The sound of manic laughter echoed down the corridor as the Joker bolted forward, revolver in hand. His long coat flared behind him with each wild step, green hair catching the dim light.
Joker: "Come on, Batsy! You've been slacking on our little dates. You don't call, you don't write… no flowers, no chocolates!"
He spun mid-run, firing shots down the hallway. Sparks flew as bullets pinged off the reinforced fabric of Batman's cape, the Dark Knight shielding himself as he closed the distance.
Then, with a snap of Joker's fingers, the laughter came. Dozens of voices—men and women alike—emerged from the shadows, each one wearing that grotesque grin painted across their faces. A small army of living punchlines.
Joker kicked open a door, wagging a finger at Batman before darting through it.
Joker: "Don't be shy, Batsy. We've got soooo much to catch up on!"
The door slammed, locking Batman inside with the painted mob.
Batman's jaw tightened. He had been running on fumes for days, hunting Alistair, revisiting crime scenes, sleeping maybe an hour at a time. And now Joker wanted to play. Perfect.
The first thug lunged with a snarl. Batman caught him by the shirt, yanking him off balance and driving a fist into his sternum with a sickening thud. Without missing a beat, he hurled the body into another charging goon.
Two more rushed in—one swinging a bat, the other a lead pipe. Batman pivoted, letting the bat swing graze by before seizing it mid-swing. His boot slammed into the man's shin, forcing him down. In the same motion, Batman ripped the bat free and slammed it into the chest of the pipe-wielder. The wooden weapon splintered on impact, ribs cracking beneath it.
The kneeling thug got a final strike—a brutal cross to the face—before slumping into unconsciousness.
Batman straightened, chest heaving, eyes burning beneath the cowl.
Batman (low growl): "Three down. Five to go."
And then—black. The lights cut out.
The room drowned in laughter, high-pitched, echoing, taunting. The glow of white smiles floated in the dark like predators' eyes.
For a moment, even the Batman couldn't hear his own breath over the sound of the Joker's choir.
Batman tapped the side of his cowl. Infrared mode engaged.
The world burned red and white as the Joker's goons lit up in his vision. They didn't stand a chance.
Cloaked once more in his cape, Batman moved like a phantom through the dark. Bones cracked, bodies fell, and the chorus of laughter turned to screams. By the time the lights sputtered back on, only the Bat stood, framed in shadow, eyes glowing.
Without hesitation, he pushed through the next door, climbing the stairwell until he emerged on the rooftop.
Kord Industries. Again.
The same rooftop where he had faced Hyde. Batman's eyes narrowed beneath the cowl. History repeating itself. But why here?
A familiar cackle answered.
Joker stood at the edge, arm wrapped around the Assistant Director of Kord, holding him like a shield. In his free hand gleamed the long barrel of a revolver. His smile split his painted face like a wound.
Joker: "Well, well! My knight in brooding armor. You got through my little comedy club downstairs without breaking a sweat. Tsk. I should've sold tickets."
Batman (growling): "Why?"
Joker: "Why what, Batsy?"
Batman: "This isn't your usual M.O. No theatrics, no punchline… just thugs and hostages. It's sloppy. What's here for you?"
Joker blinked, then snorted, his grin stretching wider.
Joker: "You think I do this for an M.O.? Oh, darling… do you think I have a system? A… mission statement?"
He tilted his head, mock whispering:
Joker: "I was thinking of baking a cake for dinner, too. Do you want chocolate or vanilla?"
Batman's fists clenched. Joker wasn't after anything. This was boredom, pure and poisonous. And worse—distraction.
Joker (suddenly shrill): "You haven't been paying attention to me! You're off flirting with that Hyde fellow. Penguin wouldn't shut up about him, the way he butchered Maroni."
He hunched, mimicking Oswald's wheeze and accent.
Joker: "'It was like staring into a sea of blood, Batman. Nothing like I'd ever seen.' Boo-hoo-hoo! So dramatic!"
His eyes gleamed with sudden malice.
Joker: "I could've killed Maroni, y'know. But would that have gotten me the same attention? Noooo. Leave poor old Joker in the corner while Hyde gets all the headlines."
He pulled the revolver's trigger.
Click—
A flag popped out with a sharp snap, the word BANG! painted on it in cheerful red.
Joker threw his head back, laughing.
Joker: "Oops! Guess I brought the wrong gun."
The Assistant Director seized his chance—slamming the back of his skull into Joker's painted nose before sprinting toward Batman.
Joker (snarling): "Why, you little—!"
He jerked the trigger again. This time, the flag launched like a spear, whistling through the air.
Batman dove, wrapping his cape around the director and rolling them clear. The flag embedded itself into the rooftop with a metallic clang.
Batman shoved the terrified man toward the exit.
Batman: "Go!"
The director scrambled away. Batman rose, cloak flaring. His eyes locked on Joker—who was grinning wider, blood trickling from his nose.
Joker: "Now that we're alone, Batsy… let's talk about Hyde."
The Dark Knight closed the distance like a storm. His gauntlet clenched around Joker's collar and, without hesitation, the first punch landed.
Bone cracked.
Then another—straight to the gut, knocking the air out of Joker in a wheeze that turned into manic laughter.
Joker (gasping, grinning): "Awwww… I knew you still loved me!"
Batman's fist silenced him, smashing across his painted face. Blood sprayed, white makeup cracking under the impact. Batman didn't stop.
A strike to the sternum.
Another to the jaw.
The cackle wouldn't die—it came broken, sputtering through blood and broken teeth, but it came.
At last, Batman hauled him close. Their faces were inches apart. Joker's breath reeked of copper and rot.
Batman (low, cold): "I'm sick of this game. You're wasting my time."
For the first time in years, the thought was louder than the oath. End it. Right here. Right now.
He could see it—the faces of his family, every victim, every grave the Joker had dug with his chaos. His fist trembled, drawn back, the weight of vengeance heavier than the code he lived by.
One punch. That's all it would take.
Instead, he dropped Joker like refuse onto the rooftop.
The clown sprawled out, grinning through his blood, eyes gleaming like a child denied candy.
Joker (mock pout): "That's it? No eulogy? No grand soliloquy about justice and mercy? Boooooring, Bats! You're supposed to be my tragedy, not my curfew."
Batman turned his back, silent. The grapple gun fired with a hiss, and in a flash of cape and shadow, he was gone.
Joker laughed after him, laughter bubbling into coughs, then howls.
Joker: "You'll come around, Batsy! Ohhh, one of these nights, you'll finally put me down… and it'll be the funniest joke of all!"
The rooftop door slammed open. GCPD swarmed in, guns drawn, surrounding him in a half-circle of barking orders.
The Joker lay there, bloodied, broken, and beaming, as if the entire night had been a private joke only he understood.
Batman POV
A game. That's all it ever is with Joker. No matter how many times I put him in the ground, he gets back up. If that resilience were used for good, it might even be admirable. But it isn't. Instead, thousands—millions—suffer for his amusement.
But tonight isn't about Joker.
The files are spread across my desk. Dusty. Buried. Abandoned the moment the headlines faded. Ghosts on paper. Ghosts Gotham has already forgotten.
Not me.
I've gone through these pages a dozen times already, and I'll go through them a dozen more. Every line, every name, every gap. Somewhere in the static is the signal I'm missing.
Alistair Adonis Silas Edward Norwood
Born: August 31st, 19XX – Presumed dead, 1994
Status: Unknown. Kidnapped.
Place of Birth: Gotham General Hospital.
Where my father once worked.
I press my thumb against the corner of the photo until it creases. A boy, fourteen. Black hair. Green eyes. Innocent. Unscarred. Before Gotham had its claws in him.
I flip to the next file without looking away from the first. Lucius Adler Andre Norwood. Age: ten. The younger brother. Smaller frame. Same eyes. Both gone the same night.
The reports contradict themselves. Their father, murdered—skull caved in, house torn apart. A robbery. Or maybe an abduction. Or both. Too messy, too fast for amateurs.
No ransom. No bodies. Just absence.
Two weeks later, the city stopped caring. Case marked cold.
I can't stop. I trace the words like they'll change under my fingers. I run their names against every database again, though I know I'll get nothing. I look at their faces under the dim light until they burn into my eyelids.
If Slade is right—if Hyde is Alistair Norwood—then I've been fighting a ghost raised in blood and silence. The boy who should've been saved became the monster that walked onto my rooftop.
I close my eyes, but the picture follows. Black hair. Green eyes. Not Alistair. Not Hyde. Just a child.
And children don't just vanish.
Not from my city.
Not without someone paying for it.
POV Switch: Alistair
White dress pants. Black shirt, the top two buttons undone. A tailored blazer resting just right on his shoulders. His hair tied back, those signature red-tinted shades hiding his eyes. Black dress shoes kissed with red on the soles.
The night sky blanketed Gotham, but Alistair didn't walk in the dark. He carried it with him.
He stopped in front of the club. The bass thumped loud enough to rattle the pavement, a steady pulse of sweat, neon, and bad decisions. The line snaked around the block, but Alistair didn't slow. He walked past every waiting body, every muttered complaint, until he stood at the door.
Guy in line: Hey, man, you can't just cut—
Alistair didn't even turn his head. A smirk ghosted his lips as the bouncer, without hesitation, pulled the door open for him.
Inside, the club swallowed him whole—music blasting, lights flashing over drunk dancers, half-dressed women grinding against strangers, couples too tangled in each other to remember they came with someone else.
Alistair cut through it like smoke. Smooth. Effortless.
A woman in a silver dress stumbled into him. She caught herself on his arm, her perfume wrapping around him.
Woman: Well hello, handsome. Looking for a little fun tonight?
Alistair's smirk widened, lazy and deliberate.
Alistair: Not tonight. Maybe next time.
She pouted, leaning in closer, pressing his hand against the soft curve of her chest.
Woman: Not even for little ol' me?
Alistair's tone softened, almost conspiratorial, like they were the only two people in the club.
Alistair: Tell you what—I've got business right now. But once I'm done? You'll have all of me.
Her pout broke into a sly smile.
Woman: Don't keep me waiting, handsome.
She let go reluctantly, her eyes following him as he disappeared into the sea of bodies, swallowed up by the music.
Alistair turned his wrist, checking the time.
22:00.
He ascended the staircase, the beat of the club rattling beneath his shoes. At the top waited the velvet ropes and a heavy door—two guards stationed like statues in front of it.
Guard: Vi—
The word barely left his mouth before Alistair's wrist flicked, a silenced round tearing into the man's thigh. The guard dropped with a roar of pain, but the music below swallowed it whole.
The second guard drew his weapon, too slow. A shot cracked, shattering bone in his hand, forcing him to drop the pistol. The next bullet buried itself cleanly in his skull.
The first guard was still clutching his leg, eyes wide, breath ragged. Alistair didn't spare him mercy. One more shot silenced him for good.
Holstering his weapon, Alistair pushed open the VIP doors, slipping inside and closing them behind him with quiet finality.
The air was thick—suffocating. Coke dusted the tables in uneven lines, pills scattered like candy. Naked women slumped across couches, some unconscious, some worse. A few overdosed bodies sat lifeless in the corners while music still pulsed through hidden speakers.
The men didn't care. They laughed in the hot tub, glasses raised, smoke curling from cigars. The stench of wealth, rot, and indulgence hung heavy in the room.
Alistair didn't flinch. Didn't slow. His crimson lenses caught the neon glow as he walked past it all—past the drugs, the half-dead women, the wasted men—headed straight for the hot tub.
Alistair: "Gentlemen."
His voice cut through the haze of laughter and cigar smoke. The men turned, more annoyed than alarmed, until they saw the red-lensed glasses staring back at them.
Alistair: "I'm looking for a Viola Gibson. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Word is… one of you was seen talking to her."
He pointed casually, finger aimed at the youngest lounging in the hot tub.
Alistair: "Now, I'd like to think she isn't one of the poor girls passed out in this room. Because if she is… well, my clients would be very, very unhappy."
The youngest burst out laughing. The others followed, drunken, derisive, emboldened by numbers.
Man: "Do you know who I am?"
Alistair tilted his head, expression unreadable.
Alistair: "Can't say I give a fuck."
The man smirked, leaning back in the bubbling water.
Man: "You've got… what we say in Russia—шарики."
Alistair's lips curved faintly, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes.
Alistair: "Cute."
The man turned to his companions, shrugging.
Man: "Take the bitch. I'm done with her."
Alistair said nothing. He walked past them, weaving between empty bottles and scattered syringes until he reached the couches. Among the wreckage of overdosed bodies, he spotted her: brown hair matted, pale skin clammy, barely breathing. Viola.
He knelt, pulling off his blazer and wrapping it around her shoulders. Heat bloomed back into her skin. Her chest rose, steady now—alive.
Standing, he adjusted his sleeves, then stepped toward the door. He locked it with a sharp click.
When he turned back, his tone had changed. The smooth nonchalance was gone, replaced with something heavier, darker.
Alistair: "You know… if there's one thing I hate more than myself…"
He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze cutting through the fog of arrogance.
Alistair: "…it's men who take advantage of young women. I'm no white knight. Never claimed to be. But tonight…"
He rolled his shoulders back, letting the silence stretch, the tension coil.
Alistair: "…none of you are going home without paying a price."
The hot tub erupted in splashes as the men stood, chests puffed, fists clenched, vodka courage carrying them forward.
Man: "Этот ублюдок не понимает, с кем связался!"
(This bastard doesn't understand who he's dealing with!)
They froze when Alistair answered in fluent Russian, tone cold as the grave.
Alistair: "Напротив, товарищ… всё имеет свою цену."
(On the contrary, comrade… everything has a price.)
With deliberate calm, he rolled his sleeves to the elbow, veins faintly glowing beneath his skin. One by one, he let his pistols slip from his hands, clattering to the floor.
Alistair: "So let's settle the bill."
The first man stepped forward, tattoos crawling across his skin, the ink writhing as if alive. A viper uncoiled from his chest, swelling, growing, filling the room with its hiss.
Alistair's grin widened. Behind his red-tinted glasses, his eyes glowed crimson, faint light leaking through the lenses.
The serpent lunged. Alistair didn't move—just stared it down. The creature faltered mid-strike, shrinking back with a frightened hiss before slithering into nothing.
The tattooed man blinked, panic blooming, before Alistair lifted a hand. His nails sharpened like knives. A single cut along his palm, one drop of blood falling—then splitting into dozens. They hardened in the air, shaped into bullets.
The volley tore into the tattooed man, knocking him back with bloody thuds. Alistair flexed his fist; the wound sealed shut like nothing had happened.
Alistair: "Standing around's boring."
He held up a finger. "One sec."
Everyone froze, confused, as Alistair pulled out his phone. He flicked through playlists until he found it. Connected to the speakers.
The room lit up with a bass-heavy blast—
"Jump" by Kriss Kross.
Alistair cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders.
Alistair: "Alright. Now let's get to work."
The first thug lunged, throwing a wild punch. Alistair slapped it away like an annoying fly. A second kick came from the side; he blocked with his shin, shoving the man back into a table. Without missing a beat, Alistair grabbed a wine bottle, smashed it across the man's skull, and sent him sprawling.
The third charged, driving Alistair into the wall, fists flying. One. Two. Three. Eight punches in—and Alistair was still grinning.
On the ninth swing, Alistair caught his wrist, pulled him in, and drove a knee between his legs. As the thug doubled, Alistair smashed his forehead into his face.
Bone cracked. Blood sprayed.
Alistair (singing along): "How high? Real high, 'cause I'm just so fly…"
He grabbed the man's head in both hands and twisted. A sharp snap—and silence. The body crumpled.
The next didn't even see him move. One moment Alistair was across the room, the next he was behind him, boot slamming into the side of his skull. The man pinwheeled through the air, smashing through a window into the night.
Another came at him with a knife. Alistair sidestepped, kicked his leg out from under him, and drove the same blade into his foot, pinning him to the floorboards. The man shrieked, clawing at the hilt.
Behind him, a desperate thug tried to tackle him. Alistair spun, caught his arm, and hurled him face-first into the wall. He pinned him there, raining down a brutal flurry of punches until the man sagged unconscious—then finished with one last crushing blow that painted the plaster red.
Alistair turned back to the man with the knife in his foot. He crouched, pulled the blade free in one smooth yank—and drove it into his skull.
Silence.
Only one was left. The youngest, pressed against the wall, trembling.
Man (stammering): "D-d-do you know who my mother is?"
Alistair tilted his head. A brow arched above his glasses.
Alistair: "Usually it's father. That's new."
He grabbed the boy by the wrist, yanking him close. His voice dropped to something cold, final.
Alistair: "That girl over there—Viola Gibson. Honor roll. Days away from graduation. If she doesn't make it…"
He leaned closer, the grin gone, his eyes burning hellfire red.
Alistair: "…I'll find you. And I'll kill you. Do I make myself clear?"
The boy nodded frantically, tears and snot streaking down his face.
Alistair let the silence stretch—then snapped his arm like a twig. The scream echoed through the drug-soaked VIP room.
Alistair stood, rolling his sleeves back down. The music still blared. He plucked his phone from the table and ended the track with a swipe.
Alistair: "…Good talk."
Alistair walked back through the carnage, his shoes clicking against the blood-slick floor. Viola lay where he had left her, breathing steadier now, color faintly returning to her face.
He scooped her up effortlessly, the blazer still wrapped around her. With one glance at the shattered window, he bent his knees and leapt—landing in the alley below as quietly as falling snow.
The crowd around the corpse outside barely noticed him. Their eyes were glued to the body on the pavement. Alistair slipped past like a shadow, the girl in his arms.
A black car pulled up. The driver rushed out—an older man, face lined with exhaustion, worry etched deep. His voice cracked as he started:
Man: "Is she al—"
But before despair could take root, Alistair cut him off.
Alistair: "She's alright. Just needs rest. Take her to the hospital—I've done all I can."
He placed Viola into the man's arms with surprising gentleness. The driver held her like she was glass, relief washing over his face.
Man: "Thank you, I'll send you th—"
Alistair: "Keep it. On the house."
Before the man could respond, Alistair was gone—already back through the broken window.
---
Inside, the youngest thug was still curled against the wall, clutching his broken arm, whimpering. Alistair ignored him, stepping over bodies to retrieve his pistols. He sighed, giving the steel a lazy twirl before frowning.
Alistair: "Where am I gonna keep these…?"
He glanced around, then shrugged, unlocked the door, and stuffed them barrel-first into a nearby potted plant.
Alistair: "…I'll deal with that later."
Straightening his collar, he smirked, the glow gone from his eyes. To anyone watching, he looked like just another man leaving a party.
Alistair: "Time to go meet the cutie."
He grinned—like he hadn't just massacred a room full of men. But then, crime families never called the cops. They preferred to bury their dead in silence.
Next Morning
He was in bed with girl from last night she had short hair brown skin(she is black) her silver dress on the floor the sun rasing entering through the room Alistair eyes were open he didn't sleep .
He turned to look at the woman he grabbed his clothes and dressed up leaving money for the hotel room on the table he opened the door and left quietly
The Next Morning
The room was bathed in gold as the sun crept through the curtains. The silver dress from last night lay crumpled on the floor.
Alistair lay on his back, eyes wide open. He hadn't slept—not even for a moment.
Beside him, the woman stirred faintly in her sleep. Short hair, warm brown skin, her face softened by dreams. For a moment, she looked untouched by the chaos of the city.
Alistair turned his head, studied her quietly. No smile. No attachment. Just a flicker of thought before he rose from the bed.
He slipped into his black slacks, buttoned his shirt, tied his hair back with precise movements. The mask settling back into place.
A folded stack of bills landed on the nightstand. Payment—not for her, but for the room.
Without a sound, he opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and left the quiet behind.
Alistair strolled down the street, whistling a low tune. The scent hit him before he even touched the door—a wave of warm sugar, butter, and fresh bread. He stepped into the bakery and breathed in deeply, letting it linger. If only every day could smell like this.
Behind the counter stood a woman in her early thirties. Black hair tied back, hazel eyes sharp but kind, a natural beauty framed by flour dust on her apron. Curves in all the right places.
Baker: Well, hello there. Don't usually see handsome young men walking in here this early.
Alistair grinned, adjusting the red-tinted shades on his nose. He looked every bit like he was in his early twenties—youthful, untouchable.
Alistair: Why, thank you. But I should warn you… if you keep talking like that, I might start showing up every morning.
The woman laughed, a little pink brushing her cheeks.
Baker: Oh, a smooth talker. Gotham could use more of those. So—what can I get you?
Alistair: Hm… honestly, I'm undecided. Got a bit of a sweet tooth, though. What would you recommend?
She leaned over the counter, lowering her voice like it was a secret.
Baker: Well… the cinnamon rolls just came out of the oven. Still warm. Best in Gotham, if you ask me.
Alistair tapped his chin, then gave her a slow smile—the kind that felt like it was meant only for her.
Alistair: Best in Gotham, huh? Guess I don't have a choice, then. I'll take the whole tray.
Her eyes widened.
Baker: The whole tray? You planning to share, or—
Alistair: (smirking) Maybe. Or maybe I'm just greedy. Depends… how much trouble am I in if I don't save one for you?
The woman laughed again, shaking her head, but her cheeks were undeniably red now.
He handed over the bills, picked up the warm box of cinnamon rolls, and gave the baker one last grin.
Baker: Hope you come back, handsome.
Alistair: I just might.
With that, he pushed the door open and stepped back into the street, the little bell chiming behind him.
The baker—Jess—watched him go, a faint smile still lingering. She let out a soft sigh, trying to shake it off as she leaned against the counter.
From the back, an older woman with streaks of gray in her hair and the same hazel eyes came bustling through, wiping her hands on a towel.
Older Woman: Did you get his number?
Jess blinked. Baker (Jess): What?
Older Woman: Oh, come on, Jess. That handsome young man—you didn't get his number?
Jess flushed, waving her hands. Jess: Mom! I was being professional.
Her mother snorted. Older Woman: Professional my ass. You're thirty-two, single, and I'm still waiting for grandbabies. I want grandbabies before I die, Jessica.
Jess buried her face in her hands. Jess: Mom, you're embarrassing me.
The handful of customers in the shop chuckled, trying to hide their laughter behind their cups of coffee.
Jess groaned and shot them all a look, which only made them laugh harder.
Joker POV
He lounged across the narrow cot in his cell, orange jumpsuit slightly rumpled, one leg dangling over the edge. His lobster sat untouched on the metal tray beside him, perfectly cooked, steaming—but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered when his mind was on the dark knight, dancing with… another man? The thought made his grin twitch unnaturally.
Across from him, Harley perched on the edge of the table, legs swinging, her own tray half-eaten. She raised an eyebrow at him.
Harley: Come on, Puddin', you haven't touched your lobster.
Joker: (voice low, almost theatrical) How can I, my dear Harley, when my nemesis—the Bat!—my precious, infuriating enemy—is twirling around some… some OTHER man! A dance! A waltz! He's holding him! Laughing! Smiling! Flirting! (He gestured wildly with a clawed finger, eyes darting around as if the walls themselves were gossiping.)
Harley tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips.
Harley: Oh… relax, Mr. J. Batsy's gonna come along.
Joker: (hissing, pacing in his small cell) Relax? Harley, relax?! Do you hear yourself? That man! That symbol! The very embodiment of order and shadows, cavorting in broad daylight with someone else… (he shivered, theatrically clutching the sides of his head) It's a betrayal of the highest order! A cruel, exquisite betrayal!
Harley leaned back on her elbows, letting out a soft laugh, teasingly twirling a strand of her hair.
Harley: Maybe he's just being friendly, puddin'. You know, polite Batman manners.
Joker: Polite? Polite? (He grabbed the lobster, staring at it like it was a ticking time bomb.) There is nothing polite about that! That man belongs to chaos, to me! And now… some other man… some insufferable human!—he's stealing my spotlight!
Harley giggled, leaning closer, resting her chin on her fists.
Harley: Sounds like someone's got a case of the jealous blues.
Joker: (dropping onto the bed, arms flailing dramatically, eyes wild) Jealous? No, Harley. This isn't jealousy. This… this is outrage! This… this is existential fury! And if he thinks—if he dares—to waltz around like some… some prince charming, I will… oh, the plans, Harley, the plans!
Harley shook her head, trying not to laugh.
Harley: Well, you're acting like a regular ol' melodramatic puddin' today. Maybe you should eat your lobster before you plot your revenge, hmm? Gotta keep your strength up.
Joker: (peering down at the lobster, then back at her, a slow grin spreading) You know… maybe you're right. After all… even revenge… requires sustenance.
He picked up his fork, eyeing the lobster like it was both a weapon and a consolation prize.
Joker: But mark my words, Harley Quinn… the next waltz I see… oh, the next dancing step… it won't end on the dance floor.
Harley laughed, shaking her head.
Harley: I can't wait to see that one, puddin'.