Stupid Cupid, Stop Picking On Me (tag: Karen)
Harley reflected, as she strolled through the park, that Red really would’ve liked this place. It sucked so hard that the zombies had eaten her brains, but that was the only conclusion she could come to since she’d not seen Poison Ivy since that incident. Which sorta meant that Harl was free to do something naughty with the plants without her best friend making her feel guilty.
She was wondering just how easy it would be to drive one of those tree-digger thingies. Her plan was to rearrange the trees into an arboreal artwork of her true love. She’d scouted this place, it was perfect, because it could be seen from the top of the building bearing the message from Mr. J, and from several surrounding. So if he was looking for her, he’d know, she’d gotten the most incredible love letter he’d ever written her. He used a whole building!
And trees were so perfect, because he had a thing for green, so making his face out of leaves would work well. It was gonna be so awesome! She just had to figure out what trees to move, where to move them from, how to drive the tree-digger thingie, and drug a number of people so she’d have the time to do it. Oooh, maybe some pansies for trim! Just to add that touch of purple. Yes, that would do.
That was the moment when she felt a sting. Right in her tushie! Exclaiming her irritation at the pain aloud, Harley spun around to find out what was attacking her. Only to see some winged fruitcake with a bow and arrow.
“Hey, pal!” she snarled. “What’s the big idea? Huh?”
It wasn’t even an original idea, and the costume sucked. But it was obvious the feathered freak was a newly-minted goodie-two-shoes, out to make a name for himself by taking out a big name baddie like herself. Bats was going to take him apart, for the outfit alone. Certain people did not work and play well with others, and the Big Bad Bat wasn’t known for sharing. So she almost felt sorry for the dork. Almost.
The hurt tushie sorta prevented her from being all that sympathetic. Made her a little ticked, actually. So her eyes narrowed and she reached for her pop gun and a cartridge. The glorified chicken wanted to play? Oh, they’d play alright. She was going to turn him into a poofy explosion of feathers. With an evil grin, she turned her weapon on the guy and growled, “You gotta be careful what you shoot. Sometimes it shoots back!”