The Devil's women. Part 2.

30 September 2019

Harlin Quinnzel rides Harley Quinn in the trunk of Gotham for four damn hours. Laughing, he presses the gas pedal harder when he hears the girl leaving another dent in the trunk. The numb body only pulls it out when the city plunges into viscous darkness, and bandaging her eyes with a leopard silk scarf, throws it over her shoulder, like a bag of shit. Quinnzel does not care about the genre classics of abduction: she does not tie the baby to a chair, does not shove rags in her mouth, and does not even point a gun at her. She, entering an unknown room, only slams an iron door before throwing Marian onto a cold concrete floor.

- Your name.

Squatting beside the blonde, Quinnzel removes an impromptu blindfold from her eyes, thereby returning the girl the opportunity to see. She smiles, holds the brand, looks at the woman opposite in focus. She must be without tinsel Harlin does not recognize at all, she is a stranger to her, and the clowness does not miss even a shadow of doubt on her own face.

“My name is Harley Quinn, but I don’t know you at all.” Have you decided to play with me? Well, I do not mind.

She laughs sweetly, and lavishly licks her lips, spreads her knees to the sides, in an inviting gesture creaking her heels on cold concrete. Quinnzel spits, rising to his feet. Roughly hits the whore's foot, forcing her to bring them together, and without taking her eyes off, she pulls a bubble from her coat pocket. Through the darkness, Quinn cannot make out what he is, how not to make out the person who stole her bitches. Harlin generously fills the leopard scarf with unknown liquid, and riding her girl’s knees, she says:

“It's time to say goodbye to Harley Quinn.”

The alkali-soaked silk scarf touches girl's skin, and in sweeping movements, Quinnzel wipes the clown makeup and deliberately smeared colorful shadows on her cheeks from the face of Drews. Marian curls in pain as she snarls, screams and tries to dodge Harlin’s hands, and alkali, which corrodes the skin. And only when through a leather glove does a woman feel a sharp burning sensation, grinning, does she finally leave the screaming clown without makeup alone.

- Bitch! Bitch! Sick bitch! - The girl squeals, unsuccessfully trying to free her hands.

- He threw me into acid. - Pulling off the gloves, throws Harlin - The alkali on the face is only cherry juice for Harley Quinn.

Marian sobs, and tears rolling down her cheeks eat away at the burnt skin with streams of remorse. She gets wet, and throwing her head back whispers something under her breath, trying to curb the pain, which, like tongues of flame, ate her face and neck. Her knees jump when Harlin finally comes a little closer, lifting the girl to her feet. She may be a bitch, but she is a man. Druce tries to break free, but Quinnzel jerks her to a rusty barrel; clinging to blonde hair on the back of her head, she abruptly lowers the girl's head into the barrel. The girl chokes on water, resists and tries to kick Harlin, like a mare. But Harlin has no purpose to drown Marian Drews in a barrel, not at all. Quinzel sharply yanked the blond woman out of the water, pronounces clearly before dipping her back:

- Water washes away alkali.

The perhydrol baby is banging her teeth against the cold when Harlin throws her into the trunk again. She bites, tries to escape, and still finds herself in the trunk of a car stolen by Harlin. Because it’s not Harley Quinn at all, not that crazy harlequin who fell in love with a clown. She's not Harley Quinn, who can, by sweeping Batman with a hammer, drag him into the Joker’s apartment, bandaging him with a gift ribbon in advance. She's just a confused girl, a victim of circumstances. And her repentance under the thin mask of a clowness is hardly more picturesque than the faces of the sufferers of Bryullovsky Pompeii, and Quinnzel knows what this will turn out to be.

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/639300109585725065/
https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/639300109585725065/

Taxiing to the outskirts of the city, stopping in the middle of an empty gloomy highway, Harlin reloads the gun. From a stained rearview mirror, a smiling blond girl smiles at her, happy for some reason to stupor, and even a little chuckle. Crazy bitch. Quinnzel turns away the mirror, and slamming the door of the car, approaches the trunk. And opening it, he meets the girl’s cheek with the heel, causing him to burst out laughing, pulling Harley out with a jerk. Quinzel holds the baby by the hands tied behind her back, like a stubborn horse by the reins, while it is treading water and curling, throwing curses.

“The Joker is already looking for you, stupid bitch!” - The girl breaks down at the cry when Quinnzel pokes his gun at the barrel between her shoulder blades. “He will destroy you.” - She giggles, and Harlin hears only falsehood - Come on, kill me. And then you have to beg that _on_ kill you, because after what Mr. Jay does to you, even death will seem like cherry juice.

The shot shakes the cold air and somewhere in the distance from the old branch, alarmed by the placer, loud ravens fly away. A bullet whistling overhead makes Marian shrink like a hedgehog. Quinnzel only grins, and with a rude movement turns the silly woman to face her, grabbing the collar of her tattered blouse.

“I don't care about the Joker, silly.” And I will not ask three times. Your name.

Behind the tire noise is heard, making both of them breathless. Harlin lowers the gun a little lower, continuing to hold the failed harlequin by the scruff of the neck, and glances slightly toward the approaching car. A tinted car leaves the city without taking them into account. Well, this is Gotham. In lawlessness has its own laws that must be observed so as not to be in a wooden box underground.

Marian escorts the light from the rear lights of the car, like a guiding light. As if it were her last hope, which for some reason she missed. However, the way it is. Harlin moves the revolver to the ribs of the girl, which makes her goosebumps.

- Harley Quinn. My name is Harley Quinn.

Quinnzel only nods, again turning the blonde with her back to herself. And Marian feels the ropes on her hands weaken, and the knots weave, falling down. Druce swallows the air, and feeling freedom cautiously turns to Harlin. The woman throws the rope to the side and takes Drews to the sight. She spins the drum and a cold wind drops her platinum curls on her face.

- Six bullets. - Harlin says with annoyance. “Now run, Harley Quinn.” Run.

Hunting is an art, the Joker never said, but she definitely heard it in smart movies. “One should not frighten a victim,” they said three times in a minute there, but is light profit a synonym for pleasure? Hardly. The lamppost lamp shatters into small pieces over Marian's head, who decided to be called Harley Quinn, thereby stepping into the abyss, from where the exit is only into the arms of the Joker or a two-colored coffin. And who, no matter how Quinnzel knows, of the two evils is worse.

 She takes the receding figure to the front sight and exhales noisily.

On the endless asphalt serpentine the night smok settles, covering the track with wet silk while the perhydrol blonde hair is scattered in the crimson velvet of flowing fabrics from Rubens' canvases.

Sleep well, Harley Quinn.

Sleep well.