Squad Stories: Marvels 5/5

The general hum of a busy restaurant on Friday night, crackles through the warm, fragrant air. Candles dot the center of each and every table at Maroni’s, in tall, golden holders. Few in Gotham realize that Salvatore Maroni, when he still lived, had franchised his restaurant business, which managed to flourish well beyond his criminal empire.

 

Here in Louisiana, this establishment of Maroni’s took on a surreal combination of Italian food and Cajun cooking. Somehow, it manages to draw people in and rack up a respectable amount during the evening of both dollars and patrons.

 

Even some of the more . . . unusual variety.

 

Cap: These really are fantastic breadsticks!

 

Digger, having already tried to Boomerang one: Yeah, they’re alright. Not aerodynamic enough f’r me though.

 

Floyd has had exactly one glass of whiskey. It sits, empty, in front of him. He hasn’t asked for a refill, it won’t help him. It was a mistake coming here, but he’d just have to deal with it. The patrons all slump dead in their seats. The host at the front door was bleeding out on his podium, and his two companions were jabbering corpses. There was one place he found solace; The forehead of Captain Marvel, unblemished, clean and without even a hint of a gunshot hole.

 

Harley, placing a hand gently on Cap’s arm: So tell me Mistah Marvel, Whatcha doing when you’re not . . . rightin’ wrongs?

 

Cap, definitely drinking apple juice: Well, I help out around the neighborhood a lot. You know, save kittens from trees, help grandmas across the street, go to the zoo. When I can I help out at the homeless shelter.

 

Digger, drinking gin and tonic: Regular Superman, this bloke.

 

Harley: I think it’s sweet!

 

Cap: Hey, I’m no Superman, he’s a class all to himself, I just like to do what I can.

 

The waiter arrives, he is oily, but otherwise pleasant. To Floyd, he looks the same as all the rest.

 

Waiter: Hey there, are we all ready to order?

 

Harley: Sure! I’m gonna get the chicken-Caesar salad, and can I get a Pink Lemonade with that?

 

Digger: Stake, well done, taters on the side, maybe some mozzarella sticks, and uh, chuck in a couple of eggs will ya? Scrambled. Keep the Gee ‘n Tee flowin, eh?

 

Floyd: Uh, Another glass of whiskey. . . Yeah, that’s all.

 

Cap: Y’know, this cheeseburger sounds good. Can I get that without the onions and with another apple juice? Thank you, sir.

 

The waiter jots down their order, smiles, and retreats back towards the kitchen.

 

Cap: So what is it exactly you guys do? Unless it’s like, top-secret government stuff, then I understand. *He holds a finger up to his lips*

 

Harley: We’re rehabilitation specialists! I’m a psychiatrist! I like to get all up inside your mind, and figure out what makes all these supervillains insane in the membrane!

 

Digger: Insane in the Brain!

 

Harley inches her chair closer to Cap: maybe y’can stop in some time, get your head checked! I totally do walk-ins!

 

Cap: That could be fun, actually. What about you two?

 

Floyd and Digger glance at each other briefly.

 

Digger: We’re er, deputy wardens we are! Yeah! Old Floyd and I was once nasty criminals, but now we’re on the path to the straight and narrow.

 

Cap: So you two WERE bad-guys!

 

Floyd, quietly, almost sullenly: Still are, kid.

 

Harley: Ahaha don’t listen to him, he’s just in a bad mood today. What they mean is, they’re ex-bad guys. The truth is, we all are.

 

Digger: Cheers to that, yeah.

 

Cap: Well, be that as it may, despite your pasts, it sounds like you’re trying your best to change, and do what you know is right. You guys may all be ex-villains, but to me, that’s the important part: “Ex.” Sure we all go through tough spots, and sometimes we do things we regret, but in my experience, that just makes us stronger people when we come out of it. I’m glad you three are working to get your lives turned around. It gives me hope for the real villains out there, the ones they say can’t change. Personally, I believe everyone has the capacity for change. If that’s not too sappy of me to say.

 

Floyd Lawton blinks once. He downs the last of his whiskey, and he gets up and leaves.

 

Cap: Is . . . is he okay? Was that too sappy? Did I say somethi-

 

Harley: Shh, no, no, you did nothin’ wrong, hon, I’ll go talk to him.

 

Harley pursues him.

 

Digger: So, Marvel me mate, it’s down to you, and it’s down to me.

 

Cap: . . . Know any good jokes?

 

Maroni’s, at this location, takes residence in a vintage, four-story building in the downtown area. The restaurant itself finds itself located on the third and fourth floors, and where there’s vintage buildings, there’s balconies. The night air nips at Floyd’s nose. The breeze bites his ears and tugs at his mustache. Floyd grips the balcony railing and stares blankly at the street. He doesn’t even smoke.

 

Harley Quinn follows shortly after. Her scarf gets caught in the wind, and her arms instinctively wrap her coat tighter around her body. She’s known Floyd for a while,

 

But she’s never seen him this bad.

 

Harley: Floyd, you okay?

 

Floyd: Go back inside, Harley.

 

Harley: C’mon, Floyd, you’ve been off all day. I can see it in the way your mustache droops. What’s up?

 

Floyd continues staring at the street below.

 

Harley: Alright no more mustache jokes.

 

Floyd: I don’t want to talk about it.

 

Harley puts a hand, gently, on his shoulder, then quietly asks him: Are you armed?

 

Floyd: No.

 

Harley: That’s unusual for you, isn’t it?

 

Floyd sighs. It’s a violent, distant sound.

 

Floyd: If I tell you this, you cannot speak to it about anyone else.

 

Harley, smiling slightly: Hey, that’s my job.

 

Floyd takes a deep breath: Alright. Every few months or so, I feel . . . homicidal. So I don’t carry a piece anywhere.

 

Harley: Like intrusive thoughts?

 

Floyd: Sure. Thoughts. Images. Everything around me turns red. Everyone around me is a corpse. Boomer’s a corpse, Answer-guy’s a corpse. Waller’s a corpse. You’re a corpse. Everyone has a perfect hole in their forehead. A bullet I put there. That I do my damndest not to put there for real. But you know what’s the damndest thing? That muscle-bound cape that you keep makin’ eyes at . . . he’s completely clean. I can’t even will myself to imagine a bullet in his head. He talks about followin’ a new path, becoming a better person. Well I’ve tried, I’ve goddamn tried. For myself, for Michelle, for Zoe. But I cannot change myself. I’m a killer. That’s all there is. That cape, his outlook, is everything I could have been if I’d never fired that first bullet. He’s everything I could never be.

 

Floyd hasn’t stopped looking at the street below. His knuckles are turning white, he’s finally begun to feel the cold. Harley wraps one arm around his shoulder, and together, they stand for a few minutes in the frigid silence.

 

Floyd, eventually: Hey Harl?

 

Harley: Yeah, Floyd?

 

Floyd: Why did you always call me ‘Cowboy?’

 

Harley, after a few seconds: Cause uh . . . well, When I was growin’ up, my Dad watched a lot of Cowboy movies. Y’know, Magnificent Seven, Once Upon A Time In The West, that kinda thing. And well, uh, the first time I saw ya without the mask on, you reminded me of Charles Bronson.

 

Deadshot continues staring into the street, then he starts to chuckle, which descends it’s way into a laugh. Harley begins to laugh with him, and for a minute, the two just stand on the balcony, chuckling away.

 

Floyd, eventually: We should probably get back in, huh?

 

Harley, smiling: Yeah, probably.

 

Floyd, smirking: If you ever tell anybody about this, I’ll have to shoot you.

 

Harley, still smiling: Wouldn’t have it any other way, cowboy.

 

The two make their way back to the table, weaving in and out of passerby and wait-staff. Eventually, they find their dinner companions, who are in the midst of laughter themselves.

 

Digger: So the bloke sees that this other guy, he’s just flyin on the wind and landin on the balcony pretty as y’please, right? So he thinks ‘blimey that’s a strong wind! I gotta try that meself’, so he jumps out the window and plummets to ‘is death. Then the Bartender, he looks over to the flyin’ guy, an’ he says ‘Y’know, You’re a bloomin’ arsehole when you’re drunk, Superman!’

 

Digger and Cap: Ahahahaha!

 

Cap, his laughter subsiding as Floyd and Harley return: You’re back! And not a moment too soon, our friends jokes were getting a shade bluer by the minute!

 

Digger: Ah ye loved em, can’t deny it. Plus look at this, eh! Grub’s here and waitin’ for ya!

 

Cap: I’ll admit I will be saving a few of those. Also I want to thank you guys again for inviting me along tonight, It’s been a great time. I can see why you guys hang out!

 

Harley and Floyd sit down in their seats across from each other, and catch each other’s eyes. Harley smiles warmly. There’s still a bullet between her eyes, but Floyd knows that it’ll fade away.

Done