Mega-sorry this took so long! It's final exam time, and I've an obscene amount to do.
Thanks, thanks, thanks for reviewing!
Elizabeth Tudor: Don't worry about being the grammar Nazi. I just can never remember what to do with commas and quotations. I'm gonna drive editors loco.
111111111111111111
"For a nerd, you don't seem all that interested in this little experiment. Come on, Spooky, you'll be helping the scientific community."
"Get away from me! Back, I say, back!" Crane was off the couch, scurrying behind it, trying to keep the sofa between him and the Joker.
"What's the worst that could happen?"
"How many people have that exact sentence as their famous last words? Dozens, hundreds, more maybe? I know three, personally."
The Joker found it quite surprising that the Scarecrow actually knew at least three people, asides from other villains and the heroes out to stop them. Certainly, none of the rogues' last words would be 'what's the worst that could happen?', because they'd know the answer to the question. Especially the Riddler, who made questions his business and way of life.
"Really? Who were they? Imaginary friends don't count, and neither do split personalities." The Joker asked.
Crane stomped his foot in frustration. "I do not have imaginary friends or multiple personality disorder! Even if I did, they wouldn't be stupid enough to ask that question. It's a moot point, any way, since my mind is sound."
The Clown Prince laughed. "Why are you staying at Arkham, then? No room at the Holiday Inn?"
"A lack of empathy and what is considered moral ethics is not synonymous with madness. You're insane, Tetch is insane, Dent is at least half insane, but I am misunderstood." The Scarecrow said.
"Blah, blah, nobody loves me, my head is enormous, woe is the Scarecrow. Tell it to your shrinks. If you're alive to see them."
"Don't be stupid. You can't kill someone with Diet Coke and Mentos." Crane said.
"Yes you can! I saw it on the Internet." The Joker rebuked.
The Scarecrow scoffed. "Saw it on the Internet? Then it must be true. Just like the video of Bigfoot riding a bicycle and the face of Jesus Christ appearing in a cheese sandwich."
The Joker held out the bottle of soda. "Prove me wrong, Spooky. Here, drink this."
The idea of consuming anything the Joker offered, be it Diet Coke or a freshly filleted grinning but un-copyrightable fish, was about as smart as beating a beehive with a stick while you were naked and slathered in honey. It would also likely end with about the same amount of pain, swelling, and hospital bills. Of course, politely refusing the Joker would probably result in an extended stay in traction, anyway. He wasn't the sort of man you could get away from unscathed.
"Fine. This is nothing more than a slightly updated version of the Mikey myth, you know." Crane said.
"What's the Mikey myth? Is that the myth about the man who is in the Jacuzzi and sticks his-"
"For the love of Nietzsche, no! It's the pop rocks and cola myth. Mikey was the kid who supposedly ate them together and died of a ruptured stomach. It's rubbish, of course. Just like the Mentos and Diet Coke legend." The Scarecrow replied.
"I think it really happened."
"And I know it's nothing more than the result of bored college students and a keg too many. Let's get this over and done with, so I can end this miserable day." Crane said.
The Joker handed over the two-liter bottle. With obvious reluctance, as though he was being given something that was prone to bite its owner, the Scarecrow accepted. There was no evidence of the clown tampering with the cap, and it appeared as though the bottle had never been opened.
"You didn't do anything with this? I'm not going to take a sip, and fall over, foaming at the mouth, am I?" The Scarecrow asked.
The Clown Prince's only reply was a smile. That was certainly helpful! Muttering about idiotic urban legends and the fools naïve enough to believe them, Crane unscrewed the little plastic cap from the soda bottle. Slapping all his neatness in the face, the Scarecrow flicked the lid and it rolled across the carpet.
"Stop looking so eager. Absolutely nothing is going to happen to me." Crane said. With that, he put the bottle to his lips and drank. His tongue didn't fall off immediately afterword, nor did the world turn funny colors and begin to resemble a Beatle's music video. He supposed the Diet Coke's secret recipe hadn't been spiked with cyanide.
The Joker passed Crane the Mentos. Without bothering to reaffirm his view that his guts were not going to blow up like Chernobyl, the Scarecrow tore open the paper and foil wrapped tube. He ate two of the candies whole, and chewed on a third one.
Five, ten, twenty seconds passed. Crane showed no signs of exploding, or even the slightest discomfort at all. In fact, he looked haughty; the Joker couldn't stand that little sneer. The nerdy bundle of straw had been right, damn it. So much for catastrophic organ failure and his faith in Internet hits.
"Satisfied, or would you like me to ingest some pop rocks, too?" The Scarecrow asked. "That might do a little more nothing."
Life wasn't fair! First, the Scarecrow had worked out all the frustration and murderous anger the Joker had worked so hard to instill by causing a little mass panic. Then the rat had the nerve to return with low fat sorbet and no New York Super Fudge Chunk. If being forced to go without his favorite ice cream wasn't cruel and evil enough, the Joker's revenge plan had fallen as flat as the chest of a ten-year-old girl. And now his long-standing faith in the almighty knowledge of the Internet had been shaken, too.
If Harley hadn't been too busy crooning over the way her cuddly darlings could lick a jar of salsa clean in under ten seconds, she might have been able to warn Crane of the imminent atomic explosion and advise him to just make a break for the truck. As it was, she had her arms around Bud's neck, crushing him in a hug, while she kissed Lou on the top of the head. "Yes, my Babies were so hungry. Uncle Jonathan knows how to take care of them. You think Professor Crane will mind bein' called Uncle Jonathan?"
Uncle Jonathan wasn't in the mood to play Mythbuster with the Joker any more. He wanted to pour the rest of the Diet Coke down the sink, dig a deep pit to bury the uneaten Mentos in, and then he wanted to go to sleep. Scaring hordes of shoppers and hijacking pickup trucks was more stressful than a day at the office, or a day spent brewing vaporous horror down in the basement. Crane's energy levels were depleted, as were his reserves of patience.
While the Scarecrow was ready to curl in a ball and snore until next weekend, the Joker was as turbo-charged as the Mach 5. He needed to work out some of his frustration. The doctors at Arkham encouraged him to strike soft, defenseless inanimate objects like pillows, or teddy bears if he was feeling particularly venomous; according to them Harley did not count, even though she was soft, at least in certain places. Since the men in white coats weren't waiting nearby to drag him back to his cell, the Joker decided to ignore the shrinks' helpful advice and just beat Crane until he was nothing more than a bale of blood and scattered straw.
"No, Johnny, I don't want you to ingest pop rocks. Do you know what I want you to do?"
Crane had several guesses, each one nastier than the last. "Cuddle up with you and read Dr. Seuss?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of bleed and scream."
"Ah, yes, I think I'm going to have to pass on that offer."
Having said his snarky peace, the Scarecrow used the only two weapons on hand. He chucked the Mentos at the Joker, and then the soda bottle. The candy didn't do much damage, as it was mostly composed of sugar and artificial flavoring and the entire package only weighed a few ounces. Nearly two liters of soda wasn't anywhere as good of a weapon as a fighter jet, or a gun, or even brass knuckles, but it did make one impressive mess.
The Joker had been assaulted by men dressed as bats, the generally useless sidekicks of men who dressed like bats, police officers, various thugs who didn't know what they were getting into, Harley once or twice, and the occasional victim who didn't want to die quietly. In all those encounters, he'd stared down various weapons: Bat-themed gadgets, fists, guns, flashlights, knives, a chainsaw, guard dogs, and the occasional broken beer bottle. He'd never been attacked by Diet Coke before.
The soda soaked the Joker, turning every article of clothing that was purple an ugly shade of eggplant. The bottle then fizzed across the floor, staining the hideously dull beige carpeting an equally hideous shade of brown. Soda ran down the Joker's pants, ruining his quilt-work socks and pooling in his shoes.
While the clown swiped wet, dripping hair from his eyes, Crane took the opportunity to run for it. If the Joker caught him, there really wasn't much of a chance he'd survive. Using his long legs to his advantage, the Scarecrow made it out the door and halfway to his stolen truck.
Bud was sitting in the middle of Crane's path, completely oblivious because he had his snout buried in a bag of nachos. Before the Scarecrow could think to zigzag around the furry blockade or jump over him, he was sprawled in the driveway, all the breath knocked out of him. The hyena had been rolled completely over. Shocked and driven by animal instinct, the mutt's first action upon recovering was to get out of there before something else large and clumsy hit him.
"Wait, Bud! Don't run across the street!" Harley shrieked. Even from his flat, sprawled out position, the Scarecrow felt his stomach drop lower. If that stupid hyena was knocked out of its fur like Churchill the cat, Crane didn't know if Harley would ever recover. If she was bad when she was perky and glowing, she would probably be unbearable if she became inconsolably weepy and left sodden used tissues all over the place.
Lou forgot all about munching when he saw his adopted mother run after Bud, shouting at him. The hyena interpreted all this action as a game, and decided the proper thing to do was join in. He loped towards Harley, his tongue lulling.
The Scarecrow knew he had to assist, but he wasn't sure how. He'd seen documentaries on hyenas, and knew they were capable of chasing down wildebeest. Though he had never gotten the opportunity to try it, Crane was willing to bet money that he would never catch a wildebeest, or any other animal on the African plains, unless it was all ready dead. Hyenas were probably twice as fast as humans, and even Harley, for all her nimbleness, would never reach the beast before it got in the path of a car.
Harley reached the same conclusion Crane did. Since her feet would never reach the runaway hyena in time, she'd have to use something that would: her voice. She cupped her hands around her mouth to act as a megaphone and shouted.
"Babies!"
Bud came to a screeching halt, his claws tearing furrows into the lawn. He pivoted with amazing dexterity, tearing up the yard even more. Harley's voice was absolute law to her two pets/adopted offspring. When she yelled for them, there was no force exerted by anything anywhere in the universe, including the pull of a black hole, that was going to keep them from her.
"You're a genius Harley." The Scarecrow said.
A foot stomped down in the center of Crane's back, pinning him to the ground like a chemically preserved frog to a dissection board. The Scarecrow grunted and tried to shove the shoe off him. In retaliation, the Joker brought his foot down with enough force to bruise.
"Get your damned foot off me. Let me up." The Scarecrow demanded.
"Shut up, Spooky. You ruined my suit."
"I have a washing machine. Not like you'd know; you never did your own laundry, you lout." Crane said.
The foot was momentarily lifted, only to be planted in the Scarecrow's side. Crane's next complaint came out as a wheeze. If the Joker had put as much energy into punting the sorbet as kicking the Scarecrow, the little container would have been recovered across the county line.
"Don't patronize me, Johnny. Believe me, that isn't something you want to do right now." The Clown Prince hissed.
Crane didn't respond; he was too busy drawing into a ball and hugging his tortured ribs. Why in the hell had the Joker bothered to turn to crime? With a kick like that, he belonged in the NFL, and not on one of those flunky teams like the Dolphins, either.
"Even if you clean my suit without getting those little lint balls over it, you still deserve to have the straw beat out you. I gave you a list! I warned you, right there in white and red, what I would do if you came home without my ice cream. And, despite my best efforts, you managed to bring home diet sorbet! I'm insulted! Nobody insults the Joker, nobody!"
"I tried to follow the list! It isn't my fault. You were unreasonable and took advantage of me." Crane defended.
The next kick came below the protection of his ribs. Something that felt suspiciously like his spleen exploded in pain. The Scarecrow shouted several words people with young children and the censors at the FCC frowned upon.
"That's exactly how I felt upon discovering no Count Chocula, no Snickers, no Swedish Fish, and especially no Chunky Monkey! You ruined my hopes and dreams." The Joker said.
"It's Stephanie Myers's fault there's no Count Chocula!" The Scarecrow replied.
"Blaming defenseless women for your mistakes? Even for a guy like you, that's low." The Joker said.
"She's not defenseless, she's Mormon! And I was under extreme duress from those damned Snickers bars."
"Johnny-boy, you really have gone off the deep end, haven't you? How can candy named after laughter possibly cause 'extreme duress'? What did it do, call you a nerd? If it's apparent to inanimate objects, I guess-"
In a move more becoming of the Batman than the Scarecrow, Crane twisted and grabbed the Joker's leg. Before the clown could react, Crane pulled him off his feet. The Joker landed squarely on his butt, and his pinstripe purple pants did nothing to cushion his posterior from the asphalt.
Crane stood, brushing dust from the front of his gray shirt. The gesture was essentially meaningless, since the dirt was nearly the same color as the shirt, and hardly discernable. He wanted to get the damned footprint off his back, but it was in that unreachable region all itches seemed to congregate to. After he dealt with this problem, he'd have to use the washing machine the Joker held in such contempt.
"If I end up in an ass cast, you'll end up in a hole. In pieces." The Joker threatened.
"Forget your useless ass for one minute and listen to me!"
"Harley likes my ass, don't you?"
From the edge of the yard, Harley replied, "Whatever you say, Mister J. Come on, Babies. Uncle Jonathan's gonna have to put up a fence, or somethin'."
The Scarecrow's fingers tangled in his own hair and yanked nearly hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. How was he supposed to get his point across if the Joker refused to be serious long enough for him to talk? Maybe if he had a shotgun to point at the clown, or a bomb to tie around his neck...
"Clown, I have a deadline to give you. This is my house, and I have no intention of leaving. I cannot live with you as you are. Unless you want to move in with Poison Ivy, or crawl down into the sewers with that scaly sideshow refuge, you have to stop trying to kill me. I'm a psychiatrist, whether or not they took away my medical license. I know the idea of you repressing your violent urges is nearly impossible. However, this is what it comes down to. You either shape up, or ship out. I'd prefer the latter, honestly, but for Harley and the hyenas, I'm willing to let you stay if my conditions are met." Crane said.
The Joker forgot all about his rear, threw back his head, and brayed laughter like a donkey. Crane was utterly taken back. He had expected the Joker to become belligerent, threaten him with some inventive torture, perhaps even try to gouge his eyes out for daring to tell the clown his business. What had possibly been funny about that little speech?
"I'm s-sorry, Spooky. It's just, a deadline? Who do you think I am? A third-world country's dictator? Get rid of your nukes and stop chopping off heads, or they'll be sanctions? Johnny, you're delusional if you think you can threaten me. If I want to stay, I'll stay. If I want to roast marshmallows, which I noticed you didn't get, I'll use your stuffing as kindling. If I want to cut you into little pieces and feed you to the mutts, I'll do it! Comprende?" The Joker asked.
"No. That's not the way it's going to work. I've endured, I've played along, and now I've had enough. I am through being bullied by a man who belongs in the circus or the sanitarium. I am the Scarecrow, damn it, and I deserve some respect!"
More of that overzealous laughter. "Respect you? Ha! Right after I respect the magic conch and gender equality."
The same irrational rage that had convinced Crane jumping on the Joker and punching him was a good idea roared to life again. The Scarecrow's thin fingers balled into fists. His eyes narrowed, and he felt a frighteningly cougar-like snarl building in his throat. All it would take was one more little knock, one more insult, one more unwarranted giggle. Seeing as how the Joker was fifty percent unwarranted giggles, it didn't take him long to trigger a violent reaction.
In half a second, Crane had taken a hold of the Joker's lapels, and was pounding the clown's head into the asphalt driveway. Harley let out a terrified shriek. What was Professor Crane doing to her Puddin'?
As the Scarecrow lifted the Joker for the fourth time, something heavy slammed into the side of his head, directly above his ear. It didn't feel like a fist, or a rock, or a ham sandwich. Whatever the mysterious bludgeon was, it was hard enough to lacerate Crane's scalp and knock him senseless. He slumped over, as limp and boneless as a jellyfish.
"Hey, what's wrong with this thing? Work, come on, start! Where's the button or the trigger, or the detonator? Harley, forget those mangy drain clogs and help me. Stupid Scarecrow, always over-complicating things."
Whatever the Joker had used to brain the Scarecrow with, he began to bash against the driveway. That didn't offer the result he was looking for, so he threw the object at Crane's truck. It rang against the chrome, squashed-bug encrusted grill, and fell to the blacktop. That abuse was similarly unsatisfying, so the clown retrieved the object and used it to make a sizeable hole in the pickup's windshield. The fine upholstery cushioned the impact, forcing the Joker to reach through the window and grab the undamaged item from the seat.
"I've met safes that were easier to crack. Harley! Do we have any dynamite, or C4, or what if I just give it to Lou? He could probably bite through it."
"Mister J, you are not puttin' that thing, whatever it is, in Lou's mouth! What even is it?"
"A canister of Johnny's fear toxin."
Even from his semi-conscious state, Crane had the sense to groan. Bloody hell, he was sick of people turning his own invention against him. Didn't the universe ever get tired of watching him squirm under such dark irony? No, the Scarecrow figured. Probably not.
1111111111111111
Author's Notes: The Mythbusters come through for me again. They proved you can eat Mentos and Diet Coke, and will be totally fine. What a surprise.
As for the man in the Jacuzzi, there is indeed a moron who stuck his genitals in the water jet of a Jacuzzi, and got stuck. The firemen had to cut apart the entire spa. I'm sure its on YouTube.
The Beatles have this one wild video where there's marching shoes and everyone grows a white Gandalf beard. And the yellow submarine flies around in the background.
The Joker's quilt-work socks are the same one Ledger's Joker wears. I think they are the most rockinest socks.
Churchill is the undead cat from Pet Sematary. Not cemetery. Sematary!
The magic conch is a toy seashell from SpongeBob. It's like a Magic 8-Ball. It wants Squidward to starve in the woods.