Very, very, extremely sorry for the obscene delay. There was a family tragedy, my cousin passed away from cancer, and well, I wasn't much in the mood for humor. He was a good friend of mine when we were both a little younger.
Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews! I owe you lot a great debt. Your reviews really get my heart warm and fuzzy. Never mind how disturbing a furry heart would be…
Adi Sagestar: A booger monster from planet Ick? Lordy… I don't want to ever see that.
Jack Naiper: I always imagined the Scarecrow to be a little taller. Is he officially? I have no idea.
Lauralot: You'd film the Joker having sex? You live dangerously, I see.
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A voice that normally bothered Harley during the wee hours of the morning following a night of violence and debauchery made itself known. She assumed it was her conscience, which was nowhere near as cute or talented as Jiminy Cricket, though just as small. It was obviously upset over how badly the Joker was treating Professor Crane, and how eager she was to enable the abuse. It wasn't like the Prof wasn't a nice guy, sharing his house and his food and all that, or that she enjoyed seeing him in such a sorry state. It was just that Mister J really needed this from her, and Harley's loyalty to him would always trump anyone's health or wellbeing, including her own.
Harley grabbed a number of small items from all corners of the house. She picked up the pizza cutter from the kitchen floor, the remote for the dearly departed television, the half-empty can of okra she had entirely forgotten about, a spoon, the toilet plunger Mister J so adamantly wanted, and then wondered how she was going to carry a squirming mouse, too. She supposed she could find a box to trap the little critter in, but it would still be a hassle. Besides, she didn't know exactly what sort of experiments the mice had been subject to; she'd read enough of the Joker's comic books to know sometimes science experiments had unintended results. Most of the time, when an experiment went south, it just caused an explosion that splattered the scientist all over the wall. On rare occasions, so claimed the comics, it turned the scientists into giant green monsters or permanently fused four mechanical arms to their backs.
None of the mice had developed superpowers thanks to Crane's experiments, but one of them had died. Harley tapped on the wire mesh of the cage, just to make sure the mouse wasn't sleeping in an insanely unpleasant position. It wasn't.
"I am not touchin' a dead mouse. Or his or her mournin' family. Don't worry, little mousy, I'll make sure you get a proper burial." Harley said. The mouse, being dead, made no response. Its mourning family, being mice, didn't respond either.
Instead of a downsized rat, Harley made do with one of Crane's textbooks. It was one of his smaller books, though it must have weighed a solid ten pounds and would serve as a decent bludgeon. Out of curiosity, she cracked the book open and scanned the first few pages. She was lucky to understand three words in every paragraph. Incredibly, the Scarecrow more than understood the book; he had corrected it or expanded on it. Every margin of empty space was filled with Crane's crowded handwriting. Most of his writing was hard to decipher, since he used a wide variety of abbreviations and symbols only he was savvy to. If anyone on the outside wanted to read this, they'd have to find Robert Langdon, since the original author probably wouldn't share his code.
"Jeez, Professor, you are a nerd." Harley said. She slammed the book shut, gathered up the rest of her household items, and headed out to see what the Joker and Scarecrow had gotten into.
After all the effort Crane had put into getting to his truck, he now wanted nothing to do with it. Any human, discovering his mode of transportation was just a cleverly disguised killing machine, and not the Decepticon kind, would have had a similar reaction. A normal person wouldn't have had the Joker hanging around like a black cloud of misery and despair to make the situation worse, though.
"Come on, Spooky, don't you want to go for a ride? I'll even drive, since you couldn't buckle your own seat belt at the moment." The Joker said.
"I'm not getting near that thing, and if you had any brains, neither would you! Can't you see what it really is? It rolled off the assembly line in the eighth circle of Hell!" Crane said.
"I'm just not seeing what you're talking about. Maybe if you came over here and showed me where the fangs and scales are..." The clown suggested.
"No!" The Scarecrow wailed.
The Joker took a step toward the utterly ordinary, if somewhat damaged, pickup. Crane, dead sure his vehicle was as homicidal as anyone sitting on death row, felt a far sharper stab of panic than what was constantly needling at him. Once the pickup tasted blood, even the chemical soup that flowed in the Joker, it would go on a rampage, heading straight for the Scarecrow.
The Clown Prince scooted a little closer to the truck. He extended one hand toward the hood, which Crane saw as a protruding snout filled with the chaotic and bristling teeth of an angler fish. The Scarecrow, his sensibilities currently taking a week-long cruise to Bermuda, could practically hear the crunch that would signal the Joker was now down an arm.
"Please, don't do it!"
"I'm not touching it. I'm not touching it. Okay, now I'm touching it."
Crane closed his eyes, turned his back on the Joker and the truck, and began a pitifully uncoordinated blind run from the scene. Poisoned, mad with fear, and certain of an impending and messy death beneath the pickup's four wheels, the Scarecrow paid no attention to where he was heading. He just needed to get out of the area.
"Professor, watch out for that hyena!"
Lou, intrigued by the smell of blood from the Scarecrow's head wound and by his clumsy gait, had gone to investigate. It was a predator's nature to hone in on a weak animal, and Lou, despite all the cosseting Harley did, was still a carnivore and a hunter. Though the hyena didn't intend to eat Crane, since he had just polished off a bag of nachos and a jar of salsa, his instincts demanded he at least go over and sniff.
Harley's warning came in time. The Scarecrow opened his eyes, saw the hyena loping straight for him, and promptly suffered a severe freak-out.
The mutt Crane had actually come to like, as much as he could like something that drooled, scratched, ate, snored, and licked as much as Lou did, was now on par with the evil car. All evidence of cuteness or cuddliness in the hyena had vanished. It had been transformed into a matted, mangy, vaguely werewolf-like beast that would have sent even the most passionate animal lover running for the nearest shotgun.
Crane's bizarre actions, obvious to a human as desperate and terrified, only served to inflame Lou's curiosity. The hyena wasn't sure what the Scarecrow was up to, or what it meant when humans flailed their arms and cried because Harley never acted like that. Despite the odd motions Crane was making, Lou was sure he wanted to play. The hyena barked, and sprinted for Crane, intending to jump on him and commence the licking.
"No, no, no! Get away from me!" The Scarecrow said.
The hyena misconstrued Crane's flailing and moaning as an invitation for free tummy rubs. Lou threw his furry body at the Scarecrow, and tried to rub against his legs like a cat would. When the hyena did that to Harley, she normally melted like ice cream and snuggled her Baby, cooing at him all the while. Lou decided he could really use some of that cuddling right about now.
Instead of the fun Lou was expecting, he got a misplaced kick aimed at his nose. Crane, utterly panicked by the sight of the hyena, had lashed out with the only weapon he had: his foot. He missed by roughly a light year, and nearly ended up losing his balance. Lou made a laugh-like bark of amusement, not realizing the Scarecrow had been trying to kick his snout in. Harley's hyenas were perhaps a little too sure of Crane's good intentions.
"Professor! How could you try to kick my Lou?" Harley cried.
"He's a monster! Disgusting, I can't believe I let it sleep in my bed! The germs, the parasites, the rabies, Jesus!"
Harley stomped her foot. "My precious Lou does not have rabies!"
"He's diseased."
"Take it back right now!"
"Ah!"
"That don't sound like an apology."
Persistent, Lou darted forward again. He nipped playfully at Crane's shoe, which had been aimed at the hyena's head only a minute ago. The Scarecrow yanked his foot back so violently he nearly ended up losing his balance. It was only the belief that the mutt, made into a monster by the toxin, would maul and nibble him to death that kept Crane on his feet.
Crane wished fervently that he hadn't been such a major purveyor of horror stories, both the written and the filmed, during his life. Right now, standing in front of him, was the product of every killer dog and lycanthropic nightmare. All the werewolves in London and rabid St. Bernards in Maine had all been rolled into one furry mass. A furry mass he had shared his home and his food with. A furry mass he had, dare he say it, grown attached to. The Scarecrow, had he not been in such a mode of panic, might have broken down in a loud, weepy mess. It just wasn't fair. Anything he liked—his house, truck, mask, brilliant mind—all ended up getting taken away from him.
The hyena took another snap at Crane's foot. Unable to accomplish anything close to a run, the Scarecrow's sole option of escape was to fight. He waited for Lou to come at his shoe again. This time he had the speed judged perfectly. Crane's foot caught the hyena right under the chin, snapping the mutt's jaws together.
"LOU!" Harley howled.
Lou yipped and backed away, tail between his legs. Apparently, the Scarecrow did not want to play; he wanted to fight. The hyena wasn't in the mood for getting rough and tumbling, so, whining and whimpering, Lou scampered back towards Harley.
"My poor, poor Lou. Come here to Mommy, let her kiss you and make it better." Harley said.
The Joker, who had been expecting a night of delightful torture and humiliation for the Scarecrow, frowned as the hyena came to Harley. "Harley, why don't you kiss my boo-boos like that? I'm your Puddin' and I stole you that mangy ball of fur! Where's my love?"
"This ain't about you right now, Mister J. 'Sides, you already got your lovin' for today. Here, read 'bout the wonders of chemistry." Harley said.
To the Joker's chagrin, Harley dumped her armload of random objects onto the ground, and threw Crane's science textbook to him. The blonde, now free of her burden, knelt down to comfort Lou. The hyena was exaggerating the extent of his injury, whining and yipping with such pain it appeared the Scarecrow's lucky kick had broken the mutt's jaw. Harley gathered up the hyena, just as one would a kid who'd taken a nasty fall at the playground.
While Harley comforted Lou, the Joker began to make gagging noises. It was disgusting just how much attention those hyenas got, and how much Harley neglected him. Well, if Harley was going to be so wrapped up in her flea-ridden dirt magnets, he'd just have to go find someone else to keep him company. Johnny the Mop Man seemed like the obvious choice.
Well, that was certainly anticlimactic. For the first time in known history, a werewolf, if that was what Lou had truly become, had been driven off by less than a silver bullet. Less than a lead bullet, or a sword, or any implement that posed even a marginal threat. If Crane wasn't still shaking from just the sight of the hyena, he would have been very proud of his kicking prowess.
Lou might have been dissuaded with a knock to the jaw. The Joker, however, was quite a bit taller than the hyena, and Crane, not being a kick-boxer with incredibly flexible thighs, had no way to kick him in the head. Besides his bipedal stance, the Joker also had the advantage of appearing as scary beyond all reason to the poisoned Scarecrow.
"Hey, Johnny! Right here, I want attention, hey-ho!" The Joker said loudly.
The Scarecrow had purposely avoided taking a close look at the Joker, because he was drop-dead positive the lunatic would be scary enough to literally drop him as dead as the Latin language. Now the Joker demanded attention. If he didn't get it, he was likely going to burn something down or blow something up, and continue to do so until Crane couldn't stand the smoke anymore and finally gave in. While holding out didn't seem like a very good plan, just looking at the Joker and dying like someone who'd stared into the eyes of a Basilisk didn't sound like much of a party, either.
"What do you want, clown? Please, just go and play with yourself somewhere far, far away." The Scarecrow said.
"Go and play with myself? That sounds pretty lonely, unless by play with myself you mean-"
"I'm going to die. I'm just going to die."
"Don't you think you're bein' a little too dramatic, Professor?" Harley asked.
Crane was not being overly dramatic; if the image his tormented brain had just cooked up had been broadcast live on television, not one person would ever turn on their TV set for the rest of eternity. While the Scarecrow always did possess a somewhat graphic imagination, the poison playing havoc on his mind turned his thoughts into nightmares.
"I think you're right, Harley. He's just being a girl about this whole thing. I think he really has to learn to suck it up." The Joker said.
'Suck it up' was easy for the Joker to say. He was totally immune to any toxic compound the Scarecrow could cook up. The psychotic clown had never been haunted by a fanged truck, a rabid werewolf hyena, or a bat straight from hell.
Since Crane was perfectly miserable as he was, and wanted to add to that misery about as much as he wanted to stick his head in Killer Croc's maw, he decided to continue the retreat Lou had interrupted. He was in no state to form an escape plan, but his logic had been sealed away next to most of his sanity.
"Where does he think he's going?" The Joker asked.
"Uh, I'm pretty sure that's west, Puddin. Cause the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Or is it the other way around? I better never get lost in the woods." Harley said.
"Pumpkin pie, you're one of those people who sound smartest when their mouths are closed. Get where I'm going?" The clown asked.
Harley scowled and clutched Lou closer. What right did Mister J have to make fun of her for not knowing directions? He was the guy who got lost trying to find a bank to rob and ended up in New Jersey. Harley might not know her east from her west, but she had never ended up staring at a sign for Hackensack and not knowing how she had gotten there.
"I'm going to go give the Mop Man a heart attack. Try not to wander off to Timbuktu while I'm gone, okay?" The Joker said.
"If I do, don't expect any phone calls, Mister J!"
The Joker ignored Harley's indignation, and took off after the Scarecrow. He doubted if Timbuktu even had phone service. Actually, the Joker wasn't even sure if Timbuktu was a real place, or just some fantasy with an amazing name, like Shangri-La or Candy Land.
The Clown Prince would go find a world atlas or make good use of an Internet search engine later. Right now, he had to steer the wayward Dr. Crane away from the street before he stumbled in front of a garbage truck and was knocked clean out of his shoes.
Unlike most animals, especially squirrels and possums, the Scarecrow was not going to dash madly out into the road and beneath the wheels of a sedan. The occasional traffic that passed by terrified him as badly as his stolen truck did. Everything from the average SUV to a Gotham News van blowing by at three times the posted speed limit looked like it was ready to munch on someone's face. Crane was not, under pain of violent death, going to go near the metal monsters.
The Scarecrow headed for his neighbor's yard. Their house was actually empty, because their mortgage had eaten them alive three months ago. Nobody was going to notice one tall, shaking mad scientist running for his life until he got to a more populated section of the barrio.
Before Crane could crawl over the low fence that separated the two properties, the Joker caught up to him. The Scarecrow had been running the helter-skelter pattern of a drunk at three in the morning trying to flee a DUI rap. It wasn't particularly hard for the clown to get at him.
Instead of jumping on Crane and knocking him to the ground, the Joker chucked the chemistry book at his legs. The textbook wasn't as refined as a boomerang, but it was heavy enough to knock the Scarecrow's leg out from under him. He stumbled, flailed wildly, and ended up going down hard.
"Got you, Spooky. What do you say to another experiment? You'll really like this one; it involves fear and screaming and a toilet plunger. Fun, huh?" The Joker said.
Crane didn't respond. The Joker walked closer and nudged his foot. "Hey, Mop Man, are you listening to me?"
A cricket chirping somewhere in the grass was the only noise. The Scarecrow didn't so much as twitch. He must have knocked his head when he fell. That was just dandy.
"You spend too much time unconscious. It isn't good." The Joker said. He grabbed hold of the Scarecrow's thin ankles and began to drag his unmoving body back toward the house. After moving about three feet, the Joker got bored and summoned Harley to finish the job.
"I am so sick of doin' this, Mister J! Why don't you stop knockin' the Professor out? Is that really so hard? I don't think so!"
"Harley-girl, you don't think. Just keep yanking. You've got another fifty feet to the front door."
While Harley pulled the Scarecrow, the Joker went to gather up the miscellaneous crap Harley had dropped. She really had selected quite an interesting array of tools. The Joker was dying of anticipation; he was desperate to see how Crane reacted to that toilet plunger. It would probably be a reaction he could laugh at for the rest of his life.
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Author's Notes: Jiminy Cricket was Pinocchio's conscious, teaching him about right and wrong through the wonder of song.
Robert Langdon is the hero from The Da Vince Code and Angels and Demons. He can decipher pretty much any ancient puzzle, code, or carefully disguised clue.
Decepticons are the evil shape-shifting robots from the Transformers series.
The werewolf in London refers to the movie An American Werewolf in London. The rabid St. Bernard is Cujo.
A Basilisk is a monster snake capable of killing with its stare. See Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.
This is the last time I will mention the Scarecrow's thighs, even in passing. Ever.
Timbuktu is in the African nation, Mali. It is real.