The air was heavy and sticky. Either the air conditioning didn't work or he hadn't even tried to turn it on, he couldn't remember. He laid on the broken down mattress, sheets a tangled mess in the floor, his long legs hanging off the side. He stared at the yellowed ceiling with old water stains sprawling across the tiles. His hand felt around the pillows until he found a small orange pill bottle. He squinted as he tried to make out the small words, but his sight wasn't as good as it used to be. "Take two and call me in the morning.", he told himself in a voice that had become much rougher over time, as he popped the lid and poured a number of what he hoped was Oxy into his hand. He dry swallowed them, but chased them with the remainder of a bottle of Jack.
He stood up and popped his back and cracked his neck. The arthritis had been a killer lately. He limped to the mirror in the bathroom. His Glasgow smile was always grinning, but he couldn't remember the last time he laughed. He splashed some rust colored water on his face smearing the greasepaint that he applied days ago. Wrinkles had formed around his eyes and the creases on his brow were more prominent. His hair was a long tangled mess reaching his shoulders and it was receding along the hairline. His bare chest told stories of knife fights, bullet wounds, and bite marks. The years had not been kind to him.
He stumbled back out to the hotel room and sat in the chair in the corner. He pulled out his last cigarette of the pack and lit it while it dangled from his mouth. He wasn't supposed to have lived this long. He should have died years ago if not from the Bat then from lung cancer or cirrhosis, but for some unknown reason he was still kicking. Although, there was no one left to kick.
He lost his purpose years ago. Harley was gone. The only woman who could put up with him. The only one that could put up with his abuse and she didn't deserve it. She had been gone for over a decade but that woman continued to haunt his every waking thought. He looked at his wedding ring that fit a little looser, but he had never taken it off since the first time it was put on.
When the bat succumbed to whatever took his pathetic life, there was nothing left. In a way The Joker only reached his full potential because of that masked vigilante. Without his antithesis, the joke lost its punchline.
The Joker pulled out his revolver and poured the bullets into his hand, replacing only one and spun. "Maybe today." Loosely holding his cigarette in his left hand, he raised the gun to his mouth. I'll be home soon, Harl. He pulled the trigger and there it was, that god forsaken click. He growled and hit the wall with the butt of the gun. "Best out of three.", he put the barrel in his mouth again and quickly pulled the trigger twice. Click, click. He threw the gun across the room and it went off, shattering the tacky lamp between the two beds. He pushed his hands through his hair. When will it end?
He licked his scars and leaned back closing his eyes. The hotel room door was off it's hinges in seconds. He opened one eye as four men entered in black riot gear, SWAT, on their fronts. "Don't move, don't move!" Putting his cigarette back in his mouth, he slowly put his hands up in the air, calm and steady.