A/N: Random babbles. This is the first story I have done for The Joker, so I would love to hear about how you think I did with staying in character. I enjoy and encourage well rounded critique, they make my day! Other than that, hope you enjoy!

And. Here. We…

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He stands on the ledge of the highest rooftop in town…and laughs.

Cackles is more like it. It echoes out above the mindless drones below. He keeps laughing, pausing only to heave in a breath. This causes him to bend over halfway, the top part of his body hanging dangerously in the air.

The Joker doesn't seem to mind at all.

The view is spectacular. It's a wonder they don't open this ledge up to the public. To be on the edge of life, yet witnessing the best view to exist…Oh yeah, that's right. People want to end their lives in this city. Why don't they just hang out with him for a while instead?

Reaching his hand out to the air in front of him, he looks though his thumb and forefinger. Small ants scatter around below. His fingers get smaller and smaller until the figures disappear.

"SPLAT!" he shouts to no one, stretching his scars to their limit as he giggles.

This is boring after a few minutes. Pretending to kill people is no fun at all. The dark glove of his right hand shoves its way down to the abysses of a purple overcoat. Pulling it back out, the result is a hand grenade. It is simple and silver, and fun.

"Hahahahaha ha ha oh eh eh eh aha!"

But the time for that has not come, yet.

In his left hand are playing cards. There's not just one deck, or many, more so just one card. The Joker is repeated over and over again, his many faces all different but connected.

Casting them out of his hand, the cards flutter through the air. They take their time getting to the ground, but it's not like it will matter. No one ever pays attention to his warnings, and if they do, his game is too complex for them to beat.

For a few minutes, he dances along the edge of the building. Walking back and forth, The Joker's body weight is unbalanced and threatens to throw him. His feet dart out over the edge carelessly before they come back to stand on substance. Looking down at the grenade, he smiles.

The pin comes out with his left hand. Arms outstretched, he giggles as he spins in circles. He is dancing to the music in his head, a symphony building up towards a crescendo. Lights from the buildings cast a reflection on the grenade, making it glow. The Joker's coat furrows out over the night life before him as he turns.

And as his right hand sweeps over the emptiness, the grenade in it seems to slip. The crescendo of cackles echo around the falling object as it plummets to the ground. With sharp eyes The Joker watches it, getting faster with every millisecond it is still falling. He has calculated everything and knows how low it will be when it explodes…but he still likes to watch his work come alive.

The Joker is an avid practitioner of art. He just finds catharsis in a way most do not understand. Instead of paint, metal, or clay he believes in arsenic, panache, and finally, reaction. With the most careful planning, he executes precise and unique works of art. Unique because he never-ever-likes to repeat a joke. Once you hear it once it isn't funny anymore. And so he is always inventing and reinventing (but to such a degree that it becomes anew). He is a genius who always finds a way around every obstacle. Nothing will ever be a challenge, except for Batman. No need to talk about that now, however.

Seven seconds have passed, including the two he had spent holding the grenade. He knows how long it will take, about six to ten seconds. This brand, though, always seems to fall within the seven to nine mark.

And so, on the eighth second, destruction ensues.

He is in the best spot in the house. Screams echo off the tightly woven buildings into The Joker's ears, but they are soon drowned out by more of his laughter. He watches the eons jumping around as they create the colors that consist of the fire. Debris is mixed in with the mushroom, giving the whole thing the look of a scoop of orange ice cream with chocolate chips mixed in. That is an odd combination, but if anyone were to like it, it would be the Clown Prince.

So the laughter continues, as do the screams. Below, ants scurry out of the buildings and away from the scene. Car alarms go off, as they usually do when burglaries aren't happening. Flashes go off as reporters and camera crews arrive at the scene. In a way they are just like him, going into the destruction and trying to capture the moment. He just happens to cause it first.

Suddenly, the door behind him slams open. The door knob hits the cement behind it, causing it to crack as the door swings violently forward again. But in that time period, The Joker has turned. His coat ripples as a pond would when a large rock is thrown into it. And before the door has a chance to swing back into it's normal state, the letters GCPD seem to jab him in the eye. He laughs hysterically as the people wearing the letters step through the entrance. Guns are pointed at him, hands are being waved to positions, but The Joker just can't. stop. laughing…

"Looks like you are a little late for the show, boys!" They try not to show their fear, but he smells it on them as a hyena does on prey. He isn't theirs, they are his. This is his game, and they will play by his rules.

And all games must have good endings.

Their hesitation is enough for him. As he had called to them, his hand had reached into his pocket again. He again held the card that bore his name. Holding it up so that the face was towards the police, he asked, "Care for my card? There'll be another show later."

He flicked it down onto the roof.

And then he took a step backward, cackling the whole time.