Here's a one-shot. Its mostly thought based, revolving around the Joker. Its my first foray back into fanfiction after forever, so be nice. Sorry if it rambles, but it would something I could see the Joker thinking.
Stories.
He liked stories.
They liked stories.
Little children like stories.
Old people liked stories too.
Victims before death enjoyed them…
So why not give them all the stories they so looked for?
He huddled on the chair assigned to him, musing to himself, fingers tapping. What story would he tell the pretty doctors today. Maybe he would tell them he had fallen into a vat of acid when he was still a man. Or maybe he would tell them his father did carved him when his father came home drunk. No, he had used that one on the some mob boss or another. Possibly he would tell them his father had taken him to a circus, the only time his father had smiled, so he had emulated the clowns. Maybe, just maybe, he would say the scars were carved by his father when they had tried to kidnap a young girl. Or of course, there was the classic about his wife. He had told that to Harvey Dent's squeeze already though. Or there was the ice skating rink, but that was awfully similar to his clown story.
Suddenly a thought struck him, two thoughts rather. First was this, why was it always his father in the story? He couldn't remember if he had had problems with his father, it had been such a long time. Not that these things really mattered, in the chaos of things. His fingers continued to drum as he pondered this. Was in some inherent trait that caused him to talk about his father with a nasty heir, some reasoning, being born directly from his mother that gave her some inert protection over and regarding these stories. He couldn't remember his mother either, but once again, that didn't matter. Or did it? Spending so much time on a such a topic must mean it warranted some sort of meaning. Perhaps, when he was younger, his mother had been cruel to him, so when he had told his first story, he had done the opposite and told it about his father. Perhaps his father had been the cruel one all along. It was really hard to say, there were so many possibilities out there. Just like stories. That's what was fun about this story-time past. Each one had so many possibilities. He could have been born in America, or Britain, and both would be a story, but both would be his real past. Such a strange thought, that these two things could coincide with each other. Fact or fiction, mother or father… Perhaps it was time he made up a story, or a past, about his mother. Now, wouldn't that be funny, so so funny, if he had received his scars from his mother with a nail file, or eye-lash scissors. He began to bounce slightly as he considered this, and he soon began to believe this story he was crafting, which brought him to his original second thought…
Which story was the real one? He fingered his scars lightly, feeling the bumps and alterations. These were not clean cut scars, so surely they were not done by a proffessional or someone experienced. Perhaps, after all that time, all those pasts… he had forgotten which one was real. Not forgetten, remembered… He had remembered they were all real, every single last one of them was as real as the next, atleast to cutting of the blade as his father had hacked wildly at him, the fear and anxiety as he had brought the knife up to his own lips, so sick with love for his wife that he was driven to do anything to win her back. The clowns as they bounced around, honking and squeeking and doing things that should normally hurt so badly. The feeling as his enemy had stood across from him and pushed lightly, the feeling of his jacket wipping past him as he had fallen into that horrible vat. The sting, the burn… The way the surgeons had worked on him for hours, trying to make some resemblance of what had once been a beautiful face. The fear and the trembling as the gang had surrounded him, all individually shady, and slipped a credit card into his mouth. All these were chillingly real and hard to think about, each one as solid as the chair of which he now sat on. He then realized the beauty in all this, while each horrifying and confusing its own right, never clear which was truly real, there lie his ultimate goal. Chaos! Lovely, wonderful, beautiful chaos. Within his own memory, something generally so organized and clear, lay chaos. Now perfect layout, no planned time through his past, no, a lovely chaos about what was real and which was not. If they were all real, of indeed of which they were, then they all contradicted each other. In that there could only lie chaos and entropy, something that was as mysterious as a black hole, which some did try to draw the metaphor of his mind to. With all this swirling in his mind, he leaned back and began to laugh and giggle. Tears began to fall from his eyes, not sad ones, but those of mirth. He would not wipe them away, for he could not, seeing as he was hand-cuffed. On and on he laughed…
A young blonde scientist walked in, her name-tag read Harleen Quinzell. She stared quizically at the man who wore makeup much more similar to a clown. His makeup was smeared, at it often seemed to be. Except, this time something was off, something was different. He intrigued her so… Dr. Harleen Quinzell adjusted a tape and camera, preparing to record the following session. Tapping her clip board and staring at the mysterious man, she sat down across from him. "Now Mr. Napier, shall we begin?" she questioned.
The Joker smiled, and replied "Did I ever tell you about my mother…?"
After all, stories did make people smile.