I don't own any of these things mentioned. I just saw The Dark Knight today and became psychotically inspired to write Heath's Joker. This is a testament to an incredible performance, in an unrealistic fashion. Onward!
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Erratic is the only word that seems descriptive. His tongue darts out between ruby lips, nervous, frantic, like an unsatisfied serpent. His dark eyes tick back and forth, dim, dead beneath piles of kohl and brimming with the glint of playful anarchy.
It makes Commissioner Gordon wonder if this is a child at a carnival or a first-class criminal.
He rocks a bit in the chair, void of the purple suit jacket, but the vest glints dark plum and the shirt underneath is a tacky green. His sheet-white make up is enough to make the old man cringe, almost aghast by the oddities that he's watched pop up in this corrupted hell-hole throughout the years.
A hand darts out; all leather and shiny mauve, and runs through greasy, uncompromised green hair. He licks his lips again, and Commissioner Gordon flinches in discomfort. When everyone else is gone and he's set up on watch, the tingles that run up his spine are many and close together.
The Joker, the only thing he can bring himself to think of this man—no, this creature as—fidgets continually.
"Tell me, Commissioner," His voice is an awkward purr, but the word 'commissioner' sounds more like 'commishner' if you listen. The snake drawls lazily, "You ever get a little scared?"
The Commissioner's eyes roll, but when he glances downward the deep, abysmal pools so caked with black just glare into him. The Joker's gaze doesn't waver.
"Of what?" The aged man asks stiffly, and watches that strange tongue dart out; furtively, anxiously flit across bloody lips. He wonders what a cliché this scene is; the crazed, maniacal madman and the mustached crusader of legal justice.
"Of what this job'll do to your wife and those kids of your's, Jimmy boy." His jaw squares off, and his eyes turn deeply cold. Jim Gordon clenches a fist beneath his desk-fortress, and tries to rid his face of the rigid irritation this loud-mouth Clown prince of Crime has brought on. "Can't be too healthy to live down here in these sewers, can it? All surrounded by the scum of Gotham's not-so-finest, all drowning in the cesspools of the city. Ever feel a little….tingle at the base of your spine? Ever get kinda jittery Gotham's filthiest might want a piece of your old lady?"
When the Commissioner's fists strike out, slam the desk, his glasses rattle at his face. His teeth grit, and the madman before him only stares. The bars separate them, but neither man nor beast seems perturbed by that fact. Instead, the Clown Prince's head falls back, and something trapped harshly between a laugh and a giggle echoes through the cell. The Commissioner hardly lets his feelings run rampant, but with all the stress, the tightly wound-up exhaustion…would anything else be expected?
The beast, the laughing-man only eyes him like a shark would their next meal, his entire face a predatory shimmer of uncontrolled glee. The smile at his cracked lips seems to grow ever wider, and the Commissioner just chokes back a hateful snarl.
"Why so serious, Commish'? Gettin' a bit—nervous?"
Again. The creature licks at his lips, but this time his tongue runs the whole length, like a wild lizard of some untold species. His shoulders tremble, but all he does is toss back laugh after laugh, sounds that irritate but don't enrage Jim Gordon.
He can only think one thing, though—why did the paranoia have to set in?