Bad Jokes (JokerxHarley Quinn)

let the bodies hit the floor

Let the bodies hit the floor. 
-Drowning Pool, Bodies

One week later, it was dark, cold, and raining, and I was struggling to maneuver my car through Gotham's slick streets to get to Arkham Asylum for an emergency.

I'd spent the previous days attending sessions with the Joker, talking with him about everything from what he would do if he was the mayor of Gotham (he got a dark look on his face and started muttering about reforming patent laws) to the upcoming presidential election and what he had to say about everything in between. There had been a conspicuous absence of the rather intimate conversation that had been the norm beforehand, though, and I suppose each of us had our reasons for not pursuing it.

For my part, I didn't want Stratford to see how truly intensely personal these sessions had become. The doubts about humanity, this sudden belief in something called destiny and the carefully constructed chaos of fate—it was hitting me particularly hard, and I feared that if I got into any more dangerous discussions with the Joker, then it would become obvious to more than just myself. I was trying to maintain the delicate balance right now. That meant not talking about personal issues.

The Joker, on the other hand... who knew? Maybe he'd gotten everything he wanted out of me. Maybe he was biding his time, waiting until I was completely off-guard before he sprung some giant surprise on me. There was no telling.

He hadn't worn his makeup. I had given it to Howard to give to him, but he hadn't shown up with it once yet. I hunted Howard down to make sure he had actually received it, had received opportunities to use it, but he said that the Joker showed no interest in wearing it. I was a bit bummed at the news.

At any rate, our sessions had been completely ordinary, the kind of stuff a normal therapist would discuss with a patient that was close to completing rehabilitation. I should have known that something would happen to upset the status quo sooner or later.

I was sitting at home with a carton of carry-out Chinese, in my pajamas and considering going to bed despite the fact that it was only 9 PM, when my phone had buzzed with a text.

STRATFORD, the screen read. Frowning, I checked the message.

Need you here now. Hury up

The misspelling wasn't like him. Admittedly, he and I didn't text regularly, so I had no way of knowing if he was a stickler for grammar like Pam and I were, but he was the director of Arkham Asylum—it wasn't like him to misspell anything, even in something as unimportant as a text message. It communicated urgency.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and a black v-neck, long-sleeved shirt, forgoing makeup, just running a brush through my hair and brushing my teeth. I grabbed the only umbrella I could see (a ridiculous little thing that Pam had gotten me as a joke; it was white with hideously colored smiley-faces all over it) and ran out into the rain.

Gotham City's streets were harder than most to navigate in bad weather. As well as the usual conditions, there was the pollution factor—there were more oil spills and the pavement had deteriorated more than in other places. It wasn't conducive to fast driving, but I did my best.

Arkham's parking garage was almost completely empty, and I felt a stirring of misgiving as I climbed out of my car and headed inside the building. I had been practicing my gymnastics more than ever as of late, without Pam to distract me in my off time, so I felt as if I had a chance in warding off any potential attacks. Still, gymnastics weren't martial arts. They kept me in good shape but I still had no form of self-defense to speak of. With a little tweaking, though... I thought I might be able to turn my routines into weapons. Still, that didn't help me now.