It was a special evening, for Gotham.

An event of great importance, attended by all the most important and in view members of that dark and cursed city, torned apart by the crime that nobody was able to curb. Even Batman, however struggling, could not heal the deep wounds of the place where he was born.

And so the ambitious project of the Gotham Art Gallery was born, a permanent exhibition of paintings and sculptures by the greatest and young emerging artists; all the works were for sale and the proceeds of which, together with the profits of the tickets, would go to the charitable associations that took care of difficult kids, wandering souls waiting to be shaped. From the right or wrong it was not sure, in a limbo made of abandonment and loneliness.

That was the starting point for Bruce Wayne: modeling a new society, upright and honest, eradicating at the same time the bitter weeds that prevented new sprouts from coming to light and giving prestige to the metropolis.
The people, elegantly dressed up, sipped champagne glasses and tasted delicate-flavored canapés, awaiting the Mayor's ribbon cutting and the official inauguration of the structure.

The first citizen, poking the microphone, verified that it was working, causing an annoying noise through the boxes at the edge of the salon decorated for the reception.

«Welcome, Gotham's people. Thank you for taking part in this unique and unrepeatable historical moment of our beloved city. A warm thanks goes to Mr. Bruce Wayne, who unfortunately could not be present tonight, to whose company we owe the funds allocated for the realization of this beacon that will bring light and hope to our society.»

A long applause followed the words of the grizzled man as young stewardesses pushed their way through the crowd, distributing small numbered pallets to those present.

«In a few minutes the auction will begin for the first and main work of the gallery, which will remain here guarded to give prestige to the exhibition. I trust you to be generous for a good cause» he concluded, lifting silver scissors from a velvet cushion and preparing to cut the scarlet fabric of the ribbon not far away.

In the exact moment the blades cut off the silk, a huge roar tore the ether and with it the wall behind the stalls, sending a lot of debris to the poor guests who shouted in unison.

On the top of the staircase, through the dust cover, appeared a silhouette dressed in a sartorial suit with bright and highly questionable colors.

A chilling laugh made the present shiver, terrified at the sight of numerous masked men bursting into the room armed with machine guns.

«Well, well, well...» the man said, propping himself up on the walking stick he was holding in his right hand. «How come I haven't been invited?»

A tiny figure, wrapped in red and black leather clothes, came alongside him, a huge wooden hammer on his shoulder and an amused grin on his face.

«They're so unkind! Don't you agree, Puddin'?»

«Of course, sweetheart. After all, I'm an artist!»

The Joker, smiling, made a short bow and then walked down the marble steps, followed by his faithful companion. He paused to observe critically a small sculpture, depicting a mother holding her child in a gesture of pure and unconditional affection.

«Mmh, no. Mediocre» he finally decreed, and Harley immediately crushed the sculpture with his own weapon, shattering it instantly.

«Much better, thank you honey» he smiled at him, his lips tinged with red folded in a hilarious grimace, while the jester blushed imperceptibly at the compliment

Gotham's most feared and sought-after criminal continued his tour, nodding almost absently in examining some of the exhibited works. With little grace he threw down a Greek-style statue from his pedestal, freeing the polished stone base. Theatrically, with the palm facing up, he invited Harley to climb upstairs. The jester accepted willingly, jumping easily and turning on himself.

«Oh, you are perfect! My best work» the Joker murmured, the emerald irises shining with a satisfied, perverse light, as he watched his own mad creation born from the ashes of the most absolute logic. Harley, meanwhile, moved sinuously showing the perfect physique, the skill with which he wielded his weapon and the complacency in being revered in that way by the man who had molded him.

«Isn't he perfect?! Admire your Queen, stupid ignorant!» the Joker shouted and all the presents, trembling in terror, stared at the jester who giggled with feigned modesty.

«Oh Puddin', you make me blush!»

While the jester descended from his own little stage, the Joker continued the tour inside the gallery, mercilessly judging sculptures, bas-reliefs and canvases.

One in particular caught his attention: white, completely immaculate except for a single patch of vermilion color.
His green eyes lit up in wonder.

«This» he pointed out, «is sublime! I want it in my living room!»

Harley, behind him, nodded fervently.

«Yes, Puddin'! We can hang it above the fireplace!»

The Mayor, not far away, gritted his teeth.

«You are crazy...!» he hissed, loud enough to be heard by the Joker who, with a lightning movement of his head, turned to look at him.

«Excuse me?» he asked, surprised.

«You are crazy! Let us go!» he shouted then in a loud voice, the point of a machine-gun pressing against his nape.

The clown then approached the first citizen, gently helping him to get up and pushing him towards the painting that had catched his interest. He put his whitish-colored hands, covered with jewels and tattoos, on his shoulders in a gesture of comfort.

«Tell me, Mayor: what do you see?»

The companion, not far away, smiled amused by that curtain that had nothing comic, playing with a lock of silver hair.

The hostage didn't know what to say or if it were appropriate to respond: the King and his Queen were sadly famous for the way they tortured their victims and, sometimes, physical punishment was desirable to psychological ones. He took a deep breath, hoping that what he would say was the right answer to that abstract question.

«Madness.»

The moment his tongue articulated the last syllable, a bullet pierced his skull creating a perfect circle in the middle of his wrinkled forehead and smearing blood on the canvas before him.
Wrong answer.

«Art» the Joker chuckled, stepping over the corpse to examine the scarlet sketches that had just been added to the original.

He clapped his hands, entranced, while the rest of the guests were trembling at the sight of the Mayor lying on the floor, his glassy eyes and a pool of red sap that spread out from the hole left by the bullet.
The jester, hopping, hugged his creator.

«Now it's perfect, Puddin'! You have a divine touch!» he murmured languidly, sliding his gloved palm across the other's chest, tempting.

The Joker growled, satisfied by the murder just completed and the growing excitement of his own half.

«Think about when we'll bring it home and I'll fuck you on our fabulous bearskin, warmed by the fire with the smell of death to intoxicate our senses...!»

Harley rolled his eyes back at the thought, clutching the purple fabric of his jacket convulsively.

«Let's hurry up, Puddin'...!»

The criminal snapped his fingers, his expression deadly serious as he recalled his subordinates.

«Take everything: money, jewels, all that has value. And...» he tugged one of the henchmen, disguised as a cow, by the collar«treat my work very gently.»

Among the screams of those present, the criminals moved quickly depriving them of all precious things.

«You're monsters...!» an elderly-looking woman cried and the mad couple smiled as if they were proud of their name.

«Thanks Madame! You're really kind» said Harley, blowing a kiss in her direction.
Once they had looted everything, the Joker looked at his companion.

«Sweetie, hand me the lighter.»

The jester ran away, recovering what his love had asked him. The hostages, recognizing the object, tried to draw back towards the wall and keep as far away from the man as possible.

«Okay folks! Let's warm up the atmosphere!» he shouted, throwing away the stick and embracing his gold-plated flamethrower, setting the entire hall on fire.

He laughed grimly as the paintings, the sculptures, the tapestry, everything caught fire and consumed slowly. Everyone was in horror, observing the dead body of the Mayor burn inexorably and yet another opportunity of redemption for their city incinerate.

Harley smiled, amazed by the perverse genius of his man, who approached and kissed him with passion. An unhealthy gesture right in front that devastation, arising from the growing desire of chaos and madness that both nourished. An incessant moving of tongues, fingers in the hair and teeth that sank into the flesh of the other, impatient to consume the embrace with the same burning desire with which everything was being destroyed.

That place would have fallen into oblivion, becoming a pile of rubble to be demolished, and while the Bat-signal cracked the blanket of clouds that towered over the sky of Gotham, calling his hero to help, the King and Queen of that cursed metropolis darted aboard their Lamborghini, heading for their home where they would give vent to their lust.