Bad Jokes (JokerxHarley Quinn)

why are the wicked so strong?

You got to tell me brave captain,
Why are the wicked so strong,
How do the angels get to sleep,
When the devil leaves the porch light on?
-Tom Waits, Mr. Siegal

A day passed in which Stratford would not allow me to see my new patient, and then another. I argued and fought him, but he steadily said that he and some other doctors were examining the footage of my previous session, and until they deemed it wise, I should not return to that room.

During the days, I attended to my usual duties. During my nights alone, I studied the Joker. I pulled some records at Arkham, and what I discovered worried me.

He ate, at most, one meal a day, and often days went by in which he left all his food untouched. He slept even more rarely than he ate, averaging one hour a night. With that marked lack of nutrition and rest, it was a wonder that he was still upright, let alone cutting into his therapists. His willpower must have been extraordinary.

I continued writing in my notebook, often scribbling down my thoughts until my middle finger was bruised from the pressure of the pen. I had a strategy now, at least, though I was no closer to deciphering the Joker's motives than I was to begin with.

I had decided that a conventional line of questioning, such as the ones employed by all of the Joker's previous therapists, would do more harm than good. He seemed to thrive on conversation, give-and-take, a sort of quid pro quo situation. From what I'd seen in the tapes, he was willing to talk only if he was getting something back in return, only if he was getting a good look inside of his examiner's head.

It was the exact opposite of what I'd been planning earlier—but that had been before I had actually met him, actually talked to him. Now, it seemed unlikely that he would share with me if I refused to do the same with him. I thought it was hardly unreasonable to adapt my strategy accordingly, at least until it was proven ineffective.

Or until he reduces you to a heap of emotional rubble, I couldn't help thinking. Whatever happens first.

On the third morning, I was approached by Howard and informed that the Joker was waiting for me in the same examination room as before. I nearly knocked him over in my rush to get to the stairs.

Stratford was standing down the hall from the room, talking to a pair of nurses, and as I reached the door, he caught my eye. I stared at him, silently requesting permission, and he simply gave a grim nod. The orderlies guarding the door made no move to stop me as I twisted the knob and went inside.

He was stretched across the chair this time, his lower back pressed against one arm of his seat, the backs of his thighs pushed against the other arm, hands wedged between his knees to provide some slack on the chain that ran down to his ankles. Otherwise, it was the same setup as it had been before, down to the orderly standing guard over him. His head turned as I entered the room, and he let it loll sideways as I sat down across from him. He said nothing.

"Good morning," I greeted him pleasantly.

The Joker remained silent, just continued to let his eyes burn into mine. I shifted in my seat, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness. I'd been so focused on getting back into this room with him that I'd forgotten how intimidating his presence was.

"How—how are you doing?" I asked, well aware that the question was an utterly ridiculous one—but his stare drove all of the half-formed plans I'd made for this session out of my mind. I felt foolish right away, and his face remained expressionless. I cleared my throat and continued, if only to try to get some reaction from him. "Aside from being locked up in a giant cage, I mean. Have you eaten? Have you slept?"