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scubatankfilledwithfartsThe only place with more dastardly winters than Gotham and Mr. Freeze is the armpit of this craphole; the apartment has its own ecosystem, Harley believes Pam now. That, and God hates her, but you know, that’s a daily struggle.
The door to the duplex is frozen shut and here she is without her flamethrower garter belt. The only option is to kick the bottom of the door for 10 minutes, cursing her list from A to Z. Within the fog of frustration she remembers her landlord, sends a desperate plea via text. Then she remembers her landlady is within the bowels of hell (unknown??) and is over the age of 60 so normally it’d take about 36 hours for a reply. However, seeing as Agatha is a bitch, she might get a reply in 6 months when hell freezes over and she can return to the surface. [kind of like Persephone, but old and definitely taking advantage of Hades’ hospitality]
Harley takes a moment to wonder why she moved out here…Gotham sucks. Pam is here. A clean break was needed. Damn her need for change. A soulful sigh whooshes through her and just as she looks to the sky for heavenly assistance or a meteor to the head, she sees Bud and Lou’s faces squished in the window. They stare at her with those stupid faces, drool sopping onto the glass as they paw lightly, their barks so so sad and their noses so wet.
Like a bolt of lightning itself, determination thrums through Harley’s veins: she will get inside that apartment at all costs. Not even the Lord or Batman himself can stop her from feeding her beloved boys their disgusting raw meat mixed with dog food dinner. Nothing will stop the inevitable mess they will make because Lou cannot eat out of a bowl like a normal…Hyena.
If Power Girl herself descended from Space and asked “Hey, you wanna go on an adventure with me? I got you a new boob view sweater” Harley would crow “hell yeah! But first let me force open this door so I can feed my hyenas their dinner”
Wait. Wait a damn second there’s a Starbucks 3 blocks down! She frequented to get those vegan crisps for Pam! And to make paper mache with the crumbed bits. She flies down the street faster than a speeding bullet, faster than the fire department to a hotdog sale—the barista spares her a Look for about two seconds and it’s not because its 7pm on a Tuesday and she’s at Starbucks instead of anywhere else.
[Harley likes to think it’s her sense of style and not the color of her skin…surely they are beyond that in 2019]
“Bonjour,” the barista starts in monotone, which promptly encourages Harley to order in French too. In her distinct Brookersy [that’s Brooklyn and Jersey because even quizilla doesn’t know what it is] accent, the ‘rs’ are pretty hard, but Harley is incredibly pleased with herself while leaving the shindig, hot water leaving burns along her fingertips.
To the tune of Mary had a little lamb the former therapist methodically pours the steaming liquid along the doorframe, and it shakes just a little, creaks like something else, but otherwise it won’t budge.
“What’s a frigid bitch like you doin’ baring a duplex like this,” she huffs at it, expects an even colder answer. Harley backs up, baby blues peeking down to make sure her doc martens are on securely, laces tied.
The screech she lets out while charging the door can only be described as half Xena warrior princess and half pterodactyl. Fully impressive for her tiny 5’2 frame, so much power that even her mallet wouldn’t understand.
From the confused noises [“the hell is that clown doing now? Doesn’t she know some of us are trying to counterfeit money in here!?”] her neighbors are curious, but her pride’s been lost to time. The important and monumental part is the door opens to her might. She rushes in, up the stairs because the elevator is a death trap and when she finally pries open her door Bud and Lou immediately clamber over themselves to settle in her arms, their sloppy kisses are her ultimate reward.
“Mommy’s home! Mommy won the battle.”
They get their raw meat and dog food slop. And she gets to tell Pam all about this when she comes home to the trio still on the floor, surrounded by remnants of wet dog food.
The door to the duplex is frozen shut and here she is without her flamethrower garter belt. The only option is to kick the bottom of the door for 10 minutes, cursing her list from A to Z. Within the fog of frustration she remembers her landlord, sends a desperate plea via text. Then she remembers her landlady is within the bowels of hell (unknown??) and is over the age of 60 so normally it’d take about 36 hours for a reply. However, seeing as Agatha is a bitch, she might get a reply in 6 months when hell freezes over and she can return to the surface. [kind of like Persephone, but old and definitely taking advantage of Hades’ hospitality]
Harley takes a moment to wonder why she moved out here…Gotham sucks. Pam is here. A clean break was needed. Damn her need for change. A soulful sigh whooshes through her and just as she looks to the sky for heavenly assistance or a meteor to the head, she sees Bud and Lou’s faces squished in the window. They stare at her with those stupid faces, drool sopping onto the glass as they paw lightly, their barks so so sad and their noses so wet.
Like a bolt of lightning itself, determination thrums through Harley’s veins: she will get inside that apartment at all costs. Not even the Lord or Batman himself can stop her from feeding her beloved boys their disgusting raw meat mixed with dog food dinner. Nothing will stop the inevitable mess they will make because Lou cannot eat out of a bowl like a normal…Hyena.
If Power Girl herself descended from Space and asked “Hey, you wanna go on an adventure with me? I got you a new boob view sweater” Harley would crow “hell yeah! But first let me force open this door so I can feed my hyenas their dinner”
Wait. Wait a damn second there’s a Starbucks 3 blocks down! She frequented to get those vegan crisps for Pam! And to make paper mache with the crumbed bits. She flies down the street faster than a speeding bullet, faster than the fire department to a hotdog sale—the barista spares her a Look for about two seconds and it’s not because its 7pm on a Tuesday and she’s at Starbucks instead of anywhere else.
[Harley likes to think it’s her sense of style and not the color of her skin…surely they are beyond that in 2019]
“Bonjour,” the barista starts in monotone, which promptly encourages Harley to order in French too. In her distinct Brookersy [that’s Brooklyn and Jersey because even quizilla doesn’t know what it is] accent, the ‘rs’ are pretty hard, but Harley is incredibly pleased with herself while leaving the shindig, hot water leaving burns along her fingertips.
To the tune of Mary had a little lamb the former therapist methodically pours the steaming liquid along the doorframe, and it shakes just a little, creaks like something else, but otherwise it won’t budge.
“What’s a frigid bitch like you doin’ baring a duplex like this,” she huffs at it, expects an even colder answer. Harley backs up, baby blues peeking down to make sure her doc martens are on securely, laces tied.
The screech she lets out while charging the door can only be described as half Xena warrior princess and half pterodactyl. Fully impressive for her tiny 5’2 frame, so much power that even her mallet wouldn’t understand.
From the confused noises [“the hell is that clown doing now? Doesn’t she know some of us are trying to counterfeit money in here!?”] her neighbors are curious, but her pride’s been lost to time. The important and monumental part is the door opens to her might. She rushes in, up the stairs because the elevator is a death trap and when she finally pries open her door Bud and Lou immediately clamber over themselves to settle in her arms, their sloppy kisses are her ultimate reward.
“Mommy’s home! Mommy won the battle.”
They get their raw meat and dog food slop. And she gets to tell Pam all about this when she comes home to the trio still on the floor, surrounded by remnants of wet dog food.