My Boyfriend Is a Psychopathic Clown: Harley Quinn's Story

Puddin's Worst Enemy

We went to The Artist's funeral at my insistance (I threatened not to feed the hyenas, because I secretly think Mr. J is afraid of them ever since one bit him on the butt, but I'd never say that to him, or that I laughed because it was hilarious.) Because Mr. J really doesn't have any black, it was a cause for us to go shopping, so I picked the most upscale store in town. Murdering a boyfriend-stealing slut is cause for really cute, expensive clothes, right? I bought a tight black Diane Von Furstenburg wrap dress from the new collection and super-high, very, very adorable YSL red patent-leather T-strap platform stilettos , even splurging on an adorable creamy white real-rabbit-fur scarf that felt soft as a kiss against the skin exposed by my dress's V-neck. Mr. J got a new black suit and shoes, and he looked so good I was glad the Artist wasn't a threat anymore. If there was any other way for it to be besides her being dead, I would have preferred it, but she was obviously encroaching on Mr. J's alpha status, and we couldn't have that. Bruce Wayne and  Dick  Grayson were at her funeral, too. They stood far away from us, but I could hear Dick Grayson's whisper.

"Bruce...I almost loved her."
"You did love her," corrected Gotham's richest playboy and most eligable bachelor to his ward.

"I could see it in your eyes. She changed you."

"I felt like I should have stopped her...."

"You can't help it she turned to a life of crime."

This made Grayson nod, and he turned, placing a rouge-red rose on her grave before they left, slipping into Bruce Wayne's new Bentley and driving away from the cemetary fast.

Puddin' had been planning schemes since the day after he killed The Artist, and while I'd urged him to take a break in her memory, he scoffed at my suggestion. Tonight, he decided, we were going to go through with his plan of robbing the Wild Card casino. All the beautiful and famous rich hung out there, and no regular criminal would dare try to take any amount of money from its security-packed buildings or the people inside it, many of whom had bodyguards. He sent me there ahead of time to stake it out.

"Can I actually gamble?" I asked hopefully. I considered myself a pretty good poker player from our sorority poker nights in college, and he smiled.

"Sure...since I'll just be stealing any money you lose back."

"You're going to wipe out the whole place?" I asked, shocked. "Without a good team?"

"I'm my own good team." He'd forgotten to mention me, but I just ignored this. He was pretty psyched for our heist, after all. I'd ordered the perfect dress offline, one-shoulder, ultra-tight shiny dark-blue sequins, so I zipped myself into it, slid on over-the-knee black leather boots, stiff with brand-newness, and fastened my black velvet choker around my neck.

"Do you think the sapphire glitter eyeshadow is too much?" I asked Puddin' before I left, and he shook his head.

"You look just right, like a rich blond bimbo with money. You'll blend in perfectly."

He'd ordered me a limo!!!!!!! I sat back and watched cable TV, drinking vodka with maraschino cherries and chocolate syrup in it and flirting with the hot driver until we got there. (The hottest clubs had actually started serving my beverage of choice and called it "The Joker's Girl". He was mad he didn't have a drink named after him.) I loved the I'm-rich-so-serve-me feeling, having anyone and everyone at my whim, so I took advantage of it and gambled and drank and drank and gambled until I stopped feeling lucky and my head felt light. Then, like we'd planned, all the lights went off, replaced with blinding, blinking strobe lights that beamed the shape of Mr. J's face over everything.

"I love a good night on the town," his voice boomed through the speakers, "so let's party!"  The middle of the room lit up, him sitting on a plush purple velvet couch placed on a pedestal shaped and painted like his face, surrounded by piles and piles and piles of money in bags. He shouted jokes at everyone rapid-fire laughing with glee in between punch lines. I was happy to be immune, protected, from the random spurts of Joker Venom that sprayed and sprayed  until everyone who, unlike the lucky few, hadn't managed to escape. We wandered around raiding the dead of their pocketbooks, wallets and jewelry (I filched a fur coat from Gotham's classiest wealthy octogenarian, a woman who lived with sixteen cats in her 25-room mansion close to Bruce Wayne's place.

"Hop on, Harls," shouted my angel hysterically, and I slid next to him on the couch, him latching seatbelts over our laps as glass walls popped up on every side of us...and then his platform shot  through the roof and up into the air, spreading hidden wings. I was so amazed at his little raft-plane contraption that I didn't see the grappling hook come flying through the window and latch onto the gearshift.

"Got you, Joker."

We were being pulled along by a sleek black helicopter with yellow bat insignias.

Mr J. groaned.

"Batsy! Way to ruin everything!"

"Haven't you had enough fun for one night? You killed - no, never mind. If I tell you now, you'll just celebrate and you'll read it in the newspaper anyway...oh, wait....they don't let you have that section of the news in Arkham. So sorry." His wicked sarcasm infuriated Puddin'.

"I'm going back to Arkham when Hell freezes over! So long, Bat-brat!" He flicked a switch that, I assumed, deployed our parachutes, but when he dropped down with a giant orange fabric mushroom cloud over his head and I stayed put in the plane....He didn't even look back when I screamed and screamed for help. I didn't want to go to Arkham, especially after I'd just lied to everyone on staff!

"Please don't take me there," I begged to Batman, and in response he just put his gloved hand over my mouth, pressing a sweet-smelling handkerchief to my nose...hey! Sleeping gas! No fair, Batman....