1843/Afternoon Delight (Derby)

Afternoon Delight (Derby)
Date of Scene:	25 May 2020
Location:	Wicked Rollers Skatepark
Synopsis:	Where to even start... Supposing at the beginning. Harley was involved in roller derby which Terry, Gar, and Colette went to spectate. After the departure of the fellas, Harley and Colette embarked upon a scheme to get shirts made.. After hearing the product request, that's when Harlan knew that things had gone astray. To foul to be repeated, to vile to be spoken, it was written as a labor of love and thus forgiveable by all but the most easily offended.. From there it was a trip to get Wangyu noodles... Wangyu, yes, they paid me extra to say that.. Wang. A cowboy, a bar fight, two pitchers of beer, twenty two asahi, and two bottles of sake.. two bowls of noodles, two plates of wangyu (that's the last time) and we still don't know who fell out first. All we know is that James Earl Jones passed up this role, and I should've too. Also, Gar and Terry were fu-...
Cast of Characters:	Harley Quinn, Colette O'Connail, Terry O'Neil, Gar Logan

---

Harley Quinn has posed:
Late afternoon at Wicked Rollers is the wild west of rollerskaters. It's where the mutant (womens) league Roller Derby team are holding their weekly match between the Brooklyn Bombshells and the Queens Riots. Mid-match with a blonde haired woman in shortcut babydoll t-shirt, short-shorts, and pigtails is waiting to be sent in to do a little enforcing for the Bombshells, "PUNCH THAT BITCH IN THE FUCK HOLE!"

Gotta get that shit out of the way early.

This aint your grandpas scene set.

When the girls come around the track, one of them scoots into the box so that Harley Quinn can burst onto the floor, building up speed in a half loop. Rocketing straight towards one of the lead women on the Riots with a savage elbow directly to the back of her head, hard enough to knock her flat and send them both slamming against the railing, "That's right ya fuckin' shit-smear..." Up onto her skates, looking for her next target while the first is still trying to remember what year it is.

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    Colette has a hotdog. A ringside hotdog of the type which, as the saying goes, isn't made out of named meat. Unless the word 'dog' in this case is literally correct, which is entirely possible.

    A single bite has been taken from the hotdog. A single mouthful of processed protiens that bare some vague semblance to meat, of a white, pasty substance that might be considered bun, a sprinking of burnt things that might once have been onion, and something red that could probably be better used for painting walls than as a condiment. A mouthful that is already deeply regretted.

    Colette fastidiously re-wraps the dog in its paper wrapping, twisting the end over and tightening it with a determination that may at first seem unnecessarily ferocious, but only if you haven't tasted the dog. Honestly it should probably be put in a large wooden crate marked 'top secret' and hidden away in some vast government warehouse never to be seen again.

    As she searches for some spot she can surreptitiously secrete the rejected dog, Colette's attention returns to the match in time to see Harley's entrance into the field of play. "You're /sure/ she has given up murdering people, Terry?" she asks out of the side of her mouth as Harley brutalizes the opposition.

    Colette notices the woman sitting in front of her has her purse hanging open and is not watching it. Nowhere else seems entirely convenient, so she carefully places the wrapped dog in said purse to get it out of her way.

    A gift, an act of generosity, of course.

    "And this is the person who's teaching you combat technique, right?" Colette asks, a little disbelievingly. "I mean it's not ineffective, it's just..."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Kinda brutal? Yeah. She makes a great fighting instructor!" Terry replies to Colette, showing absolutely no remorse in eating his own alleged hot-dog, "It's super-effective. As long as you dial it back a little, nobody gets seriously hurt, but I imagine it'll work like a charm when facing things that can take a pounding, like robots or whatnot."

He turns to look at Gar and says, "Whaddaya think? We haven't gotten to where I get to use skates yet... but that should be fun!"

The image of Vorpal careening down the field of battle in skates is an interesting one.

Gar Logan has posed:
Whatever the deal is with the processed meat, Gar is not nearly as picky about them. Are they edible? Even if barely? Yes? Then they go into his mouth.

"Honestly, I didn't even know roller derby was still a thing, but now that I know it hasn't faded away and been classified as obsolete, I..can kind of see her fitting in perfectly," he explains, gesturing toward the rink before the reason they've come here has even got into the action.

When she does, he grimaces. "Well, that was sufficiently violent. I totally get why she likes it."

He just eyes Terry. "You don't need skates."

Harley Quinn has posed:
Harley spies the trio seated in the stands as she builds up speed for another body blast.

Okay, technically, she sees them AFTER she's body blasted the next person... but let's not focus on these unfortunate details, huh? It makes us look judgy.

Shooting forward past a teammate, Harley swings her left fist around into a haymaker punch that would knock out a full grown bodybuilder, catches the woman with her right, and slams her straight up against the glass seperating her from the spectators! Which, as it turns out, is two rows down from where Vorpal, Colette, and Gar are seated! "HEY GUYS! Did ya see me smash this cunts face inna tha' gl-"

That costs her. A fist smacks her upside the face, just below where her helmet ends, and knocks her around so her shoulders are against the wall with hear arms keeping her from hitting the rink.. "oooh... Oh tha' as a mistake!"

Harley is in pursuit!

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "Yeeeeah," Colette agrees hesitently with Vorpal, "But on the other hand, no. I mean I don't want to judge based on..." she sweeps an arm in the direction of the rink. "But I'm beginning to suspect that her fighting style owes a lot to uh... well, being a bit of a maniac, really. I suspect that any kind of instinct for self-preservation would get in the way of the techniques she's likely to be teaching you."

    Colette responds to Harley's greeting with a slightly nonplussed wave, and she winces slightly at the sucker punch. "I rest my case," she concludes. "I mean I'm not saying there aren't things you could learn from her, but you really ought to be learning the basics from someone who's attitude to the self-defense aspects of fighting appears to be mainly 'it'll mend.' "

    Colette kicks back, folding her arms behind her head as a head-rest, to the annoyance of the person sitting behind her. "Isn't there someone on that team who can teach you a uh... more conventional form of martial arts?" she asks. "'Cos I'm not teaching you how to keep yourself alive unless you /promise/ not to use the 'n' word." That's 'ninja', folks.

    Colette leans across Terry to grin at Gar. "I can't believe you're actually eating that thing. Do you want mine? I can get it back if you do."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry raises an eyebrow at Colette, "What? Nietzche?" he takes another bite of his hotdog, while he waves at Harley with his free hand "You go get 'er, girl! Don't let her get away with disrespect!"

Fowning, he looks at Colette "Well, yeah, she's... you know, but we're all mad here, Colette. I mean, look at us," he gestures to include all three of them, "Besides, Troia is running us through fundamentals, so don't worry... besides. This is a healthy outlet for her."

And then he slowly turns to look at Gar, vis a vis the 'no skates' comment. "What, a diamond-encrusted speedo is ok but you draw the line at skates?" he asks, with a look of absolute and total mischief. And then he chomps on the hot dog.

Gar Logan has posed:
"You'd be surprised at the things I'll put into my mouth," Gar states. "Wait."

"There's a lot of things I'm willing to eat," Gar tries again. "Hang on."

"Maybe my standards are lower than yours, all right?" Gar attempts, then he just facepalms and stays that way for a time, peering between a couple fingers at the progress Harley is making. "Oh, shouldn't have done that. You're in for it now," he says, as if commenting for a TV broadcast.

Colette's question of the hot dog she had is given a shake of the head. "Nah, you already gifted that to some other poor sap. Too late now."

Finally, he merely stares at Terry. "Who said the speedo was okay? That thing is a blight upon mankind."

Harley Quinn has posed:
Diamond-encrusted BANANAHAMMOCK thank you very much.

Do not downplay the skimpiness of Harley's gift giving prowess.

When she finally catches up to the woman who caught her with a sucker punch, Harley is really getting into the speed. Arms swinging, each foot sliding out further and faster, that when she's right up on the woman there's the very real fear that she might just bowl right over her... Which isn't far from the truth.

The back of the Clowns arm catches the lady right across the back of the skull, swung through at the shoulder into a short arm clothesline that sends her face first down into the rink like an potato-sack full of lead bars. Rolling up in a ball to keep from actually smashing her face into the hardwood and to protect her head as a traffic jam of bodies begin falling all around her.

It leaves Harley out there in the weeds alone, pumping her fists in the air with her abdomen pressed up against the barrier, crowd calling out her Derby name! "Smiling... Death.. Smiling Death... Smiling Death!" Each has fists raised, moving backwards a few feet, then sweeping around to build up speed on the turns and straight aways.

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    Colette gives Terry a very suspicious look out of the side of her eyes. "If you're sure," she concedes. "But if you get yourself killed because you got trained by a clown, I will hunt you down and kill you."

    "Are you sure?" Colette asks Gar. She hovers a hand over the shoulder of the woman in front of her. "I can get it back, not a problem." She gives a broad grin. "I'm sure it's fine, though the state of your stomach afterwards? I have no guarantees."

    Colette's attention returns to the game, and she watches in interest as Harley wreaks havoc in a manner that is, as she had suggested earlier, largely uncaring of any risks it may pose to the perpetrator.

    "Aren't there meant to be motorbikes?" Colette asks. "This is Rollerball, right? Like in the film? Or is this just the effect that Harley has on everything she gets involved in?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Bliiiight. Riiiiiight. I still remember your expression, you know, Gar." Terry says without missing a beat, and finishing up his hot-dog. "Lettie, you gotta live a little. Bad food is part of the roller derby experience, don'tchaknow?"

Terry winces a little, and concedes "Okay, maybe he's a little trigger happy with the body blows... but she hasn't killed anyone since she said she wouldn't."

He smirks, "I don't know if you /want/ to give Harley a motorcycle. In fact, I don't know if she can drive one. Maybe she does... I bet she knows some sick tricks if she does." Emphasis on sick.

Gar Logan has posed:
"That's something else," Gar says with much patience, "but the way this is going, I wouldn't be all that surprised if it turned into some kind of Mad Max thing by the end." She is given a slow shake of the head as the hot dog remains a topic for her. "No, Colette. Let it go. Let it gooooooo."

Then comes a grimace or two at a few particularly severe-looking moves by Harley, at which point he comments, "It's like she was born for this. Oh, Colette. Look up the San Francisco Bay Bombers later on. Then you'll understand."

Terry also gets a reply. "You mean this one?" Gar asks, putting on a look of abject horror, as if he's seen something that will provide nightmares until the end of time.

Harley Quinn has posed:
As Harley comes shooting around the track, up behind the dog pile of bodies, she's bent over to cut down resistance and build up speed. A savage looking grin on her face when she catches sight of one of the orange/black shirts of the opposing teamm. The woman wearing it is just pushing herself up from being at the bottom of a body pool! Little does she knows...

What poor fate awaits.

From yander Harley breaks.

When the clown hits her, smile becoming a grimace, it's with her arms folded like a battering ram. Shoving both forward to literally hurl the poor woman directly into the wall like a baseball. The loud crack of helme thitting glass echos through the crowd that suddenly go absolutely batshit with cheers.. Coach grabbing hold of Harls arm when she stops to celebrate near the pit, tagging her out! She's still got her hands in the air, maybe a little blood on her elbow pads... and a shit eating grin on her psychotically wide eyed face!

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "Bad /food/, sure. I'd eat bad food any day of the week," Colette agrees. "That 'dog wasn't food, though. It's more like a tube of fat and congealed desperation in a bun made from sawdust and shattered dreams. "

    Colette snap-points at Gar's expression. "If that hotdog were a facial expression, it would be that very one. I'd rather eat the diamond-encrusted banana hammock. Okay on second thoughts probably not. But it's a close thing."

    "Harley on a Harley?" Colette ponders. She's about to say something else, but is interrupted by the sudden uproar of the crowd. She gives a shrug, then stands, throws a fist in the air and whoops along with the rest, because why not. "Woo! Go Smirking Chef or whatever!" she calls out.

    As the crowd subsides, so does Colette. "Yeah. I dunno, but a bike's got to be a better bet than a possessed limo. Did that actually ever happen?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Fine then," Terry says, crossing his arms and turning slightly away from Gar, "See if I ever do anything special for you again!" if it weren't for the slight curve to the smile, Gar might be in the doghouse. The mention of the possessed limo gets him to grin, and he shakes his head. "No, the Limo wasn't possessed by anything except Harley. Apparently she went joyriding with a certain blonde, that's all I know."

Terry peers. "She's tapped out! I wonder if she's done... maybe we could go and get something to eat."

Glance at Colette, "Something more edible for your tastes, I imagine?"

Gar Logan has posed:
"Is that what she's calling herself?" Gar asks, hearing the chants and cheering that are taking place. "I don't remember the actual rules for this stuff, but did she just win the game for them?" He's wincing almost as if /he/ just felt that move she pulled off.

Terry's given an eyeroll. He can already tell there isn't much serious about the response, so he gives the other teen a light shove to one side. "You're a dork, you know that?"

The expression carries over for Colette as well. "Look at the kind of thing we're at. You're not gonna get fine dining here. At least take the diamonds out and sell them first, if you ever get to the point of doing that. And I'll give you a dollar if you do. I don't remember if just Terry wore it, or if we both did. I kinda blocked the memory out."

So she might not want a dollar that badly.

Harley Quinn has posed:
Harley had spied Terry, Gar, and Colette, so while she's not entirley out of the match, she's certainly out for a little while. With there only being a few minutes left, it's fair to assume that'll be the end of her showing. She done what she's there to done... beat peoples ass, clear the path. It was a rousing success.

So out of the booth she goes, working her way towards the trio, while still in her skates, and a thin sheen of sweat running from brow to bra strap. "Hey! Terry!" Waving both hands over her head as she works her way through the crowds, "Move ass hole..." Pushing people from her path. Because she's Harley and does not subscribe to the notion of social norms.

"It's me, Ha'lee!" Incase anyone wasn't sure.

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "Oh that's right, I made up the possessed bit, didn't I?" Colette recalls. "Well you can't blame me. You were going hairy and freaking out. Then she started texting you and you freaked out even more. I was sure I was going to have to go rescue her from a possessed limo or something, just on the basis that it didn't look very much like I was going to have a quiet night that night. "

    Fine dining doesn't mean putting diamonds on things," Colette says to Gar with an amused shake of the head. "Even a couple of hundred carats wouldn't make that 'dog worth eating. As for the banana hammock... ya know what? I'll pass. I don't know where you two have... scratch that comment. I never made it. Never even started to make it. Delete, delete."

    And then, finally, there is a sweaty Harley. Colette raises a hand in greeting. "Hey, Reformed Murderclown, I'm Colette. Nice to finally meet you. I hear your limo wasn't possessed after all."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"I might be a dork, but I'm the best kind there is," Terry says with a smirk, and then stands up. "Harl!" he goes for the hug, if she'll let him, "Pretty brutal show out there- I thought I saw some of the moves from the last lesson in there... Oh here-" he is about to introduce her to Colette, when she does the favor. "Yeah, that's Lettie over here. She's the one who helped me find my codename. And, of course, you remember Garfield."

He's using the full name, ohoho. "Are ya done, or do you need to stay for the remainder?"

Gar Logan has posed:
"Hey..they're not part of the game," Gar calls out as Harley or Death Clown or whatever the nickname was approaches. "And, uh, nice work out there? You really looked like a natural." He gives an exaggerated thumbs-up, then quickly draws his hand back to his side before she gets any closer.

Out of the side of his mouth, he adds to Colette, "We are not talking about that any more. Never. Again."

He's walking a fine line of looking happy to be here and seeming like he'd rather be anywhere else /but/ here right now.

Harley Quinn has posed:
One grabby hand on her butt, and a slap to the back of grabby hands owner, is all that seperates Harls from being with the trio. "Move." Slapping at the shoulder of the young couple who were seated to the far side of the trio nearest to Gar, "Get up, these is mah frien's. Gooooo..." Thumbing back over her shoulder, she finally drops down and breaths a little sigh of relief to be off her feet.

"Hey guys!" Gar and Terry! Waving, right there beside them. "Also person wit whom I had extensive text convahsation in very elegant language while entertainin' teenagahs I was attemptin' to get dru-..." Pause, mouth quirked to the side, "I've said too much..."

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "Never," Colette agrees with Gar through the side of her mouth. It's a compact, unbreakable as the diamonds on the thing-that-shall-not-be-discussed.

    "Colette, or Col, or 'Lette, or Lettie," Colette says to Harley. "It's a lot less of a mouthful that person with whom I had a blah blah. I mean can you imagine having to type that out next time you text? 'Hi person with whom I had an extensive text conversation in a very elegant etcetera...' I mean before you'd even got on to the actual subject, you'd probably have got so tired of the autocorrect fucking it up that you'd throw the phone across the room."

    "Also, nothing wrong with trying to get teenagers drunk from time to time. They need to lighten up from time to time. I mean I left a bottle of very expensive champagne in Terry's fridge like months ago, and he hasn't drunk it yet. Incredible. The youth of today. I bet neither of them even have a fake ID. I don't know /how/ they even live."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry snerks, "I am saving that champagne for a /very/ special occasion. Provided it ever happens," he says enigmatically, "Then you might judge me by my reprobate ways."

Green eyes settle on Harley, and he adds "Is that the title of your autobiography, by chance?" I have said too much would be a perfect title for it, admittedly. "

He looks over at Gar, picking up his ambivalence, and says "Shall I got get you another hot-dog? How about you, Lettie?" Evil grin.

Gar Logan has posed:
"I'll come with you," Gar tells Terry, making a move to do just that before he gets roped into sticking around. "But yeah, you looked like a natural out there! Nice job! I didn't even see any bones sticking out of anybody!"

Harley Quinn has posed:
With not but a little grunt of acknowledgement, Harley lounges back with her skates resting on the shoulder of whomever was silly enough to sit infront of the group she's joined! Fingers laced behind her pigtailed head, "Seeya boys!" Wiggling fingers at both Gar and Terry as they make foah departure. Blue eyes turn to Colette, whom sofar, isn't abandoning the conversation like PEOPLE WITH OTHER STUFF TO DO...

Shame.
    Shame.
        Shame.

"Lettie.. can I call ya Pete? Ya got like a fuckin' thousand nicknames, what's one moah?"

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "No more 'dogs, Terry." Colette gives him a warning glare. The glare lingers as Terry and Gar make their way through the crowds to the hotdog vendor. They're not as good at fighting their way through a crowd as Harley is.

    "They're not as good at fighting their way through a crowd as you are," she comments, turning back finally when she is satisfied that her glare has left an indelible mark on their souls.

    "You can call me Pete," she agrees, "But only if you don't mind me not responding. I've got a thousand nicknames, and none of them is Pete. Lettie is fine. What should I call you? I mean 'Reformed Murderclown' seems kinda... formal. You know? I mean if you were like attending a ball, I can imagine the stuffed shirt announcing you that way. You know..."

    Colette puts on a British accent, under the assumption that anyone announcing people at such functions is likely to be British. "Announcing Mz Harley Quinn, Reformed Murderclown, and her esteemed life-partner, a bloody baseball bat."

    "So, yeah. Harley? Harls? What is it?"

Harley Quinn has posed:
"Ya sure? I feel like Pete really cuts ta the co'ah of ya personality... Why don't ya try't on foah a few days an see how it fits befoah ya throw't in tha trash?" Hands up, glancing over at Gar and Terry still trying to pardon me, excuse me, sorry sir or madame their way through the croud.. "Yeah, foah bein' gay they show act like pussies.." Cupping her hands around her mouth, "Jus' shove'em out tha way, Terry! They aint gonna move!"

Grumbling, she looks back to Pete, "Hm? Oh, yeah.. tha's my legal name. Reform't Murderclown..." Hand waving across the imaginary marque, "An' if I had a life pahtnah, it'd prolly be my Mallet... oah Powah Girl.. I should prolly say Powah Girl huh?" Glancing back to her newly minted friend, "Cus they can heah everythin', ya know?" Pointing up, around, finger her extended finger as if looking for a rogue kryptonian flying about in the rafters.

"Soooo..." Hands in her lap, shoulders lumped, absently picking a piece of... something. She genuinly hopes that wasn't person bits, "Wanna go get hammah't an' pick a fight in a bah?"

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    Colette joins in the baracking "Punch him in the kidneys!" She recommends to Gar as he tries to squeeze past a particularly fat man wearing a t-shirt four sizes to small. "Kick her in the balls!" is her unlikely advice yelled to Terry, a moment later.

    "This is almost as much fun as watching the roller derby," she says to Harley. "Maybe we could make a sport of it. Funny, they're meant to be Titans and they are defeated by a crowd of overweight sports fans. So much for superheroes, huh?"

    "If you continue to call me Pete, I might have to shorten your name to Reefo, which sounds really stupid so I probably won't. But I might anyway. You and Power Girl, huh? I think that's one of the ones Terry interviewed, wasn't it? I kinda lose track, he seems to be interviewing everything in a cape, the slut.

    Colette gives a sniff, glances towards Terry and Gar, then looks back at Harley. "Bar? Drinks? Fight? Sure, why not."

Harley Quinn has posed:
"That's not a man, it's a space station!" Harley shouts after Gar, who most definitely isn't still wrestling with an obese individual who could go either way on the gender spectrum.. "Actually I don't know if tha' /is/ a man..." Said quieter, conspiratorially, to Colette.. Squinting blue eyes trying to figure it out, "I... yeah, I'm flumoxed.. Wha's tha politically correct way ta call someone a genderless fat person?"

This asked of Pete. Glancing her way with a helpless looking on her entirely too pale face.

"Yeeeeup... me'n Powah Girl.. I unno if she wants me tellin' people, but I do. Often. Literally anyone who asks, oah even mentions relationships, oah sometimes I jus' randomly dial people up an' tell them-" Thumb/pinky phone to hear ear.

"Ms. Clanderstate of Five two four Seventh Avenue Huntsville Alabama? This is Ha'lee Quinn, I am datin' Powah Girl, bye." Clicking the hand down on the receiver. "I'm may own public relations person, so's I gotta be out tha publically relatin' in these streets."

Up pops Harls, "Yeah prolly, I unno.. Only podcast I watch is April's, cus I was on't.. an the only one I listen't to was the one I was on, cus I'm self center't an' narcassistic. Let's go fight people."

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    Colette follows Harley's gaze to the aforementioned not-a-space-station. She gives the question some consideration. "I think," she says slowly, "That in this case political correctness is not required. I'd just avoid reference to gender and punch him... it... in the kidneys. It's easier that way."

    She watches Harley's phone act with a head tilt. "There's got to be easier ways of doing that. I mean I'm no PR expert, you probably want a journalist type like Terry for that, but phoning up random people? It's inefficient. What you want is posters. Maybe you could book some time on one of the Times Square marquees. Or a t-shirt. Hey, we could go get one printed up for you right now. How about before we hit the bar, we go get you a t-shirt that reads 'I am dating Power Girl'? "

    Colette gets to her feet. "C'mon, this'll be fun."

Harley Quinn has posed:
"Yeah..." Harley intones regarding said individual of questionable .. you get it.. "Let's /that/ way.." Pointing in the direction of this individual, "I got questions, an' they've got answers." Popping up, nearly forgetting she's on roller-skates, but she's an athletical young lady! So it just looks like she meant to stumble, fall over the row of seats, and into spectators! "HEY! WHO put this SEAT here?"

Wiggling off of them, all of them quite displeased by her sudden appearance in their laps, and unceremoniously deposits herself on the dirty arena floor, "Ma'am, did ya know ya have a hotdog in ya purse?" Because she's face to face with this purse before getting back to her skates, "Ya don't gotta take'em home wit ya, ya know? Ya /can/ eat'em heah if ya want... no judgement, jus' sayin'.." Skating towards the exit.

"Now I jus' gotta think up an appropriately flatterin' design foah this shirt... Not to risque, don't wanna offend people, but risque enough tha' they definitely /start/ ta get offend't, but then realize how much work I put inna not offendin' em an' foahgive me."

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    Colette's progress through the crowd is rather less spectacular than Harley's. She just makes her way through with polite 'excuse me's as she goes, though a judicious use of elbows and determination makes the approach a lot more efficient than when it's used by someone more polite.

    As it happens, between Harley's speed on her skates and slowness arguing about hotdogs in purses, combined with the pauses caused by close encounters with people's laps, her average speed and Colette's works out about the same, and they arrive at the exit together.

    "You know," Colette remarks, smirking a little. "The simple way to ensure that they start to get offended by your shirt is just to get the shop to print 'fuck you' on the back. However that doesn't really work with the getting them to forgive you thing. Unless we add a second line that says 'Sorry, I've got tourettes. Totally didn't mean that.'"

Harley Quinn has posed:
"I been accused of havin' a lot worse than tourettes." Harley says as they get to the exit, forgoing getting her change of clothes, or showering, or putting on shoes rather than skates. These are things that people with far more time on their hands and sense in their heads think about. Far to busy for the follow of jiggle, as Ace Ventura would say. "Homicidal rage issues... obsessive compulsive disoahdah... Even been said ta have a clinical object fixation on people... I don't know about tha' last one, though."

"So what if I make shrines to'em wit hair an' shit I find in theah couches while theah sleepin', that's totally normal."

Rolling backwards to face Pete, "Maybe Fuck You.. an' on tha bottom, In the fun way? So as not to offend tha' very sensitive tourettes community.. logical spoken wohd challenge't, I think is wha they call themselves.. Theah's an entiah message boahd, I'm sure."

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "You're a psychiatrist, right?" Colette asks. "I mean instead of listening to what other people say, maybe you should listen to yourself." This is terribly bad advice. "I mean you're the expert, right? Maybe you should do sessions with yourself."

    Colette looks thoughtful. "Actually I bet if you streamed that on Twitch you'd make a fortune. Especially if you took exception to your own analysis and got in a fight with yourself. Instant viral superstar."

    Colette walks along behind the rolling Harley, occasionally yelling at someone she's about to ram into to get out of the way. "Is that offensive /enough/ though?" she asks. "I mean a lot of people might just take it as a polite invitation. Wasn't the point to start a fight? Hmm. How about... 'F*** You', then below that 'See? I'm being polite'.

    She taps at her chin. "And then maybe below /that/ 'Not that you deserve it, you shitsack'."

Harley Quinn has posed:
"I was, yeah." Harley doesn't sound at all dubious of whatever advice is to follow, shrugging as she skates along beside Colette outside the little rink in the heart of Brooklyn country, "An'... Look't, my therapist tells me tha' I can't back slide by takin' mental advice quake psychiastrist... but she's a quake, if ya ask me.." It is entirely possible that her psychiatrist /is/ herself. Some snapped of part of her psychi that still considers itself Harleen Quinzel that offers wisdom that Harley refutes, while Ha'lee suffers from two parts of her terribly unstable mental status when the two other parts go to war over what is and is not good suggestions.

"I unno about recordin' it though. Doctah patient confidentiality is a big deal foah tha quake."

Big shrug! Haphazard of any pedestrians what get in her path as she skates along, not necessarily shoving them out of the way, but definitely not not shoving them out of th eway. "I like wheah ya head is on all this.. How about... It's only offensive if yer a pussy." Squint, thoughtful, "Nah, prolly too much. twenty twenty an' all."

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "True," Colette concedes. "But look at it this way, the confidentiality thing only goes so far as the agreement of both parties. So long as you and your therapist both agreed, that wouldn't be a problem. As both of them are you, you shouldn't have too much difficulty coming to an agreement."

    Colette considers what she's just said for a few moments. "Probably shouldn't," she amends cautiously.

    Colette pulls out her phone and starts googling. "There's a place that prints t-shirts a couple of blocks away. What say we head there and see if we can persuade them to print something up for us? I have a feeling we're going to run out of space on the t-shirt though. We need something a little simpler."

    Colette fields a panicky pedestrian who stumbles out of the Harley's way and would have fallen but for Colette's catching her. "You okay there?" she asks. "Sorry about my friend, she's distracted. Maybe you can help us out, if she was wearing a t-shirt that said 'Only an utter fucking moron would be offended by this t-shirt, you dumb fuck', would you be offended?"

    The pedestrian makes like a goldfish for a few moments, mouth flapping wordlessly, before she stumbles away nervously.

'Harley Quinn has posed:
"Yeah, ya playin' wit fiah theah..." Harley starts to amend about her other personalities, but then Colette does it for herself, lifting both hands to motion at her more appropriate assumptions about the matter being something more akin to not a good idea, "It'd prolly make a fortune, but it could end in me goin' all murder clown on people again when things don't really go so smooth... then Powah Girl's gonna come gimme them sad eyes of disapproval.. an' I sweah tha's so much wohse than prison oah Arkham.. At least they have salsbury steak Sunday."

It is true, she is absolutely not paying attention to pedestrians because NPC lives don't matter.

When one of them is nearly shoved over only to find themselves unwittingly invested in their shirt making decision, however, Harls stares at them. Mimicing the guppy mouth movement, "Ya okay? It aint hahd, does it offend ya if a shiht says, Ya'd have ta be a complete dumbshit fuckboi not ta follow wha' weah askin?" It's getting very specific in here.

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "I think she answered by not answering, Reefo." Colette watches the pedestrian's escape with a look of satisfaction. "She was offended, but didn't want to admit to being offended. Clearly the slogan works."

    The notion that the pedestrian didn't want to admit to being offended in the presence of Harley appears not to have occurred to her.

    "Left here," Colette says, navigating towards the t-shirt shop. "/Other/ left." Left and right is a touch confusing when Harley's facing the opposite direction to her. "I guess that's one advantage to being a reformed murderclown then. I mean when you're not actually in jail, you can order Salisbury Steak every day, if that's what you really want."

    The pair arrive at the shop, and Colette pushes the door open. "Hi!" she greets the shop attendant in a cheery fashion. "You print up t-shirts, right? With slogans? Do you mind printing stuff that's mildly offensive?"

Harley Quinn has posed:
Harley watches the woman scurry away! Neer to be heard from again, "Bye!" Waving after her, all excitement, hand held up high above her head, "Imma miss you!" Chances are she'll forget about her as soon as this paragraph ends.

That's the nature of the -what was I saying again?

"Oh right..." Scratching the side of her face, "I guess I could oahdah salisbury steak whenevah, but theahs this special meat they use in tha one at Arkham.. A mix between pig, fish, an' asshole.. I don't know if it's good foah me, but it's delicious!" All smiles, bebopping along, on skates, without a care in the world.

One must wonder if this is how she was lured into being the Jokers sidekick for three years.

"Oah not so offensive dependin' on the testiculah fortitude of the casual observah?" Harls adds to the bewildered attendant.

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "Uh... how offensive, exactly?" The shop attendant asks, glancing with some apprehension from woman to woman.

    Colette holds up a finger to silence him, a more important question having been raised. "Wait. Pig, fish and asshole. That doesn't make sense. What kind of asshole? Was it like... ass of the pig? Fish ass? Some other kind of animal ass? I mean normally a salisbury steak is made from beef, not those other things. Was it cow's asshole?"

    Colette looks thoughtfully at Harley. "I'm pretty sure it would taste better if it was made from prime beef. You have actually /tried/ a salisbury steak made with beef, yeah? 'Cos if not, maybe you'd prefer it. Though honestly give me a dry-aged ribeye any day. Let's find a bar that serves good steaks. Ones made without any asshole of any animal in them."

    "Uh..." the attendant attempts to interject. "I can't print a t-shirt with the word 'asshole' on it, my boss wouldn't..."

    Colette raises a silencing finger again. "I wasn't talking to you," she tells him. "Pretty sure you haven't spent time in Arkham Asylum like my friend here. Or have you?" She turns to look at him curiously.

    "Besides, we don't want the word 'asshole' printed on a t-shirt. Just ... what was it... 'Only a fucking moron would be offended by this t-shirt, you dumb fuck'. Can you print that?"

    The attendant blinks rapidly. "My boss wouldn't..."

    "Is your boss here?"

    "Well no, but..."

    "Fine, we'll take two."

Harley Quinn has posed:
Harley furrows her brow and bzzzzzzzz waves her hand at the attendant who is getting all up in the talk of salisbury steak when he really shouldn't be! "bzzzzzzzzz..." She says. To accent the waving bzzzzzz hand. It is important combination like a tag team move. Hot tag.

"I didn't get inta the finah points of wha' kinna asshole it /was/ in tha mix, only tha it had the very distinct taste of asshole.. which at first, I was dubious about.. because who wants ta eat asshole? I mean as a meal.. millennials.." No judging. Hands out.

"But as a /meal/ it's questionable, but then I figgah'd, I gotta eat eventually, if I wanna have prime strength foah when the guahds came aroun' foah they nightly attempt ta .. do things... anyways-" Dark times, waved away, no busines here.

"Then I tried it.. an' I'll be damn't if it wasn't heaven.. it jus' melts in ya mouth.. mostly because, I think, it's made outta so many pahts that it has no cohension. I been watchin' a lot of cookin shows recently, cus I can't kill no moah an' theahs only so many times a person can actually WATCH Air Bud... an' I've neared it.." Only a short pause, "April would say I passed it weeks ago, prolly, but... tha' lil bastahd is so cute when he does tha dunk at the end? Jus'... fuckin' adorable.."

NOW THEN. Eyes on clerk.

"Two." Holding up two fingers, "Onna pink shirt, cus we'ah classy ladies."

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "Wagyu," Colette says. "If you like a steak that melts in the mouth, that's what you gotta try. It's a kind of Japanese cattle. They feed them on special grass or something. Harls, you gotta try some. That's our next stop."

    The attendant tries again. "But I don't like steak..." Colette turns to stare at him. Colette turns to start at Harley. Colette turns to stare at the attendant again.

    "I wasn't inviting you. Is your name Harls? I don't think so."

    The attendant blinks in confusion. "Yes. Harlan. I'm..."

    Colette grabs Harlan's shoulders, and turns him around. "You're printing t-shirts for us. Go!"

    "But the boss..."

    "Isn't here! Hundred buck tip if you can do them both in five minutes."

    Finally something seems to have got through to him, and he heads to the back. "Only a fucking moron would be...?"

    "...offended by this t-shirt, you dumb fuck."

    "Coming right up, miss!"

Harley Quinn has posed:
Harls scratches her neck at the mention of anything with a u at the end of it or fed on special grass, "If ya say so.. I'll /try/ it, but it'll have ta be pretty damn tasty ta top tha mysterious flavah profile of a Arkham Salisbury Steak." Yet again staring at this Attendant, at once staring at him, then at Colette, then back to him.

"Harlan..." That's giggle worthy right? Harls thinks so, "Tha's kinna amusin' cus both of us is named Harls, wit different endin's." She's simple, beneath all the deep exterior anyways. Colette has him working properly towards their goals with the promise of monitary lubrication, however!

"On pink shihts!" Harley shouts after him, turning back to Colette from where she's leaning over the counter on her palms with her skates turned up to rest against the rubber breaks at the front of the wheels.

"So wheah do they serve wangyu?" Total intentional. "Cus I don't think that's ya typical bah food... chicken fingahs, french fries, maybe nachos... if ya lucky... peanuts, but no grass fed special wangyu meat." Absolutely intentional.

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    Google to the rescue! Out comes Colette's phone again, and she's looking for places that serve wagyu - or wangyou - steaks. "Okay, yeah. I mean not your typical bar food, but there are places... Okay. Japanese place, not too far. Has wagyu... sorry, wangyu... steaks. Also cocktails."

    There's a bit more tapping of the phone. "Table booked... and Uber on the way. I have no idea if they'll want us to come in wearing those t-shirts." They will not. "But we can probably talk our way in." Quite possibly the same kind of folding green talk that she used to persuade the shop attendant to go print up the t-shirts.

    Colette joins Harley in leaning on the bar, rapping her nails on it impatiently. "Harlan. What a dumb name. He should change it. To Harley. HEY! HARLAN! You should change your name to Harley. Or wouldn't your boss like it?"

    There's a reply from the back, but it's inaudible.

    Colette looks thoughtful. "You think Terry and Gar made it to the hotdog seller yet? I should send them a text, get them to come join us. Kind of unfair leaving them eating bad dogs when we're going to eat the good beef. Asshole free.

    Out comes the phone again, and she starts texting Terry. <<You guys still at the rink? We're heading for asshole free steaks, wanna join us?>>

Harley Quinn has posed:
Harley is yet leaning on the counter, barely hidden breasts all pushed together because that's her green talk that usually gets her into whatever she wants to be into regardless of required clothing or what-not has you whatevers, "Ya evah notice... Well of course ya has, but the entiah wohld is now automated.. an' instant. An' it all staht't wit Uncle Bens instant rice? Ya evah wondah if Uncle Ben got his share of the Uber money... pioneers nevah do, alas..." Shaking her head, pig-tails swinging.

"Don't listen to her Ha'lan, ya not a Ha'lee at all.. Ya moah of a.. Well I'd say Pete, but tha' names already been account't foah." Thumbing at Colette, a motion he cannot see, and would not appreciate because he wasn't there when the joke was originally made.

This is why NPCs lives don't matter.

"mmm? Oh.. yeah.. we jus' sohtah book't out on'em, but I'll be honest I stop't listen ta anythin' they was sayin' about halfway through... I staht't thinkin' about tha' shamoo tha' was down at the en- Fuck, I didn't kidney punch her..." Looking off in the direction of the arena.

"Ya think I got time befoah the ubah gets heah?"

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    At this point we must flash back to three days ago. One certain young Harlan, assistant at a t-shirt printing shop, is shutting up for the evening. His boss, who rarely bother to turn up to work these days, has left him to close up all on his own again. This he does with little complaint, despite the fact that he is paid a bare pittance of a wage. Such is the employment environment hereabouts - for a young man trying to make his way in the world, with limited qualifications, you take what you can get.

    Out of the shop he comes, on his bicycle - one day he'll be able to afford a car, but today is not that day. He mounts up, and starts making his way home to the dingy, run-down apartment where he lives. On the way, a sight catches his eye and he stops. Sitting, disconsolate on the edge of a bridge, a young woman is trying to gather the courage to throw herself into the river below and end the misery of her life. "Hey there," Harlan says...

    Two hours later, Harlan finishes his journey home. It had been hard, talking her down, but he managed it. He doesn't know if she was really going to commit suicide or if it was one of those plea for help things, but help he did, because what else can you do?

    Flash forwards, twenty years. The same young woman stands in a STAR labs facility in Newark, peering through a microscope. "God... we've got it. We've really got it. A cure. Just in time!" She looks up, mopping her brow. Around her the voices of her workmates rise up in a chorus of loud cheers - they know what this means, what this genius has acheived. Millions of lives will be saved. And to think that one day in her youth she would have ended it all, if it weren't for that guy on his bike...

    NPC lives /do/ matter.

    "Here's your t-shirts ladies!" The NPC announces, bringing out the freshly printed goods. Colette hands over the money and holds one out to Harley.

    "Nah, the Uber'll be here in a couple of minutes. We can find someone else to kidney punch later, don't worry."

Harley Quinn has posed:
"After considering the possibilities of a single NPCs journey through the great tapestry of life, Harley was suddenly struck by the realization that perhaps she'd completely misread the situation with this young fellow and his place in the world. If only for a short time, she genuinely realized the potential of a life with only partial names, thoughtlessly applied for the sake of levity and continued amusement for two... let's face it... troubled young women. Would it be the catalyst for change that she'd longed for these months? The true peak of revelation that would set her upon a genuinely righteous path of salvation?"

"We'd nevah be able to affoahd James Earl Jones..." Harls says to herself, having been staring up at the corner of the shop with her head cocked gently to one side. A placid, almost goofy, grin on her face.

Blue eyes set upon Colette, then on NPClan. "Oh sweet!" Holding her shirt up infront of her chest, "Ah ya mahginally, but also not really offend't?" Turning towards Pete. Frowning when there shall be no kidney punch, at least until after arriving at their predetermined destination for evening gustation. "Faih enough."

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    In a strange quirk of casting fate, Morgan Freeman sits at his desk at home, flicking through scripts his agent has been sent. One short voiceover piece catches his eye. "After considering the possibilities of a single NPCs journey through the great tapestry of life..." he stops. "NPC? What in God's name is an NPC?" he asks himself, putting the script on the reject pile.

    "Miss," Harlan replies, counting the bills that Colette has shoved over at him. "You guys are paying me too well to be offended, but if you you weren't, I figure I'd be kind of offended, but at the same time kind of too amused to actually be offended. Does that answer your question?"

    Colette holds her t-shirt up to her chest too. "Not bad," she says. Her phone pings. "Uber is here, c'mon Harls! We've got steaks to eat, alcohol to drink, and fights to start."

Harley Quinn has posed:
"Tha' is precisely tha kinna reaction we was goin' foah!" Harley folds her shirt up, then decides to wear it and slips it on over her very short derby uniform on the way outta the shop, "Seeya Morgan Freeman!" Waving over her shoulder, not specifically to Harlan, but to the corner..

Back outside, rolling up to the car oposite to Colette, "Do ya evah wondah if ouah lives is bein' narrated by middle management? Like if tha people writin' the scripts was so good, how come they ain't makin' comics oah.. movies.. oah whatevah writer people do ta make money in twenty twenty."

"Since nobody can read no moah." Said as she crawls into the vehicle, "Hai! I'm Ha'lee Quinn an' this is Pete." Thumbing between the pair of them.

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "Colette, not Pete," Colette corrects. "And this is Reefo. She's a reformed murd..."

    "Oh Harley Quinn!" the driver interrupts, watching the pair in his rear mirror. "Effing hell! Excuse my English. I am knowing about you for a long time! It is a great honor to have the famous Harley Quinn in my cab! Do you mind if I take a selfie?" He already has his phone out. "I will send it to my cousin back home, he is your biggest fan."

    "Seriously?" Colette asks, as she flails around trying to get her own t-shirt on in the narrow space of the back seat. "Does this happen to you a lot?"

    "Honestly Reefo, I'm pretty sure that in 2020 when nobody can read and print media is collapsing under the strain of a billion websites catering to instant gratification clickbait trash that means nobody pays for content any more the answer to that is writer people don't make much money any more. I don't know if my life is being narrated by a middle manager or not, but if I /was/ being narrated by a writer they're probably cursing the number of people who think that three cents a word is a generous paycheck these days and the sheer amount of wasted time dealing with people who think they'll work for free when they could be wasting their time writing nonsense for their own amusement instead. "

    Colette finally has her t-shirt on over her head, but quickly notices it's on the other way around, and with a sigh starts to worm her arms around to spin it about.

    "No response from Terry yet. That either means that he and Gar are off fucking, which I'm totally not allowed to say when they are around, or someone's shot him again."

Harley Quinn has posed:
"Of course!" Harley leans forward and puts on the biggest, shittiest eatingest grin of all the grins ever ate shit, "No, don't lemme find out ya post't tha' as ya profile pick on tinder oah nothin'... I'm fuckin' witcha, definitely do!" She cranes forward to leave a big blood red lipstick kiss on the drivers cheek before dropping back into the seat beside Colette.

"Mmm.. well, yeah, kinna. I got an entire fanclub tha' has a twitter account'n everythin'. At Pink pigtails. They post about mah spottin's an all tha'." Waving nonchallant, super cool about the whole internet celebrity business because Lottie is getting all deep with the meta.

"I'm prolly bein' narrated by a nurse oah somethin'... She's prolly a terrible spellah too, which is why she narrates in mah accent cus she can say it was intentional tha' she don't know how ta spell narratah." Peeking at Col's shirt, "GASP! Im so offend't! I am clutchin' mah pearls right now!"

No response from Terry, Harls inclines her head knowingly, "Prolly get a text in like three hours from one'ah his friends sayin' he's got the flu on account of he grew an extra head oah somethin' equally insane.. Ya evah notice tha' strange shit jus' happens aroun' him? I'm chaoic by nature, so I'm use to it, but even I notice tha' ... well you know." Wiggle wiggling her fingers.

"They definitely fuckin' right now though."

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    As the scene struggles valiantly to stay somewhere in at least the general proximity of the rails, the driver takes his selfie with a grin that at least competes in the consumption of fecal matter stakes with Harley's own. The resulting selfie could probably consume half a sewage works.

    "Thank you! Thank you! Famous Harley Quinn in my car, yes!" the driver chants as he sends the car careening off at a dangerous speed and generally reckless manner to the steak place.

    Colette looks at Harley with an expression of mock despair. "Why Reefo, I wouldn't expect you to be offended by such a t-shirt. Surely you can see the effort I have gone to in ensuring that nobody who was not a..." she pulls up the bottom of her shirt to check what's written there. "...Fucking moron would be offended by it? That effort alone should mean you forgive me for being so offensive. Don't you agree, driver guy?"

    "Oh yes! Very offensive!" He agrees cheerfully. "You can offend many fucking morons with your shirts! I too am clutching my pearls, indeed."

    Colette slumps back in her seat, pulling out her phone just to check if there has been a response, which there has not.

    "I dunno," she replies thoughtfully. "I mean it's hard to know if there's strange shit happening around Terry because it's attracted to him, or if he's attracted to it. Interesting question. Still, at least these days he seems to be spending his time getting involved in weirdness rather than gangsters. No offense to any ex-gangster types who might be listening in, but that was kinda annoying. There was a time he was trying to find out what happened to his dad, who was a gangster. There were a bunch of jackass amateur gangsters involved, and they kept trying to shoot him. It was annoying. "

    She turns to Harley, nodding. "They are definately fucking right now though."

Harley Quinn has posed:
With Harley's help, this scene stands no chance of rails or arrows straight or reservation.

It is, as the shirt says, fucked.

Slumping back herself with a knowing wink at the driver, totally unafraid of his careless driving because Gotham born.. the fact that anyone is allowed to drive in Gotham is the work of everyone is shit at it, so it's mutually assured destruction, rather than vehicular manslaughter.

"Yeah! Very offensive!" But one of her hands comes out, only to lay upon Colette's shoulder, reassurance provided by physical contact and comforting words, "But I do see the great effoht ya put inta not bein' offensive, despite ya offensive inclined verbage... So I foahgive ya." Jostling shoulder jerk.

"How long til we'ah at the place? I want sake. I aint nevah had it... only time I evah tried, Jokah jus' bought a bottle of box wine, put it in the microwave, an' sold it off as sake.. Then he beat me nearly ta death wit a clown shoe." Chewing at her gum which she worked out from the back of her jaw where it had been sitting pressed between her cheek and bottom teeth. "In his defense, I did wanna watch Love Actually again.. I unno wha' his beef wit Ryan Reynolds is, but boooooy did he hate him."

Drumming fingers on her bare thighs, with all them tattooes, "Should text him accusin' him of fuckin' instead of hangin' out, I bet ya get a response then." Tap tap tap her temple. "Social manipulation."

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    Colette generally stays out of Gotham. This is not particularly a question of survival - more that she lives in Metropolis and works in New York and adding a third city to the mix would just take up too much time. Her lack of concern at the driving is more because she has a pretty much unshakeable confidence in her ability to survive anything. Including dying. This may sound as crazy as Harley, but she has perfectly good reasons.

    "I appreciate your forgiveness, Harls. I really do. " Colette sounds deeply serious, which she is not. "I can't tell you how much it means to me. I went to great effort not to be offensive with these shirts, you're right."

    "Should be there in a few minutes," she replies. "And sake is great. Very different from microwaved wine. I mean I assume, I've never actually drunk microwaved wine, because what kind of barbarian would... well, the Joker I guess. Okay, that answers that."

    Colette gets her phone out and stares at it. "I can't. I promised Gar I wouldn't. I sent him a text basically saying exactly that once and he got upset. I promised I wouldn't. I... Hmm.

    Colette starts tapping away. <<Are you doing the thing our t-shirts accuse morons of doing instead of hanging out with us, Terry?>>

    The car pulls up, narrowly avoiding rear-ending another parked vehicle. "We are here, Harley Quinn and Harley Quinn's friend not Pete!" The driver announces with a grin. "Thank you for driving with me! Please remember to give me a good rating!"

Harley Quinn has posed:
"Five, fuckin', stah's." Harley holds up all five fingers, including her thumb!, at the driver. "Yah' top tier, it's second only ta Jesus himself, if I believe't in him, oah he drove." She's unawares, at least as of now, that Colette is using backdoor trickery (not unlike Gar and Terry are being accused), to get a response from their, hitherto unanswering friend.

Deep breath. Smell that hibachi air! Harley pats her tummy, just under the MORON on her shirt, with both hands. "Now tha' I'm heah, I really think I want some noodles... do they do a wangyu noodle bowl sitch I can fuck wit?" Turning to ask Colette over the roof of the car.

"An' if ya promise't Gar... clearly ya don't text it ta Gar! Ya text't ta Terry an' tell him not ta tell Gar cus it'll hurt Gar's feelin's!" Tap tap tap, "Social manipulation."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
After a minute or two, there's a text from Terry:

<<WAT?>>

A few seconds later, there's another incoming message. This one is a media message.

It's a selfie that shows Vorpal... not Terry, standing near something that looks suspicously like an enormous gorilla in a tutu. This is because it /is/ an enormous gorilla in a tutu. This particular gorilla is wrapped up and subdued by the largest boa the world might have ever seen. A distinctly /green/ boa. Vorpal, on the other hand, is holding a man who is dressed like a circus ringleader, the extra touch in the picture is that Vorpal seems to have subdued him with his own whip. There is also an obscene amount of money on the ground, and in the background, off-focus, Colette might be able to see several police officers approaching- some with handcuffs (though not likely any capable of holding a gorilla), and one with paperwork.

<<I don't even know where to start>>

Colette O'Connail has posed:
    "Yeah, five stars," Colette agrees, getting out of the car and staring at her phone. "No, the promise was..." what the promise was is never revealed, as she shuts her phone off, puts it in her pocket, shakes her head and then takes it out to try again. "Okay. They're not fucking. I mean not each other, anyway. They are fucking insane though. I mean..." she shakes her head. "You know what you were saying about wierd things happening around Terry?" She holds the phone out for Harley to see.

    "No! I am sorry, no." This is from the waiter in the restaurant, as they enter the door. "I am sorry, you cannot come in here wearing that..." Colette heads him off. An arm is wrapped around his shoulders, and she steers him to a quiet corner. She explains something in a whispered voice. He looks puzzled, and whispers something back, hands gesturing wildly. She pulls her phone out and shows him the screen. There's more whispered words, amongst which the words 'Titans' and 'Supervillain' can be heard, along with Harley's name. Some amount of money changes hands, and Colette comes back placing a guiding hand on Harley's back. "Okay, we're in. C'mon, let's go sit at the bar.

    "Two wagyu steaks and bring us the drinks menu," Colette calls back to the waiter as she takes her seat.

    TWO HOURS LATER

    The restaurant is empty but for Harley and Colette, and the CLOSED sign is up on the door. A row of drinks pitchers lines the bar in front of the pair, empty, as are two saki bottles. Plates sit devoid of the incredibly expensive steaks that once sat on them. Two large bowls of noodles sit on the bar, partly eaten. Three waiters stay well back from the pair, muttering amongst themselves, as they place bets on which of the women is going to fall over first.

     One of the tables at the back of the restaurant is standing on its side with food strewn across the floor, and the remains of three chairs are lying in smashed heaps. There is a large crack running down the window that was not there when they entered, and somebody has attempted to write a message on the large mirror at the back of the room with soy sauce, but it's a poor writing material and the words have run into a smear.

    There is a man dressed in a cowboy outfit, passed out on the floor. Nobody remembers what he is doing there. Six kittens are running around the floor of the restaurant, and their presence is equally unexpained.

    Colette belches loudly. "This was fun. Terry and Gar would have enjoyed it, but noooo. They had to go arrest a circus instead. Stupid heroes."