Chapter One

Dr. Amy Potts was a cute little thing from what he could see through the bars on his window as she flitted from cell to cell in Arkham Asylum's incurable ward. The Joker was somewhat miffed that she hadn't made a beeline for his cell on her first day here. That's what they all did. There has been a long line of lady psychiatrists that had succumbed to the Joker's charms. Most resigned in disgrace and/or went silently mad. Dr. Harleen Quinzel was his most notorious conquest, but with Harley locked up in Arkham's women's ward he had to find his kicks elsewhere. Perhaps Dr. Potts was playing hard to get.

On the morning of her fourth day at Arkham, the Joker had been informed that the good doctor would finally be paying him a visit. Before the doctor entered, a guard came in and made him sit on the edge of his bed, then handcuffed him to the bed frame. It was standard procedure, but it felt a little like foreplay. The other girl shrinks insisted shackles weren't necessary. This new one was obviously into bondage. He licked his lips in anticipation.

The doctor entered wearing a formfitting blue dress covered by a lab coat. She was a little thing, blonde and barely five feet tall. Despite her diminutive size she had a nice rack. He wished he had taken the time to freshen up, but it was hard to look sexy in an orange jumpsuit. How he longed for his natty purple threads.

"Hiya, Doc."

Her large brown eyes met his briefly. She smiled as she took a chair across from him. "I'm Dr. Potts the new rounding psychiatrist." She rustled the papers in her lap then met his eyes again. No eagerness or adoration there yet, but it was only a matter of time.

"I've read your file," she said. "I see you were only recently transitioned from Haldol to Zyprexa. Have you noticed any improvements in your involuntary movements?"

The Joker started to jerk his limbs and flapped his tongue grotesquely, then just as quickly fell still. "No."

The doctor gazed at him serenely and nodded before jotting something down on her notepad. "Because of the long-term Haldol use I'm afraid it may be permanent."

"That's all right, Doc." The Joker grinned. "The tardive dyskinesia is all part of the mystique."

"Uh, well, good, I guess," Potts said uncertainly. "Are there any other side effects you're concerned about? Nightmares, erectile dysfunction-?"

"Whoa, whoa!" The Joker tried to jump to his feet, but was hampered by the cuffs. "There's nothing wrong with the Clown Downstairs, you got me!"

Potts scooted her chair back an inch or two, trying to mask the fear in her eyes and failing miserably. "It-it's a very common side effect of the antipsychotics. The only reason I bring it up is because there's new research to indicate that a satisfying solo sex life helps reduce homicidal urges."

"Trust me, Doc, it doesn't." He rolled his eyes back in his head then he gave her his most devastating leer. "Think you can give me a hand?"

Dr. Potts sighed in disapproval and rose to leave. "I'll be back next week to check on you. If you need anything before then you can ask one of the nurses."

"Wait, that's it?" the Joker asked in confusion. "Don't you want to hear about my rotten childhood? Don't you want to know how I got these scars on my face?"

"According to your file, you've given your doctors at least ten different stories of the origins of those scars." Dr. Potts regarded him with sweet disappointment. "If I thought you'd tell me truth, I'd be happy to listen. Until then I can't help you."

With that, the guard opened the door and she was gone. He, the Joker, the Clown Prince of Crime had just been summarily dismissed by that pipsqueak psychiatrist and he didn't like it one bit.

To be continued…