La Mort Rit En Dernier

The storm had passed, and the sun had set and the night was quiet and still as nights always are after a storm. The ground was still damp and the air had a pleasant, fresh tang to it. Stars winked from the blue velvet of the cleared sky, and there was no breeze. Once in the graveyard, Columbine was only too eager to hustle Harley home, and the romance of Paris had long since worn off for Harley. She turned to Joker with a pleading expression, and even Columbine blinked at him from her large brown eyes. But Joker stared up at the millions of stars, there seeming to be so many more than there were in the twentieth century, and rubbed his nose. His deep purple eyes blinked at the universe beyond and he grinned suddenly. Harley tugged his coat sleeve.
"Can we go home now, Puddin'?" she asked softly.
Joker turned his head to her slowly, the light of the moon illuminating his long wet green hair, his face dark where the moonlight didn't strike it. He looks like a being made from the moon's light, Columbine thought with something as close to admiration as she would get for the Joker.
"Soon, Harley Girl, soon," Joker said softly. "I just want to pay one last visit to our good friends the Minister and the Vicomtesse."

The next morning the sun burned brightly over Paris once more, though the air was still chill, and pale grey clouds dotted the blue sky. The damp streets rapidly dried as the people ventured cautiously out of their homes to go about their business, their hearts lightened by the dawn of a new day, the plagued bodies having being swiftly burnt. Frollo's guards returned to the Palace to report that no sign of the white-faced madman had been uncovered, to all intents and purposes, he had vanished.
Frollo sat, still and expressionless, in his armchair, gazing into the fireplace before him, strong dissatisfaction filling his chest and rising in his throat. Nothing had gone to plan. The lunatic had vanished, and the rom still plagued the streets of Paris. The Minister had a headache. Why did God test him so? No matter. Frollo was merely God's servant, he would face His challenges as He sent them. The Good Lord was merely testing his faith. He had plenty of years ahead of him to rid Paris of the heathen scum.
The Minister rose slowly from his armchair with a sigh, deciding that the morning was cold enough for a fire to be lit. As he made his way over to the bell pull, he stopped with a lurch and a sinking stomach at the sight of the box on his table, illuminated by the grey light filtering in the windows. Looking about him nervously, Frollo walked forward slowly. 
A deep magenta box, each side was marked with a grinning skull wearing a Jester's cap. The identity of the person who'd left it was obvious, and for that reason Frollo hesitated to touch it, licking his lips, and furrowing his forehead. A note was pinned to the top, the words scrawled childishly in orange crayon.
No hard feelings, Frolly!!
And at that instant the lid burst open. Recoiling in sudden panic, Frollo lifted an arm to shelter his face. Gazing over the black of his sleeve, he felt foolish to see that the box contained nothing but a Jester on a spring, wobbling madly from side to side, holding a banner in its hands that read "BOO". 
Laughing bitterly to himself Frollo strode up to the table again, prepared to throw the box against the wall, but at that second a stream of thick green paint flew from the gaping mouth of the Jester, splashing over Frollo's face and the front of his robes, staining it thickly. Gasping in disgust, Frollo wiped at his face with his sleeve, but only succeeded in spreading the gunk further. Clawing at the air, Frollo wailed. Why did the Lord test him so? 

Several miles away in her wooded estate, the Vicomtesse had risen and dressed in a hideously expensive wine-red velvet gown. Sweeping into her sitting room, she was more than a little unsettled to find a box decorated with jester-capped skulls sitting on her elaborate carved writing desk. 
The paint in the Vicomtesse's box was purple.

Underneath the city of Paris, in the Court of Miracles, the Rom had returned to sweep naughty children into their arms for scoldings and cuddles. The large fires had been lit, the pots once again bubbled with spicy foods, and soft sweet songs and incense filled the air as they chatted together happily and continued on with life.
In his tent, Clopin lay on his bed, a troubled frown on his face. Something had happened to him these last two days, something that had damaged him inside. The madman would have killed all the children, the same children who watched Clopin in his puppet cart everyday, and who laughed and begged him to play tricks on them. If that wasn't enough, his lovely red-haired favourite had left Paris without telling him. Clopin didn't feel like leaving the Court. He didn't feel like leaving his tent. He sighed and passed a hand over his face, trying to ignore his aching heart.
Outside the tent, Mirage played Clopin a song on her violin, singing her love and friendship for Clopin with her bow. It did not comfort him like it usually did. Outside in the square, Irea watched Mirage playing for Clopin with pouty lips. She knew something was hurting Clopin deep inside, and she didn't know what to do to make it better. Running a gentle hand through the blonde hair of the gadje girl who had finally come out of her trance and begun to show some life again, Irea got up and filled a bowl with chicken and a tankard with beer then strolled over to the tent and Mirage. Giving her friend a grin and bringing her song to a gentle end, Mirage gave Irea a wink and turned to walk back to her own tent. Irea lifted the tent flap and walked inside.
Clopin sat up as she came in, smiling at him affectionately, and he couldn't help but return it. "Here, you have to eat something Clopin," she said gently, perching herself on the bed and handing the victuals to the man she loved. 
Clopin took them without letting his eyes leave her once. He looked at her rounded cheeks, her sparkling black eyes and her mischievous grin and felt considerably better. Life wasn't really so bad, you just had to roll with the punches.
"Have you ever been kissed before, Irea?" he asked suddenly, and she blinked at him coyly.

GOTHAM CITY, 1999
The skyline above Gotham was a hazy red, as it commonly was, and a violent storm was on its way as the sun melted into the horizon. Car horns blared, neon lights flickered, and a luminous yellow light with the symbol of a Bat in its center struck the dark clouds above the city as night hit in Gotham City. 
Columbine and Harley Quinn, in fluffy slippers and gauzy nighties, their faces covered in peeling masks and wads of cotton-wool stuck between their freshly painted toes, rolled around on the bed and laughed and laughed as the Barbie doll melted fiercely beneath the acid on the stake they'd impaled her on. They'd already forgotten fifteenth-century Paris. Suddenly, the orange and green panelled door was kicked open, and The Joker, resplendent in a vivid blue suit with a green shirt and yellow waistcoat leapt into the room with a delighted grin on his face.
"Heads up, Harley Girl and LapDog!" he shouted cheerfully. "The Clown Prince of Crime has a brilliant idea for New Years Eve! It's a killer! It's a classic!! It can't fail! What a way to ring in the New Millennium!" 
Columbine groaned and banged her head against the mattress while Harley rolled off the bed and leapt to her feet. "Come on, Columbs, lets go get dressed!!!! Anything Mistah J's got planned HAS to be fun!"
Joker threw back his head and laughed in delighted triumph as lightning struck the Gotham skyline and a Man dressed as Bat continued a relentless search for him.

End