WARNING: This work of fanfiction contains strong sexual content, including "erotic grotesque" themes such as fetishized physical disabilities and a couple brief scenes involving scat and menstrual fluids. It also contains strong language, threatened firearms violence, and the use of cigarettes as weapons. If you're not physically, emotionally, and/or legally old enough to handle these concepts, do us both a big favor and press the Back button NOW.

EXTRA BONUS WARNING FOR ANY OF YOU WHO DON'T KNOW WHAT 'SCAT' MEANS: "Scat" is the general term for when Number Two shows up in a sexual setting. Yes, that Number Two. It's something that tends to rank highest on most people's Top Ten Things I Really, Really Don't Want To Bump Into While Reading A Sex Scene lists-- ergo, the double mention.

NOTE: The scenes in plain text and the scenes in italics are two separate stories being told at once. Plain and italicized paragraphs may have plenty of parallels going on between them, but they are not happening in sequential order. Hopefully, this will help avoid any major confusion.

I don't own Batman: the Animated Series. Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. and its license-holding subsidiaries do. Characters and concepts are being used without permission. No profit is being made from this file. Not even Happy Fun Ball is sure why Happy Fun Ball keeps showing up in these disclaimers, but the pay is pretty good, and there's a great dental plan.

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Double Date
by Apricot the Gerbil


The silver dollar lands neatly in his palm, clean side up.

The silver dollar lands neatly in his palm, scarred side up.

Looks like he'll be visiting the Rose Café tonight. True, he almost got poisoned to death there once, but one bad date aside, it's hard to top what they offer. There aren't many places in Gotham that can satisfy a man like Harvey Dent.

There's only two whores in this whole city that can give Big Bad Harv what he wants, and he knows better than to try getting them in the same bed a second time, so he flips again. Got the good heads... Off to Angel's place tonight.

He makes sure to change into his old powder-blue suit before setting out for the evening. It's the best suit he owns... the best one that hasn't been cut in half, at least. Also the only one, but when it's Armani, who cares if the edges are a little ragged? The city's finest deserve no less.

He makes sure to leave his gold watch and cufflinks at the hideout before heading for the subway. Don't need to give the street scum any ideas... He doesn't bother putting on boxers, either. Why waste a good pair? Knowing Angel, every stitch on him'll be trashed by sunrise.

The Rose is so ritzy, it'd probably shock most of its patrons to find out the management's been running a brothel in the back of the restaurant for years now. He dined there more than a few times himself, back in his District Attorney days. It was only after The Accident that he learned the real reason so many of his colleagues adored the place-- and by that point, there was no way he could marry Grace anyhow. Why not go somewhere familiar when he needs to forget about her for a while?

The folks in the next-door apartments probably wonder about Angel by now. Never home when a fire or a mob clash hits the neighborhood... though she's already seen more than her share of bad days. Lady's only twenty-six, but she looks twice her age. Two divorces, a kid caught in gang crossfire, a miscarriage, and cancer in both lungs'll do that to a body, he figures. Still goes through cigarettes like the tar's the only thing holding her together... You'd never guess she screws like a wildcat in heat.

He flashes half a set of pearly whites to the valet as he tosses the keys to his black BMW, acknowledging every handwave with a nod as he makes his way inside. A waitress greets him with a curtsey, then scampers to clean off a table, grinning like a fool. Small wonder she's so happy... The owner's been hobnobbing with some real underworld big shots lately, and it hasn't taken the help long to notice which kind of customers give better tips.

He hides himselves under a long black coat and a hat, eyeing the stabwound-slitted bum propped up against the dumpsters on his way to the front door. Second stiff he's seen since he left the subway... Crazy to think this part of town's gotten better since Sal Valestra's boys moved in and snuffed out the competition for their smuggling ring. It sure doesn't take much to end up dead here, whether someone recognizes you as their enemy or not.

A portly man in a tuxedo walks up to him, his mustache thin enough to have been drawn on. "Ah! Evening, Mr. Two-Face. Wonderful to see you again!"

"Pete," he says, and nods to the manager.

He gives the door to her apartment a knock, then waits. He knows she's home, but he also knows nobody gets in until she's damn sure who it is, and whoever installed the spyhole on Angel's side of the door was a lot taller than she'll ever be.

"Here for a meal tonight, or something from our... special menu, perhaps?" The man's eyebrows bob upwards as he says the code word.

"Your cooks make a fine roast duck, Pete, but it's not what I keep coming back for."

"Very good, sir." A smirk ghosts over Peter's mouth. "Would you prefer something in seafood--" bob-- "or steak?" Another bob.

Angel greets him with a punch to the shoulder, giving him a scowl and a smile at the same time. Up goes the metal wand in her hand, held right next to the puckered hole in her neck. Z'three in the morning fugghead ya coulda called first, her vocalizer buzzes at him.

"Thought you love surprises," he says, following her into the apartment.

Out comes the coin. He follows it with his eyes as it tumbles end over end in the air... and stares at it, bewildered, when it lands on edge, caught between two fingers. After a long pause, he tucks the coin back in his pocket and re-cements his poker face. "Why not," he says with a shrug. "One of each. Never had surf-and-turf before."

Despite what rumors say about the Rose, there's only a couple rooms where its 'side business' takes place. Hidden in a maze of supply closets behind locked double doors, the room he's led to probably isn't what Gotham's gossiping elite would expect: pink paisley-raindrop wallpaper, a couple framed paintings of flowers hung here and there, a drifting hint of potpourri... If it weren't for the mystery blotches dotting the lone bed's sheets, it could pass as a guest suite for somebody's visiting aunt.

He won't set foot in the other room since he learned that bastard Rupert Thorne's had more than a few lusty flings there, but he remembers it looking just as tacky. Not that anyone spending time back here cares about the surroundings for long...

The room smells like a litterbox for a thousand ashtrays. He takes a deep whiff and smiles as far as he can twist the scar tissue he calls a mouth, even as his eyes twitch and water from the nicotine smog. It's comforting, knowing some things never change.

He drops his coat next to the bag of empty beer cans and steps over the cereal boxes and bowls half-full of congealed mac 'n cheese. Taking a seat on the yellow recliner-- the one with the bottom that doesn't fall out when you push the seat back-- he reaches for the TV table and hangs his hat on the pink lava lamp shaped like a penis, right over the clump of duct tape on top that keeps it in one piece.

"This young lady is Vanilla," the manager says, splaying his hands out to the pair one by one like a ringmaster, "And the gentleman's name is Cinnamon."

He knows he's done Vanilla before, but the guy is new to him. "Cinnamon, huh? That like, S-I-N...?" he asks.

The boy shakes his head, his smile a shy half-moon on an olive face. "Afraid not, sir. Just the regular kind."

They don't waste time making small talk. Both of them know exactly what he shows up for.

In the time it takes for him to loosen his tie, Angel's already stripped off her t-shirt and kicked her underwear to the floor. Gonna warn ya I'm on the rag, she drones through her wand. Not that it ever stopped ya before.

Well, he figures, the coin never lies. His hands slink around Cinnamon's bare, oil-shiny chest. "If a body like this is what you call 'regular' around here, I feel plenty lucky already," he quips, giving them both half a grin of approval.

"Guess it's my lucky day," he purrs. He lifts Angel's wig away to admire the rotten peach fuzz chemotherapy's left on her scalp, stroking his boil-scarred fingers through the hairs. "I'm gonna get some great tail and another set of red wings for my merit badges, all in one night."

The manager leaves him to be with his two playthings-for-the-hour, but all he finds himself able to do is stare at them. There's nothing wrong with them, that's for sure... Vanilla looks like she just bounced her way out of a centerfold, and the gauzy white mesh outfit she's 'wearing,' if you can call it that, is already enough to make his pants feel like they're shrinking.

The guy, though. What in the world is he supposed to do with the guy? The thought of a threesome hasn't entered his head in ages. As much as he relies on the coin for guidance-- for fair, unbiased judgment-- he's honestly not sure if he should ask it. The last time it chose a man for him, it picked him to be the one taking it up the ass, and like hell he's going to risk that again.

"So," he starts off, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "Any ideas?"

"So then. How'dya want it this time?" He reaches into his pocket for the coin, just in case.

She rolls her eyes. Not the damn coin again. What is it with you'n that thing.

"Hey, don't badmouth the coin! It's gotten me out of more scrapes than you'll ever know. And knowin' you, that's saying something." He gives her a cruel smirk.

Cinnamon and Vanilla look at each other, checking to make sure they're not the only one who thinks that was a stupid question. "Well... what do you like?" asks Cinnamon.

"Oh, I'm up for just about anything." He bends down to take off his shoes, then kicks up his feet and leans back onto the bedsheets. "Never was too good at making my own decisions."

An impatient squint seethes over Vanilla's face, making her eyebrows flatten and shudder like agitated rattlesnakes-- and by the time Harvey notices the change at all, it's gone, swallowed whole by the grin she plasters on in its place. "There's some cans of whipped cream over in that mini-fridge in the corner," she suggests, blurting it out like it's the first thought that ever popped through those waves of platinum-blonde curls.

"Sounds like a good start," he says, and gets up to fetch one.

"All right, since you asked so nice... T'hell with the coin for now. But you didn't answer me. Which end you want it in tonight?"

Dunno. Been a while. Even with one hand holding the wand, she works his belt loose in no time flat. How 'bout, whatever hole ya shoot in first, ya gotta get me off workin' the other one.

She notices how he's staring at her neck, and covers the hole there with one hand, firing an angry glare his way. Hell no. Almost gagged t' death last time y'said you could pull out in time.

"Fair enough," he says, then grabs Angel by the wrists and spins her around to give her ass a good, loud spank. He watches the pads of cellulite on her thighs wobble for those first few seconds after impact while he's working his pants the rest of the way down. "Open wide 'n take a seat, sweetheart. Never could turn down a tush like yours."

A few minutes of back-and-forth idea-tossing later, Vanilla's spread out on the bed, her legs yawning like the gates to Paradise. He's already a good halfway through his spray-cream can, and he's still amazed at how spotless her body looks... He could swear it's been airbrushed.

The other guy obeys his "sit tight" order like a charm, watching from the end of the bed while he adds more lines to the fluffy white treasure map on Vanilla's breasts. When he slips his slacks off, though, Cinnamon winces-- just long enough for him to notice. The kid's more subtle about it than most, but he knows where Cinnamon's eyes are wandering. Up from his crotch... A quick glance at the plague zone of lumps and scars on the right side of his face... Back down to the pink-blistered warts covering his dick like a swarm of locusts...

"Didn't get 'em both the same way, no," he says, answering Cinnamon's question before it's asked. Everyone asks, the first time. He lifts a strip of condoms out from his blazer pocket with his free hand. "Don't worry. I always double-bag it."

Somebody has to be the good guy once in a while, he adds to himself glumly.

Pushing in is easy enough-- she's always got the right kind of lube on hand, and plenty of it. He never asks why. He doesn't know who else is nailing her... Doesn't care either way. The only thing he keeps track of is that he's picked up all the VDs Angel's got to offer, and if she does give him a new type of crotch rot tonight, it just means Harvey's stuck with it too. Nothing makes Big Bad Harv happier than knowing he's made that spineless prettyboy he's forced to share a body with completely miserable.

At least Harv has the stones to go out and do what he wants. The kind of things Harvey's too big a pussy to admit he's even thought of-- much less jacked off to night after night, back when Harvey figured being alone in a room meant no one was watching him.

Big Bad Harv's never felt the need to hide. To hide anything. Like the saying goes, beauty is only skin deep, and all Harv's ugly floated to the top years ago.

She's slippery-hot inside, nice and tight. Tighter than he remembers, even. Much more than a prostitute this gorgeous has any excuse to be. He's trying with all his might to hold back and take it slow, to play the gentleman-- and it's just not working. Almost like her vagina is daring him to make an impact... though the silence is already starting to get to him. Not from the girl, but-- is Cinnamon even breathing back there? He ventures a quick glance to the far end of the bed...

Stupid! That was stupid. Now the kid's going to think he wants him to join in, he grumbles to himself. He feels guilty for ignoring half of the coin's decision as it is, but... well, if Harvey ever could get it up for another man, he's sure he'd be all over this guy by now.

Still, if there's one thing Harvey's mastered since his world split in two, it's keeping a cool head on his shoulder. "Makes all the difference, having an audience once in a while," he tells Cinnamon with a grin, and goes back to ravishing Vanilla, his conscience freshly cleared.

He hears the t-tnmp sound of her vocalizer hitting the floor. If her grip goes lousy, then he's doing something right. "Mmm... good. You sound better without that damn robot box," he huffs against the crook of her shoulder. "Gets me hot..."

Her asshole spasms around his cock with every word belched through her stoma. "Hffuck... hyoo. Keep... going!"

He chuckles at her from deep in his throat. "I love an honest woman," he says, then leans closer to lap at the sweat trickling down her neck. Listens to the horror-show noises she makes as he starts pumping deeper, rougher, in and out.

Damn it, this was just getting good! Why'd she have to make that noise?! That bird-trying-to-gasp chirp, the one Grace always made right when she was about to come-- why now? This bitch never did that before!

He pleads to his erection under his breath: Come on, don't give up on me... C'mon, dammit, no, c'mon--!

He can feel the hot sludge seeping onto his skin from her slit as he moves... The thought of having his whole crotch smeared bloody red makes all his dickscabs' itching melt away. Makes him so fucking hard that when Angel reaches back and grabs hold of him by raking fingernail-trails into his neck, it's like the cherry on top of Hell's sundae.

A few thrusts more, and he's adding the cream, roaring like a demon.

No. Stop right there. Don't you even think about crying, he orders himself. Good guys don't ever have to cry. He stares at the whore's breasts instead, watching those two ripe-strawberry nipples swish up and down to his pounding like they're a hypnotist's watch. It should blank his mind enough for him to keep his hard-on...

Works every time.

She dismounts with the kind of ease prison inmates can only dream about, then stilt-walks to the bed, sending half an open pack of cigarettes flying to the floor when she grabs the blanket and tosses it aside. As she lies back on the mattress, she belches a few short words to him. Even if he couldn't figure them out, the way she bobs her feet in the air after spreading her legs makes it obvious what she wants him to do.

"T'ss your trrn."

Vanilla shivers underneath him, moaning; the cream frosting on her chest jiggles like a silicone wedding cake. Her orgasm sounds just as faked as the last time he was with her.

It's still enough to push him over the edge.

You're biting it, Angel belch-gasps, flailing like a hooked fish.

"And you love it," he growls back.

When she loses control of her muscles, grunting and sending a plume of bloody shit squirting over his chin and down the front of his shirt, he doesn't even bat an eye. Just licks his lips and keeps attacking her gash with his tongue until her toes are curling and she's rasping how she'll tear his balls off with her goddamn teeth if he stops now...

The first conscious thought to run through his brain is a curse word. His hand darts down to make sure the rubbers haven't slid off.

When he pulls away from her, though, he spies a few flecks of something frothy-white speckling her skin, right up against those hairless lips between her legs. Probably only whipped cream... but he can't resist bending down to lick it away. Lick, and hope. It feels nice to pretend he showed 'Vanilla,' or whatever her real name is, a good enough time for her to enjoy some genuine pleasure, not just a boost to her bank account.

At first, she's too busy catching her breath to do anything but roll her eyes towards him as he eases her legs off his shoulders. He looks down at the damage from their own little storm... and sees one dirt-colored clump caked to the inside of her thigh, bigger than all the rest. Glossy from the blood-slime soup it's soaked in. Before his brain has a chance to turn over the idea, he's on his knees, scooping it up with his tongue and sending the whole glob down his throat with a wet, awful gulp.

It tastes terrible. Like a bonbon nobody in their right mind would ever think of making, stuffed with every disgusting kind of filth a person could hold inside them.

It tastes perfect.

It tastes real.

More perfect than anything he's had since The Accident ruined his life. Even if it's fake. It's sweet, and the girl he's with is beautiful, and right now, that's all Harvey wants to know.

More real than anything Harvey Dent's known in his entire life. And to Big Bad Harv, that alone makes it better than that 'caviar' crap Mr. Goody-Good's so hot for.

He's content to spend the rest of his time cuddled up to Vanilla on the bed. Just cuddling... and sliding his hand over one of her breasts, after a couple minutes. Teasing his fingers over the nipple. Grace used to love that. From the way Vanilla's starting to twitch, it seems she doesn't find it half bad, either.

He even allows Cinnamon to join them when he sees how awkward the kid looks, sitting there all alone. He makes it clear that he doesn't want it to go anywhere past hugging, of course. Neither of them have a problem with his orders. They're being paid not to have a problem, so it doesn't surprise him.

He is taken aback when he lifts his hand away and sees Vanilla's skin peeling off where it's stuck to his palm, however...

He has to yank apart the line of buttons down his shirt to get it off without making an even worse mess. Only one of Harvey's old work shirts, no big loss. He tugs the only thing keeping it from being garbage from the breast pocket, tosses the wad of bills for Angel to catch, and folds the shirt enough for it not to bleed on the bed when he drops it there. Halfway through threading his belt back on, he hears her wand buzzing at him. Hey. This z'twice what ya usually pay. What gives.

He lets her wonder about it while he pulls his coat on, only answering once he strides over to fetch his hat. "Tell you the truth, I was sure you'd be dead by now."

That z'posed to be a compliment, she asks, frowning.

"Maybe. But you're one of the only people in this whole city who's not a waste of my time," he says, sliding his scarred arm around her waist. "You're like a big, angry pimple on Gotham's face, and no matter how hard it squeezes, it just can't get rid of you. And I'm tellin' ya, it makes you so damned beautiful-- makes me wanna pound you like a cheap piñata."

He may be shocked, but Vanilla looks scared half to death at the sight. He catches a blurry glimpse of her face-- suddenly warped and sagging behind the ringlet curls, like a phone book caught in the rain-- as she leaps to her feet and streaks for the door, slamming it shut behind her.

The back rooms may be soundproofed to the restaurant itself, but it's no strain for him to hear her hiss-shouting at the attendant waiting out in the hall: "Get the boss over here NOW! It's wearing off!"

He looks at Cinnamon, who's fidgeting like a kid caught passing notes in class, and remarks, "I thought I was the one with a nasty skin condition... Any chance I can ask what the hell just happened?"

She snorts at him, but he goes on. "I mean, c'mon. You don't have a job, no family, no nothing-- and whatever the hell it is that's keeping you alive through those kind of odds, I want to make sure you get more of it. Lots more."

Yer too kind.

"You're damn right I am."

Any chance I can get ya t' barge in here sooner'n after a few fuggin months, next time.

Cinnamon sighs, getting the same nervous grimace as when he saw what was hiding under those Armani slacks. "I can tell you, but... you can't let anyone know, okay? They've got people to shut up folks on the outside who talk."

"Trust me. I know how dangerous secrets can be," he says, his eye narrowing grimly.

"It's... well, it's a skin cream. A really strong one. Lets you shape yourself around how you want to look, even. But the place that makes it got shut down-- there's not one jar of it left in this whole city. Not that you can just buy." Cinnamon looks awfully tired, all of a sudden. "Nobody told us the stuff was addictive..."

"Sorry, sweetheart, you know the drill. I get a night to myself, you get a fifty-fifty chance," he tells her. The coin's flickering in the air before she notices he's fished it out from his coat pocket.

Lemme guess. Other side means ya go after that double amputee who cut his own damn dick off, right.

He smirks. "I'll let Lillith know you send her your regards, next time I see 'er."

Damn, he thinks. Didn't know Pete had the balls to run this kind of racket. Almost idly, he asks, "Isn't it a little risky for you to be telling me this?"

"So what. Doesn't even matter," mumbles Cinnamon. "Maybe they'll kill me. Either that or I die when they run out of stuff to give us."

She watches him snatch the coin into his palm in midair and flip it again. And again, quicker than a nervous tic. She's seen him do it too many times to bother scowling at it anymore. Gonna steal that thing when you're not looking 'n pitch it, one'a these days, she drones.

She didn't catch his other hand going for the pistol in his pocket, either, but all of a sudden, there it is, aimed right at her face. "You remember this, doll. Bad things happen when folks try swiping my coin," he says, his voice as cold as the metal in his grip. "You may be one in a million, but with me, the coin comes first. Always."

He flicks the safety catch off without a blink in between. "And don't you think for a second I wouldn't."

Harvey knows that look. The one that says, there's no way out of this one. No way I can win anymore.

This kid's the kind of man Harvey Dent spent most of his life fighting for in court, whenever the rest of Gotham was too scared or too well-bribed to care. The kind of man that, one crazy night ago, Harvey Dent used to be.

Nobody deserves odds like those. He's got no idea what he could do to help the guy, but that one thought keeps staring down what's left of his conscience like a magnifying glass frying an anthill. Nobody does. Nobody.

Harvey takes out the coin.

Big Bad Harv lives for that look. The one that screams, please don't hurt me. There's no way I could stop you. The kind of look he's sworn never to show anyone again. His other half's got it all wrong, worrying about 'good' and 'bad'-- Harv knows the real score. There's no Good or Bad in this world, only Strong and Weak, and Harv knows which side he's on.

...Which is why it's that much more of a shock when weak little Angel's hand darts for the nearest ashtray and jams the tip of a still-sizzling cigarette into his eye. His eye. With the lid that won't close. SON of a FUCK, he roars through his teeth, slamming her to the floor with a blind swing of his arm. The pistol's shaking in his fist, trying to aim past his own stumbling feet, even as his other hand's bunched over his face.

He may not be able to see her, but the sudden coughing fit he hears makes her an easy target to find. Leaving what little he has for an eyelid to skitter over the already-weeping burn, he lifts his hand away, shifting the silver dollar in his palm onto his thumb. His blood's on fire, strangling the thoughts gushing through his brain until there's only one left: Nobody would know if I killed her right here. Nobody'd care. Nobody.

Harv gives the coin another flip.

...Bad heads.

...Good heads.

He slips his blazer over his shoulders and buttons it closed, nodding as he tucks the coin back in its pocket. "Yeah, luck's tough like that sometimes," he tells Cinnamon, giving the poor bastard a light, rubbing clap on the forearm on his way out. "Ugliest job there is, trying to stay perfect..."

He hisses out a long, frustrated sigh and latches the safety catch in place, nodding to Angel as he pockets the gun. "Yeah, all right. I deserved that one," he tells her, struggling to force the disappointment out from his voice. He picks up his shirt, then walks out without another word. No thank-yous. No I'm-sorries. The kind of clean slate Big Bad Harv likes to leave behind.

Vanilla's still there in the hallway, hunched on her knees against the wall. Shivering a quiet line of sobs into the hair-curtain she's got clutched over her face with both hands. He's debating if he should mumble a quick 'goodbye' when he spots the manager rushing towards them, red-faced from hurrying on stumpy legs. Harvey reaches for the money in his shirt pocket and holds it out for Pete to take, but can't bring himself to look the man in the eye.

"Sir, I do apologize," Peter says, keeping his lips frozen in a smile. "If I may offer tonight's services free of charge, provided only that no one hears of this most inexplicable incident...?"

"Works for me," he answers with a shrug, and watches the manager scuttle Vanilla into the back rooms. At least the coin chose the easier of two evils, he thinks. He weaves his way past the restaurant's lamplit glow without stopping, but stays put outside the Rose's front doors for a while, waving off the valet's offer to bring his car around. Needs to get some fresh air first, he tells the guy.

Somehow, 'getting some fresh air' turns into 'having a cigarette.' As he puts away his lighter, he takes in a long drag and looks up; little slivers of night sky peek out at him, almost lost behind the city's Escher maze of plate-glass rectangles. He breathes out, blotting the skyline into a haze of swirling gray fumes. Can't make the view any bleaker than it already seems, he thinks.

Only an idiot would stick around outside a slum like this for long, but at least tonight's visit with Angel gave him one mixed blessing: people don't tend to mess with a guy who's got blood caked all over his face.

He pauses by the dumpsters on his way down the street. Squints at the dead bum, still crumpled there on the ground. Wonders who'll get to it first, the rats or the roaches... and then, on a whim, he unfolds the shirt in his hands and drapes it on top of the body, letting the sleeves dangle over its face like a filthy bridal veil.

"Here's mud in your eye," he says to the corpse, and starts off towards the subway with a grin. Gotta keep your sense of humor, he figures.

Harvey's never been much of a smoker, especially after Grace made him promise he would quit when they got married. Always figured he could give it up whenever he wanted... After what he's seen tonight, he's not so sure.

He hears Harv's gravelly chuckle clawing at the back of his mind, short and sharp-- the sound a sneer might make. For someone trying to forget a dame, you sure think about her a lot, his dark side echoes.

At least my idea of a good time doesn't involve leaving a body count, he scoffs in reply.

Right on cue, he can hear Harvey grumbling at him. Oh, great! Leave incriminating evidence at a crime scene. That's just brilliant! Nobody could track you down as a murder suspect or anything, he whines.

C'mon. You and I both know the cops don't touch street-folk cases unless the press gets the public's panties in a bundle first, Harv answers cooly. Dead bums've got even less money than live ones.

Harvey takes another puff. So let me guess, he continues. You want a turn now, too, is that it?

Harv chuckles again. Surprise, surprise. Looks like I didn't get all the smarts between the two of us.

His jaw stiffens at the insult. He drops the cigarette and grinds it into a smear on the sidewalk, reaching for the coin. Fine, he tells Harv. Fair's fair. But we'll flip for it. Good heads, we call it a night. Bad heads, you go do-- whatever the hell it is you need to do. I don't want to know.

When he reaches the subway platform, Big Bad Harv scoops the coin into his hand, quick as a reflex. The clocks on the wall have all long been used as target practice, so he glances at his wristwatch instead. He whistles when he sees the time. It's been a long night... though if he's lucky, it might not be over just yet.

Good heads, we go home and sleep it off. Bad heads... well, I'm sure I can think of something, he says to Harvey with a smirk.

He watches the silver dollar as it flickers through the air, turning end over end...

He watches the silver dollar as it flickers through the air...


-END-