The Right Hand Of The Devil
By Melanie E.
The Right Hand Of The Devil, part 1 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.
Image found on a message board somewhere, copyright whoever made it.
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Part 1
I've always had an attraction to... "extreme" personalities.
I guess you could say that was the reason I had applied for the job as a nurse at Arkham Asylum. After all, how much more extreme could you get than THOSE lunatics? Murderers, thieves, and psychopaths to the last, each one more frighteningly insane than the one before.
And I was free to study them as much as I wanted.
The building was old, full of dank passages and decaying stone work, but its appearance fit its purpose quite well, and to me, it was like a home away from home.
"Harold Quinzel?"
"Yessir?"
"Sparky wants you to help with one of the new arrivals. Says he's right up your alley."
"Right away, sir."
Working here was a dream in another way, as well. I only had another year and a half before I would have my own degree in criminal psychology, and what better way to get your foot in the door for your dream job than to be in the right place at the right time? Several of the doctors at the hospital knew this, and would request my help when we had especially unruly patients, though my ease of interaction and connection with the patients seemed to make some of the doctors nervous.
I'll admit, even I was a little surprised when I passed the psyche evaluation necessary to work at Arkham, but there was no way I would throw away the opportunity.
I made my way down the halls as quickly as I could, eager to see just what kind of surprise they had in store for me today.
I was not to be disappointed.
The interrogation room was one of many we had at the Asylum, all of them featuring the same general appearance. A dark, neutral gray paint covered the cracked vinyl padding on the walls of the small room, the only furniture present being a card table likely brought in by the doctor and two metal chairs bolted to the floor, both occupied.
"Name, please?"
"James Hetfield. No, Don Johnson. Nonono, wait, it's Jack Frost."
"Very funny. Real name, please." Doctor Stacy was obviously frazzled already, glaring at the man in the chair before him.
"Why? You didn't believe any of the others, what makes you think you'd know even if I told you the truth?"
"Is everything alright, doctah? Err, doctor?" I asked, my New Jersey accent I worked so hard to hide breaking through in my excitement.
Doctor Stacy gave me a cold stare. "You're kidding, right? I haven't been able to get a straight answer out of this guy since we got him in. No ID, and he's burned his fingerprints off with bleach."
"Blood work?"
"You know how long that takes. And frankly, none of us want to touch him."
I could see why. He was truly a fascinating creature. Long, stringy black hair to the middle of his back, and a tattered green peacoat covered in patches gave him the appearance of any typical vagrant at first, until you noticed the relatively new Italian shoes, and his eyes. Those eyes, brimming with insanity, and intelligence... and something else.
Of course, that was the reason they called me in in situations like this. Where others were driven away, I found myself drawn to the likes of this man.
"Hi, I'm Harold," I said, kneeling down in front of him. "Nice to meet you."
The good doctor looked at me in disgust, obviously put off by my interest in the creature, but I was used to that. Instead, I looked our newest inmate in the eyes for as long as I could. It was only a few seconds -- his gaze was truly intense.
"My, how polite of you, Harold. James Jonah Jameson, pleased to meet you as well," he said with a chuckle.
"Oh, but we both know that's not your name either, is it?" I asked, risking another look into his eyes. I had seen a pattern, though, and I was ready to run with it. "How about I just call you Mistah J instead?"
A smile graced his crooked features for a moment. Not a nice smile, but an approving one.
"We seem to have a winner here."
"I can't put that on his paperwork as anything other than an alias, but I guess it will have to work for now." The Doctor checked his watch nervously. "I've got other patients to attend to. Since you seem to be getting along famously, I'll sign off on letting you take care of this one if you think you can handle it."
"You got it," I said, never even turning around to watch the doctor leave.
"It takes one to know one," I heard him mutter as the door slid shut behind me, but again, I was used to that kind of thing.
"So, Mistah... ahem, Mister J. What brings you in to us today?" I asked as I settled into the doctor's vacated chair.
"A 2006 Dodge Charger police car with two cops on their way home from the donut shop."
I smiled. "And why did they bring you here?"
"I blew their car up with a rocket launcher."
My smile disappeared. "And why would you do that?"
Pause.
"Tell me, 'Harold,' what is a fine, upstanding citizen like you doing here when they could be anywhere else they wanted?"
I shrugged. "I like the work."
"Working with criminals? Seems pretty dangerous to me."
"We're in an Asylum," I pointed out. "It's the safest place in Gotham to be. Besides, I like the sense of danger I get from working with extreme personalities, such as yourself."
"Oh, really? And what could a little thing like you do if one of us were to, oh, I don't know, attempt escape?"
"I'd take you down," I said, not biting at the bait he had dropped in my lap. I might be small, but years of martial arts practice meant I was far from the weak, defenseless child most people expected when they messed with me, and I had proven it in more than one dark alley at night.
"My my my, such big words for such a delicate frame. Tell me, Harold -- what color lingerie are you wearing right now?"
Again I refused to take the bait. "I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to discuss that, later. For the moment, I'd rather talk about you."
"Me?" He asked in feigned surprise. "Well, that's a rather long story, and it is so very uncomfortable sitting here handcuffed to the chair," he said, jangling the cuffs that held his hands behind his back.
"They won't let me uncuff you."
"No?" He said, pouting. "But I was all ready to talk if you did? Oh, well, too bad."
It was a trap. I knew it was a trap -- how could it be anything else? But it was a trap I wanted to spring. Besides, the doors to the interrogation rooms could only be opened from the outside. What's the worst that could happen?
"Very well," I said, standing up and circling around behind him. It took only a moment to uncuff him, and just as quickly I had his hands in front of him and cuffed again with a satisfying 'clink' as the hooks caught.
He pouted again. "You ARE a tough one, aren't you? Very well, I suppose I'll have to take what I can get," he said, propping his feet up on the card table in front of him, the cuffs that should have been holding his feet dangling merrily from his ankles as he rested his head in his hands.
I hid my surprise as best I could, ignoring the breach in security and settling back into my own chair. I looked into his eyes again, and it was clear that he was studying me as much as I was studying him. Testing me, playing with me. The worst part was, I had no idea what the rules of the game were.
"Are you ready to talk now?"
He nodded. "It all started on my eighth birthday. My father, a great blustering man with a penchant for bribery and a taste for whores, refused to take me to see the bats at the zoo. I always have had a fascination with bats, you see."
"Really, now?"
"Oh, yes," he said, his eyes gleaming evilly. "Of course, I had to punish him for that, so the next time he headed down to our basement I locked him in, and refused to let him out until he promised to buy me a pony."
"And where was your mother in all this?"
"In a cooler downstairs. I told you he had a taste for whores, and there never was a bigger whore than she. Her liver lasted him two meals alone."
"You can't be serious."
"No? Would you rather I told you I had a perfectly happy, normal childhood, and that I simply did what I did because I WANTED to?"
"I'm not sure I would believe that eithah."
"Well, there's just no pleasing you, then, is there?"
"You could tell me the truth."
He frowned, his expressive face conveying a whole range of emotions sane and otherwise. "But the truth is so BOR-ing. Life needs a little spice to it, don't you think? A little fire every now and then keeps things interesting, and gunpowder and gasoline make such GREAT seasonings."
I watched him as he sat there, unsure of what to say. So much of what he had said was completely repulsive, but the WAY he said it, with such clarity and joy. He was an incredibly fascinating character. In fact, he was quite possibly the most interesting person I had ever seen! And even as I was watching him, he was watching me right back, with those intense, piercing eyes.
"Was this your first crime?" I asked him, when I remembered to speak again.
He grinned. "Of course not."
"...Well?" I asked, when he refused to continue.
"Well what? You want to know what else I have done? Nothing too grand, I assure you. A bank robbery here, an assassination there."
"Any that you're particularly proud of?"
"Well, last summer I DID sneak into the police commissioner's house and replaced all his underpants with a beautiful collection from Victoria's Secret. And just last week I paid someone off to shut down the Asylum's power and replace all the cuffs with cheap pot-metal knockoffs."
"What?"
That was when the lights went out.
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NOTES:
So, I couldn't sleep last night for some reason, and while I was lying awake a comics retcon idea I'd had for a while about Harley Quinn and the Joker started to finally coalesce into a writable form in my head. Since it's fairly appropriate for Halloween, here's the first part of three that will be written over the next couple of days.
Yes, I'm still working on other things, too, but this MADE me write it.
If this story steps on anyone else's retconning toes, I do apologize, but I simply couldn't resist, and hey, it's non-canon! So, no harm no foul, right?
Melanie E.
Oh, and before I forget...
IF YOU COMMENT, MORE WILL COME!
The Right Hand Of The Devil, part 2 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 2
The dull throbbing of my head told me I was finally coming out of the black dream I had been having, and with a moan of pain I rolled over, hoping that whatever bender I had been on last night's visions would fade faster than the hangover I was suffering.
"Ah, good, you seem to be awake. The police tend to frown upon it when I present them with hostages who are already dead."
"Wha?" I started to ask, when it sunk in. Going to work, and meeting that intensely insane man... "Mistah J?"
"At last sleeping beauty rises from the slumber of the damned to join me once more. I would appreciate you not fainting again, we will move much quicker if you can keep the pace on your own."
I opened my eyes, and there he was, standing over me, his long, unkempt hair falling around his face and obscuring his features, but not those eyes. No, never those eyes.
"Where are we?"
"A drainage ditch just beyond the Asylum's walls," he said with a manic grin. "An old acquaintance of mine told me about the way out, and I needed to see for myself that it truly worked, in case they should ever catch me and leave me in need of an escape."
"But isn't that what happened?"
"Ah, now you see the clever ruse," he said, tapping the side of his nose. "I let them catch me on PURPOSE to make sure the path was there."
"And if it wasn't?"
"Then I would have simply killed everyone and been done with it. Though I must say, this way is MUCH more fun!" He clapped his hands merrily as he stood up, and for the first time I got to see my captor in all his glory.
Like his face, his body was long, and thin to the point of emaciation, while still somehow carrying an underlying sense of muscular power. Gone was his peacoat, leaving him standing there in rolled up shirt sleeves, suspenders holding up his muddy pinstriped pants.
"Well, are you going to lay there all day, or are you coming along? We're on the run, and we must make way before the police catch us."
I shook my head, amazed at his pure energy. "I thought I was a hostage?"
His eyes flashed in the dark. "Oh, you are, my little buffoon. But a good hostage knows when to fight their captor, and when to grap a gun and shoot like they're told. Which one seems the better idea to you?" He asked, pulling a long, thin blade out from seemingly nowhere.
Without another word I stood up, and together we began to trudge through the mud.
It was only a few minutes later that the road out from the Asylum loomed out of the darkness, and I knew that his plan was set for failure. "You can't make it out on the road, they'll already have the police out looking for you."
"Oh, I've no doubt about that. That's what makes it so fun! Ah, here they come now."
And, surely, around the curb ahead of us came a cop car, lights flashing but siren eerily silent.
'This is it,' I thought to myself as their headlights approached us, feeling both relieved and strangely regretful that my journey into madness should end so soon.
Rather than hiding, or running, like I would have expected, my companion simply stepped into the middle of the road and waved happily to the car as it approached, chuckling.
With a screech of brakes the car jerked to a stop mere feet before him, with the cops out an instant behind.
"Hands up! Keep your hands where we can see them!"
"Who, me?"
"Yeah, you," the other officer said as he approached carefully, his partner's gun trained on their suspect. Neither seemed to notice me, crouched beside the road and quiet, as they both kept their eyes on 'Mister J.'
"Get over here," he said once he was close enough to touch Mister J's arm, and dragged him to the hood of the police car. The search began, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.
Then I saw a flash of metal, and the cop began to slump to the ground. The glare from the headlights in the dark was enough to tell me that the long blade I had seen before was now buried in his guts.
The second cop never stood a chance, frozen in place as his murderer skipped up and almost playfully snapped his neck, catching his pistol before his body hit the ground.
"Well, come on, then."
Whether out of fear or fascination, I'm still not sure, I left my hiding place and approached the car.
"Ladies first," he said, holding open the passenger side door to the cop car and gesturing me to sit.
"I'm not a girl," I pointed out, one last act of defiance in the case of his indomitable will.
"Ah, but you're my hostage, and the police always react better to a damsel in distress than they do some boy. Of course, we'll have to work on you fitting the part a bit, but we'll have it done soon enough. Oh, my little buffoon is soon to become a harlequin. Isn't this fun!"
I simply sat there in silence, too in awe to even bother crying for help, as we drove over the bodies of the dead policemen and into the night, toward the streets of Gotham.
----
Like a good little hostage I sat in silence for the first half an hour of our journey to wherever it was that this man was taking me.
The longer I sat, though, the more my curiousity built. As cruel and violent as I had seen him be, he still somehow drew me to him in a way I couldn't yet describe.
"Why?"
"Hmm?" He said, pausing in his repeated humming of "Ride of the Valkyries" to look at me. "Why what?"
I shrugged. "Why everything?"
He looked up at the roof for a moment, thoughtful. "Well, I have always loved a good joke."
I was appalled. "So this is all just a big joke to you?!"
He laughed. "The biggest and best! You don't get it?"
"No!"
His laugh turned sour as he grimaced at me. "By the time I'm done with you, I promise -- you will."
---
NOTES:
Alright, I'm not entirely happy with this part, and I'll probably come back and add to it/expand it at a later time, but I said I'd try to have all three parts up over three days, and this one's almost twelve hours late as is, so *shrug*
On the plus side, I know exactly what direction I'm going/where the last part is going to end, so that's good.
Melanie E.
PS: Oh, yeah, and because it seems to help... IF YOU COMMENT, MORE WILL COME!
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.