It's the tiger breath that wakes her up.

Harley and blackout drunk are practically childhood BFFs. She's woken up in some damn strange places; rooftops, libraries, a circus once. But feeling warm clouds of something foul-smeling but inexplicably catlike against her face is a new one. One bleary eye opens on to a very large orange furry nose.

She closes the eye again, putting out one arm to shove at the tiger. "Good kitty..." It was like trying to shove a warm, furry wall. And there was light. And it hurt, her head throbbing like someone put it in a bell and then hammered against the outside.

Did she buy a friend for Bruce?

No; these are silk sheets, she can tell by feel. Feel all over, in fact. She lifts her head, risking her life against the piercing light to peer blearily around her new friend. Nice place; big windows, some kinda art deco style. And, from what she can see, it's completely and utterly trashed.

A bunch of statues in the corner had been dressed, after a fashion; boxers on heads, ties tied around dangly bits, a shimmery blouse here and there. A table nearby held scattered glasses and half-empty liquor bottles. Chairs were knocked over, couch cushions scattered; two stands nearby that looked like red megaphones were leaning precariously against each other.

Harley's actually pretty impressed with Last Night Harley. Even if some of it was the tiger, this big a mess took skill and a dedication to the cause. Whatever Richie Rich owns this place must be wild.

They're definitely a boy though. Harley's never slept with a rich girl that owned a tiger.