Okay, just a quick little note before we get into this. I have never tried to write pure humor before, so I will not pretend to be George Carlin. I just got this crazy idea for a story last night. I felt compelled to write, and man, it felt good.

Title: Knock, knock

Summary: Jehovah's Witnesses have a habit of showing up everywhere and shoving Jesus in your face. What happens when a pair of them knocks on all the wrong doors? Does any villain in Gotham honestly want a copy of Watchtower? Of course not.

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The twelve-year-old sedan bounced through the potholes, its bumper held on by nothing more than the religious stickers that covered it. Its trunk was full of Bibles, and its back seat held numerous cardboard boxes, each packed with various pamphlets and booklets. The driver and passenger both wore black suits, but looked more Amish than businessman.

The two men were Jehovah's Witnesses. They drove though Gotham's poorer neighborhoods, trying to convince people that God was the answer to crime, hatred, graffiti, corrupt politicians, and any other social woe they would think of. Most people saw them as a part of the landscape, just like a burning Dumpster surrounded by homeless people or a flock of pigeons on a rooftop. Occasionally, there would be the Evangelical who ushered them in and reveled in the love of Jesus with them. About as often as that happened, they'd run into a drunk two days from eviction who pointed a fully loaded shotgun at them.

Today had been surprisingly good. Maybe it was because Easter was coming up, and there was nothing like a good reminder about how badly Jesus had suffered to guilt-trip people into accepting a free Bible. They planned to make a few more stops and see if they couldn't lighten the load in the trunk a little more.

The Narrows were the worst part in Gotham. Therefore, they were the best place to seek converts. Everyone from the Pope to Richard Dawkins knew the correlation between poverty, lower education, and religion. People who couldn't show off even a middle-school diploma and who called a cardboard box home were all too eager to embrace whatever missionary showed up at their non-existent doorstep. To be fair, a man dressed in a turban praising human sacrifice and the cult of Kali would probably have as much success as the Witnesses.

All of the buildings in this part of the city were run down. Most had their windows lying in pieces on the sidewalk. One house was strangely untouched. It was as though the gangs that ran the neighborhood knew someone capable of killing them in gruesome yet somehow hilarious ways lived there and avoided it on purpose.

Paul got out of the driver's seat. He opened the trunk and pulled out a Bible. John, the passenger, took a few fliers and pamphlets from the back seat. With subjects ranging from the impending apocalypse to how gays were going to bring society to a fiery end, they figured the residents would be sure to find something encouraging to read.

The Witnesses crossed the street, careful to dodge the likely stolen car that blazed by and nearly reduced them to road pizza. They made their way through the litter-strewn yard and up to the front door.

Paul knocked on the door since John's hands were full of literature. Nobody answered. If not for the lights blazing on the second story, they might have thought no one was home. Since these Jehovah's Witnesses were unusually tenacious, Paul knocked again, harder.

"Harley, there's somebody at the door! Chase 'em off!" a voice from inside the house yelled.

"But Mister J, what if it's the police?"

"What do you have that mallet for?"

"Cockroaches, Mister J! They're bigger than cats, and they're all over everythin'."

John and Paul exchanged looks. Did they really want to try to sell Christianity in a house full of cockroaches and women that ran around with hammers? Of course they did! The insane ones were the most eager. They were easier to indoctrinate than children.

"I don't mean to intrude, but we would just like to pass the love of Jesus to you." John said.

The door cracked open hardly a hair. Whoever was on the other side was impossible to make out.

"You just wanna what? Oh, Jeez, Mister J, it's the Bible-thumpers!"

"The who? Well, invite them inside."

The female, Harley, opened the door. Paul and John both felt their bottom jaws drop to their belly buttons. The woman standing in the open doorway was dressed like a clown. She wore black and white makeup. A black and red jester's hat sat jauntily on her head. Indeed, a very large mallet was clutched in her hands.

"Right this way, boys. Mister J should be down pretty soon. He's workin' on something real special. It's gonna make the papers."

"Mister J. Mister Joker. Oh, shit." Paul muttered.

Harley laughed. "Ain't that a word you're not supposed to say?" She swung the door shut behind her, herding the Jehovah's Witnesses into the living room.

The living room looked as though a circus and an ammunitions factory had mated. The walls were done up in red, yellow and purple, the carpet was bright green, and the sofa was overstuffed. Among the vivid colors, bombs in various states of production were scattered. Something luminous and extremely toxic-looking sat in a beaker on the coffee table. Next to the glowing beaker was a gun large enough to kill a dinosaur. Various other weapons were spread around the room.

"Have a seat. I'd put on the telly, but Mister J shot it when they cut out all the good parts in Pulp Fiction. Can't blame him." Harley said. She propped her mallet up against the charred remains of the television.

Paul and John took a seat on the sofa. Harley nestled in between them and threw an arm around both their shoulders. Since both men had signed over their sex-lives to the Church, this much feminine contact was unknown.

Harley propped her feet on the coffee table, coming dangerously close to knocking the beaker and its contents to the floor. John cringed and Paul covered his face, as though an explosion was imminent.

"Don't worry 'bout that stuff, boys. It's just paint." Harley said.

"Why do you need paint that glows?" John asked.

"Why not?" Harley responded. She never really questioned the Joker's motives. If tomorrow he decided it was time to burn their hideout to the ground, she'd only help spill the gasoline.

A door slammed on the second floor. There were hurried footsteps, several curses, and then a loud hissing noise. John slowly became aware of the acrid smell of smoke. He coughed lightly.

The footsteps were now at the stairs. Paul considered leaping up, running for the door, and leaving John to face the Joker and his demented girlfriend. Then he remembered the gun, mallet, and bombs. He wisely sat still.

"Uh, Harl, if I was you I'd stay down here. The new project just burned the curtains. And the desk. And your half of the bed." The Joker said. He was holding a fire-extinguisher. The cuffs of his purple suit had been charred. A thin curl of smoke was rising from his hair.

"Mister J! Are you OK? Do I need to call the fire department?" Harley asked.

The Joker glanced back up the stairs. "Nope, everything's dandy now. On the off chance anyone sees a bright flash, locate your nearest exit and don't look back."

Paul moaned into his hands. John cried, "Oh sweet Jesus, I think I'm coming home."

The two whining Witnesses caught the Joker's attention. He strolled over to the couch. Harley beamed, Paul yowled, and John started to sob.

"These are the guys, Mister J. What should we do with 'em? You wanna send 'em out smiling?" Harley asked.

"These two? Waste of laughing gas, Harl. The Joker Fish were a great idea. The Joker Jehovah's Witnesses? Bleh."

The Joker grabbed the pamphlets from John's trembling hands. "What do we have here? Any good reading material? Anything I should pass onto the Bat next time I see him?"

Seemingly without reason, the Joker burst into a fit of laughter. "Look at this one, Harley!'Finding the Real Meaning of Easter'! Who needs help with that? Everyone knows Easter is about candy. Just like Christmas is about presents."

"Actually, the meaning of Easter is Jesus's death and resurrection." Paul said. He was likely going to be very dead in about six minutes, and he still couldn't turn off the preacher. God had better appreciate this.

The Joker shrugged. "Candy, torture and crucifixion. Candy. Torture and crucifixion. What sounds better?"

"Candy, of course. Especially jellybeans. Mister J likes chocolate bunnies. He bites their little heads off." Harley Quinn said. She then giggled. She found nothing sadistic in dismembering innocent candies.

The Easter pamphlet went flying. A booklet about the sins of tax evasion joined it. In the twenty pieces of literature John had brought, the Joker found nothing else entertaining. He threw it all into a heap on the floor.

"Pathetic! Harley, fetch the mallet!" the Joker said.

In a blink, Harley was holding her comically over-sized hammer out to the Clown Prince. He took it and raised it into the air. "What's a hammerfor?" he asked.

"I don't know. What is a hammerfor?" Harley asked. She knew the joke, but it was just as good the sixteenth time.

"For this!" The Joker exclaimed. He brought down the mallet with enough force to rattle the room.

"You can't do that to the word of God!" Paul protested.

"The Hell I can't!" the Joker laughed. He continued to beat the heap of paper into a pancake.

After several whacks, the Joker stopped. He handed the mallet back to Harley. Without another word, he walked to the door and opened it. The Joker crossed the street and stopped in front of the dying sedan.

"Harley, fetch the mallet again!" The Joker yelled.

John and Paul followed Harley outside. They watched in mutual horror as the Joker took the hammer to their car. One swing knocked the bumper, and its four pounds of stickers, off. Another broke the windshield. In a matter of seconds the roof had been caved in, the headlights were smashed, and the hood looked as though an elephant had sat on it.

It took the Joker ten minutes to run out of energy. He dropped the hammer to the ground and slumped down next to it. The car looked as though it had come off the loser in a demolition derby.

"Look what I did to the car of God!" the Joker said between panting breaths.

The two Jehovah's Witnesses stood frozen on the opposite side of the street. With Harley's assistance, the Joker was able to drag himself and the mallet over to them.

"I'd do the same to you, but I'm just too tired right now. Harley, is this thing getting bigger?"

The two clowns disappeared into the house. Harley poked her head out briefly.

"Maybe your car can get resurrected. If it does, send us the newsletter, 'kay?" She chirped. With that, she slammed the door.

The dejected Jehovah's Witnesses plodded down the street. They gave the crushed car one final look back. The driver's side door fell off. Paul was barely able to hold back tears. Over 1000 dollars had just been beaten into oblivion by a mad clown with a hammer.

John, who had no monetary stake in the car, turned to his fellow door-knocker. "Hey, Paul, I'm just wondering one thing. Do you think Batman has found salvation?"