Grabbing breakfast

“I’m cursed,” Harley said, swinging her baseball bat in a casual trajectory into the base of the man’s skull, making a noise somewhere between a bonk and a crunch.

“Seriously, totally fuckin’ cursed. And I’ve met goddesses. Well, one. Like to do that Shakira dance. Kinda totally evil. I try and get a breakfast sandwich last time, and get chased down by half the city!” The other man was attempting to say something, but was drowned out by the gunfire, that became slightly quieter as Harley kicked his gun away into the river. He grabbed at skirt, which came away in a satisfying, expensive rip.

“This time,” Harley batted a grenade away in a pantomime of softball, watching it explode prettily into a wall, and not so prettily into someone’s chest, “You bozos decide to pop up outta nowhere and give me a fight! Like jeez, at least book an appointment.”

Harley finished her cartwheel, slung a pink, bedazzled pistol into the air, fired one bullet into a heavyset man running towards her, and then held it casually against the temple of the last assailant, pressed against the wall.

“Hi, Harley Quinn. You knew that. I’m pretty famous. And I just wanted breakfast!”

Curiosity managed to break through the veil of fear in the man’s eyes. “…it’s midnight.”

“Well, fuckin obviously,” Harley rolled her eyes, and tapped the man with the pistol. He squeaked slightly. “But breakfast is a state of mind.”

“You know what? That’s fair.”

Harley beamed. “So is this the part where you apologise and tell people to stop trying to kill me? Or is this the part where I get my shirt all bloody?”

The man glanced down, blushed. “I’m sorry. I’ll go… tell people. Then move away. Like, far away. Is there anywhere the Joker hates?”

“Belgium.”

“Perfect.” He took one more glance downward, flushed, then ran, for about 4 months.

“Well that was dramatic,” Harley huffed, and pushed a lock of white hair out of her fringe with the barrel.

She looked down at herself.

“Oh.”

What was left of her shirt - already small - was bloody. She supposed one of them had a knife; and whilst she had only been a little bit cut, her now resembled party streamers in a blood bank. And her skirt was in tatters, even as she pulled at it, it ripped more.

And Harley hadn’t bothered with underwear. (She’d have worn a sports bra if she’d known she’d been fighting, but at least she’d had a hair tie.)

“Well. That’s somethin’.” Another piece of skirt dropped into a puddle.