Author's notes: first time I've tried novelising something at all, so when writing reviews (which would be appreciated) please take that into account. Also, please be constructive, no flaming. No copyright violations intended...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sign of the Joyful Salmon fish restaurant swung back and forth in the wind. The fish on the sign was painted in a relatively pale colour, with immaculate teeth and standing on his fins, with a hand raised in welcome.
As it continued swinging, lightning crackled, briefly obscuring the sign, before the heavens let out an almighty boom. A few passers-by plugged their ears, others ducking and a couple rushing into bars for shelter.
A mile east was Gotham Harbour, the city's main fishing port. Other business also went on here, but most of the workers here were trawlers and amateur fishermen. Both rode on the hope they'd come with a decent catch to feed their families and themselves.
For one group of these men, today wouldn't quite be as expected.
A blue-coloured crane pulled a large net out of an even bigger ship's open hold, dragging it over a ramp and a few metres above a small area designed to dump any catches. With no problems shown whatsoever, the net dangled in midair, the bottom slightly higher than the heads of the boats owners. Slowly, but surely, the net split open at the lower part, and fish flowed out like water being poured out a bottle, fast at first but slowing down as more dropped out their container. As the last few fell to the ground, a man with a lantern approached.
"OK, let's see what we got!"
He sounded reasonably cheerful, and eagerly raised the light.
Then he stared in disgust.
"Err... eww!" he cried out, wrinkling his nose and turning away in disgust. The others gasped and followed suit.
"It's impossible!" one of the crew squealed.
Next to him, a man gagged, covered his mouth and turned away.
"I'm gonna be sick..."
The lantern man raised his light to make sure he wasn't hallucinating, but he was disappointed. His catch had been spawned out of hell.
The fish had probably once been haddock or tuna, but now it was hard to tell. They'd been horribly disfigured, and impossibly, had green fins, pale white scales, yellow eyes, red lips or lines around their mouths, and teeth of a colour none of them could describe. The worst thing of all, however, was that they were grinning.
"All of them, with the Joker's face!"
The second man looked at them in horror.
"Looks just like him!"
"It can't be!" cried a third in disbelief.
Finally, the first regained his senses, and his voice came out as calmer and sterner.
"Call the police."
None of them noticed the man in the dark blue and grey costume, cape flapping in the wind. It was Gotham's vigilante, who had a variety of names.
"He's made his move," muttered Batman.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next day
The tall, old man stood in the darkness of the Batcave, clutching a copy of The Gotham Times. The headline this evening was Bizarre "Joker-Fish" Terrify Waterfront. He glanced at the full article.
Trawlers at Gotham Harbour yesterday afternoon unloaded their catch, but much to their surprise, they found the deceased fish all heavily resembled the city's most wanted criminal going by the alias "The Joker". It is presently unknown if the fish possess any poisonous properties, though so far Mayor Hill has discouraged their consumption, saying he is in the process of contacting the United States Department of Health and Human Services to have an expert diagnose them. A few rumour websites believe the Joker is attempting to spread a virus or cause a pandemic..."
Here Alfred stopped reading. Rumours were of no interest to him, only facts. Time in the British Secret Service had proved going on rumours could cost lives. Lowering the paper, he saw the Batmobile screech to a halt and its owner disembark.
A few metres away from the butler lay a grey table with a single tray. The caped crusader produced something from his pocket, and Alfred realised it was a plastic bag containing one of the Joker fish. Gently slipping the contents out the bag, he then turned on a lamp, illuminating the fish and its horrible grin. Alfred walked over to take a glance, then turned to his master.
"Dining in tonight, sir?" he light-heartedly asked.
As usual, Batman failed to get the humour.
"The dissection tray please, Alfred."
Not a funny bone in his body, the butler sadly reflected. Walking over to a ledge, he picked up a green tray, complete with hypodermics, tweezers, knives, tape and other contents the butler wasn't sure what to name.
"Any idea what our happy friend is up to now?" he enquired, walking over to the fish.
"Normal criminals usually have logical motives," Batman answered, picking up a scalpel and checking it in the light. "But the Joker's insane schemes make sense to him alone."
Calmly, and professionally, he lowered the tool and began slicing into the horrible, pale exterior of the fish.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Next morning
Gotham's copyright office. The door read Office of Copyright, Gotham City Division. Until Batman's emerging into the city, copyright had effectively been a tag you just put next to your product that had no effect. No patents or claims had deterred criminals, who'd just blackmail, kill or kidnap them till they got their way.
Today, it would receive another visit.
Two burly and tall men walked towards the door, their shadows reaching their destination before they did. The first gestured towards the door handle, arm outstretched. His fingers closed around it, and pushed it open.
Inside the office were a group of paper-pushers, including typists and those dealing with phone calls, though normally it would have been more ideal if they'd bothered to show up there in person. All activity stopped dead like a car braking on a high-friction road. Phones dropped back into their handles or ended up hanging off their chords, while fingers stopped hitting keyboards and began shaking in surprise.
The pair of muscled men were dressed in a mix of blue and grey, wearing hats over their foreheads and navy-coloured gloves. They parted to show a fourth figure, wearing white makeup, a black mask around her eyes, and a red and black costume with a mix of diamonds and other card symbols. Dressed like a jester, nobody needed to be told this was Harleen Quinzel, or Harley Quinn as people had once been jokingly naming her before it was used as an actual alias. She cleared her throat, smiling as she strutted in.
"Look alive, wage slaves! Presenting, that caliph of clowns, that mogul of mountebanks, the one, and only... Joker!" Harley declared, bowing backwards. The two men also stepped aside a small distance.
If this previous sight hadn't startled anyone, it certainly did now. A man in a large purple coat, with identically-coloured trousers, an orange over shirt and a purple hat with a green stripe entered the room. Tall, with yellow eyes, green-blackish hair, red lips, indescribably coloured teeth and skin pale enough to scare a horror novelist out his skin, he wouldn't have had a hope mixing into a crowd. Taking off his hat, he let out a long burst of shrieking laughter.
"Great Scott!" a small man at the back of the office exclaimed.
The Joker noticed the man, tiny, wearing a stupid outfit, glasses and old-fashioned shoes. Not an impressive sight. He began walking towards him.
"Actually, I'm Irish," the Joker smiled, putting a hand on his chest.
Still striding towards the desk, he rested one hand on it and casually leaned to one side, letting the furniture support him.
"Good morning, Mister... err..." the Joker paused as he glanced at the man's sign. "Err... Francis! Please allow me to introduce my associates!"
It was an order, not a request. The Clown Prince may have been acting like a gentleman, but he could certainly turn foul if things didn't go his way.
"Miss Quinn!" the Joker gestured, and Harley sat upon the man's desk, holding out her hand.
"Enchanting!" she beamed, and Francis awkwardly shook her hand, confused.
"...and Messer's... erm... oh, their names escape me for the moment," the Joker muttered. "No matter!" he grinned, instantly forgetting the problem.
Leaning forward in a slightly more intimidating matter, he spoke again.
"We gentlemen of business have arrangements to discuss."
At this, Francis widened his eyes.
"Arrangements?"
He heard a soft sound and realised a Joker Fish was lying on the table, dead. He was grateful it wasn't pointed smile first at him, otherwise he'd have been even more freaked out.
"For my fish, of course!" the Joker smiled. He took a breath and continued speaking, but now his voice was lower and he was waving his left arm around. It chilled the copyright director to the bone.
"This has all been worked out far in advance, Francis. You are merely the last tiny cog in my grand design. So," he said, leaning so close to the small man he could have licked his face if he seriously wanted to, "don't speak to me again, 'kay?"
Turning away and picking up the fish, he resumed his rant, toying with his twisted sea creation while doing so.
"Now, what is everyone in town talking about?"
A very short pause. "...your fish?"
The voice belonged to Francis. The Joker, realising an instruction of his had been ignored, grabbed the fish and smacked the man in the face so hard he almost collapsed out his chair.
"I told you not to speak!" he yelled, turning away in disappointment. At this point Harley sniffed the air, finding a smell she didn't like.
"Eww, fish stink-a-rooney!"
Pulling a massive bottle of what looked like perfume from the air, she squirted it, causing Francis to have a brief coughing fit.
"All better!"
The Joker seemed to have missed this and continued as if nothing had happened.
"As I was saying, since every fish in Gotham now bears my famous and frankly fabulous," at this word he ran his left hand under his chin," face, I should be getting a profit, from every fish product sold."
At the last five words and a click of the clown's fingers, the henchmen, who'd been doing little up till now, brought a cardboard box over. After it was promptly emptied, Francis realised that the products ranged from sandwiches to tinned sardines.
"Let's say... a nickel per fish sandwich... fifty cents for sardines... millions of dollars a day to finance my happily hedonistic lifestyle!"
The lunatic, finishing the long rant, proceeded to gesture with his arms a lot and keep smiling as if nothing was wrong at all.
"So, which of your tedious copyright forms do I fill out first?" At this point, he lowered his left arm onto the desk to support his head and waved a form of paper in the air with his right. Francis didn't say anything and the Joker remembered his instruction and how his reminder had probably scared the director stiff.
"You may speak now."
Francis stuttered, but eventually got the words out. The Joker wasn't pleased to hear them and frowned as he heard them.
"Nobody can copyright fish. They're a natural resource..."
"But they share my unique face!" The Joker gestured to his head and whined, as if it wasn't fair. "Colonel what's-his-name has chickens, and they don't even have moustaches!" During this sentence, he discarded the fish, which landed in the bin, and at the last word he drew a line under his crooked nose.
"I can't help it, it's the law!" Francis squealed.
But if you ever want to reason with the Joker, the three words which will definitely cause you suffering are it's the law. The Clown Prince was furious, and leaned forward, fist raised.
"Oh, trying to cheat the Joker, are ya? Well, we'll see who has the last laugh."
The Joker marched halfway across the room, taking his hat from the blonde muscleman, then spun around, furious.
"You have until midnight to change your mind, Francis!" The Joker bellowed, then lowered his voice. "Or you'll be the poorest fish of all."
Putting his hat back on, and marching out the door, he let out another bout of hyena-like laughter. The hired muscle followed him, and Harley was the last to leave, blowing him a kiss.
"Bye-bye!"
Ignoring the fish products on his desk, Francis blinked.
"He's crazy..."