High Heels and Low Lifes

Having your faces moulded is a fairly bizarre experience we can assure you. We couldn’t help but feel slightly claustrophobic inside the thick wet mould that hung to our face like an extremely bad kisser. We managed to allay our fears (Kittlemeier’s stories of oppression in his home country not helping very much) however by counting sheep jumping over a stile - pairs of sheep of course, a black one and a white one. However, before long the sheep no longer jumped over a stile - in our panicking mind they jumped over the edge of and into a cardboard box. We, in our over imaginative mind the slack jawed yokel Shepherd who stood at the side of the stile, cried out and leaped in after them. Suddenly, the sides of the box began closing in - the roof closed over us - we were suddenly cramped, our knees up to our chest, and the walls were still closing…
We shuddered.

A rap on the legs from Kittlemeier (who in our mind’s eye was increasingly taking on the image of a schoolteacher whom we particularly disliked) brought us back to reality.

By this time the mask was beginning to dry. It was shrinking, like the card board box of our fantasy. It was tightening, puckering our skin.

We panicked. Soon the mask would shrink even further, causing our face to wrinkle until our youthful good looks (well, on one side of our face anyway) would all be shrivelled away and we would be reduced to looking like a bull dog with a nasty rash on one side of its face (WhO aRE You CalliNg A raSH?!) for the rest of our days.

Twoface, the men in the papier-mâché mask. A modern surrealist ironic remake of that film that came out recently, the one with that brat DiCaprio in the lead, we could make a much better leading man than…
And with that Kittlemeier forcefully ripped the mask from our face. The pain was extraordinary. It reminded us of the time we had been trying to grow a moustache and Selina had blind-sided us one day with a wax strip. Except this was ten times worse.

"OW!" we shouted.

Kittlemeier tutted at us. "Don’t be such a baby Herr Dent. Zat wasn’t so bad was it?"

We looked at him with puppy dog eyes, our bottom lip out and quivering.

"Ach, OK, OK, you can have a lolly pop. You've been a fairly good boy after all."

"Weally?"

"Weally…I mean, yes."

"An orange one?"

"Sorry Herr Dent, I only haf lemon."

"Hmm…that’s fine."

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

"How comes you get to go first?"

"We've been over this a thousand times Twoface. I’m older than you. That’s the short answer."

"That’s you're excuse for everything! When are we gonna get a turn?"

"The long answer is that I doubt very strongly that your preferences towards Sadomasochism will be that enticing towards a sweet woman like Magpie. Besides - she isn’t really your type in that she’s only a C cup I believe. In answer to your second question, hopefully never. Hopefully, Miss Magpie will be so bowled over by my dashing good looks that we won’t have to try anywhere with you at the helm."

Twoface snorted.

"Laugh it up Darth Duplicity. You shouldn’t mock the pulling power of the Dentmeister until you've seen it with …well, our eyes!"

"The Dentmeister?"

"Shut up. Besides, we're at the Iceberg now - I don’t want to hear another peep out of you until we get home or it will be Care Bears for you my son. Understood?"

"Yes dad."

With that we pushed open the door and walked down the stairs that lead to the Iceberg’s bar area.

Kittlemeier’s mask looked great - it was as if we had never been scarred in the first place. To try and give the impression of a nice normal human being we had decided to wear jeans and a brown polo neck. We could have been any man on the street, and we felt great to have some anonymity again.

The woman we sought was talking to Cobblepot at the bar as we entered. As we approached, they glanced over at us furtively, and continued muttering in low voices. Suddenly, Cobblepot smiled at her and stuck out a webbed paw.

"Done!" he said. She smiled at him, and shook his hand.

"Nice doing business with ya Ossie." She said sweetly.

We took this opportunity to remind ourselves of what she looked like. Magpie was a thief, one of The Penguin’s numerous flock. She is an attractive woman, (now she had lost the Mohawk she used to have when she had first started out) and would make a great partner for us we thought. As her name suggested, she stole pretty shiny things that were usually bird related and then sold them on to him for a fair price. He would then sell them on again for double what he paid. She of course had not lost anything - in fact, she made a lot of money on the deals - so both parties were happy with the arrangement.

Cobblepot may be a sad excuse for a human being with an unforgivably lousy singing voice (as numerous painful Karaoke experiences had proved) but he was an extremely good businessman, it must be said.

As we approached, Cobblepot jumped off his barstool, losing a good four inches in height Twoface cruelly remarked in our ear, and stared at us inquisitively through his monocle.

"Harv?" he said, puzzled. "Is that you?"

"It’s me." I said, quietly.

"But…well, no offence dear boy, but you're face…"

"I know I know. It’s one of Kittlemeier’s new inventions. An incredibly life like face mask. He did briefly explain to me how he made it. Something to do with polymers, the Harbour Process, the Nitrogen Cycle…I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening. Science never was my thing."

The Penguin quacked appreciatively.

"So then, Mr Dent as I may as well call you seeing as you've temporarily lost your other half, what can I do for you?"

"If it’s OK with you Oswald, I would like a minute alone with your friend Magpie over there."

Oswald looked up at us, a look of mingled pride and admiration on his face.

"Then God speed Harv. May angels carry you and my Magpie on celestial berths to marital paradise."

"Steady on Pengers!" we said in a mock British accent, struggling not to laugh. "We're only going to ask her to come for a drink with us some time."

"Ah," said Penguin, tapping the side of his beak conspiratorially, "so say you Mr Dent. But The Penguin always knows better. God speed." He said, slapping us on the back.

Taking a deep breathe, and fired up by his high expectations, we marched towards our prey.





We would like to draw a discreet veil over that particular attempt. Correction, he would like to, but we're sadistic, so we'll throw his failings out in the open for your ridicule.

Suffice it to say, Harv is an even bigger coward then even we had supposed. He wondered up to her looking like a lost child. She looked round at him inquisitively. He coughed nervously.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked, in a tone so full of fear that it would have a casual listener think he was talking to the Blair Witch, not someone he actually wanted to eventually be with.

She looked at the long line of empty barstools propped up against the bar. She sat in the middle of them.

"Guess not." She said. We felt Harv blushing. He sat down reluctantly next to her.

"So then." He said. He paused. "Nice weather we're having isn’t it?"

We were appalled. As an opening gambit that rates alongside 'Hi my name’s Adolf Hitler.'

She looked at him oddly, smiling a little, and concurred.

Harv rubbed at the back of his neck, laughing a little at how difficult he was finding this situation. Naturally that loosened him up a bit. We filled his mind full of images of Catwoman prancing seductively with that bullwhip, spiteful toad that we are.

Feeling him tighten up as he went along, Harv said in a rush, "Look, I’m really not very good at this - in fact I haven’t done this in some time so you can hopefully forgive me for being pretty poor at it. What I’m trying to say in my own roundabout way is that I find you very attractive and I was wondering perhaps if you would do me the honour - no far too formal, sorry - if you would do me the pleasure - no. Basically what I’m trying to say is would you be willing to come for a drink with me at some point? Maybe catch a movie? Come to my apartment for dinner sometime? I've got a fondue set. You like fondue? Look, I’m sorry, I’m really not very good at this, here I am waffling on and on, and I just can’t stop because I know that when I do you're going to turn to me and tell me to fuck off and I would hate for that to happen. I hate rejection, I really do. I mean, I’m not going to get suicidal or anything, so don’t feel any pressure, although it would mean a lot to me if you would accompany me for a drink sometime. Or dinner. At my apartment. Did I mention I had a fondue set? Are you a fan of fondue?"

She placed a long finger to our lips, smiling. "Shh." She said. We're so glad she did. It was either that or we were going to make Harv punch himself in the face. "Look, Harvey." She said, smiling slightly sadly now, "You're a real cute guy and all. I like ya a lot. But I gotta boy friend already. I’m sorry. And no, I don’t like fondue."

"Well…" said Harv, in an overly macho way, "that’s fine. It was just a thought. No big."

We could feel Harvey’s heart breaking. Again. Don’t get us wrong - he isn’t in love with Magpie or anything ridiculously Hallmark as that. But his own inadequacies, his own crippling lack of self-esteem - they were painfully apparent.

Poor Harvey.

We would feel sorry for him if we didn’t have to share the same bodily functions. You try taking a dump with someone everyday for fifteen years and then see how sorry you feel for them.

Anyway. We digress. It was our turn now, and Harv knew it. Besides, he was too tired to fight off our insistences.

We took a quick trip to Kittlemeier’s to get our face mask. We had told him to expect us, and he had our new face mask ready for us.

He applied it with his usual expert care, all the while telling us some crappy story, to which to be honest we didn’t listen. Why the hell should we? Once he was finished we looked into the mirror he provided.

We cackled. We looked positively frightful. Kittlemeier had managed to give the impression of full facial scarring - we looked like something out of a nightmare.

We felt a new air of freedom and independence. No more Harv tying us down, holding us back. Temporarily anyway.

"Perfect for attracting the fillies." We thought, grinning into the mirror. It looked more like a snarl.

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

Hey all - Harv here. For those of you keeping score, I’m back in the driving seat, and it’s all thanks to Harley Quinn. Other than leaving me a bit sore, that woman gave me the funniest five minutes of my entire life. I doubt very much Twoface would agree with me, but I just don’t care.

He didn’t spare my blushes, and I won’t spare his. This is how it went down.

We saw the lovely Miss Quinn skipping towards the Iceberg Lounge. He had positioned us in the shadows to the side of the entrance. "Awaiting our prey." As he called it. We gasped. Surely not Harley Quinn we thought. Joker doesn’t take too well to people flirting with Harley, even if he does treat her pretty badly himself.

None of this seemed to phase the Dark Lord however. Just as she was about to skip past, he stepped out in front. She cannoned into us, allowing him a quick moment of secret pleasure as her ample breasts pressed against our chest. She landed in a muddled heap on the floor. He lent her a hand to pick her up. As she took it, he whirled her around, holding her in his arms in front of him, leaning forward like some kind of fucked Errol Flynn, doing his best to pucker the bit of muscle that used to be my lip. Harley was understandably taken aback.

"Who the hell are you?" she squealed. Told you she was taken aback.

Twoface continued inching forward for his kiss, saying softly, "All that you need to know my dear is that we are everything you have ever dreamed of. We have a penis so large it often gets mistaken for a canoe and we're not in the least afraid to use it. What say we go back to my place and do it doggy style over an open fire."

Harley shrieked. Twoface smiled as only he can. His smile soon vanished though, as the former gymnast buried a knee into our groin. She wriggled free. He hadn’t moved - he was in too much pain. OK, it was shared, but mentally we were laughing like a hyena at his discomfort.

She slapped him hard, across his cheek not mine fortunately, which seemed to bring him back to life. Poor Harley. How could she know Twoface likes it rough?

"I don’t know who you are or what you heard mistah, but Harley Quinn ain’t that kinda girl! You sick perv!" she squealed.

"So am I to assume that you'll be at my apartment in half an hour then?" he said arching an eyebrow. "I've got a variety of sex toys, although naturally you're more than welcome to bring your own. And do you wish to be dominant or submissive?"

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

She would later explain to us (as we apologised profusely for his antics and explained the situation) that it was precisely for that kind of reason that she always carries a cattle prod.

She was fairly good about it actually, and we both laughed about the image of Twoface in the foetal position on the floor, shuddering as waves of electricity ran through him.

Fortunately, because he had been in control at the time, the damage to me had actually been fairly light. We decided to avoid water for a few days, and our hair was incredibly static, but other than that there was no lasting damage.

Other than to Twoface’s ego which amuses me immensely.