harley quinn --- entrance --- ms word is a douche and wouldn't tell me: a lot.
Euphoric. That’s the only way she could justify the sensation of a knife flowing into someone’s skin, slicing the organ like butter--euphoric. Years ago, she wouldn’t understand. Oh, no, not when she was still prim, mousy, boring Harleen. Harleen would throw her nose in the air, scoff, and deem it socially unacceptable, but who in society really said what was acceptable? The corrupted cops that bent the inebriated prepubescent over their car with legs spread out to ‘teach’ them a lesson? The corrupted judges and lawyers that infested the city like little cock roaches, making it possible daily for people like her to thrive in a world that fears the perverse? Or the others that wear masks of their own, the vigilantes, thinking their above the law with their majestic self-righteous air; as if telling their counterparts off with a slap on the wrist—and if it’s Batsy; a punch in the face!—and sending them to a place where they’ll surely escape sooner-or-later because breaking that one rule would their self-righteous attitude be oh so hypocritical in the garish light of day? Well, that’s not a lot to convince Harley of anything.
What Harley hated most, though, behind the dim witted smile and sparkling pair of azure, was the people: the common folk that scurried about their lives who, if they ever saw something, would either; cry for their savior, run away, or duck down as if—and Harley hated this most of all—they were invisible no harm could come to them.
She especially hated it when they begged. It made everything so boring.
“Please don’t hurt me?” The man begged with obvious fear in his voice. “I…I have a family—children!” He squeaked. It made Harley wince. Of course, her Puddin’ would call her on giant hypocrite (mostly for the fact her baby-like voice sounded like it was on helium most of the time, and having an edge of a Brooklyn dialect only made it worse.) But Harley didn’t think anything of the sort. Lifting her body and pivoting her legs to hope over the counter, briefly giving her a flashback of the chalk covered bare hands and feet on the vault, and landed her feet to the other side. She had her moments of unnatural clumsiness, but she also had her moments where she was graceful, too. Oh, the knife in her hand was the cause of a cut and the blood that would automatically lead her DNA to the crime, but she really didn’t notice. Azure eyes were too intent on the cowering man before her, blubbering pleads, as over-bright eyes begged her for anything, for everything.
It wasn’t fun at all.
“Whatsa mattah, buddy?” She asked as her accent thickened more. She twirled the knife in her hands nonchalantly, as if it was just some item she kept on her from time-to-time—like a pen! She could use a pen too, but pens are generally trickier and longer to do. A slow, Cheshire grin made its way on her painted countenance. “You seem kinda—scared?” Straddling his person, she crouched down, though not enough for her pelvis, or any body part, to touch. She did, however, crane her head to where their noses were nearly touching--nearly. “You really shouldn’t be scared, you should smile.”
There. The deer-in-headlights look. She loved it when her Mr. J made impressions. In fact? She just had an image of his beautiful face contorting in a humorous way, his eyes comically bugging out in such a way that never failed to elect a giggle out of her. She began to giggle just then. A girlish, high-pitched giggle that soon turned into a belly shaking guffaw; but not enough for her to lose her balance—she wanted to make him smile!
“C’mon, Mistah!” She cooed as a blade began to make a slow, swirly line in his cheek before slowly sinking deeper, causing blood to pour out faster and faster and at larger amounts; “Don’t make Harley mad!”
“You’re already mad, Harley.” The voice was hoarse, angry, and judging by the strong hands that gripped her shoulders and threw her across the counter—it could only be one person.
Batsy.
She landed on the ground with a loud oomph! Really! His manners need improving ASAP—
Lifting her petite body up, Harley dangled there, fear gripping her very core. He wouldn’t kill her; it was apart of his very special ‘code.’ But he’d sure make her wish, at least for a few moments, that she wanted to die. “Hiya, Bat-brain!” Ow! Not another moment of head-meets-counter—oh, wait, yes it is! “Owie!” She complained, pouting, generally disliking the sensation of her head pounding and a busted lip. “Sorry, Bats, but Mista J would consider this cheatin’ and I’m a one man girl, myself! Don’t you have Catsy to—”
Another moment of head-meets-counter (he really needed more moves!) Though she knew he’d do two, tops, for the lone fact that she’s female and he and his Bat Family find it demeaning to hit females, even if it’s in self-defense. Pfft! What did those freaks know, anyway?
“You’re going back to Arkham, Harley Quinn, and this time we’re tightening the security on your cell.” He grunted in his very gruntful(?) way.
“Ya said that the last time!” She chirped before being body slammed on the hard, cold tile, making her world turn black in a wonderfully fuzzy instant.
Opening her eyes, coughing up blood and dirt—not her favorite combination—she slowly roused her body to a standing position on wobbly knees. At least when Puddin’ made her feel this way, there was some sort of pleasure in it; every slice of a knife would send her eyes reeling backward and toes curl, like she had the worlds best orgasm—ever! But whenever Batsy and his Bat-pals made her feel this way, she felt all…yucky!
When her eyes stopped being so blurry and adjusted to the midnight’s sky, what she saw made her stomach drop. And yet, curiosity killed the cat. She began to walk with unsteady limbs toward the wooden doors in a morbid fascination.
“Puddin’s not gonna like it when I’m not home.” She murmured disdainfully. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about it now. And that was both a blessing and a burden.