March 25, 2018:

Following "Georgie Porgie Pudding Pie" Taskmaster and Harley collect on icecream, some irritation and possible Russian violence.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

It's a slow roll to a stop and they're parking at a corner lot, across from them is a diner style set up that has displays that are cold closed right now, bins of ice cream inside. Tubs of them. It's a small structure, a horrible part of town and shockingly not covered in graffiti, this is mobster owned. This is gangster turf, likely its a front. Russian mobsters. This particular front owned by a Patsan named ‘Troph’ Bogrov.

Taskmaster doesn't rightly care. That just means the odds of police are less likely.

"I would look amazing and I always shave, everything. Helps when you do stupid shit like breaking and entering, plus some parts of the world the locals can actually smell hair. How messed up is that? So, you know, extensive grooming." He explains, door opening and slamming shut to step out.

"We're clear. Make sure we trip no alarms going in."

As soon as he steps out, Quinn’s subtly reaching out to twist at knobs and buttons on the radio, hoping desperately that it will do something once the car’s turned back on.

Whistling happily a moment later, she slips out of the car herself and drags the brandy bottle with her. The cloak stays.

And then she just has to comment on that hair fact. “Really? Like, really really? That’s…” Weird? “Yeah, okay, I’ve seen way weirder stuff than that, so I guess it could be a whole lot worse. I mean, Clayface, anyone? Smellin’ hair ain’t nothin’ to that.”

Her boots are careful, though, as she moves to follow Taskmaster’s lead.

Entry is a simple jimmy and open, the security less than a snip and a blocked out camera. Unlikely they're manned, this side of things one would assume there is nothing here to steal and no one is ballsy enough.

The door swung in and held he'll chide her later for messing up his stations, it's no Bond car, nothing special about it aside from reinforced plating, windows and it's been scrubbed. The owner shows up as one Quentin Gail. An accountant.

"Clayface? Only ever heard stories. There we are, all the ice cream you can eat." He takes a look into the small corner office, opening it up to start rummaging around for anything worthwhile that's not of the frosted chilly edible variety. The door behind them latching closed.


Skipping forward, the blonde’s pigtails bounce over her shoulders as she moves towards the freezer. Hauling out a commercial tub of vanilla ice cream, the clown then proceeds to search out a blender, a huge serving spoon, and glasses.

She fills the commercial blender half full of ice cream… well, three quarters. “Think the ice cream, if it could fight back, with… yanno. A killer right hook and a distinct lack of humor.” And then she looks at the brandy appraisingly and dumps in a generous portion of that, too.

Clamping down the lid, she fumbles for a moment on the unfamiliar appliance. Once it switches on, however, her face explodes with delight as she cheers over the whine of the motor. “Wooooo!”

Taskmaster appears to grow bored in pilfering that tiny office only to step out, flickering the light of the small shop from off to a low lighting. Fortunately a drop gate blocks all inside light to the outside world, no presence for them to be detected unless someone wants to show up or a freak accident happens.

Walking around the central island where the ice cream all sits he kneels down and pounds a few buttons on a display, a stereo system, letting it crank up just enough to drown out ambient sounds, the noise going higher, a decent dance beat of some modern hip hop-techno he really doesn't follow, its just a thing to listen to when out and watching idiots get wasted. Right now it's someone getting wasted on ice cream and expensive brandy.

"Found this also." He sets a bottle of tequila down on the ice cream island top, a splay of photos pouring out also. "Whoever the manager is here likes to take nudies of his employees."

Settling in against the frozen display set up to spectate Harley while she battles the air.

“What a gentleman! I bet he’s got all the ladies chasin’ after‘im.”

Quinn does briefly glance at the photos, though, before getting back to work on her boozy masterpiece. Once things seem to have smoothed out in the blender, she cuts it off and begins scooping it out with a rubber spatula into the two glasses. There’s more in the blender than will fit, though, and must be briefly abandoned.

One of the glasses, both over full with a little bit dripping down the side, is handed to Taskmaster. “To Bud and Lou,” she offers up solemnly as her proposal of a toast.

“Apparently all the winners.” Taskmaster remarks while he reaches out to grab up that offered Harley special concoction.

“I'm only drinking this because you dumped good liquor in there.” A half chide half joke.

“To Bug and Lube!” He cheers with her. His knuckles not the drink bouncing off her own aloft container.

“This hit the spot you were aiming for?” He questions while looming near that radio again. A toggle turned to change it yet again.

Halting in tinkering with the radio only to unlatch and peel the LBV harness from off his shoulders and armored chest. Weapons set up on the ice cream counter top. Ease of access if required.

“So Gotham. Your home turf huh? You…uh ever take out one of those zeppelins?”

Bud,” Quinn says firmly—again—with a frown. “And Lou.

It's a swiftly dissipating agitation, however, and she plops two wide straws in the cups.

She sips, and then closes her eyes as she awaits the impending sugar rush. Before it comes, she loses patience and answers Taskmaster. “Yup!”

This time, the music hits the spot, too. She bops away as she sips on her milkshake and starts to take in her surroundings with more intention.

And then her companion is asking about zeppelins and Harley turns a quizzical eye in his direction. “Why? Planning to make somethin’ go boom?”

"That is what I said, Bud and Lou." Taskmaster replies in a curt manner, a dismissive wave at that particular topic with one hand.

"Making things go boom though, the answer to that is most often always a yes." That grinning visage rising as he stands full up, moving over closer to Harley so he can look down at her again whilst the bopping proceeds.

One of the strawed cups grabbed at and the plastic shoved between teeth, slurped at and then flicked back around, at her. Apparently that’s all he wants. "Not big on those kind of sweets." He remarks, the tequila bottle he found being tipped back, chugged at through the mask.

A shudder courses his whole frame, "Fffucking gross as always." The bottle shoved in to the center of Harley's chest, "Your turn."

Harley—presently sucking down her own boozy milkshake concoction and then taking Taskmaster’s too for her own—just looks down at the bottle that’s shoved against her sternum. She pauses for a brief moment, and then goes back to slurping loudly from her cup for a moment before smirking upwards. “Yer jes’ lookin’ t’get me in trouble, aincha?”

It takes a bit to overcome her tolerance, and she’s content with her current portions. Mostly. …okay, fine. She slides one cup into the crook of her elbow so she can seize the bottle and throw back a couple of chugs before she shakes her head energetically with her tongue stuck out to work in the tequila. The bottle is thrust back out so she can get it out of her hands and back the more sugary portion she already has, as well as dancing with herself.

“Seriously, though. Why the zeppelins, Tee? Jes’ conversation?”

“Always. T for Trouble.” Taskmaster confirms. The tequila chug makes him wince. There is no way in the Seven Layers or so of any Hell he will admit her tiny self can drink him under.

While she commences on dancing with herself he rises up on side of his rear to sit on the counter that small space behind sever island before the register.

“Well… it's been awhile since I did any advertising. I got a rep to keep.”

“Off grid and tangling with d listers is going to make em think I've become soft or am no longer relevant.”

“We cannot have either of those. Marketing. Selling one's self. A catchy slogan and theme music… all part of the gig.”

“Well, if ya were to go after one of yer own fer a day,” Quinn muses around another sip of milkshake, eyes closing so she can think about her sugar intake, her booze intake, her rhythmic bopping along to the music (which is really more instinct than thought), and then this to boot, “The easiest way to do it would probably be to get it at the depot just outside of town. Not as flashy and still some work, but it ain’t as bad as their landing pads in town.”

There’s a pause, and then wide and cautious eyes narrow in Taskmaster’s direction. “I mean, in theory. I’d never, yanno.”

…Except that she maybe has tagged along for a joyride in her time. Rap sheets don’t always lie.

Taskmaster lets out a thoughtful sound that with his deep voice sounds almost like a bear growling. "Flash is one of my aims. Though, this is all just a fluke right now, something to tease myself with while we conjure up my Smilex."

"Right, theory." He muses then takes that tequila, steeling himself he slams it back and chugs. A shudder coursing through him only to then 'clank' it down.

"Your ice cream craving curbed?" The bopping she's been doing had him transfixed briefly but he's drifting his gaze around again, considering the next play as the night’s really just beginning. Maybe its time to find the owners of this place and have a show of it.

It could be the beginning. Or maybe it’s not. Or maybe it’s not, just for Harley.

At the next mention of Smilex, the blonde finishes killing off most of the first milkshake and then is pouring the remainder into the little tiny bit of space left at the top of her.

“Eh,” she tells him, tone non-committal. “I think I’m gonna make this a to-go cup. Better’n Big Belly.”

The sacrilege spoken, Quinn starts making her way backwards towards the door. “But I think I’m gonna get goin’. Go get Mercer prepped to jump when you let everybody know you’ve got the schematics and a plan.”

Go somewhere where she can stop hearing about Smilex. Where a stupid, deadly chemical theft will lose the ability to shove her brain down all of the avenues that are the absolute worst places for it.

Taskmaster continues to be excited for it; the horrible stuff nearly within his grasp. And the jester just can’t hang. Pathetic, Harl.

Out of nowhere, she laughs. “Lemme know as soon as you have a place to start?”

“So soon? I was only waiting on the local Bratva to show up and kick us out but if you insist. Be that… ‘party pooper’ you have become lately.” Taskmaster is aware anytime he brings up ‘Smilex’ she gets odd, defensive, flighty or even snappy. Expected.

"We used to have a lot of fun you an' I. Somewhere in there you became a helluva sour puss." Taskmaster slides one of the firearms he had set on the top of the display, in his combat LBV.

"Go have your fun with Mercer. I'll be in touch when we're ready for the next bit o' this. The Prep School I imagine, those schematics should be in hand soon, Barky and Lumpy will be free in now time."

Taskmaster's irritation doesn't show past a tip of his head towards the back entry, taking aim with the modified Glock in his hand and firing a round off through the door. No target. Just destruction.

"Seeya later, Harley. See any angry Russians on your way out make sure an' point them my way."

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