Joker's Wilde Pt. 03

After countless climaxes, Rachel began to doze off in her lover's arms. The late afternoon sun slanted in through the blinds, casting the soothing golden hues before sunset onto the pink walls.

Stroking her hair, Harley Quinn confessed, "My mother died when I was very young. I watched her get stabbed to death."

Rachel mumbled something that was probably "I'm so sorry," but Harley just shushed her and continued.

"I would have given anything to have changed it when I was a girl. But now I see that it made me the woman I am today. I wanted to do that for you because it's what she would have wanted so long ago: To be loved so tender. To feel so special."

"Who? Your mother?" asked Rachel groggily.

"Frances. Poor little Frances Quinzel. But don't worry, puddin'. She will have her revenge on Gotham. As long as there is breath in this body."

She waited until Rachel was sound asleep to sneak out of bed. Harley Quinn borrowed a pair of hip-hugging satin panties that showed a little cheek, and a white sundress that showed plenty of everything. The bust of the dress was stretched tight over her tits, which spilled out over the low-cut neckline. Their mother's locket still rested between them. Harley Quinn was still wearing those school-girl sexy knee-highs and Mary-Jane style flats, so it seemed fitting to put her hair up into two high pig-tails. She tied a black ribbon around one and a red around the other. That, plus some of Rachel's bright red lipstick, and her look was complete.

It would suffice until she could find a good Harlequin suit. There was surely an abundance of them in the Halloween section of any department store or the various costume outlets, but they'd be flimsy and sweaty. What she really needed was a dominatrix suit and some wicked boots.

Knowing she needed to go on a shopping spree, Harley Quinn stopped by the bank and emptied Frances' account.

Harley got chills when she walked inside of "Leather Bound". It was the only specialty boutique that advertised as sell high-quality fetish gear, and they lived up to their claim. Numerous male and female forms had been outfitted in harnesses, corsets, lingerie, pants, dresses and bodysuits- all made out of leather- ready to play with masks, hats, shoes, collars, crops and cuffs. Most were simple, though impeccably made, but others had more of a flare.

There was steam-punk submissive in a Victorian-style brown corset and matching boy-shorts with a lace-up ass, elaborately gartered stockings, button-up shoes, fur lined wrist cuffs and an aviator hat with blacked-out goggles. One male mannequin looked like a sadistic priest- his vestments lined in oxblood red, various chains adorned with crosses and crucifixes, cat-of-nine-tails whip in hand with a rosary wrapped around his wrist. An exquisite white patent-leather Naughty Nurse uniform was on display too, down to the nurse's cap and shoes; her gloved hand held the leash leading to a male slave's collar. Harley rather fancied a crotchless catsuit that laced up the front, accessorized with black fur lined boots and a thin mask, but decided it was too impractical.

"Welcome to Leather Bound, I'm Madame Mercedes. How may I help you this evening?" She didn't pronounced her name like the car make, but rather in a faint Spanish accent- the "e's" sounding more like "a's" and it ended with a soft "z" sound rather than a hard "s"- alluding to a merciful virgin with dark side.

The Madame was an olive skinned beauty- ebony waves bobbed along her sharp jaw-line; almond-shaped eyes the color of a stormy sea; cupid's bow mouth curled in an inquisitive smile. She was not very tall but looked imposing in her floor-length black leather gown with a corseted bust. Long, fingerless gloves were laced-up the sides of her arms past the elbows.

"I'm looking for a full body suit. Black matte, zip up front, no bells or whistles."

"A purist? Excellent. I think I have a few for you to chose from. You look like a double D and I'm guessing your measurements are, what, 35, 24, 35? 170 cm?"

Oh, she's good.

Mistress Mercedes hung the options up in the spacious dressing room and left her to try them on. Several of them were ill-fitting, but two of them were nearly perfect. She modeled these for the mistress of the boutique, who insisted that she buy the first because it made her ass look divine. Harley put the suit on again and examined her appearance in the angled mirrors. Not only did she look damn good- especially when she lowered the zipper halfway to reveal her ample cleavage- but she felt good in the secure embrace of leather. She felt like a black mamba ready to go to a sex club.

Still wearing the suit, she let Madame Mercedes help her try on several styles of boots. Harley's favorite was hands-down a pair of black, short heeled boots that could be zipped all the way up the calves, or folded down to reveal its pop of red lining. The whole ensemble felt comfortable enough as she stomped around the shop, but how would it fare in combat?

"May I try something a little strange?" she asked the Madame humbly.

"Of course. You can try something very strange if you'd like. It's no matter to me," chuckled Mercedes.

Harley grinned and launched into a tumbling routine. Madame Mercedes watched the most curious test of her merchandise that any customer had ever performed before- if not the most arousing. The black blur somersaulted, flipped and rolled around the hard wood floors of her shop. She executed a butterfly kick variant that moved into a flying kick and landed in a split for her finale.

"Wow! Either you have a Dom with very particular tastes, or you are the harshest Mistress I've ever met," Mercedes declared.

"Call it a little bit of both," answered Harley Quinn, rising up stretching like a cat.

"I knew I sensed a duality in your nature. When I first saw you, I thought of the wolf in sheep's clothing," she noted perceptively. And now I'm the wolf in cows' clothing. "Do they meet your expectations?"

"Exceedingly well. I'll take them. Now- what accessories do you have in cherry red?"

Having selected a practical pair of gloves with padded palms, studded knee and elbow pads, a heavy fiberglass cane, and a well-fitting shoulder holster- all in her favorite color. After removing the suit and boots, she also tried on separates for a more casual look- finally deciding on a red bustier and black shorts, plus a sharp peplum jacket since the weather was getting chilly.

Coming back out in her former attire, the Madame rang up her sizable total. "And how will you be paying for this, dear Mistress?"

"Cash. And I'm Harley Quinn. Mistress Harley Quinn," she added with a wink.

A drugstore was Mistress Harley's last stop. Red and black hair-dye, a face paint kit, several pairs of tights and assorted beauty products. Plus a bag of Blow Pops. She needed to give something a good blow right about now.

With several boxes and bags in tow, Harley headed uptown looking for the place the Joker had been staying in before he was apprehended: The Royal Hotel. A reputedly haunted establishment that nonetheless had its fair share of respectable and not-so-respectable patrons. Done in a Baroque Revival style- resplendent with architectural details and lavish carpets, artwork and draperies- it was aged but immaculate; every crystal sparkling and flower freshly picked.

"Good-evening, Miss. May I help you?" the concierge asked rather curtly.

"I'd like a room," she slurred around her cherry candy, its paper-stick protruding from the corner of her mouth.

"For the evening?" His eyes looked up and down her slattern's attire, that had been so recently enhanced with a tight-fitting jacket.

"At least. Longer if I find the accommodations suitable," she replied after popping the sphere out her red stained lips.

"And what is your name?"

"Harley Quinn. Harley like the motorcycle company, Quinn like the medicine woman."

The man glared at her while he entered her alias in the system and then studied the screen with some confusion. "Ms. Quinn. I beg your pardon, but you already have a room checked out in your name for the rest of the month. Perhaps there's been some kind of mistake..."

After several keystrokes and a dubious squint at the results, he put on a professional smile. "It looks like you're in room 713- one of our finest suites. Do you need a key, Miss?" he asked with the utmost courtesy.

"Please. I assume you offer adequate room service? I'm famished."

"Yes, yes of course Ms. Quinn. May I recommend the coq au vin- it's splendid! Just call from your room and I'll take the order myself. Anything you'd like will be our pleasure to provide, Ms. Quinn!" Was there a tinge of fear in his voice?

"Thanks, puddin'," Harley Quinn drawled. "And would you be a dear and send these up too? I had quite an excursion today." She plunked her packages from Leather Bound onto the counter and strode towards the elevator, crunching merrily on the thin candy layer surrounded her sucker's bubblegum center. Mistress Harley hoped he would peak inside.

The room proved to be more than adequate, with a comfortable king-sized bed canopied in velvet and a splendid marble soaking tub. Its carpets were so plush, the fabric so abundant and the walls so thick that she felt cocooned in its antiquated splendor. They'd disguised the modern amenities but they were still there- a flat screen television behind the painting over the fireplace; a vintage-looking record player equipped with satellite radio; a gilded, mother-of-pearl telephone with portable handset. She could see how her brother would have been smitten.

Dinner was delicious, accompanied by the sort of white wine Frances would have ordered. The bottle was nearly emptied by the time she dozed off to "Hellraisers". That night she had a blissfully dreamless sleep.

Harley ordered breakfast in bed at noon. A stack of blueberry pancakes, an omelet, three strips of bacon and several wedges of cantaloupe arrived on a cart along with a pot of coffee, a carafe of orange juice and a bottle of champagne with all the required drinking vessels. She tipped the bellboy a twenty and ate a leisurely meal in bed while watching Rob Zombie's "Halloween" with detached fascination.

After she was thoroughly sated, Harley Quinn set about dying her hair. She decided to color the right side black and the left side red, making sure to apply some Vaseline around her hairline so she wouldn't stain her skin. It was rinsed and conditioned during the second part of Mike Meyers' gory tale and nearly dry by its conclusion.

Harley brushed out both sides and put them in low pigtails towards the back of her head.

Dressing in her new streetwear, with the addition of mismatched tights- one red and the other black and white striped- she folded her boots down for a more playful look. Heavy cat eyes and nude gloss played into the whole "hooker haute couture" look.

Harley buttoned up her jacket, strapped on the satchel that still had its fat roll of paper money and headed out to find her daggers.

Chapter Six: The Ragman Cometh.

Frances hadn't been to a pawnshop since her father hawked their mother's jewelry. The one Harley found looked more like an antique store that hadn't been changed since the 70's: The 1870's. As she approached the counter, she could see that there was a small selection of guns and knives- predominantly for display or hunting- with a sign that read simply, "More Available Upon Request". That could prove interesting.

A man emerged from the back. He had an unruly mop of curly black hair, thick brows over chocolate brown eyes, a hint of a beard and absolutely kissable lips. His clothes were patched and frayed, but otherwise he appeared well-groomed and presentable. Tall, dark, and undeniably handsome, he had a sort of charisma that Harley found instantaneously attractive.

"Welcome to Rags n' Tatters, I'm Rory. How may I help you?" he recited with a flash of his brilliant smile; the corners of his eyes crinkled and an adorable dimple appeared on his right cheek. She appreciated the fact that he was actually looking her in the eyes when he spoke.

"I'd like to buy some knives," Harley said matter-of-factly.

"Kitchen knives?"

"Combat."

"Okay," he said, slightly amused. "Are you talking fantasy role playing knives, or do you need a gift for your boyfriend?" he wheedled.

"I'm looking for a set of throwing knives, a fixed-blade dagger, a double action out-the-front auto, a Balisong knife and a tactical switchblade. A throwing axe if you have one. Holster and sheathes. A whetstone and cleaning cloth too," Harley ticked off briskly.

"Whoahoho!" Rory said with a low whistle. "That's a lot of steel, little lady."

"I'm starting a collection," she said honestly.

"Hmm, I can tell..." He looked her over quite shrewdly and not at all in a salacious manner. "I stock most of my weapons in the back. I have to lock up the shop if you'd like to take a look," Rory said at last.

Harley Quinn appraised him much in the same manner, though she couldn't help but have a few lustful thoughts while doing so. Then she nodded and he proceeded to flip the "open" sign over, shut the blinds and triple-lock the door before setting an alarm. In this neighborhood, she couldn't blame him.

The back of the store contained an impressive arsenal as well as a display of war memorabilia. Inspecting one shadowbox in particular, Harley saw the mounted medals and ribbon bars of a Major General Regan. There was a photo of him in a dark blue dress uniform with two stars on its epaulettes. She could see where Rory had inherited his boyish good looks.

"The merch is over here," Rory said, waiting by an open display case of knives next to several more that were still locked. "Are you looking for any brands in particular?"

"Schrade, Boker, Spyderco, OKC, Benchmade: Whatever's sharp and durable." He gestured for her to help herself, and Harley Quinn began picking out knives and twirling them around. She felt like a kid in a candy shop.

Harley noticed that on the opposite wall there hung several slices of a willow log painted with concentric red circles. "May I?" she asked, gesturing towards the targets.

"Knock yourself out," he shrugged.

First she hung up her satchel and jacket to improve her range of motion, which conveniently provided Rory with a clear view of her merchandise. Then she selected a heavy handled knife and pinched it by the blade. Harley got into a comfortable stance, raised the knife along side her head with her wrist straight. She took a few practice swings, like she was chopping wood, as she shifted her weight to create forward momentum. Angling her wrist towards her forearm just a fraction, Harley finally aimed at the bull's eye and threw. The tip sank into the soft wood, three rings away from its intended destination. It was better than her first attempts so long ago, under her brother's tutelage.

"Not bad," Rory noted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "May I?" he asked, offering her another knife. Harley nodded and allowed him to step behind her and adjust her stance. "Relax your shoulders," he directed, tapping them lightly. "And it's not about force, it's about finesse," Rory added.

He held the knife over her hand and guided her through several practice swings. "You have to follow through. No- keep your wrist straight at this distance. Okay, good. Now try."

Harley felt a little disappointed when he let he go. She took a deep breath, letting his advice sink in. Exhaling out of her mouth, she aimed and threw. The knife hit the mark with near precision. It's not just my mental memory that's improved, it's my physical memory as well.

"You're a natural," declared Rory, clearly impressed.

"Looks like," Harley Quinn agreed and picked up a balanced throwing knife to compare the feel of it.

"Listen, I'm not looking to stick my nose in anyone's business here, but I hope you're not planning on doing anything you'll regret," Rory said softly.

Harley held this by the handle and lined up in front of the targets again. "I don't plan on regretting anything anymore," she promised, nailing the center of the bull's eye on her first try.

"If it's revenge you're after, that path leads to a dark place."

Picking up a butterfly knife now and flipping out its blade, Harley considered his words and replied, "I'm not just seeking revenge; I'm bringing about a reckoning. There's a cancer growing in Gotham City and I will cut it out."

Rory nodded and took out his keys. "Well, it's clear to me what I must do," he said with an air of finality. "Take whatever you need. Don't worry about the price- you can have them."

"Come again?" Harley stuttered as he began unlocking the other cases.

"I couldn't agree with you more. The City decays and crumbles with each passing day. Whether it's the Russian Syndicate or the Irish Mob, the Cosa Nostra or the Yakuza- it's all one Mafia. The Italian Eastsiders, The Blackgaters, the Escabedo Cartel- just one big gang. And the police, the DA, the judges even- do you see them doing a thing about it?

"Badge, suit, black jacket or robe- it doesn't matter: They're all getting fat while the rest of us forage for scraps. Who will rise against the injustice but the citizens responsible for putting them in charge?"

"Well, I'm not exactly this paradigm of a 'responsible citizen' of which you speak, and I won't take anything from you. Gifts usually have strings attached," Harley pointed out meaningfully.

Rory appeared a bit indignant but continued calmly. "Maybe if you knew a little bit more about me, you'd understand why I want to help."

"Alright. I'm all ears," she said crossing her arms. Rory's eyes flitted down to her pushed up tits then swiftly returned to her eyes before he spoke.

"My father opened Rags n' Tatters when he came back from the Vietnam War. He wanted to create a legacy that wasn't built on senseless violence. He hoped I'd take over eventually but I had no interest in running the store. When I turned eighteen, I left Gotham and went to make my own name.

"Not finding much success financially or otherwise, I enlisted in the Army; thinking that somehow war would bring me peace. I eventually trained in sub-Saharan Africa and served in Afghanistan. Wounded in my leg and scarred in my soul, I returned home to show my father the mensch I'd become: But I found him on the verge of death and practically penniless.

"My father's shop had been taken over by Meroni's thugs and was being used as a front for dealing drugs. I was enraged but I didn't know what to do. I felt powerless; a boy once more. And my father, who was once so strong, was too ill to help either.

"I broke in one night - into my family's own store- in hopes of at least retrieving his war medals. And that's when I found the true legacy my father had intended to pass down on me. Not a building or even a weapon but an artifact. The Collector's Artifact. Passed down since the time of Abraham, it has been destroyed and re-forged in many forms. It's been purifying polluted souls for millennia; absorbing their talents and abilities and imbuing its wearer with their powers.

"My father constructed its current incarnation- the Cloak of Souls- and it is what I wear to purge the streets of evil," he concluded soberly.

Is this guy serious? "The Cloak of Souls? Now is that like the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat or is it more like a Superhero's cape?" she scoffed.

"Don't be fatuous. I'm telling you this because I know you're different; I could tell the moment you walked in. You have an unusual aura- rich scarlet infused with a neon green glow. I've never seen anything like it," he trailed off thoughtfully.