Disclaimer: Duh. I don't own this.
This fic is dedicated to, or at least inspired by, Checkerboards, Gladrial10, and everyone else who finds nicknames like Eddums and Squishy appropriate for homicidal maniacs who don't, in all honesty, "just" need a hug.
Happy reading.
PS: Not CAT for a change!
There was only one possible explanation. Every woman in Gotham had lost her mind.
It started off rather well, actually. Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, made his dramatic entrance into the ballroom of the Gotham Plaza Hotel, holding in plain view a skull-shaped container of fear toxin, enough to gas everyone in the room. He was on the verge of calling out with the traditional "there is no escape" speech; then he hesitated, seeing that there were no men in the room. Only women, nearly two hundred of them, all between the ages of eighteen and thirty, in dazzling jewel-toned gowns, hair elaborately coiffed. He couldn't say that they were all stunningly beautiful; in fact, a good many of them were a bit mousy and plain in spite of the lovely gowns. At least half wore glasses, and there was hardly any jewelry to be seen.
They looked more like a librarians' convention than a roomful of socialites. Had he come to the wrong place? And what were they doing there without a single man in attendance?
A few of them saw him and screamed, drawing the attention of the others. They swirled around him, milling around in panic and filling the air with the delicious sound of screams. He dismissed his concerns. At least they recognized him, and even if he didn't make much money off this, he could still cause fear, and they would all remember.
Crane noticed a pair of women clinging to each other's arms, and vaguely recalled hearing something about National Coming Out Day. Of course, that would explain the absence of males. Although…something still didn't seem quite right.
A few of them were trying to get around behind him, moving toward the doors. He whirled around to track their progress.
"Stop right there! No one—"
He froze. They weren't escaping. They had shut the doors and locked them—trapping him in the room with them. What were they up to? And why were they giggling so disturbingly as they advanced on him? He backed away, straight into a second group of women who had come up behind him. One of them plucked the gas bomb out of his hand before he could set it off.
"Hey," he protested weakly.
She wrapped his arms around his chest from behind and murmured in his ear, "Hello."
Another pressed herself against his side, running her hand up inside his mask to play with his hair. The next thing he knew, she had pulled the mask off entirely, dislodging his glasses in the process. More women pressed in on all sides, hampering his movement. A few of them clung to his hands or reached out to caress his face. One of them took his glasses and, teasingly, held them just out of his reach.
"Welcome to the party," said the one still holding him from behind.
"Welcome?" he repeated. "Party? W-what kind of party? What do you—"
A ripple of laughter went through the room. Their hands tightened on his arms, holding him still. Another hand on his thigh stopped him from kicking them away.
"Don't worry. We're really very nice. We'll attend to your every need."
Crane tried to pull away from them. There was nowhere to go.
"What do you want?" he demanded. They laughed again.
At the sound of his raised voice, the sound of muffled screaming started up on the other side of the room. A man's voice. Crane managed to turn his head in that direction, but he could see nothing more than a green and white blur.
"What's that?"
The ladies tittered again.
Professor Crane had quite a few skills unavailable to the common criminal, one of which was the ability to understand speech through a gag. He had to restrain most of his test subjects, after all, but often they were no use if he couldn't understand what they were screaming about.
And this one had something he needed to hear.
"Crane! Crane! For God's sake, get out of here while you still can!"
At least, that was what it sounded like.
"Who is that?" He managed to shake one hand free, only to have it seized by three more women. The one behind him gave him a squeeze.
"You must be tired. Come and sit down with us. Would you like a sandwich?"
"No!"
"Glass of wine?"
"No!" How had a simple robbery turned into this? He would never have a bad word to say about Batman's interference again!
They picked him up, all working together, to carry him across the room. He flinched when one of them pressed her hand to a recent gunshot wound on the side of his left leg. The bullet had just grazed him; it was hardly a scratch, but it still hurt like the devil. The girl pulled away with a gasp.
"He's bleeding!"
They all clustered in to coo at him.
"We need to get you to a doctor."
"I'm a doctor," half a dozen women volunteered immediately.
This can't be happening…
"You need to lie down. Let us take a look at you."
"Get away from me!" He tried to fight his way free, but there were far too many of them. They laid him down on the rug and held him, three on each limb, one holding his head still on the pretext of stroking his hair, two leaning on his bony chest so that he could hardly breathe, much less move.
At this distance, the earlier blur resolved itself into a clearer image of a man in a green bowler hat, matching boxer shorts, and an asylum-issue straitjacket, with a purple domino mask over his eyes, a ball gag in his mouth, and cake smeared all over his bare legs.
Oh, so it was that kind of party. He refused to give in to the absurd urge to call out a cheery hello to the Riddler, who didn't look any happier with this situation than the Scarecrow was.
"We didn't think we'd catch two of you with this party," said the one who was evidently the leader of the mad little band. He sucked in the breath for a furious retort. She covered his mouth with her hand. "No, no. Try to relax."
He felt a pair of hands fumbling with his belt, and tried to roll away.
"You're hurt, silly. We have to examine you."
He snarled inarticulately against the hand over his mouth. The woman patted his cheek with a smile as the others removed his pants.
"Well, there's nothing wrong here," said someone else.
Crane bit down hard on the hand over his mouth. The woman pulled away with a yelp.
"Get off me!" he yelled. "Get off, get off, stop touching me, DON'T DO THAT!"
"But don't you want us to?" one asked innocently.
"No, I don't!"
"Well, then tell us what you want us to do."
"Tell us, tell us," they all clamored as they swarmed over both the captured rogues. Crane opened his mouth to order them away, only to find himself silenced by a pair of lips against his, a tongue thrusting its way into his mouth.
"Um!"
"Mmm," she replied, a sultry moan of pleasure.
They were everywhere, they were all over him…he could never fight them all off…why should he even bother? It was easier to just give in. Easier…escape later…yes…
A sudden bang accompanied by a blinding flash of light made the women all cry out and pull away from him. A hand seized his collar and yanked him out from under the pile. At least a dozen women groaned in disappointment.
Crane scowled up at Batman's pointy-eared countenance.
"What are you doing here?"
"Saving you," the Bat said sharply as he hauled Nygma up by the straitjacket straps.
"Rrrmph," Nygma growled through the ball gag. "Eyrrgh hrlllgh hmmphngnh."
"He's got a point," said Crane.
One of the women flung herself at Batman's chest, nearly knocking him off balance. Crane hit the floor in a graceless heap, and started to inch toward the open window.
"We're so glad you could make it tonight, Detective," the woman purred. More began to cluster around him.
"So glad," they repeated in a ragged chorus.
The window was so close…but unavailable, blocked by Robin. Crane eyed the distance between him and the door, saw that the women were distracted by the new arrival, and decided that was a better bet.
More of the girls started tugging on Batman's cape, running their fingers over his broad chest, his muscular arms…Robin started to drop down from the window.
"Stay back, Robin," Batman ordered. "I can take them myself."
"Oh, please do," someone purred.
The door creaked loudly as the Scarecrow opened it. Several heads came up, like gazelles catching a scent in a shifting wind.
"He's getting away!"
Damn it all—he broke into a run as someone called loudly behind him, "Oh…shit!"
--
Harley Quinn and the newest addition to the Joker's gang, a young woman named Maddie Bobo who, on the basis of her name alone, had been ordered to make a glorious beginning to her life of crime or else take a faceful of Joker Venom just that morning, were not destined to get along. Harley (thanks to her own selective memory) was not disposed to consider a silly name good enough reason to select a henchwench. And what kind of a name was Bobo, anyway? Besides, Mad didn't have much of a sense of humor, no real interest in murder and mayhem, and…she was far too pretty for her own good.
Still, as the only other female in the gang, Harley had been nominated to show her around. So she was taking the new girl to the Krazy Burger, Mr. J's favorite fast food joint, whose mascot was a clown and whose Smiley Meals always had the best toys (many of them easily rigged to explode or carry various airborne poisons that would bring real smiles to the faces of the kiddies of Gotham.)
And Maddie had the gall to say that Krazy Burger had nasty fries and their chicken nuggets were made of bat meat.
"Bat meat?" Harley repeated without a hint of a smile. Maddie blushed.
"I just mean—that's what my mother used to tell me when I was a little girl. I didn't mean…"
"Listen, toots, if you're gonna be in this line of business very long, there are certain words you're gonna have to remember not to say. Not in front of me, not in front of the boys, and especially not in front of the boss."
"Sorry," Mad said meekly.
Someone in the distance shouted, "Oh, shit!" Harley decided to show the new girl that she was forgiven for her slip by giving her an easier lesson to swallow.
"You're also going to have to learn to follow Mistah J's moods. Last week he was very patriotic—all about the clean cut, homegrown American humor. This week he's into Monty Python again. When you heard that broad yell out, 'Oh shit!' what did you think?"
"That she bought that perfume, and the guy wasn't interested."
"Wrong!" Harley exclaimed. "Your first thought is, 'What does Mistah J want to hear?' And the correct answer is, after you give him a second to let him say it first if he wants to, 'We're in the nick of time. He's in terrible peril.' And if he says that, you respond…"
"I don't know, Harley. What's the point of dosing all these women and making them crazy for sex, anyway?"
Harley sighed. The new girl just wasn't getting it.
"They ain't just crazy for sex, you dummy. They're falling in love with men who are secretly their type, but men they would never be brave enough to go for on their own." She closed her eyes and sighed. The way she would never have had the courage to admit that homicidal clowns were her secret type, if Puddin' hadn't gone to the trouble of putting all that work into her. This was obviously a tribute to her, an anniversary present on such a grand scale…her heart swelled with love for him once again.
"So, what do you think is their type?" asked Maddie. Reluctantly, Harley opened her eyes to see six women in ball gowns chasing after the Scarecrow, without his mask or glasses…or pants…running away from him as fast as his scrawny legs would take him.
She snickered.
"Well, good. Poor Professor Crane deserves to finally get some action." She waved to him. "Their secret type must be the evil genius. Dangerous and clever." Maddie suddenly burst out laughing. "What?"
"Ha—" she gasped. "Ha—He's a hardened criminal!"
The corners of Harley's mouth turned up, lips twitching into a smile in spite of her determination to find nothing to like about Madelyn Bobo. Then she found she couldn't even fight down a full, toothy grin. She giggled. Maddie giggled back. Before long, they were clinging to each other, laughing with tears streaming from their eyes, almost like friends, and Harley decided not to plant a bomb in the new girl's coffee.