Disclaimer: I wouldn't own the Joker even if I wanted to. Also, this isn't meant as an attack on anybody—just me curious how Mistah J would react to some of his fanfic renditions.
Well hello there, internet. You should know me as well as anybody knows me. Maybe you're a, a fan of my work. A regular little trooper. Or maybe it is you're like Gordon. Think I'm just "some nut" with knives and explosives to spare. Or are you like Batman? Because there it gets a little more… complicated.
But anyway. I'm here talking to all of you because a little birdie told me that there's been some confusion. Me, I like confusion. It gets the masses into a frenzy and I can really sink my teeth into that. Except, this isn't disorganized enough for my tastes. This is the result of one too-many sappy romance novels and a generation of…of spineless, hormone-driven leeches. Kissy-kissy leeches that just ne-ver leave a-man a-lone! Could drive a guy CRAZY!
Why yes, I am talking about you. Somewhere between thirteen and sixteen, giggly and prone to fits of fancy—mm? You…you writers. You writers who think my big display was just a front, a sham, a mis-und-er-stand-ing. You know what the real misunderstanding is? I'm really not misunderstood. At all. I'm actually very clear about my motivations. I'll spell it out though, because somebody was not LISTENING during my debut.
The name…is Joker. You don't get to call me anything else. It's possible that I just had a bad day, but then. It might've been my birthday. Ha, ha, ha, ho… But you still don't get it, do you? I am no tragedy. I do…what I do, because I enjoy it. I like seeing how wide a man's eye gets when I stick the blade in his mouth. I like watching his tongue slip and slide a little before I press hard on his cheek. It's just so…so satisfying, to feel his legs start to shake until they're rattling against my own, driving me deeper and deeper until POP! It's out and he's not shaking anymore.
Now. Rachel Dawes. She's Harvey's squeeze. She's Batman's squeeze. Not really my type—too serious about everything. Besides, I prefer blonds. A nice, shapely gal who hangs off my every word even when the words don't make sense anymore. I haven't met her yet. But I will. Even if I have to beat and twist her into it with my own two hands. And she'll just looooove me for that.
Anyway, the point is Rachel and I don't have a thing. It was fun watching her squirm—hell, I envy doctor Crane for getting Dawes to scream first! But I'm a fair player. He never got to blow her up. Ain't that just the most romantic gesture you ever heard?
And at that party where I met Rachel—you know the one—I think you'll remember I told a story. My scaaaars….How I got 'em. I also told Maroni's thug a while earlier, a completely different tale. And Batman WOULD have gotten third go-around, but that didn't work out so well. The truth of it is, I lie. A lot. The saddest, most romantic version isn't any truer than what happened in Area 51. I'm not really into conspiracy theories. Unless I help MAKE 'em, of course.
So in con-clusion, if you want some wacko who makes sense, who's got a shred of decency and fell after some horrible event toppled him off the edge…find Harvey Dent. Because no one ever had to convince me.
Author's Note: This was written in about an hour as a low-pressure shot between stories. It's also my first genuine attempt at the Joker's voice. I'm not especially fond of him, but respect his character for being…what it is. Whatever that is. :-P