Scratch was smart. Everybody said it. And he had a plan. Harley had one of her freaky Joker statues, the ones with a television set sat on the shoulders, in her room. Every night she kissed the creepy video reel of his face goodnight. Right on the grinning lips.
Scratch was gonna put a bomb inside it. Kill Harley and decapitate the old boss too. Nothing says "put Scratch in charge" like that.
Harley was out. Gang war with Penguin's crew. That's all they did these days. Defend instead of expand. Scratch was gonna change that, he thought, slipping into her room.
Red and black, everywhere. The curtains, the carpet, the bed. Like playing cards, Harley said when she handed out the new uniforms. Clubs and hearts.
Joker was in the corner. Grinning at him. His eyes followed Scratch around the room, interrupted by occasional static. I dare you, they said, as Scratch crept up to the smiling ghost.
"Sorry boss," he said, taking out the screwdriver and the small explosive charge.
"But I've gotta do this. For the gang."
"Bad idea, Scratchie." Joker replied.
Scratch froze. Terrified.
"Bad idea, Scratchie." Joker said. Same intonation as before.
"Bad idea, Scratchie."
Scratch relaxed. She'd cut it together. Made it out of old tapes. But that meant-
The skull-cracking impact of Harley's baseball bat cut off the thought.
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