This city belongs to him, and the fact that it has now fallen into the hands of someone less than suitable for the job is just coincidence. He'll win it back soon – his traps are always set flawlessly, his measures precise in their complete and utter catastrophic nature. It's velocity, in the way that things that explode, and strike or kill whatever living bits of matter are in sight upon impact.
But for now, he'll have to wait.
In a bland, orange jumpsuit, covered make-up that they will eventually attempt to wash out, he sits on the only bed in the room with the white walls. He knows this room well. It's where they keep – them. The crazy ones. You can tell because there are guards outside, one on each side of the door, and doctors come in to check on him, and then wondering why exactly they're not blowing his fucking brains out. The Joker can feel it in their eyes, the pull and torment they feel as they both want to rip his throat out and let him live here for the rest of his life, however long it lasts.
And he loves it.
Sure, he would love it more if he had a knife, maybe a couple grenades, and big-ass bombs and their respective detonators would sure as hell be entertaining, at the very least. He could imagine his watchers gasping for air, faces going blank after the short and hopeless struggle as he slits open their necks with no remorse and the greatest smile etched into his face (deep scars, red and ragged lines sketching the Joker's present, past, and future).
He sucks his bottom lip, and sticks it out again, opening his mouth as though he's about to speak, standing to address the 'nice man in the white lab coat' who stands directly in front of his window, but says nothing and, instead, he turns so he's facing the back wall again. Up in the corner, at the ceiling, which is high above him, exists a camera that solely exists to watch him.
He sticks his tongue out.
Anarchy! Murder! Suicide! Adultery! Anything that will fuck the system! He cheers, mentally urging on his small army – they should be coming any day now, really – as he fidgets with the insides of his scars, scratching off some of the white paint along his chin.
And it will be three days before he walks away from the explosion of the county jail without more than a scratch. An hour after that, he will have taken hostage three victims, all children (the world will wonder how far the Batman can be pushed before it all ends). A week more, and the sky will, metaphorically fall on silly, little, Gotham City.
And, as only the man with the green hair in the purple suit knows, it's best to wear a smile, even in the darkest night.
WELL THEN.
(wanna see a magic trick?)