Disclaimer: I don't own the Joker. Ha! Haven't said that one in a while!
This is a CATverse fic (www. freewebs. com/ catverse) following right on the heels of CATfight. For anyone anxious for a Squishykins update, well, it's not coming in this fic. And for all you shippers out there (you know who you are)...just relax and enjoy the ride. To quote my favorite evil robot, "Tragic romances always have a happy ending."
When Techie joined the Joker's gang, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. They all knew that without Harley's relatively steady hand, everything would fall apart within a week.
Imagine their surprise when Techie turned out not to be a Harlequin.
She wasn't a bad substitute. She could manage the boss's moods just well enough to keep him from killing any of the hired help, without turning his wrath on herself. She was such a clean freak, the hideout stayed, if not sparkling, at least fairly tidy, and she always knew where to find the Joker's socks. She was a better cook than Harley, a better sneak thief, and she knew how to set the clock on a VCR.
But she had her shortcomings. Her fighting skills and athletic abilities suffered in comparison to those of a trained gymnast like Harley. Some of the more shortsighted of the boys resented the way she tried to bully them into cleaning up after themselves, and in general the authority she assumed without having proven to them that she was worthy. The one time she had been employed as a getaway driver, the pressure of the Joker screaming in her ear had made her panic just a bit, and she had rear-ended the Batmobile (and how she managed that when the Batmobile was behind them, no one was ever quite sure.) Once she forgot to laugh at a joke that wasn't very funny, and when that earned her a fat lip, she dared to swing back. Only the fact that she missed his face and hit a Batman plushie hanging from the ceiling fan, knocking it into a button whose only purpose was to make an off-tone "boing" sound when a henchman's joke fell flat, saved her from an untimely death.
But above all, Techie's greatest crime was that she was not in love with the Joker. She admired him, obviously. She respected him. She found him generally amusing and madly clever, and she wasn't shy about the fact that she was drawn to power, which he had in spades.
But she didn't need him. She made it perfectly clear that she could live without his attention, and was even happy to do so. She refused to throw herself at him.
This was unacceptable.
She was an attractive woman, intelligent enough to perceive his numerous charms. There were no pesky opposing morals standing between them, requiring him to work on her the way he had on Harley. There was no reason for her to fear jealous reprisals from the jailbird. So what was the problem? No woman had ever worked for him this long without throwing herself at his feet, or whatever body part was handy (fear and laughter, power and money being such powerful motivators, both separately and in any number of combinations.)
It couldn't be that she wasn't interested. He had read that diary of hers. He knew exactly what she thought of him.
So what could the problem be?
As always when confronted with a problem he couldn't solve, the Joker went to his favorite video store for help.
He was in luck. His favorite clerk was working that day. Not surprising, really, since any time the Joker found any other employees (or customers) in the store, he made at least a token effort to rearrange their faces. This particular salesboy got to live because he looked so much like a young Gene Wilder, and to a lesser extent because he had made himself extraordinarily useful in the past.
"Good m-morning, Mr. Joker," the kid stammered in that gently terrified way that kept him alive. Today was a Leo Bloom day. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"Just browsing, my boy," he replied genially. A Wonka could be taken into his confidence, and a Fronk-en-steen could be threatened somewhat, but a Leo Bloom had to be treated with kid gloves if he didn't want to provoke some very counterproductive hysterics.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he leaned over the counter, his manner going from friendly to panic-inducing in the blink of an eye.
"Got any mail for me, sonny?"
Disappointingly, the young man smiled with relief, changing his appearance to something not very Wilderesque at all.
"Yes, sir! Actually, it just came in yesterday." He reached under the counter and took out a small package postmarked from France.
The Joker managed his disappointment well enough, tearing off the paper to expose the DVD he had been after for years. Included was a note asking him to please not make any illegal copies of the film, and not to harm the brave young man who had requested it on his behalf.
"What! What does he thing I am? What did you say to him?" He crushed the note in one gloved fist. The clerk backed up, but the Joker was too preoccupied with his rant to take the time to do away with his only audience. "Illegal copies! I never." He looked down, distracted by the rainbow light flashing across its surface. Then he burst into maniacal laughter. The salesboy, conditioned to see laughter as a sign that he would be left in one piece, relaxed.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Joker?"
"Sonny boy, when a man can go home and watch The Day the Clown Cried, there's really nothing more he could need." He turned to go, feeling so good about life in general, he almost wanted to bring the kid some kind of reward whenever he came back.
Unfortunately, the clerk who looked like Gene Wilder had more courage than brains.
"It's just that, if you wanted to rent something, you might not get another chance."
The Joker stopped in the doorway and turned to face his helpful sales clerk.
"Why?"
Here the boy realized his mistake, but it was far too late to turn back.
"We're…we're going out of business." Tactfully, he didn't mention why the store, which had once drawn in such a respectable number of customers, should now be on the brink of financial collapse.
The Joker, with some effort, contorted his grin into a sympathetic frown.
"That's a shame, my boy. A real crying shame." He pulled out a gun.
The boy backed away, eyes round as saucers.
"Oh…I…do you think that's really n-necessary?"
"Oh, yes. I'm afraid it is," the Joker said mournfully. "Without this place, what do I have to live for?" And he turned the gun on himself.
An expression of intense relief flashed across the boy's face, followed quickly by shock and something annoyingly compassionate.
"Oh, sir…You don't have to…There are other places…"
"So true," said the Joker. "But there's only one of you." He pressed the cool metal to his temple and squeezed the trigger.
There was no bang, only a faint pop as a tiny dart shot out of its chamber in what appeared to be the butt of the pistol to bury itself in the clerk's throat. He dropped without a sound.
The Joker smiled.
"Gotcha." He looked with approval at the grin stiffening on the sales clerk's face. "I hope you're not too down about being made the butt of a joke. Get it?" He laughed wildly. Of course the boy who had looked like Gene Wilder couldn't laugh back, but the dead smile was enough.
Well, that was an afternoon well spent. The Joker picked up as many movies as he could carry and set off, whistling, down the street.