2012-07-20 A Night on the Town

"Back to the Well, Harls!"

A Lamborghini Aventador, formerly black but since taken to quite haphazardly with a brush and a bucket of purple house paint, howls noisily down the quiet and secluded streets of Gotham's wealthy Bristol neighborhood. Neon green spray paint adorns one side, spelling out 'The Joker Orchestra' and in smaller, black lettering 'Feat. H. Quinn & the Babies'. The hood of the ridiculously expensive, sleek sports car has been decorated with a leering green smiley face.

Behind the wheel, the Joker recklessly snakes down the street as he barely controls the roaring V12 engine. One elbow resting out the opened window, he doesn't watch the road as he contemplates an egg decorated lavishly with jewels and inlaid with gold.

"I mean, Faberge eggs are nice and all that," he says, holding the thing up for them both to see before running his tongue along it and pulling a face, "But they taste lousy."

With that, he tosses the egg out the window and lets it shatter into dust behind them. The passenger window is also open, and as the barely-controlled sportscar tears down the street, Harley's head hangs out of it. The two hyenas, laughing almost as wildly as their Mistress, also have their heads sticking out, tongues dangling as they enjoy the careening experience.

As the night's haul is carelessly discarded, Harley's cackling rises, and she throws herself back down onto the seat, stroking idly over Bud's (or is it Lou's?) flank. Seatbelts are for losers, after all.

"Maybe we oughta swing by the doughnut place on the way back, puddin'!" She declares cheerfully, "Getcha some bacon ta go with tha egg!" Her giggling is, a little more restrained at her own joke. But just a little.

"Puh-leeze," the Joker says dismissively with a wave of his hand, "You know I'm watching my cholesterol, you dizzy broad."

As the car continues to speed down the road, the Joker ducks below the wheel to fumble around amidst a pile of papers for a map, "Besides, we've got one more stop. Wouldn't be a proper night on the town without - excuse me a minute."

The Joker spots something far ahead and fetches a cellular phone from his jacket's inside pocket, dialing it quickly as his tongue sticks out over his lip with concentration. A second letter and a muffled voice answers on the other end.

"Hello? I'd like to report a hit and run!"

A pause as someone talks back indistinguishably on the other end.

"Oh, in about five seconds."

With that, the Joker plants his foot on the accelerator and the engine roars even louder, propelling the car down the road at breakneck speeds. Verging off to mount the sidewalk, the car plows into a late night jogger who bounces off the hood, rolls across the windscreen and lands in a twisted pile behind the car as they speed off.

"Anyway, as I was saying, we've got a stop." He tosses the map at Harley, "Look up 1492 Mountain Drive for me, Sugarbeet." The sound of the body hitting the ground behind the speeding vehicle would disturb anyone in their right mind. Luckily, there's nobody like that around right now, or it'd be really inappropriate! Harley had done her best to be quiet through the phonecall, because she just knows where it is going, and she even shushes the wheezing animals...

But the uproarious laughter which follows is the loudest yet! "Oh, that's a /classic/ Mistah J!" She enthuses, as she takes the map. "Ya always know jus' how ta knock 'em dead!"

The psychotic woman does do her best to concentrate, though, because now she's having to try and play rally car navigator. She bites down on her tongue in an overwrought expression of concentration, brows furrowed as she eyes the map.

"Okay! I got us!" She says, glancing up at the road and then down at the map. "SHARP left up ahead!" And in preparation, she clings to the doorframe and wraps her other arm around her babies. "Sharp left!" the Joker echoes, jamming the wheel to one side and sending the Lamborghini hurtling around the corner - at one point resting on only two wheels.

As the car speeds down Mountain Drive, the Joker looks out the windows at all the cavernous mansions settled on their hills behind tall, concealing fences and hedges. He clicks his tongue, pointing a finger out the window and announcing: "There it is!"

The car turns once again, plowing through the gates which are not car-proof it seems. The Lamborghini, now very much worse for wear, roars up the long driveway before rolling to a halt outside the door. Without waiting, the Joker climbs out of the car and marches right up to the door to tap on it with gloved knuckles. Harley squeals in delight as the car lifts from the ground. When it touches earth again, she chokes, and bounces. "Ackth! I think I bit my tongue!" Which.... overall, is not nearly as bad as it could have been, but does make her sound, if anything, even more ridiculous than normal.

She's about to ask what she should do, but, The Joker isn't waiting up for her... and she doesn't want to miss the fun. She opens the door, and pushes the hyenas back into the car. "Just wait here, sweeties. Momma will be back soon, you make sure no stupid cops steal our ride!"

With that said, she skips up the driveway. But... she knows better than to distract her puddin' when he's working, so for the moment, she just clasps her hands behind her back, and idly bounces this way and that, curious about what the heck they're getting up to now! This has been a perfect evening so far, though, she's sure it'll be excellent! A rotund, old butler opens the door to the Joker and a momentary wave of terror keeps him from immediately slamming it in the Joker's face and barring it from the inside with every bit of furniture he can find. The Joker takes /that/ little moment to stick his foot in the door and force it open with his arm, his wiry frame deceptively strong.

"Good evening, sir. I'm Doctor Pagliacci and this is my personal assistant," he gestures over his shoulder at Harley, "Miss Euphoria Finch-Fletcher. We were hoping we could take a look at your collection of Jan Davidszoon de - oh, to heck with it, take two!"

With reptilian quickness, a single-edged knife slips free from the Joker's sleeve and into his palm. In that same motion he draws it swiftly across the Butler's throat, sending the man choking and sputtering to the floor. The Clown steps over him, waving for Harley to follow without looking over his shoulder.

"Lucy," he calls out, voice echoing down the old halls in his best Desi Arnaz impression, "I'm home!"

Harley is not disappointed! "Pleased to meetcha." She says brightly as she bends down to meet the eye of the writhing man, drowning in his own blood. "If you wan' my professional opinion, yer problem is you've got your blood on the /outside/. Its a rookie error, you ought to work on that! Feel right as rain in no time!"

Harley doesn't step over the man; she steps onto him and then follows behind. The place is pretty nice, in that old-family-money kind of way. Definitely not to her taste, but, with a few cans of spraypaint she could work with it. Not being quite as deranged as The Joker himself, she can't help but start totting up which of the assorted belongings here might be worth something.

She is still intent on keeping up, though. Whilst it is definitely tempting to raid the liquor cabinet... The Joker is on rare form tonight, and she wouldn't miss this performance for the world! The Joker doesn't pause to direct Harley, moving straight towards the grand staircase and beginning to ascend it as he wipes the blood off his knife with an orange handkerchief.

"One," he sings out, jumping up two stairs, "singular sensation! Every little step he takes!"

"One," he sings, planting the knife into an oil painting of a long-dead billionaire, "thrilling combination! Every move that he makes!"

It is at that moment that a burly man, dressed only in shorts and a bathrobe, appears at the top of the stairs with a gun in his hand. He makes the mistake of charging the Clown.

"One smile and suddenly nobody else ... " the Joker brings his foot up in an almost-elegant arc, clocking the man across the chin and sending him stumbling.

"Will," the Joker plants his foot in the man's back as he stumbles, knocking the guy down the stairs where he lands at the bottom in a mess, "Dooooooo!"

"You know you'll never be lonely with," he pauses at the top of the stairs, holding his hands out to the sides as though presenting himself to an audience, "You! Know! Whooooooooo!"

He fetches a gun from inside his coat, taking off down the hall at the top of the stairs with comically over-extended steps. Harley Quinn clasps her hands together as The Joker bursts into song, looking for all the world like a lovestruck teen being serenaded by her boyfriend - despite the fact that The Joker isn't, actually, paying any attention to her at all. She knows this is really meant all for her, the most romantic date she's ever been on!

"Oh Mistah J." She says, pausing only to pluck up the gun from the bottom of the stairs before she takes off to meet him further up. "You're the best guy a gal could ever hope for!" She is twirling the gun idly now... though, as she follows, she squints, and takes the safety /off/. Then she resumes spinning the weapon with a lovestruck smile on her lips.

"Tell me something I don't know, toots."

The Joker walks down the hallway, pausing at every door to kick it open and peer inside. Systematically he works his way through the upper level of the house, looking for something that he isn't sharing just yet.

An empty guest bedroom. An empty study. A pair of half-dressed house staff who cower in fear before the Joker just winks at them, tips an imaginary hat and quietly closes the door.

Then they arrive at a large, more ornate door at the end of the hallway. Kicking it open, a large master bedroom is revealed with an old man trying desperately to crawl under his bed but failing to hide.

"Oh gee," the Joker announces, rolling his eyes, "I wonder where he could be?"

He strides over to the curtains, prodding at them with the muzzle of the gun.

"Here? Nope."

He fires off three rounds into a wardrobe, eliciting a terrified gasp from the man half-hidden under the bed.

"In there? Nope."

He then springs up onto the big, four-poster bed and leans down over the edge to look at the old man in the face from the other side of the bed, "There you are, Al. Sneaky monkey."

He clicks his fingers, the wordless signal for Harley to pull her weight (or, more accurately, the old man's weight) and get him out of hiding. Harley can't help but snicker at the failed attempt of the old man to hide himself. When The Joker puts three rounds into the wardrobe, she grins, and puts her hands on her hips. "Now come on, Monkey-man." She says, grasping both ankles, "No need... nngh ... to be... gnnn! Scared! EVERYONE loves monkeys, whatcha worried about?!"

Grunting and straining, she manages to haul the old man out from underneath the bed, and coil her arms up and around his shoulders.

It isn't exactly a dignified haul, but she does manage to wind up with the old man sat in her lap, hugging him against her and forcing him to look up at The Joker.

"I bet if you're really good, Mistah J will give ya a bannana!" She beams up at the clown, "Ain't that right Puddin'?" The Joker crouches on the bed, looking down at Harley with a wink and then at the old man now held hostage by her. He casually moves his gun through the air as he speaks, illustrating his points as he makes them.

"Hiya, Al. I was just saying to Harley here how we need a bit of spare cash. Life of crime, y'know. Anyway, I know you rich types like to keep all your money tied up in bonds and beribboneds and bon bons so we shan't be going for a moonlit splash in the money bin /tonight/."

"What I want," the Joker announces, standing up on the bed and looking equal parts pensive and grandiose, "Are the security keys for Gotham Industrial."

It is now that the old man speaks up, struggling in such a way that it looks like his legs may be paralyzed, "I don't have them! I'm retired!"

The Joker rolls his eyes, shaking his head and putting on a speech impediment, "Stwike him, Harwey! Stwike him vewy woughly!"

"That hurt?"

The man groans and coughs, sobbing with pain each time he takes a breath and the Joker just taps the gun on his knee as he waits to hear what he wants to hear.

"I -" the old man called Al begins, letting out a sigh before he sags back defeated, "The safe. The codes ... one, three, seven."

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" the Joker jumps down off the bed, walking over to a safe concealed (but not well enough) in the wall behind an askew oil painting that he tosses to the side. He turns the dial, pulling open the safe and filling his pockets with a series of plastic pass keys and bundles of hundred dollar bills.

"Now," the Joker announces, turning on his heels back to Al, "We must decide what to do with you!"

An idea strikes him and he pulls a quarter from his pocket, striking a strange pose like he's suddenly suffered from a stroke. One side of his body hangs all limp and twisted while the other is as chipper as ever and he holds up the coin, "Hey Harls, who am I?"

He affects a raspy, nasty voice, "Heads you live, tails you die." Harley pats the old geezer on the head, as she unwraps herself from him. She might be crazy, but - despite all appearances - she's not stupid, and she's not going to keep hugging a guy The Joker has no further use for.

At the impression, she claps her hands together excitedly, "Oh! Oh! That's great Puddin'! You're Two-Face!"

She's soon slipping around to hang herself off the Clown so that the old man can look at both his assailants. Posed like a regular mobster's moll, "You pull off the look much better than Harvey Dork, though." The Joker lets Harley hang all over him, turning the coin over his knuckles before jerking his thumb to make it arc up into the air and turn face over face. It spins through the air, head and tails. However, before it lands he suddenly stands upright and drops the facade.

"Wait, is that who the guy with the coin is?" he looks at Harley incredulously, "All this time I've been calling the guy with the /question marks/ Two-Face. Boy is my face red. Well, it's not but you get what I mean."

The coins hits the floor and the Joker plants his foot on it, hiding the result and turning back to Al, "I'll tell you what. You get to live but there's a price. In a week, you go on In Gotham Tonight to talk about what a recluse you've been, to plug some charity. I don't give a care, but you be on that show in one week or I'll come back and I'll kill you."

He steps away towards the door, gun still in hand, "Feel free to tell the blue boys whatever you'd like. Big old nasty Joker broke in and robbed you and killed the Help. But one word about what I asked you to do?"

All the humor drains out of his voice, his grin fades as much as it can and his eyes become wholly predatory, "I'll know. And I won't be happy."

Then, like a cloud passing over the moon, he's back in his usual mood and strolling out the door.

"Come, Harley!" Harley is just as taken in by the coin act as poor old Al. She's not just hanging on The Joker physically; she's wrapped up in his act as well. So she's just as stunned as he is when he drops out of it, and covers the coin with his foot.

"Such a pro!" She whispers to herself, genuinely awestruck. Oh, but it is just so perfect. Sheltered old rich guys aren't used to being mocked and played with like this, and she can read every line of trauma in his eyes. Every inch of terror as his safety net is ripped so completely away.

"I think you oughta support PETA." She says with a cheerful grin as she prances past him. "They're my kinda folks!"

And with that, she prances out with her Joker, her own good humor not having failed for an instant. She /likes/ it when he gets ... scary. At least, when it is directed at someone else.

"Oh, me too," the Joker says of PETA, laughing to himself, "though I'd rather they laid off the makeup folks."

They have no more business in the Mansion and so they're on their way out, strolling down the hallways and down the stairs and then back out to the Lamborghini. Before long, the Joker is back behind the wheel.

"Home, Jeeves."