My Boyfriend Is a Psychopathic Clown: Harley Quinn's Story

Guest Star

(Three months later....)

"In and out again," remarked Penguin casually. He looked down his beaked nose at me. Of course, you might think I'm crazy when I say this, but I thought it was Harley's absense that was messing me up. I hadn't been able to catch Batman for ages (though we'd had a few scuffles). He'd dragged me into Arkham himself, laughing (I hated it when the Bat laughed - that was my thing!) about the way my socks sagged and didn't match. I couldn't remember being left on my own so long. The kid had always come crawling back like a good flunky, back to cook for me, sort my laundry, clean up around the house (no time, gotta kill Batman)....I could never get anything really important done without her to do the minor chores. Now I was going stir-crazy from constant shrink monitoring and meds. Someone could get me out.

And then I realized what day it was....

"Julian. Let's blow this joint sky-high." I meant literally, except for the orderlies had confiscated the rolls of C-4 I kept taped inside my underwear. They'd gotten smarter in searching me - that was, if I didn't gas them or shoot them in the face first. I pride myself on being unpredictable.

He looked up from organizing all the desk calenders that he'd stolen bit by bit from everyone's offices.

"Father's Day," he murmured, fondling one of the paper squares. I was impatient with the psycho. My fingers itched for my gun. But I needed him alive to get out of here. He was rifling through his stash when I noticed something odd.

"Is that an explosive calender?"

"It's just a prototype."

"Use it."

Luckily, I had a match that I'd palmed from Bane at breakfast stuffed in my ear, so I pulled it out and lit the thick bundle, tossing it out into the hallway and blasting a hole in the floor. The staff was extremely distracted with that, and we were able to escape easily, along with a couple of other criminals who I only released to cause diversions. Waylon and Zsaz were good at that. I was kind of hoping they'd fight each other....

On a whim, I went with Julian to the cemetary and helped him deface all the graves that said 'Father ' on them.

"You know," I remarked, stroking my face, " My father was... a drinker. And a fiend. And one night he goes off crazier than usual. Mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself. He doesn't like that. Not... one... bit. So - me watching - he takes the knife to her, laughing while he does it! Turns to me, and he says, "why so serious?" Comes at me with the knife... "Why so serious?" He sticks the blade in my mouth... "Let's put a smile on that face!" And...." I looked over at Day's white face. He was just as horrified by me as the normies. Only Harley and the Batman understood me.

I saw Bruce Wayne, accompanied by his doddering Brit butler, kneeling at his father's grave. I climbed up the tree at the edge of the plot and pulled the sniper rifle out of the notch. Harley had hidden it there once when we were fighting the Batman in this very spot. Peering down the sight, I pulled the trigger and fired a couple of rounds into the Wayne brat's back, watching the old man sprint to the black car for the medical kit, dialing 911 as he ran.

"Here, Day," I called, tossing him a wad of cash. Changing the date engraved on a large stone with a handmade knife, he goggled at me.

"I was sure you were going to shoot me in the face."

"Have some fun." Some other day, when he wasn't expecting it.... I had places to go, things to do. But as I gunned the engine, who leapt on the hood but Nightwing?

"You're out of your jurisdiction. Go back to Bludhaven. Gotham is where the real criminals hang."

His fist broke through the window of my borrowed car.

"You're kidding yourself, clown. I thought you were locked up in Arkham. Somebody needs to transfer you to Blackgate."

"I've always wanted to set foot in there," I parried, jumping out of the car and ripping off one of the windshield wipers to use as a makeshift weapon. But Nightwing had his own sword, a deadly-thin rapier that came from nowhere, and now we were fencing like real gentlemen...until I got bored and wrapped my hands around his throat. He went into hypermode fighting me off, fighting to breathe...and then I just let go. I was bored of battling today. I had another mission. So I strode off and left him there, gaping after me, too winded to do anything.

Ha, ha, ha!

"I hate these Arkham jumpsuits, don't you?" I pouted, strolling into the top tailor in Gotham. I grabbed a fistful of red material, showing the man how it bagged on my frame.

"As it happens, I've always wanted to costume you," he replied calmly. I knew the windbag was lying from the calmness in his voice. He'd alert the cops as soon as my back was turned.

"No thanks, traitor rat!" I fired a bullet through the front window, catching the mannequin in the back. The man smoothly stepped around the smoking gun. 

"Mr, Joker." His voice was serpentine. "I'm truly sincere. Your young lady is the best-dressed criminal around." Well, there he'd made his mistake.

"I'M the most stylish villian!" I roared, grabbing the man's arm, ready to snap his wrist with one smooth stroke (except for I kind of wanted that suit...).

I couldn't. I dropped his limp appendage.

"Fine. Play dress-up with me. But if it's anything less than amazing, then Mr. Bullet Blaster will fire a thousand rounds through your head." I patted the gun, which I was getting more and more attached to. But I missed my Joker flower...and my Harley Quinn. A little. 

"There, Mr. Joker!" The tailor seemed satisfied...and it'd only taken a couple of hours. The suit's jaw-dropping cut highlighted my long, trim, waist and lean shoulders and hid the pound lossage that bad Arkham food always caused in me. I looked dapper, debonair...perfect for what I had ahead of me.

"Thank  you, my good man." I dropped a giant bundle of cash, then calmly looked down the barrel, aimed, fired, and shot him right in his gaping mouth. It was a shame. I'd take a million more suits just like this one. After all, in my business, clothes make the man. I'd love to upstage the Batman on the fashion front, even though I already did. My purple suits were plenty snazzier than a giant flying rat costume.

After "borrowing" a laptop to research some necessary coordinates, I hailed a cab and rode silently to my destination.

"Tip?" the driver asked me nervously, and I emptied out what was in my pockets.

"What tip?"

I laughed the whole way up the front steps, watching that yellow car burst into flames, but composed myself like a gentleman to knock on the front door, smiling my signature smile when the door opened and the man I was looking for stared out.

"Hi there! I'm looking for...Mr. Harley Quinn? Get in the car, buster."

He stared me down, terrified.

"What car?"

"Yours. I'll drive."

He couldn't protest. I'd gagged him with my tie. They're good for that, you know.

"I'm home, Harley-baby...and I brought Daddy."