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

"Leaves of Three, Let Them Be"... Unless They're Saving You

Once his mansion had been on the "Top 20 Nicest Homes For Millionares" list, but now the place was decrepit and ragged, molding...and covered with awkward murals of my face. The Creeper smiled - his breath smelled like he'd eaten too many meals of mayonnaise-covered pork rinds (which was what he supposedly ate, according to Gotham Gazette journalist Vicki Vale. Ew. If he tried to force that on me while I was trapped here, I was going to never eat again, even if I could get my favorite meal, lobster in garlic cream sauce and butter and lemon crumble cheesecake from Gotham's best gourmet resturant.)

"Sit, my little pumpkin strudel cake," he murmured, pushing me onto a holey, sagging, once-formal couch that I promptly fell through to the dusty floor. Ouch.

"Um...can you go put some clothes on?" Having to stare at his totally ripped chest was making me uncomfortable...and his green hair was reminding me of Mr. J and I wanted to cry.

He looked shocked.

"You don't like my costume, but you don't mind  when Mr. J  wears his costume all around the house," he pouted, drawing out my love's name mockingly.

"Yeah, but he doesn't wear a red cape with no shirt and a green-and-black striped Speedo,"I snarked, turning my back on him and sulking. It was going to be a long...however much it was.....

Two months later, when Mr. J still hadn't come for me (he'd kidnapped a baron's daughter and held her at gunpoint in my absence, and now was back in Arkham)...when anyone hadn't come for me, I was going stir-crazy. My hunger strike had only lasted so long (a week) and while The Creeper heaped gifts of  stolen fancy clothes and jewelry on me like I was his princess, I missed my lovin' sweetheart more each day I was trapped, even if I got the new, exclusive Gucci  jet silk evening gown with the diamond trimming (but the Batman came and took it back, the Creeper said the next morning when I woke). The Creeper didn't take me on his missions like Mr. J did. I wasn't allowed to plan (well, some things hadn't changed, I guess...) and he was affectionate toward me in a way  Puddin' had never really been. Just because he wanted things, though, didn't mean I gave in. If Mr. J had found out I'd been cheating on him, even if it hadn't really meant anything, I'd be kicked out....or never rescued! I had to get out, but he had the place locked up tighter than the most expensive safe on the market, the kind even The Artist couldn't crack. One day when I was really missing my Victoria's Secret job (and the employee discounts - The Creeper may have lifted lingerie for me to wear, but I would have rather picked out such an intimate item myself, even if he never actually saw it on me) and reading a back issue of Glamour, the pretty-much-broken doorbell rang.

"Mr. Ryder? Creeper? ...Jack?"

He was making himself lunch, and when he heard the woman calling him by his real name, he jumped up and left the baloney sandwich on the counter.

"Vicki?"

Ah.  It was Gotham's famous female reporter, Vicki Vale, who hadn't only dated The Creeper when he was still Jack Ryder, TV personality, but also hottie millionare Bruce Wayne. She wrote the most compelling articles on the Batman for our city's best paper (Mr. J even grudgingly admitted she had some talent). I was totally jealous of her cutting-edge clothes: dark blue suede criss-cross platform stiletto sandals, a white belted miniskirt and a navy blue long-sleeved knit top, kind of like a long-sleeved T-shirt but softer.

"Jack,"  she breathed into his ear, "how much I've missed you!" and she kissed him....then roundhouse-kicked him in the face without even totally flashing him (ninja kicks were difficult in a mini, especially if you wanted to keep your modesty.)

"Come on," she called to me as he toppled to the ground, passed out cold. Mystified, I followed her into her cute foreign car and didn't ask any questions.

We stopped at the local women's shelter, and she pushed me out.

"I can't bring your stuff from his place because it's stolen, but they'll give you other clothes here, ok?" What? She wasn't returning me to Mr. J? He was getting out of Arkham tomorrow, said the newscaster this morning...so she could have just sent me home to wait. Grrrrr!

I was complient, I admit. Puddin' would have been shocked at my good-girl behavior, but I didn't have the fight in me to rebel. I ate their food, wore their clothes, slept in their beds...and listened to the stories of the others around me. A couple of the girls were former prostitutes, one was a teen runaway...everyone had their own tale. Ms. Vale had signed me up for a course about abusive relationships, and I went, but I put my foot down at participating. Sure, sometimes Mr. J could be physical after a failed plan (especially if I'd messed it up), but no matter what that egotistical Batman said, he loved me!

I was eating tuna salad one day, chatting with Kailee, one of the former prostitutes (she'd met a guy at her day job who she was moving in with, so I was saying my goodbye) when a knockout redhead walked in, took my hand, and walked out the door with me, the protests of the shelter's heads our exit music.

"Ivy!"I squealed as we drove away, tires screeching, in her pink car with ROSE BUD on the liscense plate, and we high-fived. A girl can always count on her friends to save her from a sticky situation!!!!!!!

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