The steely gun was freezing against the warmth of my hand. A bit uncomfortable, really, but it was more uncomfortable for the man who got the barrel end.

"Put the fucking phone down or I'll blow your fucking brain out." The man turned to me, like a deer in headlights. He was a well dressed older man- matching jacket, tie and pants, all finishing in a very, very, expensive golden watch. I cocked the hammer to show that I don't fuck around.

He squealed like a stuck pig.

"Please don't hurt me!" the man sobbed. "I have a wife and family!" I rolled my eyes. Those could've been his last words, and they were a fucking cliche? Jesus fucking christ. I leaned into his ear and whispered.

"What's your name, man?" His eyes widened. He stammered and coughed

"David. David Kujo." I grinned, a big, unsettling-almost-frightening smile. I aim the gun at his hand that's holding the phone and shot. The hand blew clean off, splattering the bystanders with his blood, shrapnel made of fingernails spraying into the crowd. The man's agonizing screech ripped through the giant marble bank, echoing with the sweet sound of someone getting fucked over. David was on the ground, clutching his stump with his other hand as the blood painted the gleaming floor. I grinned again.

"My name is Jester. Nice to meet you, Davey-boy." I picked the phone, and, as one definitive blow, took the fragile device and hurled it into his face. Glass shattered and punctured into his cheeks, eye and forehead. "Now..." I announce. "I think this makes it pretty fucking clear what happens if you use your fucking phone to turn us in. Shut the fuck up and maybe you won't die." To be honest, I don't even know if the man was alive or dead. Did I care? Hell no!

My parents didn't always see the fuckers in the back. But I did. I always do.

"Jester!" My mother calls. Except when she does, with her New York twang, it sounds like "Jesstah", not that it matters. I stroll away from the man on the ground and towards my mother. She handed me two giant bags of money. "Take these to my car, since your dad's is full. Then we're headed out. We cleaned this fucker out!" I grinned and took the money. If I was a normal girl, it would've been way too heavy, but I was weirdly strong. Almost supernaturally strong, but I always chalked it up to hardcore Joker training sessions. I strolled out, popped open the trunk to see all the other cash in there, dropped it and shut the trunk. My mother and father strolled out with a hostage, and boy, was it a sight. My father, in his lime green shirt and pastel jacket in stark contrast to his fluorescent white skin and yellow eyes, strolling out like he owned the place. He's got a gun to the head of some man, our hostage, who, judging by his pants, had pissed himself. My mother was grinning like the psychopath she was, just grinning at my dad. He grinned at seeing me. He whistled, too.

"Start 'em up, girly." I grinned right back, stuck the keys into the ignition of my motorcycle, and started it up to the roar of the engine. I shifted the bike into first and shot off like a rocket, cackling with the freedom. I heard the wail of the sirens far behind me, but I was gone. The streets of Gotham was my home, and I rode my green and purple signature bike through the streets with the freedom that only comes with the shit I pulled.

It had been a good day.