maskormenacelogs | i'm a crook, you're a crook, everyone's a crook (crook)

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i'm a crook, you're a crook, everyone's a crook (crook) | closed

WHO: Crane, Joker, and Harley
WHERE: Iceberg Lounge
WHEN: Early July, the night after Crane posts his ethical query
WHAT: Just a little business chitchat between two fine upstanding gentlemen (also, Harley was there)
WARNINGS: Possibly violence? Hopefully crime. Some not-so-friendly language, at the very least.

The best thing about this new world isn’t the powers; Joker could take those or leave them. It’s not even having a whole new playground in which to cause mayhem, although that is sort of exciting.

No, the best thing, by far, is that this place has all the stuff Joker expects, but it’s all just a little bit off. All his life, he’s played a mental game called But Just Imagine if Things were Different! Now the rest of the world finally seems to have decided to play it with him.

Take, for instance, ye olde Iceberg Lounge. Joker knows the club well, with its many sad attempts at Cobblepottian luxury. The crown molding. The private dining room. The seal tank. It’s the kind of place you go if you want to see knuckleheads with cash pretend that they’re sophisticated. Or at least, it used to be. But this Iceberg Lounge, the one he and Harley are currently being escorted into by a pair of beefy but shockingly civil security brutes? This one’s actually sort of pleasant.

The decor’s dark and swanky, and it looks like it was redone not too long ago, too. The bottles Joker glimpses behind the bar appear to have been chosen by someone who prioritized having good scotch over flaunting French labels. And the security boys, why, they barely even frisked him! (Good thing, too...) It’s the Iceberg, but it’s not his Iceberg, which means it could turn out to be just about anything. And how wonderful is that?

Joker makes it about halfway across the room, Harley on his arm, before he starts laughing. “Oh, Harley, Harley, are you seeing this? All those years Ozzie spent trying to class the place up! And now look at it. Spiffy as a brand-new burlap sack!”

He himself, of course, would prefer a sort of run-down industrial acid-trip aesthetic, but, well, it’s not his club. Point is, if you’re going to try to make a classy place, it helps to have some actual taste, and the fact that Scarecrow clearly does is an excellent sign. Joker knew he was right to come here!

Spying Crane, he lets go of Harley and spreads his arms wide in greeting. “And if it isn’t the artiste himself!”

He hasn’t sent Crane any sort of word that they were coming. Didn’t even tell the man they’d ported in. And, since this is a world of who-the-hell-knows-what-anything-or-anybody-is-anymore, Joker can't be sure if the Crane he’s approaching is his Crane or somebody else’s Crane or a whooping crane disguised as a human being. But to look at the clown’s face, you’d never guess it. He’s beaming like they’re the best of friends, like there’s no one else in creation he could possibly be more pleased to see.

“Hiya, Doc. Love what you’ve done with the place.”

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After closing the door behind him and retreating back to his perch, his very own office, he collapses into his chair with the knowledge he's yet again enjoying another night sitting by a bar. The crowd mill about in front of him, polishing off their own boring evenings with his scotch, spared his judgment by celebrating behind glass windows. He removes his glasses and lets his fingers gently drum his desk. Then he leans his arm across a bunch of papers, examining the writing there.

He sits by himself for most of the evening. Entertains a memory of spending evenings like this with Falcone, and climbs to his feet when the chair beneath him becomes a little too painful. He ambles towards the bar, feigns his cheerios to guests and helps himself to a glass from under the counter. Fills it with some scotch and cradles it to his chest. Turns to the floor and clacks the glass with a fingernail. He stands there and waits. Distracts himself with thoughts of what he might do and regards one of the bouncers with a curious look.

Why is he here?

He hears a voice soonafter and is slammed with the sudden sense of deja vu. The sensation of cold creeps up his arms and the back of his neck, crawling over his chest and down to his heart - but he welcomes it. Lets it settle there and welcomes it like a friend. He buries his thoughts with a smile and utelizes that false flesh face he'd worn so well in the past.

"Joker." The way this Harleen acts, clinging to the man, tells him she's not the one he's familiar with. He gestures at the bar. "Sit down. Take a drink. Put your feet up. You've both come far to see me, and I wouldn't want to be an inpatient host."

Impatient or inpatient? Asylums. What's the difference? Wait, did this Crane joke?

It’s not that Harley has anything against a night on the town. It’s not even that she cares about the decor one way or another (although, frankly, she’s always liked seals). It’s just that everything is weird and topsy turvy and all Alice in Wonderland in this place. And, while that’s typically Harley’s MO to a T, she likes to be the agent of chaos. Or at least the sidekick of chaos.

Instead, she kinda feels like the universe is playing with her. And that’s a little less welcome. Not because this world isn’t a barrel of laughs, because, boy howdy, who thought it was a good idea to give her what seemed like a bottomless purse? And it had seemed to remember that she just wasn’t herself without her zanier half.

And...

Actually, now that she’s thinking about it way too hard, in that way that has her nose scrunching up thoughtfully, there’s no reason not to love it, live it up, and relish in maybe destroying a few things. Her nose relaxes at the sound of Joker’s laughter. Maybe this place is off limits when it comes to places to destroy; Mister J seems to like it well enough.

Harley frowns when he lets go of her arm to approach Crane. It’s mildly annoying, but not quite to the level of something worth kicking up a fuss about. Besides, that’s why they’re here. Though, beyond the whole “scope-out-this-world’s-Scarecrow” thing, Harley’s not sure exactly what’s in store. Though she doesn’t doubt there’s some sort of plan a’cooking.

“Hey there, champ!” It’s only another few long strides before she reaches the bar itself and hoists herself up to sit on the counter, not too far from Crane, and leaning back nearly far enough for anyone with less impeccable balance to fall off, scoping out the drinks and other assorted garnishes.

She doesn’t have the faintest clue how to tell one Crane apart from another, though this one seems like he might have a little more punch than the one she’s used to. Of course, he’s also got a drink in his hand. So he could just be drunk.

“You got any maraschino cherries back here? Or are you gonna tell me you’re fresh out?”

Crane's joke is unexpected. A joke should always be that, of course, but from Crane--Mr. Let's-Take-This-More-Seriously, Mr. Have-You-Seen-My-Book--it's really unexpected. Joker chuckles, tickled.

And see, this is why life is such a delight! A guy can wake up in a whole new world, not a friend to his name, and before you know it, bim bam boom. He's in a bar with his old lady and an old pal, and the old pal turns out to be even better than the guy expected. Is this some sort of Scarecrow 2.0 he's dealing with? Or is this Crane just the natural result of leaving Joker's Crane in a bar in another universe for too long? Who cares! The man's a treat, either way.

Joker folds his spidery frame onto a bar stool and leans forward, resting his elbows on the bartop and steepling his fingers. This is going well, this is all going very well...

And then she has to pipe up, as if any bar in the world has ever run out of maraschino cherries. As if that's even remotely relevant or interesting or funny to anyone.

Joker shoots Harley a look of pure loathing, the sort of look you give a hyena who's just pissed on the rug in front of company. Here he is, trying to make a good impression, trying to do business with a valued colleague, and she's got to open her piehole and say something stupid. Typical Harley. Christ.

"She'll have a Shirley Temple," he tells Crane, with a little shake of his head: Ignore her, I'm sorry. "Ginger ale for me, if you would."

He puts his smile back on, all business again, not about to be derailed by a dippy skirt. "Saw your post on the network, by the way. Fascinating stuff." He actually wept with laughter over it the night before, slapping his thigh and belly-laughing until his gut ached, but he sees no reason to mention that. "This world seems to suit you." Joker gestures vaguely to Crane, the sweep of his hand encompassing Crane's posture, outfit, all of it. No straw-stuffed faces here, folks. "You're finally enjoying the respectability you've always deserved, hm?"

Never mind that icky bit of history Joker read about in the wee hours of the night. Gassing a Swearing-In ceremony? This bartender? Surely you've got the wrong idea, Officer...

"That depends on what respectability you're speaking of, doesn't it?" Crane answers, looking under the counter, where he finds some glasses and passes them over. The maraschino cherries are back in the pantry, he knows; but like Joker he obviously doesn't care much about them right now.

He instead gestures to the bartender, serving shady clientele occupying the end of the bar. Tells him what to drop and what to prepare urgently. Those customers were part of a family. But Gothamites, no matter the one they come from, understood that. The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, he reminds himself. His world lacks a lot of their fraternity, but perhaps times haven't progressed, and even his Gotham understands the difference between freaks and the mob. Though many don't respect it.

"I like to think it was hard-earned."

A little smile to himself, and then he's clasping his hands at his back and rocking on his heels. Planning an event like that had took so much effort, so much self-control. Holding himself in at the seams for months, pushing his discipline to the limits. A short time after it, he had become feared and loathed in equal measure. A different type of respectability, but equally worth its weight in gold.

Harley presses her lips together, her bright, cheerful smile vanishing in a puff of smoke. She knows when she’s being dismissed, or being talked down to, and this is one of those times. Straightening a bit from where she’s leaning back, her expression is a comical mix of what the hell? and oh, shit, was I speaking out of turn again?.

Well, fine then. She just won’t open her mouth and offer up her clever wit and decent attitude, since this is apparently a boy’s club thing here.

Sniffing lightly, Harley makes a “Hmmmph” noise before sitting all the way up and crossing her arms over her chest. While still staring daggers in Joker’s general direction, which is tempered only slightly by the fact that she would have wanted a Shirley Temple anyway. Especially since this is business and all and it’s not the best idea to get tipsy on the job.

And even though she’s already mentally resolved to keep her mouth shut, she can’t help but mutter, “Yeah. Fascinating.”

Then tunes them — and the likely glare she’s going to get — out, leaning in the direction of the bartender Crane had addressed, giving the worker a wink and adding, “Extra cherries.”

It’s not that she’s not taking this seriously. Really, she is. Harley’s even keeping an eye out for any threats even if she doesn’t look like she is.

Joker pays no attention to Harley's glaring or muttering. He's wholly focused on Crane, who is, after all, the reason for the season. He watches every movement the man makes, looking for those tiny tells that might clue him in to his state of mind.

This Crane apparently knows how to delegate, which is excellent news. And is it just Joker, or does the dear doctor seem more self-assured these days? More in control of himself. More comfortable with who he is.

Even a little bit self-satisfied, perhaps? I like to think it was hard-earned, hmm.

"Oh, undoubtedly," he agrees, careful to keep his smile and tone good-natured. There's a sharp, watchful glint in Joker's eyes, but then again, there usually is. "To persuade them all that you're buttoned up tighter than an Amish girl's drawers? That's a delicate dance, indeed. Very tricky."

He tosses a meaningful glance toward the patrons at the other end of the bar, then looks back to Crane. "See, your dodgy barfly crowd here, they seem to respect you. The navel-gazers you charge by the hour must think the same thing. And all those nincompoops I saw online, my, my! They definitely respect you; yes, they do."

The smile tightens: not quite mocking yet, but close. He's remembering his Crane, who had looked perfectly at home firing a missile launcher. Who could never have been happy as just a barkeep, not for long. "But me, I look at you and I just have to wonder. How are you scratching the old itch these days, Scary? What nasty 'patterns of behavior' keep this here boat afloat?"

When the politeness fades and the mockery begins creeping in, Crane flawlessly controls his emotions, a neutral expression masking his face. It doesn't reveal his hatred of service, but then again, he's been able to control himself well since childhood. Then he had learned the consequences of stepping out of line. Now he draws that line around others. Positively hangs them with it.

He sits down and carefully folds his hands in his lap. His eyes close, slowly, air forcing itself from his lungs. They flutter open when he musters the energy. He already has a mask of expression; now he has a mask of manners.

"I administer corrective treatment to the perpetrators of domestic violence." He does not answer for a time, lost in the moment. "Tyrants who bludgeon and bluster because they delusionally believe they're frightening."

Bullies, in other words.

"They all do as they're told."

He terrorises them. And he has no problem with that.

There’s definitely a very good lesson Harley can learn from listening in on this conversation. Maybe about how feeling stung by the dismissal of someone who’d been looking at her like she was sewer scum moments before isn’t healthy or something. Hell, Crane might even have the kind of resources that can set her on a path to independence and getting her medical license back. Or at least the first one.

But, instead, Harley’s swiveling back to the conversation because she finds Crane’s therapeutic methods interesting and can’t help but engage with the conversation. It’s with a cheeky smile that she blurts out, “You scare the hell out of them, don’t you? Kind of Arkham-esque, yeah? Bullying the bullies and calling it treatment.” At least that had been her experience with the shrinks at Arkham. As in, when she’d worked at Arkham and had been one of the shrinks. They either bullied the patients or ignored them completely. It had only soured her to the good guys even more.

And getting her started on how Batman did the same thing — scared the spit out of criminals to make them comply — is a bad idea if this whole meeting isn’s going to get derailed by The Insane Ravings Regarding Gotham’s True Madman, narrated by one Harley Quinn. “It all sounds a bit batty, actually,” she adds, twirling a finger next to her ear.

But it’s a delight, really. Crane’s gone from being the jailed to the jailer. And Harley always loves a good twist in someone’s life story.

The thing is, Harley's not wrong: that all sounds very Arkham-esque. Round up the "bad guys"--the ones society has decided no longer deserve to be treated as human beings--and unleash upon them all that pent-up sadism that respectable folks aren't supposed to admit they even have. It's okay, after all: those guys had it coming, honest! This is a game Joker has played with many, many CO's and cops and flying rodents, and they never seem to quite understand the irony.

So it goes, hm?

But Joker didn't come here to insult Crane. (Not this time, anyway!) He's also keenly aware that Crane just humblebragged about being able to make people do as they're told, which he can't help but hear as a subtle commentary on his own mismanagement of Harley. Not in any sort of domestic abuse way--Joker sees nothing particularly domestic about their lifestyle, and he knows full well Harley could kick his ass if she ever got a mind to--but in the sense of, One must be able to control one's inferiors. Harley's his girlfriend, sure, but at the moment, she's here as the help: his bodyguard, muscle, sidekick, whatever you want to call her. And what kind of man can't keep his own crew in check?

He needs to shut her train of thought down here, toot sweet. And put the attention back where it belongs: on Crane.

He pivots his head slowly toward Harley. "Batty?" Joker draws himself up. "Batty?" He frowns. Shakes his head. "No, no. But it is... Hm. What's the word?" He wiggles his fingers in the air, as if this might make the term he wants appear before him.

"Limited." His attention snaps back to Crane. "I mean, come on. Playing bogeyman to a few deadbeat daddies? Some small-scale experiments, perhaps? Don't tell me that's really enough for you."

Crane smiles. He hides his response behind a polite manner and digests what Harley and then Joker says, not showing his displeasure in any sort of orthodox way. He has his projects, all the papers in his office behind the bar attest to that, but he knows far, far better than to permit either of the two to have a little peek. They would want to get involved and then he would lose control, and well - he just couldn't have that.

"Normalacy has it's benefits. If I were an exhibitionist, well, I might as well start copying your theatrical style."

It isn't an insult; he's just saying they're different in approach. He then moves his drink aside on the counter and gestures at the empty space.

"All my action takes place off stage, before the act begins. I'm performing in a different way. Which is good, you understand? It means we don't share the same audience."

Harley's wounded. Really. Wounded that Crane doesn't want to share information with them. It's almost like he thinks one or both of them is an attention hog with a penchant for the grotesquely grandiose.

Her batty comment might have gotten the axe, but all the same, she tilts her head in Crane’s direction and mouths Batty in an over exaggerated way with a sage smile.

It’s all well and good to lay low sometimes. Boring as hell, but occasionally unavoidable. And, frankly, she’s quite often wishing she and her puddin’ could antagonize certain people a little less and spend more quality time together. Time that doesn’t include him muttering over blueprints and trying to shoot her off to kingdom come in a rocket. But thems the breaks of show business. Or whatever she’s telling herself that week.

Still, now that the conversation is getting interesting, she can take a backseat and keep her trap shut long enough for Joker to do... whatever he’s planning on doing. Her job is to make sure no one breaks up the party, to ensure Crane doesn’t release some sort of fear-inducing hallucinogenic that neither of them is immune to, that sort of thing.

Joker hears Crane loud and clear: I still do everything I've always done, thanks--I've just learned to be more subtle about it. Roger that, 'Crow! The theater metaphor is a nice touch, too; Crane's speaking Joker's language beautifully, the thoughtful guy.

"Delighted to hear you say that." It's exactly what he'd hoped to hear, the absolute best possible outcome. Satisfaction dances up Joker's spine. He was right about Crane: Scarecrows really don't change their stuffing, no matter which universe's bars they've been pickling in. "If you'd ducked out of showbiz entirely, gee... Might mean there's hope for redemption for all of us!" He giggles. "Unbearable thought."

Joker leans forward again, still giggling a little and feeling very sure now of where they all stand with one another. "But listen: I've got to quibble with you on one eensy weensy point here." He demonstrates with index finger and thumb just what he means by eensy weensy, and it's a tiny amount of space, indeed. Barely even a pinch.

"This whole ‘different audiences’ thing, that’s a little disingenuous. I mean, in any show, you’re gonna have folks working behind the curtain. You’ve got, what? The playwright, the director. Set painters. The goddamned hairstylists…” He’s counting them off on his fingers as he goes. “The show needs all of ‘em, buddy-boy. Not just yours truly monologuing in center stage.”

Because Joker’s such a team player, baby. Honest.

“What you’re talking about, well, that’s just good old-fashioned division of labor! All of us serving the same crowd, in our own special ways.” He folds his hands neatly beneath his chin. Leans forward a bit more and raises his brows, expectant and questioning. “Makes for a much better show that way, wouldn’t you say?”

Crane carefully avoids mentioning the offer of partnership for a while - doesn't forget it, just skips it. He has every intention of addressing it but working together only to have his fingers burnt doesn't appeal. He cradles his drink and swirls it around. Remembers some saying about crisis and opportunity and ducks off his stool.

After focusing entirely on Joker, he observes his sidekick. Checks how much she's been drinking and even forces himself to smile. He tries not to look too pleasant as he calls over the bartender and orders an extra round - of both drinks and cherries.

"You're not wrong," he begins saying, "But if you're after a little injection of cash, well, I can suggest other ways and means."

If these two are pressing him to bankroll their little shindig, well. They'll have to try harder.

Joker's brows go higher, and his mouth opens in a hammy display of offense. He actually is a bit offended--Crane thinks he's here for something as petty as cash?--but he's playing it up for the yuks.

"Doctor! You wound me. You really do."

He shakes his head, his expression going serious. "I can get funding anywhere; I wouldn't waste your time with that." It's one part flattery and three parts sincerity. "No, I came to you for something better. Something more... respectable, shall we say? In all senses of the word."

Joker leans forward even more, resting his forearms on the bartop and really leaning in. His fingers twitch against the bar. "See, a man like you--with this very respectable bar, and that devilishly respectable face--you know how to play nicey-nice around here, don't you? Whereas me, see..." One hand gestures vaguely up at his own face. "There's no nicey-nice in the world that's gonna do the trick with this."

His smile reappears. "Of course, there's some tricks that nicey-nice can't manage, too. You following me yet, Scary?"

Money. He didn't like it much, but he understood the importance of it and how its glimmer made men turn. On each other, for it obviously was better in his pocket than theirs, and against their nature. An awkward man could throw his life away chasing gold to fund his dreams. Or simply because of the humor in it.

But if anything, he has the reaction he wanted. Joker was unpredictable, but he had ideals, he had concerns, something fitting his philosophies. Ones which were undoubtedly different to his own. He was tied to human behavior much as anyone.

He turns around and stares at his face in the glass. Cusps his chin and investigates each cheek. People scarcely knew what to do with themselves when they met him in person. He looked so meek.

"I dislike dealing with the theatre men myself." Gangsters. Really not his type of people. "If you're willing to take them out of my equations, who am I to deny you that opportunity? It's excessively rude to deny one the chance to make friends..."

A lesson from his grandmother.

Crane is awfully pretty, but Joker still has to stifle the urge to snicker at this mirror routine he's doing. Joker was conventionally good-looking himself, once upon a time. He knows the kinds of thoughts that go through handsome men's thoughts when they're gazing at their own reflections.

Though perhaps Crane's mental script plays a little differently than Joker's used to. No telling what real loonies think, after all! And Joker can't imagine a world--any world--in which any possible version of Dr. Crane is playing with a full deck of cards.

As for Joker, he prefers the guy with the bag-face, to be perfectly honest. But pretty has its uses, and at the moment, those are precisely what he needs.

"Every good businessman needs someone to work the equations," he agrees, keeping his tone breezy. "Take the books out back from time to time--work them over when they get unruly! Keep the ink from staining his clever fingers, and all that."

He's playing mix-and-mangle with the metaphors here, but hey, such is life.

"Now, I myself have never cared for the stiff-collar crowd." The politicians. The businessmen. All the preening, self-satisfied, delusional hypocrites he delights in slaughtering on live tv. "Too fussy, you know. And with an extremely narrow understanding of what constitutes art."

He straightens back up; he can't seem to maintain one posture for long. "You take care of them for me... Be the respectable one, right? The good-looking front man. Maybe whisper a few helpful names in my ear here as Harley and I get ourselves settled. And in return, why, I'll take care of all those pesky, less-than-savory items on your other balance sheets. Make sure the books stay as squeaky-clean as your smile."

Joker's voice seemed distant, even more distant the more he spoke, and Crane begun to feel it pressuring him on all sides. An awkward feeling settled in his heart and made him look more uncomfortable. His movements became small and erratic. His hands spun awkwardly behind his back. His eyes drew away from his reflection, finding solace in observing bottles and clientele.

Why was he nervous?

It was the thought of schmoozing all those people he despised. People with all the money he needed, but none of the brains. He could hear their whispers, twenty years after the fact. Too full of himself. All looks no brains. He hated their sort much as Joker did, but for the simple reason they had persecuted him for making them feel inferior. Still, they were more useful alive than dead. It's harder to replace human subjects, you know?

"That sounds positively wonderful." His attention diverts, his voice drifts off as he imagines them screaming, getting their comeuppance. "Just don't forget to put them back on the shelf when you're done."

Caught up as he is in explaining the brilliance of his own plan (and goddamn, it is a good one!), Joker doesn't immediately notice that something's gone amiss in the Wonderful World of Crane. Sure, he sees the hands doing their weird spinny thing, but people often fidget when he monologues, and Joker's always had an unusually high tolerance for working with eccentric personalities. A twitch or two is nowhere near enough to sound the alarm bells.

It's only when he hears Crane's voice that he realizes something's off. Though what that something might be, Joker hasn't the foggiest. The small hairs at the nape of his neck prickle--a pleasant feeling, and one that frequently indicates the possibility of violence on the horizon. That's not what he wants at the moment, but if that's the way the straw shakes...

Come to think of it, Crane did agree to this whole thing pretty readily. What if it's a trap? Some sort of trick, in which 'Crow keeps the two of them distracted with pleasant chit-chat while his goons come up from behind? Joker's Crane probably wouldn't try that on him, but there's no telling what this world's Crane might do.

The clown's gaze cuts to Harley: Has she seen something he hasn't? Or is Crane simply doing that thing nutjobs do sometimes, where the mind just...wanders? Either way, it's probably best that they say their goodbyes now. Force to Crane to spring his trap if he has one. Give him time to get used to their new business arrangement if he doesn't.

"Oh, we always tidy up after ourselves, don't we, Harley?"

He gets to his feet, careful to keep his smile steady. "And now that that's settled... Tell Dr. Crane thank you for the extra cherries, dear, like a good girl, and we'll let him get back to his business. He's a busy man, you know. Lots and lots of busy-ness."

With the multitude of cherries, Harley’s already drained half her drink and filled the rest of the glass with maraschino cherries. And then had just started eating the rest of her bounty straight up. She’s watching Crane from the corners of her eyes, waiting for something, anything, that will indicate that he’s about to snap.

And with that soft tone of voice, the way he’d been studying his reflection, of Harley had still been in the business of psychoanalyzing people she would have gotten right to work on This Guy.

Sheesh. And people called her crazy.

Which was really beside the point because a) those people were right and b) the point of this whole meet and greet had apparently been to secure contacts. Since that had been established, it was always better to cut and run before the mark wised up and backed out.

Still chewing, Harley lifts her shoulders in a shrug. A silent I have no clue. Though what she could gather was that this likely wasn’t the guy they knew from their Gotham. Weird, that.

“Sure do, Mister J.” Then turns her attention back to Crane.

“Thanks for the extra cherries, Dr. Crane,” she says without missing a beat, voice cheerful but a bit garbled as she finished chewing and swallowed. “Nice place, by the way. Swanky.”

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i'm a crook, you're a crook, everyone's a crook (crook) | closed

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