Boughs of Folly: Fruitcakes

It wasn’t just the banging of the knife against the carving board. Or the quaint smell of cinnamon that wafted through the house. It wasn’t even the fact that every radio station in Gotham City had started to play Christmas carols ad nauseum and Harley had decided to listen to all of them simultaneously. It was the whole Christmas season. Those stupid jingle bells and fake snow and trees inside the house. He hated trees. If he wanted to look at trees he’d live outside. Yes, Christmas was the only time of year that the Joker couldn’t find a reason to smile.

“Come on its lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with yooouuuu…” the obnoxiously cheery voice sang through the speakers as he wandered into the kitchen where Harley flitted here and there, singing along. The blue jeans and sweatshirt she wore were covered in flour as was most of her face and hands. When she noticed him standing, all broody and growly in the doorway, she skipped over to him and gave him a big floury kiss on the cheek. “Morning, puddin’!” She giggled, seeing him bristle at the term of endearment.

“Whatever…” he grumbled, limping into the kitchen and leaning against the bar, holding his head. If only he could find that cursed radio…

“Aww…what’s wrong, Mr. Scrooge? Got the Christmas blues?” she purred, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He mumbled something unintelligible yet vulgar. He looked even more unkempt than usual, his hair falling in his eyes and the remnants of last night’s makeup still streaked across his face.

“Oh come on… even a guy like you must like something about Christmas,” she giggled, going back to the enormous stainless steel bowl she’d been standing over.

“Nothing. I like nothing about Christmas.” He groaned as he heard the music switch to that intolerable “Winter Wonderland” song.

“Not even cookies?”

“No.”

“Santa Claus?”

“A big fat guy in a red suit that breaks into people’s houses? No. But if you see him, maybe he’d like to come work for me.”

“Well there must be something--”

Joker thought for a moment, trying to isolate one thing that he actually liked about Christmas. Even as a child he’d hated the whole thing. The only present he’d ever gotten on Christmas were the scars that marred his face. Trudging back through his long-term memory, he couldn’t find one happy Christmas memory. Not one.

“In the meadow we can build a snowmaaaannnn…” the radio sang. He looked up suddenly and saw the object of his rage. Harley was humming along and dancing cheerily as she used an enormous wooden spoon to stir some brown, lumpy substance in the silvery bowl. Just behind her, the radio sat on a shelf above the sink. Picking up a heavy pipe that stood in the corner behind the door, he advanced quickly, making Harley gasp and duck out of his way.

“What are you doing?!” she squealed.

With an abandon usually reserved for beating up mob stoolies, Joker went at the radio, smashing it into little plastic bits that flew all over the kitchen. The vocals trailed off pitifully and sparks popped all over. Harley watched with horrified fascination, clutching her bowl of batter in front of her.

“Feel better, puddin’?” she asked nervously.

“Don’t call me that,” he growled, throwing the pipe aside. “And no. I hate Christmas. I won’t feel better until it’s over,” he grumbled flopping down in a chair at the table.

“But why do you hate Christmas?” she whined, pouring a jar full of maraschino cherries into the batter. “Christmas is great! There’s shopping and Christmas carols and chestnuts roasting on open fires--- and presents!” As she gestured for emphasis with the spoon, batter flew across the room and splattered on the cabinets. “Oops..” she giggled. “And fruitcake!”

“Well that explains that vile odor…”

Mischief flashed in Harley’s eyes as she strolled sexily over to him, swishing her hips and twirling the spoon in her fingertips. “Oh come on… everyone likes fruitcake.” She slithered around him, straddling his lap and sitting down at the edge of the table. “Its sweet…” she purred, swirling her fingertip in the sticky batter. “And spicy…” she added, licking her fingertip.

He rolled his eyes and grabbed her shoulders, shoving her aside and making her sit down hard on the floor. “And nutty. Now I understand why you like it so much--” He shook his head as she crawled to her feet. “The only reason anyone likes fruitcake is because they can keep re- gifting it year after year after year. It’s like a brick, only made with allegedly organic material. You’d be better served using it as a weapon---”

“God… you’re usually so much fun--” She stopped short, looking at the truly evil expression that had spread across his face. “What?”

“How much of that fruitcake did you make?”

“This batter will make at least three more pans. Why?”

“Time to spread a little Christmas cheer.”

**********************************************

The projectile made a slight whistling sound as it flew through the wintry December air. For a second the squarish shape was silhouetted against the full moon before dropping like a stone and crashing through the glass revolving door at the front of Wayne Tower. The concierge ran to the door, looking out to see what had happened. He could only see the taillights of a purple crotch rocket speeding down the street. As he looked down at his feet, he saw what had apparently broken the window.

“What in Hell… is that a brick?” He picked it up with some difficulty as it was heavier than he had expected. When he examined it in the dim light from the traffic, he could see that it was most definitely not a brick. “Uccckk…” Whatever it was, it was sticky in his hands and smelled of rum. He brought it to his face, looking around to make sure no one was watching. With caution, he stuck out his tongue and licked the projectile. “Oh… it can’t be….” he groaned, wrinkling his nose and wiping his tongue on his sleeve. “Yuck…. Fruitcake.”