Harleen - no - Harley (that was her name now, Harley Quinn) scowled darkly at the newspaper clutched in slender hands. ‘KILLER CLOWN ESCAPES LUNATIC ASYLUM: GCPD SCOURS THE CITY!’ the headline screamed at her. The article which covered the whole front page (and pages five and six) made very little mention of her - save for one line to mention that she had disappeared when Joker (as he styled himself) had broken out.
She didn’t mind playing second fiddle to her new found lover - not at all. But S H E had broken him out!! She was not some kidnapped victim, soon to be found a cold dead corpse at the hand of a scarred madman. She was his equal, she was his lover, his right hand hench wench!!
Not that she should be surprised that the newspaper was discounting her. The newspaper had enjoyed dragging her name through the mud recently. And gossipy folks had enjoyed the pleasure her whole life. Yes - Her whole life the world had been against her. The daughter of a Jew and a criminal - she might as well have b u r n e d a flag and been done with it. She wasn’t sure if it was life that had made rough, or if she’d always been that way, but her combative nature had not assisted her with fitting in throughout her childhood and adolescence.
The man who tried to put her across his knee for a spanking to correct her behaviour soon learned his l e s s o n.
Had she been stupid, she would have been easy to dismiss as merely a wild woman, unruly and hysterical. But Harleen was smart - smart enough to become a doctor (which was an accomplishment that set many, many tongues wagging. After all, how had it been possible for her to sleep with enough people to achieve that??) and gain a position at the city’s lunatic asylum (essentially a freak show contained by brick and mortar).
Unmarried, indecent and aggressive, it was perhaps a careful chess move by her superiors to assign her to Gotham’s own clown killer (not to be confused with the one down in Florida. What it was for crazies and greasepaint people weren’t sure but there seemed to be a trend for it). He would remove their problem for them. And he had, to some extent.
She was no longer at Arkham, but then again, neither was he. She screwed the paper up, in irritation, hurling it into the trash, ignoring the full back page advert for a travelling freak show. She had things to do - despite everything, she blended into the crowd where her beloved's scarred visage could not - they could both remove their war paint, but he could not hide of his ruined cheeks - and she had best get to doing them.
She turned, to make a swift exit, slamming with full force directly into the body of someone behind her. She was irritated - the article had upset her - and had she not a modicum of control she would have snarled at the person to mind where they were going (discounting, of course, the fact it was her who had done the barging). Instead she managed “I do beg your pardon." But the set of her jaw, and the frown line between two well manicured eyebrows suggested anything but perfect ladylike contriteness.
