| Two-Toned Comedy | |||||
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| What: The Harlequin decides to pay this Mouthy Merc fellow a visit on his home turf. | |||||
Deadpool is holding tryouts. For what, who knows. There's at least two signs that say X-force Apply --> and one for the Suicide Squad. And a line for the Bea Arthur Fan Club.
The Bea Arthur club is going pretty well, all things considered, but the other lines are pretty lackluster. At least two people are wearing strap-on Wolverine claws, and four are dressed as ninjas. Most look very unprofessional.
"Next!" Deadpool shoots one of the applicants in the knee, because apparently he brought gum and didn't share. "Step up, step up, who's next for the X-Squad"
"The X-Squad, what a buncha baloney," a squeaky Brooklish accented voice says from the back of the line.
"Hey, shut up! If you don't take this seriously then -get out!-"
Brooklish sighs in overly dramatic fashion, "Boys!"
For a few seconds there's no further conversation back there. Then it's broken by a graceless *THUNK* of solid metal striking the back of a man's skull, instantly dropping him to the floor. "Hey look! This line's movin' right along."
As the line starts to fan out, there stands Harley in all of her black and red glory with Mister Crowbie the crowbar in her hands. "-You!-" she demands, pointing the chiseled tip of the implement across the room to none other than the Mercy Mouth. It's all the announcement she gives before storming along. "You've got a lotta nerve, bustah. If I wasn--Eep!"
One of the other guys standing in line trips her up, much to the immediate laughter of everyone watching.
For his efforts he's rewarded with a badly punctured foot and a shattered jaw, Harley coming back around and twirling the lightly bloodied crowbar about like one might spin a cane between the fingers. "Anyone else wanna be a comedian? 'Cause I've got -that- market cornahed."
Three shots ring out. They come just close enough to Harley to be taken seriously, but more importantly, they drop the two goons coming in close to Harley's position.
"Three things. One- love your initiative. Two- /I/ have the comedy market cornholed here. Three- I don't remember three. But the first two things, yeah." He holsters the two pistols.
"Whatcha got there, Springheeled Jane?" he asks her, standing akimbo. "I am on board with the whole crowbar motif, but are you just a licensed contractor with a grudge?" Deadpool has partially disconnected.
Three shots, two people down. Harley stands there on the balls of her feet, looking like a stage performer with the crowbar held in both hands. She looks at one, looks at the other, and starts -laughing.- "You guys suck! Go walk it off. Hah! Also yer aim stinks," she says in a perfectly level, conversational tone while looking back to you. "Unless ya were aimin' ta lay some hurt down on the wall back theah, mmh?"
"-First,- I come ta heah that some jokah-wannabe's usin' my colahs. Then--" she pauses, daintily holds a hand to her throat and clears it out. When she speaks again, much of the accent is suppressed. "Bein' pissy always brings out my roots. Where were we, joker-wannabe, colors--Oh yeah! -Then- I hear--no wait, I already covered that," she stops herself with the bent part of the steel rod held beneath her chin so she can rest her head upon it.
"Point is! Red and black is -my thing.- And whaddya mean ya don't know who I am! I'm the Harlequin, sweetie," she announces with a delicate twirl and flourish of crowbar where she stands, coming around and upswinging the implement only to catch some poor sod under the jaw and lay him out flat. "Gotham's finest trickstah, next to the Jayman, himself."
"Dear Penthouse," Deadpool says. "There I was, and a total Deadpool wannabe walked in and beat the crap out of a bunch of thugs who were here for cannon fodder. But seriously, lady-" he points a finger at Harley- "/I/ am the master of red and black. I am the poster boy for too many comics, I'm on too many teams. I am the /man/ in black and red. You, I mean, don't get me wrong- you're rocking the skintights, you Brooklyn nutjob. But Black and Red is /my/ color scheme. Though I guess we could work out a sort of temporary licensing thing."
Oh, the -grin- that's plastered upon Harley's face through all of this. She's gone to moving the 'bar around behind her, making it look like she's sitting on a lopsided swingset with the way she's holding onto it. "Funny, I nevah heard'a you, either. Maybe if ya did more with your 'too many teams' instead of sittin' in this joint, doin..what, exactly?"
The woman spins about, stops herself short with a definitive *TINK* of the chiseled end biting into the floor, and she's leaning in to practically cozy herself up against your chest. "Think ya might got some room for one more? Way I see it, ya got the colors right, and if yer half as funny as I am then ya should fit right in. We could start doin' comedy tours--"
"Hurry it up, you psychotic bit--"
BLAM!
Don't ask where Harls kept the 1911 that's now held at arm's length, the smoking bore aiming a straight line toward where the speaker's head used to be.
"We could write some killah acts togethah." she offers with the sharp *ping!* of brass striking the floor to the side.
"I am on board with this for so many reasons. One, your policy for indiscriminate murder for people who interrupt tender moments. Two, refer to item One." Deadpool saunters back to his comedically oversized easy chair and flops into it, kicking two red boots up onto the tabletop. "And maybe it's time for me to dial back the funny. Y'know, focus on leadership. On serious matters." He stands, clasping his hands behind his back, and walks to a window that's freestanding in the middle of the room, attached to nothing. It's labelled 'thinkin' window'. "Or I could try and do the funny thing on top of the leader thing. Lead with humor!" He pulls a gun and shoots the last remaining merc in the foot. "And that's what you get for being too dumb to bail around a pair of trigger happy mercs, when you're just a redshirt in the background."
Harley looks shocked. -Shocked.- She practically clings to you on your way to the window. "Don't be -less- funny..! That's the -worst- thing ya could do! If yer not havin' a good time then you're no bettah than any of these other idiots we keep killin!'"
Pause. Window.
"Nice view. As I was sayin.'"
Then you shoot the last guy, and she -squees- in delight. "We got 'em all, go us! I tell ya, between this place and Gotham we're gonna own -all- the red and black!"
"..Still looks cuter on me."
Deadpool eyes Harley up and down, then fishes in his pocket for a nickel. "Ok, today, you're wearing it better. But only 'cause you've got a rack." He flicks the nickel up in the air, letting it arc in front of Harley. "So you down for murder, mayhem, ...um... some other M verb. ...malarky? You down for Malarky, Harley?" He snorts to himself. "Hah. I made a funny."
"Mastication?" Harley helpfully suggests. "Oh, mischief! Missed an easy shot," she jovially remarks while rolling the .45 around a hooked index finger. "Let's go see whatcher made of, bustah."
"Also, you dropped a nickel."