#so to see this black punk version is making me rip my hair out bang on the walls screaming

[hibiskiss]

I LOVE this take on Nervous

don't fear the reaper, and so on

[lawnierose]

“Potter, Harry”

Whispers broke out throughout the Great Hall. All eyes seemed to follow the raven haired boy that walked to the stool. Some staff had waited years for this moment. Students, some of whom grew up hearing about the Boy-Who-Lived, couldn’t believe that they were seeing their hero. Some students had no clue what was going on but were caught up in the moment and begging those around them for an explanation. A few commented that the boy looked fairly small for his age. Minerva Mcgonagall pursed her lips at seeing the child again after ten years apart. She had to hold her typical stoicism, instead of wrapping up the boy she had adopted as her grandchild in her arms. She hated everyday that she had let Albus talk her into leaving him with those muggles. She knew Albus had caused her to forget their address mere moments after they had left the baby behind. Meanwhile, Severus Snape was sneering from where he sat at the head table. All he saw was a child who looked nearly identical to one of his greatest tormentors. A bully who had somehow stolen his first and best friend. He watched curiously as the hat was placed upon the small child.

One minute…

Two minutes…

Five minutes...The boy was a hatstall.

Ten minutes… Murmurs could be heard rumbling all around the Hall.

Twelve minutes… The brim of the hat parted and a collective breath was held.

“Headmaster, Heads of Houses, I need you to bring the child to the antechamber. I will sort the rest then the Deputy Headmistress will bring me to join you.”

There was a cacophony of noise as students had never heard of something like this happening. Minerva silenced the room with a bang from her wand. Pomona Sprout collected the child and escorted them from the Hall. Albus, Severus, and Filius Flitwick followed the pair. Severus turned to Albus with an incredulous look and spoke in hushed tones.

“What is going on, Headmaster? How is the Potter brat already causing problems?”

“Severus, my boy, I can tell you I haven't a clue what is going on. Are you planning to place your old grudge on the boy already?”

Meanwhile, the child was looking around in bewilderment, confusion, but also a begrudging acceptance. The adults in the room paying attention, noticed that Harry’s eyes seemed far older than the eleven years the boy actually was. All four tried to ask him questions but he remained stubbornly silent. Fifteen minutes went by, as they could hear the sorting continue in the other room. They heard Minerva start the feast before she joined them with the Sorting Hat in hand. She set the hat on a table in the room and conjured a comfortable chair. The other professors did the same, but she noticed Harry was still standing so she conjured a second chair by her side and motioned for him to sit. After he did, she turned back to the Hat.

“What is going on?”

“Why were you unable to sort the boy?”

“What in Merlin’s name is the problem?”

All of the adults tried asking their questions at the same time. They promptly shut up as they realized they were nearly shouting over each other. The Hat let out a put upon sigh, and if an inanimate object could glare they could all feel it.

“If you will all be quiet, I will tell you what the devil is going on. The child has multiple individuals in their head. Unlike the last time this happened, exactly twenty years ago, these multiples will not be sorted into one singular house. I regret to inform you that I sensed six individuals. Young Potter must simply be a child of Hogwarts, something that has not happened in two hundred years.”

The five adults sat back in stunned silence. Magical Multiple Disorder was incredibly rare. The person who was referenced from twenty years ago was sitting in the room as one of the heads of houses and knew intimately what caused that particular disorder to arise. Severus and Minerva looked at each other in horror as what the Hat said fully materialized in their minds. Six multiples, that meant Potter had gone through some of the worst abuse one could receive and all before age eleven. As one, they glared at the Headmaster. Minerva was the first to speak, and Albus had gone pale at the sheer loathing he could see in her eyes.

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbeldore, give me one good reason I shouldn’t hex you into oblivion right this instant. Explain yourself or I will permanently transfigure you into a cat scratch post.”

“Now dear…”

His response was cut off as a nasty stinging hex hit him in the forehead.

“Don’t you ‘now dear’ me you meddling old goat. You know what, sit there in silence. I am sure young Potter can tell us what we need to know.”

With that the headmaster was hit with four silencing spells of such power he couldn’t break through them. Although, if Albus was being honest with himself he most definitely deserved this. He had obviously failed Harry Potter for the child to arrive with six multiple forms. His eyes widened as he remembered what that truly meant. It was with great effort that he did not vomit as a wave of guilt swept over him. He focused back on everyone else in the room as Minerva asked her first question.

“Harry, do you know what the Hat is talking about? I am so sorry that we weren’t there for you but I promise we will do everything we can to help you. I couldn’t check on you, because this meddlesome man took my memory of where we left you. I wanted so badly to look in on you. Please, will you let us help.”

Harry took a moment to study the faces around him. He saw guilt, concern, anger, and despair, but he was happy that there was no pity. He took a deep breath and as he let it out, he also shifted. The adults gasped as suddenly a near identical twin to the child’s mother stood in front of them now. Severus went pale as a ghost and had to slam his Occlumency shields into place just to stay cognizant.

“Hello, I am Azalea, and I am our Nurturer. Harry is our Face, but he needs a moment. Yes, we know what is going on. After Hagrid took us to Gringotts, we pickpocketed our key and went back in. We met with our account manager and got recommendations for books to help us learn about what we are and the wizarding world in general. Headmaster, you are lucky that you never took money from us or had anything to do with those ridiculous books written about Harry Potter. My relatives are about to be bankrupt, by paying back what you set up to send them for my care. The writers and publishers of those books are also about to meet a lawsuit like they have never seen before.

Obviously, you all seem to know what causes this Disorder. My relatives were the absolute worst sort of Muggles…”

Apparently, Albus hadn’t fully learned his lesson as he finally broke the silencing charms around him. He proved just how senile he was going by daring to interupt Azalea.

“My dear girl, they are your family. You had to stay with them for your own safety.”

He flinched back as a dagger whipped past his nose and buried itself in the wood behind him. He stared wide eyed at the new form in front of him. Where just a moment ago had been a thirteen year old miniature of Lily, now sat a fifteen year old female version of Sirius. She was scarily similar to Andromeda or Bellatrix Black, if either woman had ever delved into muggle goth-punk fashion that is. Black curls ending in blue tips were pulled up into a messy mohawk. The girl was twirling another dagger between her fingers and glaring at Dumbledore.

“Feck off ya ol’ cunt. Safe, ya think ay ‘as safe with dem bloody rat bastards. I was created at four years old. FOUR ya fecking prick! I’s Zoey by the by, the Protector. If youse the bastard lef’ me ‘er, youse jus’ as much at fault. Argh! Fine. Harry wants to speak again.”

“Sorry about that. Zoey is quite aggressive and vulgar, and we would be here all night if I let her continue. As Zoey said, she appeared at the age of four, as did Freak and Jamie, who you will meet momentarily. Jamie is our Child, Freak is the Masochist. There is also Holly, the Slut. She appeared at age nine. Our Uncle decided beatings and starvation weren’t punishment enough. She and Freak are unique in that they would black certain things out for the rest of us. Those memories remain muted to the rest of us. Despite our collective mind, if you want details you will have to request those come forward. Be warned if you do that, we will probably slip into our Child form and need care for the rest of the night.”

The adults decided they did need to know more. First, they asked Freak to the forefront. Professor Sprout had to conjure a bucket which she immediately filled with the contents of her stomach. Freak was approximately sixteen and a mass of corded muscle. Over that muscle and covering his skin was crisscrossed dozens of scars. You could see them because all Freak wore was a pair of ripped sweatpants that ended at the knee. Roped scars covered his chest, back, and arms. The adults could see words; freak, monster, and whore, carved into his flesh at various points. It seems Freak had taken every wound and what it left behind onto his form. His size came from the sheer level of strength needed to survive all that had been done. While listening to Freak present his memories, Pomona and Minerva were brought to tears. Severus ended up summoning calming droughts for every adult present. Then they met Holly, who is around fourteen years old. She gave all of them appraising looks before informing them that her stories would have to come another time. The collective group was drained, hungry, and getting tired. The adults realized how late it had gotten. They decided Albus would make an announcement in the morning, and he went to give the closing speech and dismiss the students. As soon as he was gone, Holly told them Jamie was coming. The shift revealed a four year old boy, who was too skinny for that age. He had a stuffed black dog and a blanket that Minerva recognized as the one he had been left with that fateful night. Her heart nearly broke as he reached out to her.

“Nana Minnie, up?”

[weneverlearn]

Replacements - For Sale: Live at Maxwell’s 1986

The Replacements, pre-this new live album - Photo by Greg Helgeson

I’ve been to Maxwell’s in Hoboken, NJ, many times. @newbombturks played there a few times. There’s even an official DVD with a few tunes from a wild night we had there. But I wasn’t around NYC in 1986. I saw the Replacements on this tour while still growing up in Cleveland, a few months before this show, if memory serves.

“If memory serves” serves as more than just the ubiquitous rock’n’roll maxim when it comes to the Replacements. Drinking, specifically cheap beer, really was essential to being in, and into, the Replacements. Luckily, I wasn’t yet seduced by the gut-scraping joy of Natural Light when I first saw the Replacements back then. So memory is fully subservient here. 

My friend and I went because we’d heard a little bit of them on college radio, probably, and went to any show with a band that had a vaguely punk-sounding name. I think Death of Samantha was opening, and I saw them every time I could. 

Stone sober I sat there as the Replacements jumped into their set. And by the third song, I knew this was something to sink myself into fully, I told my pal, who preferred sitting and watching if the choice was there, that I HAD to go down front, which I did during what I thought sounded like “Rock My Up” (which I later learned was “Take Me Down to the Hospital” -- why “hospital” sounded like “rock me up” to me, I have no clue. But again, not drunk. Maybe the ears were already ringing...), and stood agog and bopping for the rest of the show. To this day, it’s the closest I ever felt to what it must’ve been like to see the Beatles at the Rathskeller, the Stones at some London underground dive in ‘65, the Velvet Underground at La Cave in Cleveland in ‘68 -- a show you instantly know to commit to memory, something you can impress the youngins with years later.  

Side story: While working at CMJ in 2008, someone was quitting, it was their last day, and we all decided to go to lunch with him that day. So one person decided to start a conversation: “Name a band you saw live who later got really huge.” After a bunch of interns scratched their heads and at best came up with “Uh, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah,” it came around to quitting guy who said, “Well, I saw [forgotten 2002 hype band], and a little someone named Ted Leo opened up.” Murmured “Ooooo”s arose. When it came around to me -- being at least 13 years older than anyone at that table -- I didn’t have the heart to name drop the Pixies, the Replacements, or Jesus & Mary Chain (all three of whom have done recent reunions, but man, it was way better back then, man!), and feigned a french fry getting caught in my throat.

So anyway, yeah, that Replacements show was one of the most exciting I ever saw. They perfectly fit my evolving notions of all-decades post-war trash rock smelted into one whiz-bang rock’n’roll gang, a tiny corner of “my generation’s Rolling Stones.” 

Photo by Caryn Rose 

But over the years... well firstly Don’t Tell a Soul came out, so, yeah. Then the cult of the Replacements slowly over-mythologized them, and suddenly by the turn of the century, they seemed to be the reason “no depression” existed, and no one wants to take credit for that. How did that ragged Johnny Thunders punk, constant self effacement, dumb hair, and ‘70s thrift store clothes morph into bearded dudes in flannels offering their left nuts to be able to write “Answering Machine” as an NPR essay? The Replacements were so deft (when “on”) at concocting that midwestern mix of a goofy sense of humor, severely pissed sonic squalls, and a predominant sense of swingin’ fun. But here they stood -- well their myth anyway -- as solipsistic neo-folkers just because “Here Comes a Regular” was so fucking good.

Not unlike R.E.M., the earliest moves of the band seemed to have been swallowed up by the (relatively, in the Replacements case) latter day hits and staid reputation as “serious influence.” So with R.E.M. you had Live and Counting Crows name-dropping them; with the Replacements, Built to Spill and Ryan Adams Hey, fun-stompers -- the Replacements liked the DeFranco Family and the Sweet at least as much as CCR.

(The brief rumors that the Black Lips were going to play the Replacements in a kind of quasi-biopic? Now THAT made sense, even if whatever that idea was seemed to have gotten ground down into this.)

Thankfully, Bob Mehr’s excellent biography, Trouble Boys, came along in 2016, right after the short-lived Replacements reunion tour, to more roundly realign the band’s brazen garage band spirit and shit-stirring, shit-faced, and sometimes just plain shitty sides.  

Photo by Caryn Rose

And now we get aurally realigned with this new, top-notch live double-album, For Sale: Live at Maxwell’s 1986; recorded, superbly, with Warner Bros-backed pro shit in lieu of a promotional live album that never happened, since guitarist Bob Stinson was kicked out not long after this 1986 tour. Compared to my memory of that Cleveland show the same year, and given that if there is one constant in the Replacements story, it’s that “some nights they were great, other nights they were even more drunk,” I recall way more funny in-between song banter and bitching. As the fine liner notes (by Bob Mehr) cop to in this release, this was not a night for witty banter. Whether that was from simple mood -- and the fact that for 3/4 of this show, the band really does blaze from one song to the next, so no fucking complaints -- or the fact that the band’s relationship with Bob Stinson was disintegrating exponentially right around then, and so the no chat/go fast rhythm here may be railroading emotions. That is often the default gear for most great rock’n’roll bands. 

Photo by Caryn Rose

Ripping versions of “Hayday,” Hold My Life,” and God Damn Job” are just some of the highlights from the first half. As the drunken but not completely sputtering, 1/4-baked covers of ‘Mats’ fame start to roll in, the album takes a slightly woozy turn into the moodier side of the band. If my aforementioned platzing about solipsism implied that I don’t deeply revere the band’s melancholy impulses, I apologize. The Replacements and their Minneapolis brethren of the time (Husker Du, Soul Asylum, Magnolias) were the best in r’n’r’s history at effortlessly brewing up bawdy adolescent swagger coin-flipped with engrained, five month-long winters stuck in a dank basement brooding and coming up with riffs until adulthood might most likely make that 12 months.  

So as they make T-Rex’ “Baby Strange” their own slicing garage song,  “Hitchin’ a Ride” a stein-hoister, and pulling out the amazing dark tunnel drive of the shouldabeen A-side but lost comp track “Go,” they aren’t just the drunk band filling out the set because they’ve forgotten which originals they already did, though they were. Admittedly, it was notoriously hard to just stop and leave Maxwell’s stage because of no easily sneak off-able side door. Bands tended to go five songs too long there. But also -- as somewhere in there Westerberg mumbles about “This ain’t the most rocking show we ever did,” self-effacing to the end -- there is a shadow slowly descending on this set. The crowd is noticeably having a hoot, but there could’ve only been about 125 people there. So this is no posthumous, classic rock band triumphantlism stadium live document, with massive crowd cheering, of course. It’s an amazing American rock’n’roll band, if not to be recognized as such outside of the college radio crowd until much later. 

It’s a band just on the brink of starting to lose energy and patience for their already sloppily sculpted myth. It feels like a true pouring out of everything they got. Partly as it was supposedly a favorite club of theirs to play; partly because they knew some dough was being dumped into this promotional folly; and partly because a few nights before they performed the perfunctory middle-finger flip Big Apple show that all the big wigs were at who could’ve helped them get more popular. But mostly because the Replacements were a really fucking great rock’n’roll band, maybe at their greatest as a seasoned touring band right here on this cold February night. Not that spring was right around the corner or anything...

[artist-x-j-roman-cain]

Joker’s Wild

My name is super-unknown so I will shoot for the dome Aim through the window pane; leave two frames blown I am not Strange. But I will not change tones Proclaim Roman Reigns in any home Entertain through tomes Enter veins then splinter brains Highest on this sinner plane Center plain or inner sane? No. A soul so cold not even So Co Could help warm; dealt thorns Some have sworn tales, yelling “He’s loco!” “Si y yo soy el lobo feroz” Ferocious flows; ojos rojo Toke and choke on top rank dodo Coca blows? Mi es cabron? Oh no! Blow Coca? Por dinero? Best go hoe! Yo soy Joe Schmoe? Asi-asi? Si puto derecho! Direct foes, “vete a la mierda, conos”! Artista X es el Rey de todos los Reyes Sooth-sayer and smooth player Granuja de platas de lengua Ladies spreading legs, begging me to say yes. Weigh less than many but don’t call me mini Not one to waste pennies Immobile blades, not choppin’ on 20’s Mobile stays paid; minutes got plenty No cash in the bank; gas tank close to empty Yet more retail sells in smells than Scentsy My girl is a fine dime that OG’s envy Eyes green, hairs red plus always wet and sticky Ever leaving; burning and hitting like a heathen But she keeps returning Even after pimping her out for earnings Yearning for touch; by lips or finger tips She’ll learn you quick; bi so no bias when she unzips She flips all day but still chills at night Herb Knight in hempen armor Helping get over bored again Charming prints, used to disarm alarms Prince Charmin to soft; armaments’ armed Minced off the first cut; rinsed off like shit stuck to shoes In truth, I like going overboard and harming Like Carmen, no one knows where to find me Moving timely; double check nobody’s behind me Grinding to shine even when it isn’t Vision remastered after seeing how biz went? To guzzle gents jizz for cents Rather stick a muzzle in my mouth Than ever be asked where my fizz went Dissident miscreant because of medicinal Treants Gorgon like stoning; after all spinach is full of nutrients Beautifully bent; fine line between genius and insanity Underhandedly taking the lead; never mistakenly Make me your nemesis; own worst enemy to y’all I am limitless Illogically break chronological fate with paradoxical Genisys Forget Quicksilver; Wells wished in inventing this Luxury Mercury? Have H.G. mad as a hatter for penning this In lieu of Carrol; songs full of apparel Only autos should be tuned Putting hair pulling bitches on alert Better be careful Have them pissing; scared to twist up fisticuffs Baring tools; afraid to get face to face But I’m very cool; only thing up my sleeve is an Ace Thumping with my trump; then use the same spade to bury fools Joker’s wild; and I’ve been told the same Smoker’s smile plus a laugh cold and insane Broken stiles; never hold a flame to gain change Opening Styles all about showing up the Game At the Helm with a death wish like I’m hunting a hearse DRAC is the realm’s realest; still instilling hurts Curt versus legends or virgins; using perverse verses to abuse With no aversion to cursing this rough draft also the final version Shaft tough? Yes, when driven by me Not black enough to say I’m the bad-dest “shut your mouth…”, you see Keep it juicy; not goosing Lucy Truthfully I’m a prick spelt with a capital D Biggest you’ll meet; and above average in meat No need for lies; I know I satisfy Don’t believe me honey then come and see Relieve your cunny, have you cum a sea Endless returns like it’s my company Charge your Chakra; currently cum for free Currency for free milk? Then you can go ahead and get stepping permanently Ash into your urn Every sentence further sentencing eternity Hurting disconcertingly Adverting attacks; not possible when concerning me Genuine article Smashing particles like the Hadron at CERN discerning Emcees Splitting atoms While batting back at’em; scat’em like a cat. Kill every vermin I see Shivering cowards While stylishly delivering streets sermons for fees River of power That is, a strong flow with undertow current; currently Amped up Have them clammed shut; in bomb shelters like the emergency Is national But it’s natural to run urgently when faced by the beast from the murky deep Heard of me? Or been hurt by me? Try me when unworthy and meet A brief defeat By these feet. So take a seat or be beat down vertically Post mortem surgery Quicker to dig six one by ones; bury you very dirtily Curtly asserting Your curtains but far from my encore that’s a certainty Unmercifully Murdering psyches with words alone. Spurring the weak To purr back meek Lying while trying this Lion; King of Zion. Tired of burping these Babies and toddlers Going crazy searching for grown talent; licking talons and fangs thirstily Unnerving these Kids; knowing their lids will get peeled. Villain killing purposely Have curs cursing me Speaking cursively, curbing cohorts. Quit if your nursing teats Hyperbole Not when measured in pen; sink non-thinkers with ink poisoning Vent venom vehemently; little girls and boys playing with alloys Should quit banging noise My thoughts and voice concise Eyes on the prize; ions spliced off and thrown at my enemy’s head Radically rendering your ending; lending the term walking dead Stocking meds by the O-z From North of the O.C. Only importing the best, from Valleys’ in Cali to Co-towns alley’s G-13 and Maui Wowie The Doctor’s in Get re-T.A.R.D.I.S.; needing starting? Got Diesel too if you need to rally Tally the score Weighed straight, bud and not shake with proper tear drops; plus, I don’t dilly dally True wild card; evolved in being involved in anything called sin My balls’ in court never Alcohol in blood no more; instead soar above but feet still on the floor Claws in the ground This is my town. Come down sounding hard and I will leave you scarred With the loss of your crown Scalpel scalping. And if the laws in the Mudd come around? Still won’t be found. Proper noun; capital Artist using absurdly sharp wit for getting capital Known for ripping sharks to bits Sparks will arc; marked by X then know next your neck Will be stretched regardless Of your guards. I'll march right through your gardens. Embrace mayday Because by melee I have been hardened Leave them marveling at my carvings which cause starving Hungry but not eating beef; these freaking vegans are retarded Believe it’s better to give than receive Seas get wetter from here; forever in gear Achieving whatever I can perceive Seize vets ahead of my years; too clever for peers Deceiving none, yet some sectors still don’t bet on me Sieges settled in letters; vendettas never feared Easing at leisure; proceeding on with no etcetera Seasons become bygone; seasoning legions of chickens so long live Cain, King of Weird Erecting a dynasty Weapon selection is free form daggers called forth from the Nether Injecting arsenic Martial arsenal; impartial to arson. Coolly pulling the lever Irreverent to me Intellectual elephant and elegantly eloquent. Resisting transistors Close circuit Verdict shows consequences for the inoffensive; tethered to weather through endeavors On attack like a shredder Chipper sure as this plot runs redder Splendor found in splinters Cheddar made grating big cheeses Donning black and green Stripping clubs; beating pussies together Surrendering before being engulfed in embers Hand over your tender or be berated by Poetry, mixed with soul of the street Wholly complete when competing against the elite Never miss a beat; a capella teller Fellas that think they can swell up; one hell of whale tail Shelling out pain on the jealous Overzealous never. Well prepared with an umbrella Real life, not a telenovela Jotting rotten embellishments; relishing propellers developing yellows Punks pissing themselves when warships need worshipping Blood, sweat and oil mix Until the ill contents become flammable And all the malcontents Bow out; knowing good and well I’ll damn a fool Or a damsel If you think you can lay hands on me; your delusions are fanciful Panty puller Revealing fraudulent broads; inflict wounds that will require some gauze from the gods At odds with society Believe working a desk is a probity And I’m a writer Some consider a prodigy My odyssey cementing my property Foundation laid in Don't play pretend; make fake men Or women Shed their linens. Hollering no apologies; now follow me Make a joke out of any lesser F-5 force like Lesnar. Why so serious? Uncrowned underground jester Bound to pound the pavement With your cranium; straining some with that statement One truth inevitable Julian sliced in way that was absolutely unforgettable Unintelligible Little bulls should quit being foolish before getting whipped cool and made edible Cannibal but not named Hannibal Mechanically distributing electrically compressed waves To enslave your ladies Into behaving like a cowgirl; riding this bull and craving these testicles Undressing tools Cunning tongue; expelling fantasies for sensational pull Lessons blessing illiterate fools Honeys’ dribbling from touch so much they create literal pools In Sin City I rule Will not pity the drooling class; passionately fashioning Jewels Fastening dull blades To this mental lathe to gain edge; allegedly dredging up the typical Satirical lyrics searing spirits Phantom fandoms abandoning idols idling when I crash tidally Spiritually binding Ritual sacrifice; decisively knifing as if practiced on the habitual Basis. Run races never. Pace to slow. Basics way below. Spacing pros with tasteful prose Also slaying joes Embracing complacency only stagnates; changing notes lead to growth Flaying bros even Must stay on toes or fade; daily dough made by not taking a doze I only dose With Mary. Quite contrary to hoes bickering about which nose I’ll be sniffed through Some into inducing rushes via sphincter Keep your stinker away Couldn’t be helped with a bleaching tincture Suffering puncturing For lunch bringing nothing but punch and knuckle sandwiches Damn bitches. My hands twitching, itching to do ditch digging for snitches with no steel brandished Have no advantages Loose leaf my canvases. Not afraid to get scandalous; know y’all cannot handle this Gargantuan tarantulas Manhandled like tea candles as I dismantle men easier than destroying a mandolin Banding in Only amplifies the likelihood of meeting a random end Ranting and rambling Gambling when I'm done that you won't be able to keep ambling Knock you out in your sandals when my spit hits like an Ambien Watch me trample them; sampled but never sampling Entranced with sin Dancing in and out after romance ends Lancing them then off to the stands again Slanted bantering Can offend but also bend inhibitions; renditions of wishful visions and being the one granting them Dammed if dim Stranded in damages; can't get cantering, this Cancer managing Standards that can spin Rabidly rapid; static shock and awe. Addict not dropping off. Elaborate pens Radically pin backstabbing bastards; infinitely outlasting Simultaneously lashing Latching on with a firm grasp. Grabbing and toe tagging then afterward bagging them Meet my jagged friend Egging on until calm is Gone with the Wind On to win That is, magic tactics Exacting backward grins as in upside-down frowns Should I explain that again Batting bad men with a racquet like it’s badminton The raconteur bracket designed for the rhymer in his prime; letterman jacket Personally fitted Custom colors; clique unaffiliated but true Paid dues for these suede shoes Ensue wrath, crossing paths with me. Be phased through. Displace you Vibrate at a rate that frequently frequencies disintegration Blazing you with phazers set to stun Yep son, better run because here I come to erase you Each and every angle will be tangled with Break both ankles Then add in the mad tendency to strangle Take your Angel and go Jangle out the last bit of blood. Lots of love for being painful. But just be thankful Only got your bank; sank like the Titanic. Hitting like an ice cold tank; you're a lukewarm row boat frozen exposing you're shameful Wordsmith, perfectly working an anvil Not a man to steal; but guarantee I can and will Drop your body in a landfill Stop talking, get to walking; gawking awkwardly At the oddity who stands steel Resolute in Will; if looks could kill Mine would; shooting villain’s long as I am still in Adrenaline pumping; dumping loads of shit. Here’s the damn deal Entrepreneur Grade A manure; never has there been a truer Entrees pure Bade losers farewell; after a push down the stairwell Never been surer Any assurances weren’t accounting for me and my allure Got your cure For being average; lock you in a fridge and drop you off a bridge. Got the top rung secure And I haven’t been on tour Demure nature? No. Bigger ego than Troy McClure Stopping simpletons, pop them like pimples Catching them in the temple; listen as the song of a fat minstrel ends Stenciling by pencil Lengthy dismissal brought about by drizzling In a million missiles These difficult insults leave individuals’ pissed; the gist is: their coined phrases aren’t worth a single nickel Series: X Sin-to-Mint Artist: Artist X (Justin Roman Cain)

[speedygal]

Not a logical intervention - part 14 (Aka Spock and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Night)

One night, Spock overheard the sounds of phaser firing from outside.

The sounds had ripped Spock out of his slumber.

The blasts had been loud. Very loud and clear.

The Ambassador opened the blinds to witness in a flare of light the intensity of a phaser blast striking the backside of a small Romulan warbird. The lighting from the blast showed that the attacker was a larger Romulan bird-of-prey. It had a long neck with small wings and almost seemingly appeared to be a modernized, steam punk version of a vulture at first glance. He closed the blinds hiding to the side of the wall. Five months of a contentful existence were shattered. He went toward his makeshift bed hiding his family photograph into his sleeve and placing the necklace under his shirt. He retrieved a phaser rifle from the closet.

The scene panned back to show the Romulan warbird crashing against  the ground. The larger Romulan craft flew off leaving the trees bending in a eerie way. Blades of grass now bent in a different direction.  The Romulan kicked open the lid sending it falling to the side. The Romulan tossed off their helmet falling over with a hand on the side of their chest crying out in agony. The Romulan had thick, bushy eyebrows. His Romulan hair cut was disheveled from the usual ‘v’ shape. The Empire was furious at him. Yet incredibly leniant chasing him off the mother Romulan warbird. He tore off the armor one piece in a fit of rage. Clunk. Clunk went his shoulder armor. Thunnk thunk went his thigh armor.  A part of his pointy ears were missing bleeding neon green. Parts of his slanted eyebrows were covered in green blood as though he had killed someone.

The Romulan staggered over to the side of a tree trunk then started to slouch against it.

“Freeze,” Spock said.

The Romulan slowly looked up toward the Ambassador.

“A native?” the Romulan was surprised.

“A new native of this part,” Spock said. “Identify yourself.” Lyion held his free hand up in surrender.

“I prefer to call myself Lyionel, a human word, I think,” Lyionel said. “I am . .” he fell down to the base of the trunk. “Ah!” He flinched, clenching his shoulder. Spock was eying at him cautiously keeping the phaser rifle at the ready. The top half of the gun had Star Fleet Command symbol alongside the mouth of it. “A disgrace. A waste of the empire’s time.”

“How do I know you’re not here to see if I am a threat?”  Spock asked.

Lyionel looked up toward the Vulcan.

“I cannot go back,” Lyionel said. “Not ever.”

“And you speak fluent Federation  Standard,” Spock said. “Do not use the ‘I come from a family of spies’ excuse. Romulans have never bothered to spy on the federation.”

“They have plenty of spies in there working and gathering information,” Lyionel said. “they don’t get to the chair, if you’re thinking,” Spock lowered his gun toward Lyionel. “most of the people are perplexed why. Rumors say the Federation’s crews made them change their mind,” he laughed, flinching. “I wish I were a spy.”

Spock’s grip remained steady.

“You have not answered my question,” Spock said.

“I believe you call it. . “ Lyionel placed his hand into his pocket. Spock lightly put his hand onto the trigger.  “You can relax, I did not bring my disruptor with me.” Spock’s glare was upon the man. Lyionel took out the long, gray pipe short object from the deep large pocket. He held it toward the Ambassador. “A universal translator?”

Spock lowered the gun then took the translator.

“Oh. . .” Spock said, “It has been a long time since I saw the translator this way.” He handed it back to Lyionel who was giving him a strange glance. “I cannot let you in to my household.”

“I understand your concerns,” Lyionel said.

“Sorry,” Spock apologized.

“For what?” Lyionel asked.

“For being unable to help you,” Spock said. “If you threaten my home or myself--”

“You will kill me,” Lyionel said. “I get that a lot.”

“I will toss you into a hole that has a large impalement,” Spock leaned over observing for any kind of recording devices on him. The look of horror was genuine on the Romulan. Spock leaned back with his hands on the top of the phaser rifle. “I can give you advice on how to heal those injuries but I feel that would be suspicious, and there for, a target by your government that likely has drones listening in.”

“Are you a Romulan?” Lyionel said.

“Arguably, I belong to no species,” Spock turned away then made his path toward the house.

“Then why are you here?” Lyionel asked. Spock stopped, painfully and briefly, closing his eyes as a flood of emotions ran through him. The Vulcan had a heavy sigh turning in the direction of Lyionel.

“Decline to comment,” Spock said. “Where did you get the universal translator?”

“A shuttle craft came out of an anomaly,” Lyionel said. “A time traveler, they said, someone from the future.”

“What stardate?” Spock said, approaching the Romulan once more.

“I believe it was the mid 2250′s, maybe the 2260′s.” Lyionel said. “I don’t really remember.” Spock shook his head.

“I have no knowledge of time travelers from that era,” Spock said.

“That is because I killed them,” Lyionel said. “the shuttle craft is property of the empire.”

“And is it advanced?” Spock inquired.

“Not by much,” Lyionel said. “it’s a older model.” Spock relaxed.

“How badly are you injured?” Spock inquired.

“I can’t stand keep my balance against a stupid tree,” Lyionel said. “I think . . . I lost a lot of blood.”

Spock took a light emitter off the phaser rifle then used it to check his wounds.

“The wounds are not severe,” Spock said. “you have suffered some blood loss.”

“So I am going to live,” Lyionel said. “How cheery.”

“The scarring is not going to be pleasant,” Spock checked the man’s ears. “My apologies, Mr Lyionel.” he put the light emitter back onto the phaser rifle then helped the Romulan up to his feet hearing the man’s loud high pitched yelp.  Spock applied the Vulcan Nerve pinch on the side of the man’s neck Lyionel’s head lowered and he fell into the abyss of rest.

Lyionel awoke in what was likely a make shift bedroom. There were four walls around him with furniture decorating the room. The stinging from his chest had faded. He lowered the neck of his shirt to see the wound was healing well given what he gone through.  A disruptor beam straight into the muscular section of his chest. He was lucky that it hadn’t hit where his lungs were located. The room was well lit by a candle attached to a makeshift candle container that were like a poor man’s replacement. The room was well regulated in temperature.

The bed felt like it was made out of lumber, hard and hearty.

He sat on the edge of the bed going through what had happened.

The empire would want to eliminate him in any means possible.

And if this elder was by any means cautious then he would leave this building.

The candle smelled liked honey, oddly enough, now that he had noticed.

“You must rest,” Spock’s gravel voice came from the doorway.

Lyionel looked over to see the older man leaning against the wall. Spock had long silver hair that reached to his shoulder with braids alongside his pointy, curled ears. He was in a long robe that seemed to be well made for someone stranded from civilization. His bangs were well trimmed compared to his hair. As though he had let go of his hair style for quite some time.  Lyionel was impressed to see a Romulan individual, older than him, still around to surprise him. Spock raised a grayed, thinned slanted eyebrow at the man’s reaction.

“It is not advisable to leave bed rest after an injury like that,” Spock added.

“You helped me,” Lyionel said.

“And the drones think you’re dead,”  Spock said.

“This is made of wood,” Lyionel said. “They think I am alive.”

“Not easily heard through wood,” Spock replied. “It is difficult to hear people through that,”   Lyionel heard buzzing from outside. Spock had his arms folded as he shrugged before adding.  “However, hearing what is going on outside is a different story itself.”

“What is that noise?” Lyionel asked.

“That is my bee colony,” Spock said.

“Oh,” Lyionel said.

“Yes,” Spock said.

“What is a bee colony?” Lyionel asked.

“Bumblebee’s,” Spock said. “black and yellow little insects that collect  pollen. They are responsible for life as we know it. Flourishing on planets with soil. The ones you accidentally step on when talking barefoot.”

“If there are, then I rarely ever see them,” Lyionel said.

“Sure,” Spock said. “they are not the only pollinators.”

“I did not catch your name,” Lyionel said.

“It is best I don’t,” Spock said.

“You told me to identify myself,” Lyionel said. “it’s your turn.” Spock sighed.

“I refuse because that name used to signify someone else. . ." Spock looked down toward the floor in shame. "Someone better.” Spock shook his head. He looked back up toward the Romulan. “You may call me Selek.”

“Uh, no, Selek sounds like a every day traveler,” Lyionel said. “I don’t want to call you old man.” The Vulcan had a short laugh.

“That is the best you will get,” Spock said. “Mr Lyionel. You refuse to tell me your real name.”

“That‘s different!” Lyionel exclaimed.

“Not at all,” Spock said. Lyionel paused, considering it. He nodded his head.

“Both running away from the  past,” Lyionel said. He used the frame of the counter to stand up. “quite a parallel. . . .” he leaned against it looking off toward the Vulcan. “I was betrayed by the empire I trusted, and you did something so bad that once you start anew you refuse to be known by the name you were born with?” he cupped his hands together in front of himself. “Sounds like  a tragedy happened. Worse than mine.”

Spock nodded.

“You may leave in a week,” Spock said. “you may sneak out at night and we must never see each other again.”

“Ever?” Lyionel asked.

“Ever,” Spock said. “You are a Romulan. Romulan Empire is cautious regarding its own citizens.”

“It’s a curse and a gift at once,” Lyionel said.

“Indeed,” Spock said. “Mr Lyionel, I recommend you rest yourself. Wounds like that take time to heal.”

“All right,  old man,” Lyionel said. “Jolan Tru.”’

Spock turned away with a bad feeling resting in his gut then closed the door behind him.

When Spock awoke next, he was being taken out of his bed, by the arms, by stronger, muscular  individuals. He looked over to see the holo-emitter was broken. Spock’s heart broke into pieces. The last physical remainder, the last evidence was beyond repair. His photograph was hidden inside his sleeve, that  Spock had made sure, before going to sleep an hour ago. He watched the Romulans searching for the beehives, the ones that were beehives, that were hanging above their heads. He looked over to see Lyionel on the floor in the dark two piece outfit hunched forward with tears in the outfit being stung again and gain by his superior officer using what happened to be a long golden staff with a red sizzling tip. He turned in the direction of the Vulcan and spoke fast toward the Vulcan.

 “Tor ri nash-veh ken-tor du,” Spock said. I do not understand you.

The commander nodded in the direction of the security officers.  One of them tore off the sleeve pocket from the Vulcan’s sleeve then tossed it over toward the commander. Spock watched in horror, restraining his physical reaction, as the commander slid open the photograph. The commander looked up in disgust toward the Vulcan.

“Ewek nam-tor skan,” Spock said. We are family. “Tor ri shaya ish-veh.” Do not break it.

“Hevam heis'he,” the commander said, in a disgusted tone. Human love.

“Hevam-thaessu,” Spock replied.  Human-Vulcan. There were some Romulan phrases he knew but not all of it.

“Ryak'na,” the commander said, then dropped the device. Garbage.

Lyionel looked up.

“Hia,” Lyionel said. Oh no.

The commander used the disruptor on it.

“No!” Spock lunged forward  collecting what was left of it. “No,no, no, no, no, no.”

Spock watched his friends vanish before his eyes. The space that Scott had been was now a large circular hole. The last evidence of his found family turned into a blue screen. Spock looked up, in anger, emotionally toward the commander as his hands crushed the photograph in half. His blood was boiling. Rage replaced all reason. Before the security officers knew it, their primary captain laid dead on the floor after several Vulcan Martial Arts and the fatal Variation of the Vulcan Nerve Pinch. Spock rubbed his wrists, regaining his cool and composure.

“You have died hard and gone to hell, you son of a bitch,” Spock said in federation standard. 

It was a fairly vulgar statement. Something that  Spock hadn’t pictured himself saying in the beginning of his friendship with McCoy. The doctor’s swearing had rubbed off him. More so than it had before the incident with the whales and  Khan. His vocabulary had increased after being inside the doctors mind. And they had became more useful to him, emotionally, and non-emotionally.  No one clearly understood him in his second mother tongue.

“Graes thaessu?” Lyionel said. Old Vulcan? In a unsure voice.

Spock knew Lyionel would not last long, and he pitied him, and felt guilty that he hadn’t ended his life rather than helping him. Romulan torture was said to be worse than the mind sifter. Spock turned away from the younger man. Spock turned toward the security officers.

“Nem-tor svi’ nash-veh,” Spock said, holding both his hands up. Take me in.

Lyionel had watched the elder be taken away by the Romulan gaurds out of the house.

Lyionel was the last to be taken out. Lyionel watched a fire be started in the comfy, cozy home. Spock watched his home burning to the ground. His eyes drifted over toward the forest. As though he had something else hidden within the nearby perimeters. His gaze was ignored as he turned his attention back onto the man made home. His home burning before his eyes. Smoke drifting into the air. Flickering flames landing to the grass. A wildfire happening to the planet at any time. Turning the green planet into a burning planet. Spock painfully watched walls break apart as a gust of flames tore through it with renewed vigor. Green light circled the small group. The last Spock saw was the curtain of leaves burning away falling apart on what had been his front porch.

[sweetdreamling]

Soul Bound I

Summary: In which you live in a world where you’re bounded by your soulmate's words and life bar on your wrist. Yet, you’ve never experienced the genuine love of your soulmates. Not until the infamous, problematic duo, Harley Quinn and Joker that gives them a wake-up call.

Pairings: Clark Kent x Reader, Bruce Wayne x Reader, Reader x Harley Quinn, Poly Relationships

Warnings: Angst, Torture, Foul Language, Suicidal Thoughts, Character Death, Abduction

Note: This is an edited and slightly rewritten version. After such a long time, I finally pick this series back up.

Parts: II, III

   There wasn't a time you've hated your life than this moment. When you thought your shit show of life could get any worse, this happens. A few of Joker's dickheads goons kidnapped you by high jacking your car and in clown masks. The distant arguing ceases when you blink open your eyes.

"Oh, Puddin' they're even cuter when waking up from their nap!"

"Dear God, please let this be a horrible nightmare," you pleaded in your thoughts as you looked up and into the eyes of Harley Quinn.

"Fuck," was the only thing you could say before she knocked you unconscious.

Let's flashback to the beginning of this horrible day.

You were smiling ear to ear as you ran up the stairs leading to your shared apartment with Clark. When you arrived at the door, you stood taking a few calming breaths. As you reached for the knob, Someone opened the door. You caught yourself on the side of the door, hands gripping tightly. 

"Y/N?" Clark questions, sounding surprised as he watches you balance yourself.

"What are you doing here?" His aggressive tone causes you to raise an eyebrow in surprise.

"Wow, big guy. What's your problem?" You ask, taking a step back as he glares at you. His glare made your skin crawl. But you weren't a punk and would not let him intimidate you. "I came to talk to you. I've got news!"

 "What is it, Y/N? I don't have the time to make small talk." He says as he steps around you. "It's short, I promise." You reach for his right wrist, where your soul bond was.

Clark grimaces, pulling his wrist away from you.

"Don't touch that. Tell me whatever it is so I can go. Lois and I got a big break on this article an-,"You roll your eyes, letting out a sigh.

"You've been avoiding me for days, and then when I come to talk, you want to blow me off for Lois?" What an asshole! This was the same routine you've been repeating for the past month. 

"Because Y/N, not everything is about you. Lois needs me right now, and if you're done with this. I've got to go."

 "Excuse me? I'm your soulmate! I've come to speak with you after you've been blowing me off for weeks! Yet, you're going to stand there in my face and tell me she's more important than me?!" You ask venomously.

Clark sighs, rolling his eyes. "Of course not, honey. I was saying Lois needs me now, and you don't. I mean, you aren't going on any battlefield time soon." His tone was icy as he spoke. The only thing you could do was stare at him in disbelief.

 "You've lost your damn mind, Clark Kent. If you think I'm going to stand here and take that bullshit, you've got another thing coming." You hiss as he steps forward. "Y/N… Do we have to do this now? Lois is waiting."

When you didn't speak, Clark sighed. "Y/N, you're holding me up with this nonsense. I've got to meet Lois at the airport." It took all your willpower not to break down crying right at that moment.

"You're fucking serious right now. You don't have to take a plane; you can fly for crying out loud. But it's alright. Be with Lois; it's what you've always wanted, anyway." You shake your head, blinking back tears. "But just know that whenever you come back, I won't be here." You see regret and fear flash through expression before going back to annoyance.

"I swear to you now; I will not come back." Clark sighs, "Y/N, we both know you'll always come back." You scoff, “not this time, Clark. Her or me?!”

"I'll see you later, Y/N!" He zips past you and out the door. You let out a shaky breath. Of course, he wouldn't care. You should've expected it, this wasn't a damn fairytale, and you wouldn't get a happy ending. You let a few stray tears fall down your cheeks as you left the apartment.

You could only feel sadness as you drove your car to Gotham. After a long and tear-filled drive, you pulled up at Bruce's' manor. You took a few minutes to breathe before getting out of the car and walking towards the estate. You were hoping to hear some good news, anything better than what happened with Clark.

A mind filled with doubt and disappointment, you stared down at your soul lines. They both were thriving, but you had little hope to hold on to. You walked towards the manor, heart in your throat. 

You pressed the intercom. "Who is it?"

"Hi, Alfred. It's me, Y/N."

"OH! Y/N, Master Wayne didn't tell me you were coming over! Come in!" The door buzzed, opening. "Master Wayne is in the sitting room waiting," Alfred says as he welcomes you in, taking your coat.

Bruce rises from his chair at the sound of footsteps. He has a smile on his face, which drops when he sees you. You could feel what little hope you held dry out ultimately.

"Hi, Bruce," you smile awkwardly. Bruce frowns, shooting Alfred a look of confusion. "I told you I didn't want to see anyone today besides Diana."

"Of course, Master Wayne but, you haven't seen Y/N in quite a while." Alfred begins, but Bruces' scoff cuts him off.

"Wonder why?"

"What is that supposed to mean, Bruce?" You asked him. He gives you a look of disbelief. "For the past month, Y/N, you've made every excuse in the book when it was your time to spend with me."

"I did not! I-"

"I don't want to hear your shitty excuse. Alfred, please escort Y/N to the front door and off the premises." Bruce tells Alfred before he goes to turn around.

"Turn your back on me, Bruce Wayne, and I swear to you this will be the last time I ever come to you again." You threaten, hands clenched by your side.

"Good," He says, turning back towards the chair.

You felt your heart drop to your stomach as you watched your soul bound turn his back on you. You pressed your lips together to keep from letting out a sob.

You couldn't believe it. First, Clark was giving his usual bullshit, and now Bruce. It was as if they tagged-team, taking turns ripping your heart out and stomping on it.

You brushed off Alfreds' hand." No, it's alright. I've got it." You give him a small smile.

" Have a good life, Mr. Wayne." And with that said, you leave the manor. Leaving your favorite coat behind, it was, after all, a gift from Bruce. Getting in your car and driving until you run out of gas, not paying attention to where you were going.

That's where you fucked up and ended up in this situation. 

You let out a soft groan as someone or something poked your cheek.

"Come on, doll! Wake up!"

" Humph," you grunted, head pounding as you slowly opened your eyes. Blinking to clear your vision, you come face to face with a very familiar face: bright green hair, black eyes, face covered in paint, and a big red smile.

"Holy shit, Joker," the hoarseness of your voice causes you to cringe.

 "Sorry about that, you wouldn't stop screaming, and my shit show of goons hurt you." Joker eyes the bruises around your neck in anger.

"Did you have a nice nap, sleeping beauty?"

You could only gulp in fear as he stood above you, a hand caressing your cheek. 

"I asked a question!" He hisses, grabbing your jaw.

"I-"A gasp cuts off your response as Harley Quinn skipped into the room, squealing in delight as she caught sight of you.

"Oh my god, they're awake! Hiya, Y/N!" Harley rushes to stand beside Joker, smiling down at you. You look at her and Joker, bewildered. That's when you noticed your surroundings. Joker smirks, letting your jaw go as your confusion turning to distress as you look around. 

It was an empty room with only the lone chair that you were strapped down to and a camera setup.

"W-What's going on?" You asked, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

 Joker frowns, tutting. "No need to be scared, Y/N. We're just going to have a little fun!"

Your heart was hammering in your chest. "F-fun? Your meaning of fun is a hell of a lot different from mine." 

Harley giggles, "Oh, Y/N, if we weren't planning on killin', you'd fit right in!"

You could only stare at them in horror. Holy shit, your life really was over. Your soulmates tossed you to the side, and now you've been kidnapped by one of your said soulmate's psycho enemies.

Swallowing your fear and being a dumb ass, you replied, "Well, at least let me go out with a bang."

Joker lets out a chuckle. "Oh, I like you. If only you weren't Bats soulmate." 

Your eyes widened. "H-how did you find out?"

"That's for me to know and you never to find out! Who would've thought Bats' would've had a soulmate, huh, Harls?" Joker and Harley laugh before Joker glares down at you.

"Boy, oh boy, this is the grand finale that everyone's going to be talking about for years! Joker finally crushes the Bat Of Gotham! By killing his heart!"

"Smile for the camera, ya guys!" Harley waves as she holds up the camera, filming you and Joker.

He let out a sad sigh; you knew it was fake. "This is going to hurt me more than you can imagine, Y/N. But, I'm sure it's going to make Batsy and Supes sob their little hearts out!"

He twirls around a crowbar, giving a few false swings, causing you to flinch. "It's funny you're going out in the same way the precious Robin went out. You really can't save the people you love, can ya, Bats?"

Unexpectedly, Joker turns away from the camera, swinging the crowbar in your direction. You let out a grunt as the blow lands on your ribs. 

Joker smirks, "that's nothing compared to this!" The next blow lands across your neck, causing you to let out a choked scream. "Cut' em loose, Harley." As you desperately tried to gasp for air, Harley untied you.

You crumpled to the ground, clutching your throat. Joker lands the next blow to your back, and from there, the endless beating last for god knows how long. Joker didn't stop until he beats you to a pulp. Face bloody and nearly unrecognizable.

"Mister. J! Shouldn't that be enough! Look at them; they're barely alive!" Harley yells out, causing Joker to pause in his rage, beating.

 "SHUT UP AND HAND ME A GUN, HARLEY!"

Harley flinches as he turns his rage-filled gaze onto her. "R-right away, Mister. J." She fumbles to unclip her gun from its holster. 

"Hurry up!" Joker growls, landing one last blow onto Y/N's bloodied body.

As Harley hands Joker the gun, he turns to the camera, smiling nastily. "I hope you enjoyed the show! I know I did; it looks like Y/N did too! Look at them! Best fun of their life!" Joker rolls Y/N over, grabbing their hair, lifting them to show their face to the camera.

"Remember, this is all your fault, Batman! You never learn from your mistakes, do you?! First, Robin, now your precious little Y/N! Oh, if only you'd taken time out of your day to listen to them. Maybe they would've never ended up in my arms!" Joker lets go of your hair, let you fall to the floor.

Harley could hear your small, strained gasps for air. 'How the hell were you even alive at this point?'

"See ya later, doll," Joker says before he places the barrel of the gun against the side of your head. There a brief moment where Harley wants to rush over and knock the gun out of Jokers' hand, but it's too late. The loud echo of the gun going off rings in the quiet room. 

The only thing left to hear is the Jokers' harsh breaths and Harleys' quiet whimper.

"And that's the ending to this show, folks." Joker cackles, giving a mocking bow to the camera.

"Cut it and send it out, Harley. We're leaving in five." Joker throws her gun at her feet, walking out the room. 

She could only stare at Y/Ns' now deceased body in horror. She didn't know why she felt anything when she's witnessed Joker do much worse. But this made her sick to her stomach. She hurriedly shut the camera off, giving Y/N one last look. She rushes out of the room behind Joker.