I do not own Suicide Squad.

Or a Joker. And I'm okay with that.

Bullets and Tuxedos

The man known only as The Joker adjusted his pristinely crisp bowtie with hands swathed in white kid gloves.

And glowered his metallic smile into the gold gilded mirror before him.

He was getting dressed up, putting his best foot forward.

After all, tonight was a special night.

He was going to get his harleyquinn.

That dancing, capering madwoman herself.

She had been taken from him, stolen, by that caped nuisance The Batman.

Pulled dripping from the river and thrown behind bars.

A chemically pale, pathologically insane murderbird in a gilded, electrically wired cage.

Of course, he was the one who had left her behind in the first place.

To succumb, drown in the river.

Because he was The Joker.

The Clown Prince of Crime of Gotham City.

And he didn't care about anyone or anything.

Psychopaths are like that.

They don't need anybody.

Much less whiny, skinny, mentally unhinged brats with pitiful schoolgirl infatuations.

Who danced so seductively behind the glass at the nightclub.

So recklessly threw themselves into the bloody fray at the slightest whiff of danger to the object of their fixated desire.

Curiously fashioned themselves after his image, becoming crazier, more fascinatingly insane than he ever thought about being.

Threw themselves into bubbling vats of burning acid upon his mocking whim.

For him.

Not that it mattered.

They, the criminally insane psychopaths, didn't care.

Or consider.

And the most definitely did not love.

So when the windshield shattered and the river water bum-rushed their lungs, he made good his escape.

And left them both at the bottom of the river.

Her. And his beloved purple Lamborghini.

He mourned the loss of the vehicle more than her worthless hide.

If she couldn't save herself, she wasn't worth his time anyway.

So he didn't mourn her absence.

At first.

But then he slowly, over timeless, mindless weeks, came to realize a most disturbing, most ridiculous thing.

The most insane thing to date.

He needed her. He wanted her.

Her.

Harley Quinn.

Oh, she was one in a million, the ex-psychotherapist of Arkham Asylum.

And he knew.

He'd tried.

Well, maybe not a million.

He didn't keep track of trivialities like that.

But through the haze of drugs, crime, and sex, it seeped into his twisted, frayed synapses.

That she was, beyond any ill reason or insanity, the one and only, Harley Quinn.

The fire in his loins.

The itch in his crotch.

The rash on his skin.

The beast to his beauty.

Daddy's Little Monster.

And he couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep.

He couldn't properly enjoy the anarchy and mayham he wrought upon his fair city.

Without her.

"We're ready, boss."

He ignored the talking fleshbag for another minute.

Re-adjusted his bowtie.

Secured the pure white boutonniere high up on his lapel.

And laughed slow and low at his spiffed and polished visage.

From gelled green hair.

To shiny grinning skull cufflinks.

And white spatterdashes covering black tuxedo shoes.

It was time.

He was ready.

He was going to get what was his.

And bring it back to himself.

So he had to look good.

So the tuxedo was for Harley.

The bullets were for everyone else.

You know what? I'm just gonna let you tell me if it's any good or not.

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