Author's Note: I won't lie, I had a ridiculous amount of fun writing this. I am a little concerned that I might not have done a great job writing The Joker's personality so any constructive criticism on the matter would be lovely. Some aspects of this were inspired by The Joker Blogs, which are absolutely wonderful and which I recommend. Once again, R&R would be lovely. xo.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters used in this story; Batman belongs to Bob Kane and the likenesses used in this story belong to Christopher Nolan and his films. I am not affiliated with anyone from the films or from any aspect of the DC Universe and I am not writing for this for profit, it is merely an interpretation by a fan.
Just Another Day in Arkham.
At approximately seven AM (never exactly seven AM, obviously their time telling skills were as advanced as their security skills), he was awoken by buzzing, a persistent bzzzzzt that went on for a mind boggling fifteen seconds, more than enough time to jerk even the most heavily sedated of them all out of their lovely dreams. After those fifteen seconds were up, things hardly quieted down; instead, the air filled with the screams of the less fortunate, those who were actually crazy.
Personally, Mister J thought that he would have preferred waking up to the screaming first. It was pleasant, actually, much more nice on the ear drums than that incessant bzzzzzzt. Even after it stopped going, he could still hear it in his brain, echoing around in there. Rather made him annoyed, if he was being truthful. Thankfully, the screams drowned it out quick enough.
Within ten minutes, the newest crop of guards would come by to deliver his breakfast, their hands slick with sweat, the stench of fear rolling off of each of them. He knew he wasn't the only one who could smell it; each morning, when he stepped up to catch the tray that slid through the slot before it hit the floor, he was able to catch a quick glance of Crane in the opposite cell, skinny fingers clutching the bars, nose upturned. He loved the smell of their fear, which was rather disgusting to Mister J. There really wasn't anything that pleasant about the smell of sweat pouring off of an slightly overweight man's neck.
Despite how scared they were however, how easy it would have been to make one of them drop dead of a heart attack with one lunge, he nearly always took his breakfast without incident. It was better to lull everyone into a false sense of security and besides, he had other things to do, like shovel his food into his mouth as fast as he could. Eating was a waste of time in the long run, a mere distraction.
After breakfast, they tended to leave him alone for a few hours, until he had therapy with Dr. Quinzel. He liked her. She wasn't an insecure, testosterone laden shrink like his last one had been; she was a little too interested in his case, however. Not that he minded; for his part, he thought that she was a rather interesting person herself, a women who was obviously hiding many things behind her prim exterior. And whether she knew it or not, with each session they had, she was revealing more and more about herself. It was actually rather fun.
Plus, he didn't have to pretend to wear his straightjacket around her. Really, he didn't understand why they continually insisted upon him wearing one in the first place. It wasn't like it stopped him.
But he liked art 'therapy' even more than he liked normal therapy with Dr. Quinzel. She'd been the one who'd convinced good ol' Jeremiah Arkham himself to let him have an easel in his cell one day a week so that he could paint and all the shrinks could 'interpret' it. He thought that they were hoping to get some insight into his childhood, to see if he had any unresolved daddy issues that had led to him being who he was.
Really, he didn't understand why they had been surprised when he had first painted a rather vivid depiction of Rachel Dawes being blown to smithereens. After that incident, the other female doctor, the one with the glasses who was always glaring at him, threatened to take the easel away and he really didn't want that to happen, even if just for the fact that he loved seeing the envy on Crane's face when he started painting.
On this particular day, he wanted to paint Doctor Quinzel but he'd run out of yellow paint ages ago and for some reason, no one would listen to him when he asked for more. They didn't seem to understand that he couldn't just make her hair brown; heck, the other doctors didn't even seem to realize who he was attempting to paint. If he wasn't already positive that he hadn't removed any of their eyes, he would have assumed they couldn't see.
But nope. Eyes were all intact, for the moment being. But if that Strange took another step towards him, Mister J was going to start to think about seeing how far into Strange's ear he could shove the paintbrush. Maybe he'd touch his brain! He wondered what color brain would look like if he painted with it. Doctor Quinzel got rid of him however, which made him like her even more. He started painting faster, intent on finishing her picture before she left but then that other women doctor dragged her away and he was left with all of his painting supplies.
Well, that wasn't very careful of them. It was around noon. Only six more hours to wait.
Wait wait wait. Really, that was the thing he hated most about Arkham. It wasn't the food (which he never really tasted, eating it as fast as he did) or the distinct lack of good company; after all, Crane spent all of his time muttering to himself or simpering. No, it was the huge stretches of time between excitement. It bored him.
And really, he figured that the shrinks, with their medication that he spat back and their clipboards, would have realized by now that he hated to be bored.
No one came back for his easel but he couldn't paint anymore; he didn't want to ruin his painting of Doctor Quinzel, not before she was able to see it at least. All he could do was wait wait wait, getting more restless as the time went by. He could practically feel the minutes slip by, suffocating him. He started pacing, walking the ten steps it took to get from one end of his cell over and over again. His fingers fidgeted at his side, twisting in the fabric of his jumpsuit.
God, he couldn't wait to get out of his jumpsuit and back into his threads. He missed his coat most of all, with its hidden pockets. He was pretty sure that the shrinks and guards hadn't found all of them; they were more interested in him than his coat, after all.
Mistake on their part.
Six o'clock finally arrived and with six o'clock came Steve. Mister J had been taming Steve over the last few weeks, petting him like you would pet a puppy, getting rid of that hideous stink of fear that lingered around the other guards despite their stone faces. Steve brought dinner most nights of the week and Mister J had always been nice to him, never once breaking his fingers or laughing into his face.
Really, he almost felt bad when he jammed the handle of the paintbrush through the bars of his cell and into Steve's eye. Before Steve started to scream, blood running down his face, Mister J had placed the red dyed handle at his other eye, pressing just hard enough to be a threat.
"Now, Steve, lovely Steve... let me out of my cell and I won't take out the other one."
He hadn't seen anyone move as fast as Steve had, his sweaty fingers fumbling at his key ring until he found the right one. The blood was dripping from his face onto the floor, creating rather interesting swirl patterns. One of them rather looked like a fluffy bunny.
In the end, he decided to take out Steve's other eye. It was easier that way. As he stepped out of his cell, twirling the keys around his finger, he considered letting Crane out. The man was standing at the bars to his cell, pale face peering out like a dog asking for a treat.
Mister J didn't like dogs. For that matter, he didn't like Crane either.
At exactly 6:15, Mister J made his way into the room where they kept the property of the patients, twirling the keys in one hand and the splintered paintbrush in the other. Thankfully, his clothes were exactly as he'd left them; covered in blood and the scent of gasoline.
Perfect.
The alarms were starting to go off, which was his cue to get out of Dodge. He decided to leave the paintbrush behind; much as he wanted to keep it as a souvenir, he was sure that the lovely shrinks of Arkham would enjoy reflecting on the mistake they had made leaving him alone with it.
He truly loved human stupidity.
He'd been right about the guards not finding every hidden pocket in his coat. They had completely overlooked the one sewed into the back, barely noticeable unless one was looking at the fabric through a microscope. A few loosened stitches later, he had a tiny detonator in his hand, the weight practically non-existent.
He'd learned long ago that size truly meant nothing.
At 6:17, a large section of the wall of Arkham Asylum's Intensive Treatment Unit blew to smithereens, the ancient stone shattering into bits. A moment later, Mister J stepped through the rather sizable hole, admiring it. It rather fascinated him, how focused Jeremiah Arkham was on fixing his patients and how he paid so little attention to the infrastructure of the buildings that housed them.
Really, how could he have possibly resisted the temptation?
Apparently, the blast had destroyed some of the cells that had surrounded the wall; he could hear the wails of the prisoners who had been let out. They were thirsty for blood and they were going to get it. He was completely fine with this; it let him walk out in style, his coat only slightly soiled by the dust from the explosion.
At half past six on a warm Tuesday evening, Mister J screeched out of the parking lot, the steering wheel slick with blood. Behind him, the grounds of the hospital were infested with patients, attacking the guards with reckless abandon, unheeding to the desperate pleas of the PA system for them to please return to their cells.
So really, it was just another normal day at Arkham Asylum.