This is something that has been going through my mind (and ears) as of late. I made a playlist of what I felt were "Joker songs" and started thinking up a story. Some of these will be interconnected as a definate storyline while others are there as a feel for the character. There is a reason for the order, but you'll have to wait and see that. I'll update when I can but life is busy. I am trying to keep this on the border between Nolan's Dark Knight, Moore's The Killing Joke, and the upcoming Azzarello graphic novel The Joker and the Joker of the comics and animated series all in one.

"One of my Turns" is by Pink Floyd. I don't own it or Batman.

The phone dangled on the chord; hanging from the table. Vaguely the dial tone could be heard over the static of the television. The girl came home looking around the room while he sat in the recliner staring at the snow of the television like it was telling him something. Perhaps to shoot Regan? That made him smile. Only someone who was crazy would do something like that and he was not crazy.

Everything in his mind was white and void. The sounds from the girl were barely heard in the din of his buzzing mind. It was only certain times that he could feel like this; absolutely lost and absolutely controlled. His eye twitched slightly and his sight faded. In the background of his mind he heard the girl ask him to take a bath with her. He didn't have time for that. All his time was spent on the mashed signals his brain was receiving from the outside stimuli and the thoughts running and bouncing in his skull like 500 people playing racket ball in one court alone.

Only until he felt a hand on his shoulder did he look up.

"Hello? Are you feeling okay?"

How could she ask something like that? He realized why. She didn't get it. Not one bit of it. Everything was the same in his world right then. There was no color in it. It was so droll. It was then he realized what color life was; the color of a dying man. Of course this was a dying man in the hospital. No blood. No color at all. Everything so…void.

She touched him again, this time to make him look into her eyes. Night after night they were together and yet he barely knew who the hell it was in front of him. Her hands were so cold to him right then and she was so serious.

Then he felt it. He felt cold inside. Cold and tight and dry. Something had to fix that. He was getting lost in it. Lost in the world of mediocrity and the mundane. No. He was better than that. Everything in him screamed to be better than the "civilized people" who ruled the world and never allowed the true artists, the true geniuses, a chance to excel in showing others the talents that they possess.

Launching himself from his chair he barely processed her falling back as he ran to the bedroom. Somehow, he knew how the plan would go without even making a plan. Chaos seemed the only way to get color into the world again and the first color he saw was a deep purple. His suitcase. Inside lay an axe; something he didn't remember putting in there. Walking back out with the axe dangling from his arm like the phone was on the table he grinned at her. She looked peachy now but still very very pale. The only color that stood out on her was her red lipstick.

"It's just one of my bad days sweetheart," he said in a voice that wasn't his own. It sounded far too high and nasally to fit right.

With that he swung the axe killing the snow that was on the television.

"Would you like to watch TV babe? Or get between the sheets now?"

She cried and ran into the kitchen. Jumping on his green recliner he soaked in all the colors rushing towards him. This was it. This was the thrill he wanted. All the colors moved through him as he leapt towards the kitchen, wielding the axe. It crashed into the white tile on the counter with a wonderfully musical SMASH! Everything around him was spinning and falling. Adrenaline started pumping in him and he swung the axe back and forth admiring every sound that it produced and every color that it came in contact with. Somehow he heard her calling someone. The cops? Who knew? It didn't matter though. Tossing the axe aside he barely registered the blood coming from a gash in his left cheek. Some debris must have caught him there and deep. Laughing he went over to the bathroom and looked at the color seeping through. It looked like her lipstick. Same shade and everything. His lower lip was also bleeding from a minor cut. Well, he couldn't have things uneven. As he chuckled to himself he took the mirror and let it make the same lovely sound everything else was making.

Taking a piece he stuck it in his mouth and pulled towards the right side. A perfect smile so that he wouldn't slip back into that void of nothing. No no. No. He loved colors too much now. He loved showing this side that felt so good in just doing things. Turning around he wanted to find the girl again and tell her. No one was there. Had he imagined her? Walking towards the window he realized that he hadn't.

"Why are you running away?"