Stacks of twenties lined the folding tables in uneven towers, the smell of damp concrete and old metal filling the underground chamber as Pamela spread her arms wide in mock-theatrical triumph. Shadows from the overhead bulbs framed her in a villain's silhouette as she declared, "Meanwhile, back in our evil underground lair, we count the spoils of our flawless heist… an additional two million dollars to our criminal empire!"
Harley, crouched nearby with bills fanned out between her fingers, stuffed bundles into duffel bags without looking up. "Pamela, quit the evil monologuing. We already made our evil getaway—don't push it."
Pamela's shoulders sagged, the edges of her expression softening as she toyed with a strand of her hair. "Sorry… I got carried away. I just know Batman's probably brooding somewhere, completely stumped… and it felt like the perfect moment to gloat."
Barbara leaned against the wall, arms folded, her gaze cool. "It's still pretty bad. You monologue too much."
Pamela glanced up hopefully. "Really?"
Barbara's tone was flat. "No, really, it is that bad."
Pamela pressed her lips together in mock contrition. "I'm sorry. I just… I think evil monologuing is kind of important. Every proper villain does it."
Barbara's expression softened, the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes. "We'll talk about it later."
Pamela lit up, turning toward her with warmth that contrasted sharply against the cold stacks of cash. "That's why you're my best girlfriend."
Barbara arched an eyebrow. "Right now I'm your only girlfriend."
Pamela's eyes flicked toward Harley, who was humming as she shoved more bills into the bag. "What about Harley?"
Harley tossed a wad of twenties onto the table without looking up. "Don't rope me into your ménage à trois just yet, toots."
Pamela tilted her head, teasing. "So you are considering it?"
Harley shot her a sideways glance, lips twisting. "Dream on, greenie."
Pamela leaned back against the table with quiet confidence. "Funny thing about dreams… I've got a habit of making them come true."
Harley let out a sharp laugh, waving her hand. "We'll see. We'll see."
Pamela pivoted back toward Barbara. "So, what's the final haul from the evidence room?"
Barbara pulled a slim handheld scanner from her belt, its screen glowing faint blue as it tallied the cash piles. "Just like I said before—two million. All in twenties."
Pamela's eyes sparkled. "Two million dollars in twenties… that's perfect for keeping it low-profile. No red flags, no traceable serial numbers."
Barbara nodded briskly and walked towards a whiteboard set against the far wall, marker already in her hand. "With this, we can finally buy out that abandoned lot sitting right above our lair. We'll clear out the condemned buildings. No one will be able to squat or build there. And the best part—my dad's the police commissioner. I can have officers patrol the area periodically and flush out any strays."
Harley tilted her head, curiosity flashing. "You're gonna clean up the city just to keep people off our lawn?"
Barbara drew a quick sketch of city blocks, circling their location. "It's not just about that. We're going to develop the entire block. I'm thinking of building out a commercial strip. Not just for our front business, but a real estate empire."
Pamela's lips parted in sudden excitement. "A retail and land development empire?"
Barbara spun back toward her, marker in hand like a general with a sword. "Exactly. She who controls the land controls the city."
Harley blinked, lips curling in bemusement. "Barbara, do you want to be… a land baron?"
Barbara's eyes gleamed with wicked delight. "That's right. I want to become the land queen of Gotham." Her voice rose into a manic laugh that echoed off the concrete.
Pamela smacked her lightly on the back of the head, her hair bouncing forward. "Hey! No evil laughter without me!"
Barbara rubbed the spot, feigning offense. "Sorry! It was contagious. You infected me earlier."
Harley crossed her arms, rocking back on her heels as her mind turned. "Maybe I should try evil monologuing more often. The Joker never shuts up when he's gloating." Her lips tightened. "But every time he does it, Batman clocks him right in the nose."
Pamela straightened, her tone shifting to that of a lecturer before a classroom. "That's because the Joker monologues before or instead of doing anything. That's the mistake."
Harley tilted her head, listening.
Pamela tapped the table for emphasis. "You've got to finish the job while you're talking. Stab them while you're boasting. Crush their bones while explaining your master plan. That's the difference between success and arrest."
Harley pulled her small notebook from her jacket pocket, the cover scrawled with doodles and messy handwriting. She flipped it open to the page titled Things to Improve On. Under "Work on Evil Laugh," she scribbled a new line: Always finish monologuing while killing hero/victim. She snapped the notebook shut with a decisive nod. "Got it. That's a dynamite tip. You two are real villain material, you know that?"
Barbara exhaled softly, her gaze moving from Pamela to Harley. "It's all thanks to Pamela. She's the one who corrupted me."
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