The Right Hand of the Devil, Part 3 of 3?
By Melanie E.

Harold Quinzel has a long-held fascination with the criminally insane, and his job at Arkham Asylum has given him plenty of opportunities to indulge.

On this fateful night, however, a new arrival brings about an unexpected twist that will change Harold's life forever.

NOTE: THIS STORY IS FANFIC. ALL CHARACTERS WHO ARE OBVIOUSLY BORROWED FROM COMICS ARE TRADEMARKS OF SAID COMPANIES AND USED HERE WITHOUT PERMISSION. IN ADDITION, THIS STORY IS NON-CANON FOR THE COMICS RETCON UNIVERSE. NO CONNECTION WITH ANY OTHER WRITER'S WORK IS MEANT TO BE IMPLIED OR ASSUMED. THANK YOU.

Part 3

Oh, how I wish I could say there was silence during our ride down the dark, dessicated road that was the only way in our out of Arkham's grounds. Instead I was treated to sporadic snippets of song and deranged poetry, interspersed with tales of Mister J's exploits.

"...And that was when the wire broke. The splat when the Greysons hit the ground, hoohoo!"

"That was you?!" I asked, in awe despite myself. Despite the police's insistence the Greysons' deaths were accidental nobody in Gotham had ever truly believed it. Was I really sitting with their killer now?

Somehow I doubted he was lying.

"You're more like me than you think, you know." Mister J said into the silence, ignoring the road at he stared at me once again with his cold, steely eyes.

"Wha?" I asked, momentarily thrown by the disconnect between where we had been and what he was talking about. Talking to Mister J was like riding a rollercoaster with a missing bolt: the twists came fast and hard, and always with the potential that this was the one where everything would fall apart. "No, I don't think so."

"Oh really? Tell me, Harley. Did you ever pull the wings off a fly as a child?" He asked. "I did it all the time. It was always fascinating to watch them scurry and twitch, trying to escape their inevitable end and never realizing how futile their attempts were, wasn't it?"

"I wouldn't know," I objected with a sneer. "I never did that kind of thing."

"No? But you thought about it a lot, didn't you?" He asked, then waited for my answer. When I didn't give one, he began to chuckle inanely. "The difference between you and me, Harley, is that I've never been afraid of who I am."

"My name," I said in a cold tone, "is Harold."

With only the soft snikt of metal slicing though the air Mister J's knife was at my throat, his arm stiff as an iron bar. The sweat beaded on my forehead as I caught the vague smell of the blood of the cop that still clung to the steel.

"Harley."

I gave a gulp, but did my best not to move as I felt the edge of the blade barely skim the flesh of my throat.

"You know, you would be so much more fun if you would only stop being such a coward."

"I'm not--" I began, only to stop with a whimper when I felt the sting of the blade moving, taking me a breath closer to my end.

"You are. You're nothing but a scared little girl." Moving quick as a flash Mister J took the knife from my throat and plunged it into the leather seat directly between my legs. I gave an involuntary scream of terror that set Mister J to laughing again. Then he did the unimaginable: he let the knife go, returning both his hands to the wheel.

Silence settled over us as we left the canopy of dark trees and entered the outer limits of the city. I stared straight ahead, thinking over everything I had seen on this crazy night and trying to wrap my head around it all.

He was a murderer. A psychopath. Just a transient with a knife and more derangements than I could ever dream of chronicling.

He was also brilliant, and insightful, and there was something about him that drew me in like a moth to a flame.

I idly fingered the handle of the dagger between my legs with one hand while my other gently rubbed my throat where the blade had been pressed. Pulling my fingers away brought only the slightest traces of blood to my vision.

He had given me his knife.

I knew better than to imagine that he was anywhere near defenseless: after all, it was less than an hour since I had watched him gleefully slaughter two police officers with guns without so much as an ounce of hesitation.

But I had the knife.

I wouldn't even have to really stab him, would I? Just scare him enough he ran off the road. Then I could get away. I could flee, and maybe return to the way my life was before.

Before tonight.

Before him.

The car began to slow, then drew to a stop. Surprised, I gazed out my window to see that we had pulled up outside of Gotham Mall, closed at this hour but still lit up like a beacon in the darkness.

I could run here. Find people.

My fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife.

"You can end it all now, with just one move. I won't even try to get away," he said. I couldn't look at him: I was too scared what would happen if I did. "You have a choice to make, Harley. Kill me now and be a hero."

"Or?" Slipped out of my mouth unbidden. I continued to stare at the mall, only yards away yet at the same time leagues ouf from where I was floundering in the inky depths of my own mind.

"Or," he continued, wrapping his long, bony fingers around my own and pulling the knife from the seat. I could feel him maneuvering it over his chest. "Or, you can let go, and I can give you everything you've ever wanted. Take you on a ride into psychosis like you've never imagined you could ever experience. You would have to make some changes, of course."

"Changes?"

"Nothing a shopping trip and a little manslaughter wouldn't fix. Trust me."

I've always felt an attraction to... extreme personalities.

Working up my nerve, I turned away from the mall and looked at my hand, poised to plunge this murderer's dagger straight into his own heart.

Then I looked into his eyes.

Those soul-piercing eyes.

"Mister J...."

"Make the choice. Are you Harold? Or, are you my little harlequin...."

-=End=-

Wow. THIS has been a long time coming, hasn't it? What can I say? I've offered this story to a couple of people to complete before, and both seemed interested, but then neither went ahead with doing anything with it. Then, tonight I was trying to get inspired to write something by looking through my old stories... and this came up.

I've been looking to complete some of my unfinished work. Why not take care of this first?

Not that it was easy to write. The Joker is not a fun character to write for, nor is the mind of a psychopath or sociopath something I think I'll ever make the choice to delve into again. So, this is it. What happens from here? We all know who Harley Quinn is, but perhaps, just perhaps, Harlold finds his way out.

What do you think?

My normal closing remarks would be "if you comment, more will come," but not in this case. This is as far as I'm taking this tale: if anyone else wants to write a continuation, contact me and we'll see if we can come to an agreement; otherwise, Harold and Mister J's journey ends here, with more implied than said, but with enough said that the implications are clear.