"Sir, I must insist," Rudy said for easily the twelfth time in the past ten minutes.  

"You can insist as much as you like, darling," Freddie replied coolly, "but I'm afraid I just haven't the time to listen."  

The elevator doors slid open and the five of us -Peter, Freddie, Paul, Rudy, and I- piled out into the lobby once more.  Elton and his assistant were out doing God-knows-what.  Thanks to Freddie and his hands, I'd missed everything Sharon said he had planned to do, and I really didn't care enough to ask even for curiosity's sake.  We had officially checked out, our bags were packed, and the bed was nicely made up; nobody who might walk into our room now would ever guess the bed was the only thing that wasn't slept in.

"It's my job to protect you, sir-"

"Rudy, what have I told you about calling me 'sir'?"

"Sorry.  Freddie, you pay me to look after you, and you going off like this-"

"Oh, Rudy, stop having kittens."  Freddie playfully flexed his muscles.  "I can handle myself for today.  No one shall suspect."

I smiled.  Rudy was truly concerned for his employer.  I guess to some extent Rudy really was his personal assistant, and a good one, too.  Why didn't anybody talk about him?  I'd honestly never heard of any Rudy Barnes in the books or the interviews done in the mid to late 70's.  Freddie always made it sound like Peter Freestone, aka "Phoebe," was the first.  So strange.  Something must happen later on to cause a problem.  Huh. 

"You know where we're meeting, right?" Freddie went on, talking to all of us.

Paul, who was with Rudy, nodded.  "At the airport, seven thirty."

"And we, at six, at the Sahara restaurant- to meet up with you and Mr. Z," Peter declared.

"Ah, you're so good," Freddie said with a rapturous sigh.

"Remind me again, Freddie, why the two of us can't be there?" Paul asked suspiciously.

"Do you want to be witnesses at the wedding?"

"Not particularly."

"Okay, so don't worry about it.  Peter and I should do quite nicely, I think.  As soon as we get all squared away, we'll head straight for you.  And if you don't see me by seven-thirty, go ahead and get on the plane; that goes for you too, Straker."

"And me as well?" I asked.

"Dear, don't be so silly.  You have to wait for your fiance, and he'll be with me.  I'll get him to you, just wait and see, but if I'm delayed, do be good enough and wait."  Freddie winked.  Something that closely resembled ulterior motives flashed in his eyes.  I forced myself not to ask any further questions.

Rudy sighed and nodded. 

Peter looked much more excited, though.  "Very well.  I suppose we'd better go our separate ways then.  Only so many hours in the day."

With that, we started bidding our mutual farewells.  Rudy again smiled as he shook my hand, this smile a bit bigger (Rudy likes me!  I don't annoy him anymore!  Hurray!); Paul was just as limp-wristed as ever, his eyes listlessly wandering anywhere but mine.

I put my hand out for Freddie, who took it, and instead of shaking it, pulled me in for a tight hug, pressing his body close into mine.

"Let's not forget the Z-Man," I whispered, but my arms wrapped just as tightly around him as his did me.

"Ah, yes, good point," he mumbled, then leaned toward my face.  Very theatrically I laid a finger against his lips.

"Careful now," I said.  "Mark's territory."

I saw the frustration reenter his eyes, but his voice remained bouncy and carefree.  "Darling, come on.  The next time I see you, you'll be a married woman.  Are you really going to deny me one last kiss?"

"But Mark's a very jealous-"

"Besides, he's an Eskimo.  All he'll want is your nose anyway- though it's a very cute little nub of one at that."

I couldn't help smiling.  "Oh, all ri-"

His mouth stopped my words yet again, and he held me there for a number of seconds in a very chaste, tongue-less kiss. 

"Would you two get a room, please," Peter snickered as Freddie slowly pulled away from me.  Paul merely watched in silence, hands locked behind his back.  Rudy looked around as if he didn't notice.  Forty-one, I tallied to myself.

"You know what to look for, right?" I said in a much huskier voice than I had wanted.

Freddie didn't look too clear-headed himself.  "Uh- no, actually.  I know where to look, just not what.  Yes.  What am I looking for, darling?"

I paused a moment, then grinned slyly.  "A tall fellow with curly brown hair who looks like a cross between Richard Dreyfuss and Sam Elliott-"

"Oh, f--- you, Eve," Freddie said, pushing me away.

"Well, that's what he looks like!" I explained.  "I think you're the only person in the world who can kiss someone and five seconds later say 'Eff you,' and nobody gets mad."

"Just go get the license, you trollop," he muttered mirthlessly. 

Nobody gets mad, except you maybe.  He was rapidly losing his patience with me- and I wasn't helping myself by letting him.  The outburst didn't faze anyone else, however.  Soon enough, Paul and Rudy got into their cab and sped away. 

Freddie hailed his, but just before he clambered in, he shot me one last look.  I smiled cautiously and waved, and instead of a caustic little glare, I received a wink.  In confusion I watched him mouth two silent words: Trust me.  Then he disappeared into the bright yellow Dodge and he rolled out of sight, leaving me alone with the one and only Peter Straker.

Trust you. What choice do I have, Freddie? I said to myself.  I have to.  Right now, you're all I've got.

"So Freddie told me you volunteered," I said to Straker.

"I did," Peter replied.  "Shouldn't be too much of a hang-up, getting the license, right?"

"Yeah, about that."

"Oh.  Will it?"

"See, I don't have any proof of identity.  Any legal proof, that is."

Straker nodded sagely.  Nothing threw this cat off; that was one place where Freddie and he diverged.  "Then we need to decide how we're doing this.  Any ideas?"

"Not so far, Hattie."

"Hattie?  Oh, right, the code names.  Mad Hatter.  Oh, this will be so much fun."  Peter rubbed his hands together mischievously.

I arched my brow.  "Something tells me you've got one, though."

"It's in its development stages, but I think it's got a chance.  But we'd better go now.  The earlier, the better."  Peter scouted and found another taxi across the street, giving me the bare-bones outline of the plan as we hustled over to it.

My eyes were bigger than melons by the time he'd summed it up fully.  "That's so far-fetched.  You really believe that's going to fly, Hattie?"

"Of course not, Harley.  That's the thrill of it."

"Big he- Wait.  Harley?"

"If you're calling me Mad Hatter, I'm calling you Harley Quinn."

My throat went dry.  "Oh, dear God-"

"Isn't that the 'code name' you two decided upon?"

"Were you eavesdropping on us yesterday?"

"Always."

"Yes, that was the name I said, but I didn't mean it as a code name!"

"I think it suits you, actually.  Quite a saucy title indeed for a saucy girl."

"Saucy?" I swallowed. It's like I've set myself up to fail.

"In the best sense, of course."

I shook my head.  So I'm Yoko, a stray kitten, an angel with broken wings, AND the very first Harley Quinn.  Per-fect.  But I said aloud, "Oh, all right, today I'll let it slide.  Harley Quinn, though.  I sure hope not."

So we did indeed execute his plan, making a few changes here and there as we went, but we had a heck of a time carrying it all out.  But surely you want to just skip all that stuff and start hearing about Mr. Zuckerberg, you couldn't possibly be inter-

Oh, wait.  You are?  You want to know how we did it- and who we got to help us?

I suppose I should tell that story.  It ties everything else together better.  Okay, let's see.  I'll try to keep it brief- and write with a straight face: 

The original plan was to nab the license early in the day, but the bureau was packed with impatient lovers, young and old, at eleven in the morning.  Peter made the executive decision to come back later- after a little careless fun at the casinos and whatnot. By five or so, he reasoned, the bureau would have calmed down some.  It was Saturday in Vegas after all; the hot time to get legalities out of the way was as early as possible.  There was too much else to do once the sun went down.

So at five, we came back- in very different states of mind than this morning.  Peter was at least four cocktails tipsier- and I was three hundred thirty-three dollars richer.  We had had a pretty darn good time. Not as good a time as if Freddie had been there too- and I did miss him, he made everything so much more of an adventure- but we did all right.  I'd tell you what went on those past six hours, but I choose instead to plead the fifth; what happens in Vegas... you know.  (Nothing naughty went on between us, okay, just don't even go there, if you please...)

Peter Straker was a stage actor- and a serious hambone of an actor at that.  Every clip I've seen of him, he's mugging the shot, stealing the show, making all the eyes focus on him to the best of his ability, even when he's not supposed to be the star performer at that moment.  There's a reason he and Freddie got along so well; like attracts like, and therefore, hams attract hams.  I found this out the hard way- and it almost got us in trouble.

"I'm not so sure about this," I whispered as the taxi pulled up to the Clark County Marriage Bureau, which was surrounded by wedding chapels on every corner.  I could almost feel their eyes through the windows, watching us, praying we would be the next to strike.

"Come now, Harley.  Weak knees so soon?"

"No, I'm just nervous," I whispered.

"Just follow me.  You know what to do."

"Follow you.  Right.  That's what I do best.  I follow."

Paying the cabbie, we started up the steps when Peter said, "Wait.  We need an antagonist."

"What?"

"We need proof.  The third man.  Otherwise we'll look like two mad cuckoos trying to cause a problem.  We need somebody to be the bad guy."

"Oh, you're right.  Rats, Paul would be perfect for that!  And he's gone with Rudy.  Could we recruit a stranger, you think?"

"Don't see why not.  Flash a little bread their way, anyone will come running."

"Ain't that the truth."  I noticed a beaten-up old pickup truck pulling into the relatively deserted self-service gas station on the corner across from us. 

I nudged my compadre.  "How about that guy?" I said.

Peter watched the driver door open and the dusty young man who stepped out from behind it.  Even from across the street, with his face half-hidden under a ball cap, he looked rough and tumble.  Perfect "Tennessee Williams" material, as Straker had described.  Just what we were looking for.

So, very smoothly and inconspicuously, he and I ran across the street shouting "HEY YOU!  YOU IN THE HAT!  HEY!"

The poor guy looked up from lighting his cigarette at these two punchy weirdos charging for him.  On instinct he took a step back against his dirty old truck.

"Mister, hey, I know this sounds crazy," I said breathlessly, "but could you help us out?"

"We'll pay you," Peter added.

The fellow rubbed his smooth face (he at least shaved; everything else was going to pot but his cheeks were clean and fuzz-free) and said, "Uh... Who are you?"

"My name is Eve," I answered carelessly, "and this is Peter.  And we need your help."

"Oh... okay..." The guy spoke very slowly, almost lethargically.  The smoke burning off his cigarette gave off an all-too-familiar odor, and I realized why.  "I'm Steve."

We shook his hand.

"So what are you gonna do?" he asked

We told him, filling in every zany detail so he knew exactly what he was getting into.  His doped-up eyes didn't so much as flinch.  "So what's in it for me?"

"How much would it take?" Peter said.

"Well, I could pretty much use anything.  I'm between jobs- and college is kicking my ass."

Peter offered him a decent sum, and Steve's eyes lit up.  "I can go for that."

"You're in college?" I looked him up and down.

"Yup.  I'm regretting it now.  There's so many people getting into computers, they say I may not find a job so easy.  It's not hard stuff, I'm just... I don't know..."

I do.  You're distracted.  By pot.  But I couldn't say that.

Peter touched my arm and drew me away from Steve a moment.  "You sure you want to use this bloke?  He's so out of it."

"That's the point.  He has the creepy, slow John Malkovich voice, it'll be perf-"  I cut myself off.

"Malkovich?"  Straker frowned, uncomprehending.  I frowned too, but for a different reason.  Steve did indeed have that slow, soft Malkovich cadence- partly because he was smoking his weed, but suddenly I had the notion that even minus the marijuana, he would speak this way.  I was immediately reminded of the man who'd gotten me into this whole convoluted mess.  He spoke just as slowly and indifferently as-

The gas pump dinged, and Steve pulled the nozzle out of the truck.  He readjusted his hat a moment, the joint clenched between his teeth, and revealed already thinning blond hair above small eyes and a hooked nose.  My flesh prickled and went ice cold.  I knew that face.  It was a much younger face than I remembered, but it was his face. 

Oh, we had to use him.  And now.  Right now.  Oh, God, yes.  We had no other choice.

"We're wasting time, let's do this already," I said quickly, reaching into my pocket. 

"I've got him," Peter said.  "We'll pay you your dues afterward, all right, Mr.-?"

"Steve, I said.  Steve Kurzweil."

I was getting hyper with excitement, and couldn't help but ask, "You don't mind if I slip up and call you K, do you?"

Peter looked at me, and I shrugged.  "Well, even Steve deserves a code name, right?" To Steve I said, "Is that okay with you?"

"Uh... no.  Actually that's outta sight.  Go for it.  K.  Yeah.  Call me K.  So what do you need me to do again?"

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

"Are we ready, Harley?"

"When you are, Hattie."

"Let's do this.  I'm right behind you, just give me the signal.  Go!"

I burst into the Bureau, wearing a face that was edged with fear and nerves.  We had to play the parts right, or else all would fall through.

(By the way: Kids, do not try this at home.)

There was no line, just as Peter predicted, so I sailed right up to the counter and I said, slathering on a little extra West Texas in my accent, "Hello, honey, I'm here to pick up a marriage license extra quick if you could, please."

"Oh, all right, sure, where's the lucky groom?"

"He'll be in in a minute," I began, and the woman handed me a form to fill out plus another for Straker, I suppose.  It was simple stuff, but then, this was the easy part.  The waters were about to get a lot choppier as soon as I turned the forms back in to her.

I filled out the second form using a fake Social and that fateful name, "Mark Zuckerberg."  When it asked for a middle name, just to gig Freddie, I put "Richard."  I wondered if the real Mark Zuckerberg, the millenial CEO of Facebook, would suffer any because of this crazy little jaunt.

Probably not, I dismissed to myself.  I bet the guy hasn't even been born yet.

I glanced back at the door.  Even now, I knew Straker was hunched down under the frosted glass window, ear to the slab, listening for the keyword.  Okay, here goes.

"Here we are," I sang, faking a little nervous laugh. 

"Thank you," said the lady.  "Now, all we need are your ID's-"

"Now, how long is this going to take exactly?" I interrupted her.  "Sorry, I'd just really like to know.  We haven't much time."

"Oh.  Well, once we run things through and such, we should be able to issue the license in a little under ten minutes," she said.

"Ten minutes.  Oh, I hope that'll be enough time.  Mark and I are both in such a dreadful hurry."

The woman cocked her head, concerned.  "Is everything all-"

Instantly Peter burst through the door.  "Eves, honey," he cried a little too emphatically, "we're in trouble."

"He's here?" I gasped.

"Just saw his truck.  Pulling round the corner now!"  He grabbed my arms with such dramatic force I expected his next line to be "Oh, the Humanity!"

"Is there a problem?" the woman asked.

I opened my mouth to say my line but Peter decided it was his turn instead.  He slammed his hands down on the counter and said breathlessly, "He thinks he can stop us.  But he can't, he won't!"

The lady blinked and looked Straker up and down.  "This is your fiance, Miss... Miss Dubroc?"

I nodded frantically.  "My true love, yes, my Mark.  They don't understand our love!  My family, that is."

"Who's in the truck?"

Straker spat, "Her old beau, Angus.  [Angus?  You said Anthony before!  Stop messing up the script!]  He can't take that she's in love with me and he'll do anything to keep us from getting married."

The woman eyed the two of us.  "Am I on Candid Camera?"

"You think we're fooling around?" Peter thundered, face contorting in passion of stage proportions.  "Don't you know what kinda world this is?  A hateful, ugly world that doesn't see love as anything more than skin-deep?  Love is colorblind, people aren't.  But Eve and me, we're standing up to the hate and we'll show them.  We'll show them what real love is, but we can only do that if you let us go now!  Angus is probably halfway in by this point!"

The woman looked a little overwhelmed by the speech.  I knew how she felt; we hadn't rehearsed that last bit.  Whoa, you're good, Peter.

So good, in fact, she forgot to ask us again for some ID.  "Well, uh, then, in that case, I'd better-"

"Oh, yes, do, and quickly!  Angus has a violent temper!" I cried. 

"Do I need to call the police?"

"Oh, no, no no!" We both waved our hands.  "Not unless he starts throwing punches around," Straker added.  The woman shrank back in horror, then hurried off.

I glared at him when her back was turned.  "Punches?" I mouthed.

"We ought to make him a little frightening, don't we?" Straker hissed back.

Another couple came through the door while we stood waiting, watching her work as fast as possible as she processed the information from the forms which we had signed.  In no time, it seemed, she returned with the license.  There were the names- Evelyn Christine Dubroc (Christine I chose out of laziness; that was my actual middle name) and Mark Richard Zuckerberg- printed in all caps across the license, with appropriate blanks left for the date, the witnesses, and the minister himself. 

"Now, just one more thing, and you're all set," she said, pushing the license quickly into my hand.

"What's that?" Straker asked.

"Thirty dollars, please."  She held out her open hand to us, awaiting the cold hard cash.

"Oh, Mark," I sighed in loud ecstasy, while Straker handed over the money, "we did it!"

And right on cue, Steve burst through the door, startling the folks behind us.  "WHAT- GOES -ON, HERE?" he shouted, his methodical speaking making him all the more formidable somehow, despite