Harley Quinn: Mad Love

by Paul Dini

  Without any direct daylight, the glittery, multicolor paint on the rough, faux-stone walls was still fairly bright. Two fake mermaids sat on fake rocks, frozen in the act of combing their fake hair with fake clamshells. The large open space behind them must have depicted some kind of undersea fantasy. There were still a few fake pink and purple starfish lying around.

  At the very back of the area, behind a waist-high wall of fake rock, she found a real treasure: a stack of old quilted blankets, the kind movers used to protect furniture.

  “Bonanza!” Harley squealed; her voice reverberated, as if she were in an empty swimming pool. She shook the dust out of the blankets and spread them on the wooden floor. This was some genuinely good luck—she and her puddin’ could sleep on them until she could find something better.

  But then, she always had good luck in an amusement park. Even when she’d had bad luck, there’d been enough good luck to tip things in her favor. Not to mention that she was, after all, the one and only Harley Quinn.

  * * *

  When she looked back on their time in the Tunnel of Love, when her puddin’ had been so weak she’d had to do everything for him, it seemed like the closest she’d ever come to heaven on earth.

  She took the Joker off morphine before he got addicted. By then the worst pain was over and extra-strength ibuprofen was enough to manage his discomfort. Reducing his pain medication was also a good way to remind him he had to take it easy and give himself time to heal. Still, Harley knew he’d be restive before long; it was hard to keep a big personality quiet.

  He did need some gentle exercise to avoid blood clots, so Harley walked him around the park. Twice a day to start with; when she saw he was moving more easily, she increased it to three. The Joker complained mightily—he was stiff, everything hurt, why couldn’t they go somewhere else besides this godforsaken ruin, it made him feel like they were the last two people on Earth.

  Harley always had an answer for that last. “Aw, Mistah J, ya say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  Usually he would just give her a pained smile. After a week, the smile began to shrink. By the end of week two, he stopped smiling altogether and barely spoke as he limped along the midway beside her, leaning on a walking stick she had found in one of the ticket booths. It was a rather amazing find—polished wood topped with a brass lion’s head—but he was too cranky to appreciate it.

  Harley tried telling him stories about Coney Island—not that story, he’d already heard it—but happy memories, heavily embellished. On the first day of the third week, in the idle of the last walk of the day, they had just passed the wreckage of the Ferris Wheel while she was talking about Nathan’s hot dogs, when he suddenly stopped.

  “Whatsamatta, puddin’?” Harley asked. “Ya gotta pain?”

  “Have I got a pain?” The Joker drew himself up. “Have I got a pain? Oh, I’ve got lots of pains, all over, but worst of all, I’ve got this one great, big, enormous pain. Shall I describe it for you?”

  Harley nodded, wide-eyed, as he advanced on her, leaning on the walking stick.

  “It’s a little over five feet tall, dressed like a harlequin, and when it isn’t prattling on about its wretchedly happy childhood, it’s asking stupid questions like have I got a pain! If I weren’t crazy before, I am now because my pain is driving me out of my mind!”

  Harley suddenly found herself backed up against a derelict game booth.

  “And would you like to know why that is?” the Joker asked, suddenly quiet and matter-of-fact, as if they’d just been chatting about the weather. “Well? Would you?” An edge had crept into his voice. “Would you?” he bellowed, his face suddenly hideous with fury.

  “S-s-sure.” Harley nodded, making the bells on her hat jingle. The Joker yanked it off her head and tossed it over his shoulder.

  “P-p-p—” she stuttered.

  “If the next word out of your mouth is ‘puddin’,’” the Joker said, “I will stab you in the eye with my finger.”

  “Gotcha, Mr. J,” Harley said shakily.

  “That’s better. Now where was I?” The Joker frowned as if he were concentrating. “Oh, yes—why my biggest pain is driving me out of my mind.” He leaned closer. Harley looked to her left and he slammed his hand against the booth next to her head, blocking her so she couldn’t sidle away from him. Then he did the same with his other arm.

  “My pain is driving me crazy,” he began in a dry, lecturing tone, “because it’s keeping me in solitary confinement. I have no contact with anyone but it. It’s almost like being back in my cell in Arkham—

  “Only this is worse!” he screamed into her face. “The food’s not as good—when there is any food! The bed’s a lot harder—because there is no bed, just furniture pads on the floor! There’s no hot shower, just a trickle of cold water from a stand-pipe. And I don’t even want to talk about the toilet facilities but—spoiler alert!—I’m probably going to die of disgustipation!”

  Harley shrank down under his rage until she was sitting on the ground hugging her knees.

  “And the punchline to this very unfunny joke is, my pain keeps telling me how much she loves me! She! Loves! Me! And I tell myself, thank God, because I can’t imagine what she’d do if she hated me!”

  For a long moment, he loomed over her, panting from the effort of shouting. Harley had covered her head with both arms, waiting to feel a slap or punch. When it didn’t come, she finally dared to lower her arms and look up.

  The Joker was back on the paved walkway, leaning on his walking stick and gazing at her calmly as if he hadn’t just been incandescent with rage.

  “Well, my dear Doctor Harley Quinn,” he said. “I do believe it’s time for more pain medication, as the previous dose seems to have worn off. Shall we?” He jerked his head at her.

  She should have known, Harley thought as she scrambled to her feet. Patients always got cranky when they needed pain meds. She hurried over to him but stayed a few inches out of reach as they started home. Just in case his pain got the better of him again.

  “Dear, dear Doctor Harley Quinn,” he said after a few moments, “would you mind terribly letting me lean on you? I’m feeling a bit weak.”

  Harley hesitated, then moved to his side. He put his arm over her shoulders. Struggling under his weight, she put an arm around his waist for balance.

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “It hurts.”

  Harley removed her arm. He gave her shoulder an affectionate, possessive squeeze and it was like the last few minutes had never happened. She wouldn’t think about that. She would just concentrate on being happy that he was himself again; he was her puddin’. She was so busy concentrating she forgot all about her hat until they got home. No big deal. She’d get it later. Everything was so nice right now; she didn’t want to spoil it.

  * * *

  Setting up the internet connection was the beginning of the end.

  The Joker was pleased with her for getting them online and very appreciative of the tablet she gave him, although his thanks weren’t as effusive as she’d expected. Or hoped. Or thought she deserved, which she tried not to dwell on because she had a much bigger worry—namely, he hadn’t wanted an internet connection just so they could watch movies together. She managed to look happy when he gave her the good news that some of his old gang were coming to take them back to a great new hideout in the heart of Gotham City.

  “No more camping out in this rehearsal for the end of the world as we know it,” the Joker said gleefully. “We’ll be able to get decent takeout—and it will still be hot when it arrives!”

  “That’ll be wonderful,” she said, forcing herself to smile and nod.

  “It’s a new beginning,” the Joker said, hugging her absently, exerting pressure he’d claimed was too painful, and then began limping toward the exit.

  “Where are you going?” Harley asked in a high, anxious voice.

  “To wait for them out front,” the Joker replied.

  “Bad idea!”
Harley caught up to him and blocked his way. “The cops are still looking for us. Someone driving by could see you and call the tip line.”

  The Joker shrugged her off and kept limping. “The tip line gets thousands of calls. It’ll take them a week before they get to that one.”

  “I don’t think so, Mistah J,” Harley said. “It’s been a month. They won’t be getting as many calls now. The cops might show up fast.”

  The Joker considered this. “You’re right,” he said finally and shoved his cell phone at her. “Text them and tell them to call for directions when they get to the entrance.”

  * * *

  When the gang arrived, there was another vehicle following their rather dirty gray van, an expensive-looking black car with dark tinted windows. The Joker eyed it nervously.

  “You didn’t bring the FBI along, did you?” he asked one of the henchmen who had spilled out of the van. He was short and squat, wearing a faded dark-green hoodie over a stained T-shirt and jeans he kept having to hitch up every couple of minutes. Harley thought he looked like a fireplug dressed in dirty laundry.

  In fact, Harley thought uneasily, all the henchmen looked like fire hydrants in clothes, except for a couple of slightly taller ones. They could have been garbage cans. Very full garbage cans.

  “Hell, no, boss, we don’t roll with G-men!” the guy said. “Just a couple special surprise guests. They wanted to come say hello in person.”

  The car doors opened and Harley almost fell over with shock.

  “Ducky!” March Harriet rushed at Harley with open arms. Poison Ivy approached more sedately, as beautiful and sophisticated as ever if not quite as bored, with even more vines in her hair. Her entire outfit seemed to be made of plants, like a wearable garden. Harriet was still in her Arkham pajamas; she grabbed Harley up in a bear hug, squeezing the breath out of her. Poison Ivy kept her distance and waved one gracefully blasé hand.

  “So ’ow’s me old china?” Harriet burbled.

  “‘Me old china’?” Harley said, baffled.

  “China plate—mate,” Poison Ivy said, exquisitely world-weary again. “Which is British for friend, not spouse. Two countries still divided by a common language.”

  “Friend?” Harley looked from Harriet to Poison Ivy and back again.

  “Don’t tell me you’re holding a grudge, luv,” said Harriet.

  “Not against me, certainly,” Poison Ivy said. “After all I’ve done for you.”

  “Oh, that’s the God’s honest, ducks,” Harriet said. “I was quite cross with our Ivy, I was, not lettin’ us ’ave our fun with you at the tea party after we’d been waitin’ so long. But she said you was actually one of us and everybody knows you don’t hurt a mate. I told her she was stuffed full of wild blueberry muffins, didn’t I? I did. And then the next thing I hear, you tell Joanie Leland where she can stick the job. And then, cor blimey! The very same day, you go bustin’ His Nibs out! And look at us now—three peas in a pod, we are!” Harriet bussed her loudly on one cheek and then the other. Poison Ivy rolled her eyes.

  “How did you get out?” Harley asked.

  “Ah, thereby hangs a tale!” Harriet laughed. “One for another time, I think. Looks like your bloke’s gettin’ ready to leave. Would you like to ride with us, ducky?”

  Harriet was nattering on about three girls going out on the town together as Harley turned to see the Joker climbing into the van. She pulled free of Harriet and rushed over just as a henchman started to slide the door shut.

  “Stop! Wait for me! I’m his doctor!” Harley yelled. “I’ve got his pain pills!”

  The Joker’s arm shot out and blocked the door. “Didn’t you hear her?” he said to the henchman, annoyed. “She’s my personal physician. She has my pain pills. Or do you think I should be in pain?” The Joker took her hand and pulled her up into the van. Harley had to force her way into a spot close to him, much to the irritation of the surrounding fireplugs.

  Tough stuff, boys, she thought. I outrank you—I’m his soulmate as well as his personal physician. Be nice to me or next time you get shot, I won’t even give you a Band-Aid.

  “Uh, can I ask you something?” one of them said to her suddenly.

  Harley nodded, making the bells on her hat jingle.

  “Don’t them bells drive you nuts with the jingle-jingle-jingle all the time?”

  “You have no idea,” the Joker said loudly before Harley could answer. “Do take that off, my dear doctor, before I snap and grab a machine gun.”

  Harley took off her hat and rolled it up tightly with the bells on the inside.

  * * *

  The famous hideout was a cellar under an abandoned warehouse in one of Gotham’s more rundown areas. It wasn’t the comfy nest the henchmen had made it out to be, but she had to admit it was better than the Tunnel of Love, if only because it had a real bed—a queen-sized mattress in their own private bedroom. Harley felt bad—she had been so wrapped up in nursing the Joker back to health and making sure he knew he was loved, she hadn’t registered the discomforts as keenly as he had.

  Nonetheless, she was homesick for Happy-Happy Joytown from the moment they left. It was like her natural habitat; she’d felt more solid there, more real, more Harley. She knew who she was in an amusement park, even an abandoned one, which was a damned sight more than she could say for a warehouse cellar.

  A big part of the problem was no longer having the Joker all to herself. Sometimes he acted as if she wasn’t the most important person in the world to him. She knew better—he’d said he would be lost without her, and that they’d been destined for each other, just like she did. He’d even said he loved her, and more than once, although not often.

  Also not recently, but only because his henchmen were always around. There were more of them now and they weren’t all silly-looking fireplugs. The new guys wore suits and ties and always looked annoyed by the fireplugs. They gave her the same look when they thought she couldn’t see, which was why she couldn’t stand it when the Joker teased her in front of them.

  Lately, all her puddin’ seemed to do was tease her. She knew he was kidding around—he was the Joker, after all. But it was mean, hurtful teasing. Some things he said were so cruel she had to hide in their bedroom so no one would see the tears in her eyes. Maybe she wouldn’t have felt so bad if she’d had other women to talk to but Poison Ivy and March Harriet had gone off somewhere else. They’d probably intended to do that all along, which made her glad she hadn’t taken Harriet up on her offer of a ride—who knew where she’d have ended up? Certainly far from her puddin’, with no idea where he was. But sometimes when his teasing was especially mean, that didn’t sound so bad.

  The Joker had explained why he had to do that. If the gang saw him showing any softness, even just to her, they’d think it was a sign of weakness, and if they thought he was weak, they’d think they could get away with being disrespectful. Then he’d have to kill them, and finding new henchmen was such a bore.

  “The key to successful gang leadership,” he said as she sat on his lap in his office, “is to make sure everybody maintains a profound fear of you. Which is to say, me.”

  “But I’m not afraid of you,” Harley said, trying to sound confident rather than uncertain.

  “I know you aren’t,” the Joker purred. “And that’s the problem. I can’t have you bouncing around here like you can do or say anything you want. I can’t have them getting the idea I think of you as an equal.”

  Harley’s jaw dropped. “Is that a joke?”

  “Are we laughing?” the Joker asked.

  “Well… no.”

  “Then it’s not a joke,” he said as his hand tightened on the back of her neck. “If it were, you’d be laughing your head off. Wouldn’t you?” He made her nod her head. “Because I’m just that hilarious. Aren’t I?” He made her nod again. “Aren’t I?”

  “Yeah, you are.” Harley tried to smile but his grip on her neck hurt.

  “Good. So let’s review, sh
all we?” He sat back, took his arms from around her, and started ticking points off on his fingers. “No kissy-face, no hugging, no making out except behind closed, locked doors. Gang members must fear me, and you’d better start looking a little spooked yourself, as if you never know what I’m going to do from one moment to the next. Because you don’t. Because we’re not equals; I’m always your superior, and you do as you’re told. Am I forgetting anything?”

  Harley started to say something but he talked over her.

  “Oh, yes. This is my office. I do business here. You and I don’t do business—” He shook his legs and she almost fell as she got off his lap. “So stop pestering me with your stupid girly issues! Get the hell out and don’t come back unless I send for you!”

  Harley scrambled for the door.

  “Out! Out! Out!” he bellowed as she fumbled with the doorknob.

  A mix of suits and fireplugs were hanging around in the next room. Obviously they’d heard everything; they snickered at her as she came out. Harley straightened up, smoothed her clothing, and looked around at them, making her lower lip quiver, as if she were on the verge of tears. It wasn’t hard.

  “Don’t rile him, guys,” she said. “He’s in a real mood today.” She fled to the bedroom as they burst into loud guffaws that sounded nothing like a profound fear of their leader.

  On the other hand, she thought as she slammed the bedroom door behind her and locked it, maybe they were covering the fact that they were terrified. She remembered how she’d reacted on the scariest night of her life—she’d burst out laughing. Harley threw herself down on the bed.

  Yeah, yuk it up, fellas, she thought. But he really is in a mood.

  She hoped her puddin’ appreciated how supportive she was, although she had the sneaking suspicion he didn’t.

  * * *

  When Harley found herself taking a tray of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven, she knew she was dreaming. For one thing, she had never baked cookies, and for another, the hideout didn’t have a lovely white stove with a ginormous oven. It didn’t even have a kitchen, and certainly not one with sunlight streaming in through windows with a view of an idyllic street somewhere deep in the suburbs.