The Laughing Man, Book Two: Goner

Chapter Four

Rolling over with his arm stretched, only the cool untouched sheets met his grasp. Bothered. Annoyed. Bereft of her presence. It was strange how acclimated he had become to her, even sleeping on his side of the bed despite her absence. The mattress was new and had never known anything other than her purring snores and depraved demands. The screams, the moans, the whining. Her side buckled inwards, the shape of her. Odd to be tied down to a concept, for Harley was still a work in progress. But for now, Mr. J was unencumbered.

Flipping the sheet off, he immediately headed to the bathroom, catching sight of his makeup caked face in the mirror. After relieving himself, he turned a faucet handle, warm water flowing quickly. A splash to his face, grabbing Harley's facial soap, cleanser, whatever the fuck she called it. The colors mixed in the sink, reflective of his mood. Black. With the touch of red.

Mind clean, face clean, he ran through the details. The Thomas Elliot affair had been sorted, rather transparent to his keen skills once he evaluated it fully, Harley playing her role. He put it from mind. Gordon. All those deaths at his feet. Time to step up the game. The deceiver, putting lies into the mob. Standing behind the policy of not giving into terrorists. While the hospital thing had been helpful, it was a mere drop in the bucket for what he had planned. No, not planned. Plans always failed. No room for improvisation. Operations, though, were another matter.

Mr. J opened the door to the bedroom and called out for Doc before opening the battered dresser and slipping on a pair of clean boxers. He made a note that he would need to have Doc do some laundry since Harley was gone. Wormed her way into his world. Ingrained. Cooking, cleaning, all the little things. Mr. J was never sure how long the dance would continue between them but so useful, his little harlequin, making life a little easier. Trousers slid on, black, simple, just as Doc appeared at the door.

"What do you want?" Doc was slurring his words.

A quick look at the digital readout on the nightstand told him it was well past drunk-o-clock for Doc. He assessed the man at the door for a moment. Leaned against the doorframe but not for support. Laziness. Holding his liquor fine, despite speech. Still useful. "Call Livingston. We're heading there in an hour. I need the revised specs for the yard. And get me something to eat."

"You didn't eat when you were out?" Doc asked. "I would have grabbed a couple of burgers on site."

"What are you talking about?"

"Inspired," Doc said. "Truly. I almost did the same thing once. Not enough ketchup in my bag. And why can't I order an Egg McMuffin after 10:30am? It's lunacy, I say. Order breakfast when you want!" Doc laughed, the sound almost maniacal. "Won't make that mistake again."

Mr. J frowned and grabbed Doc by his shirt, slamming him into the door. "What. Are. You. Talking. About?"

Doc winced in pain, the alcohol wafting from his breath, stinking up the air around him. "It's all over the news, your killing spree at McDonalds. Fifteen dead. Joker card on scene. Witnesses."

Releasing the drunk, he snatched the remote off the dresser, turning on the TV. GCN flared to life, his message being the top story, as always. No longer the hospital. McDonalds. Only an outside visual of the building as a reporter interviewed a survivor claiming the Joker came in, ordered a chocolate milkshake before gunning down most of the people in the restaurant. Two hours ago. Improbable. His frown deepened. Not his play. Not his style. No point to be made. Confusion, chaos.

Doc smirked, moving next to Mr. J. "I guess you didn't appreciate them asking if you wanted fries with that shake."

"Shut up." Mr. J began to pace the room while watching the story unfold on the television. "I'm not much for sleepwalking," he muttered to himself, as GCN announced they received the feed from the security cameras.