighed twice as much as he did, if not more. He doubted if the Joker's car, hidden carefully underneath a tarp, even had room. That was moot speculation, because the clown would never entrust his flashy purple vehicle to the Scarecrow, but it had one big bugger of a trunk.
"I'll have to steal a pickup truck from the parking lot." Crane finally said.
"That's using the old noggin." The Clown Prince said.
Still clutching the two lists, the Scarecrow headed out of the kitchen. He was definitely going for the stairs, and from there, to his room.
"Hey, where are you going? I want to eat now, Spooky." The Joker said.
"I'm getting my mask and my toxin. There's no way I can legitimately pay for all this, so I'm going to steal it. Besides, I want to make someone as miserable as I am. If it's only a cashier and whoever gets behind me in line, so be it." Crane said. He was in such a foul mood, he was more than willing to poison a kid who made minimum wage and had terrible acne.
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Author's Notes: Hannibal serving the bad musician is from Red Dragon.
All those flavors of Ben and Jerry's are legitimate. And surely delicious.
I like spaghetti that comes from a can.
Julius Caesar's ghost appears to Brutus in the Shakespearean play titled Julius Caesar.
In the US, you need a Class A driver's license to operate any truck over 26,000 pounds.