In Which The Joker Is Unhappy
The Joker awakes immediately to a state of deep, multifaceted distress. Before he opens his eyes, he already senses a number of things that are Out of Place.
1. His head feels like it had been bounced on several times by a medium-large sized boulder.
2. He seems to be lying on a very prickly, uncomfortable surface.
3. There is something warm and quite possibly alive on his chest.
And
4. He is dying for some orange juice.
After several long moments of careful consideration, J. decides that Problem Three is of most immediate concern, but it is best to deal with it without opening his eyes, as he deduces from Problems One, Two, and Four that he is very, very Hungover.
Hungover.
What did he do last night? Pub, of course. Wasn't it always? He went with… Riddler, wasn't it? Yes, someone else though. A woman. Did he even know any women? Couldn't have been…
Rather than opening his eyes and taking in what could be a very disastrous situation, the Joker has a moment of being Very Bright Indeed. He goes directly to the source of Problem Three. Warm thing. Arm, definitely arm. Up, up the arm. If he can only make it to-
Yes! There's the hair! He gives the locks a solid tug and is rewarded by a very girlish shriek. Satisfied, J. rolls over and goes back to sleep.
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Later.
Must be later, anyway.
Sun's up. He can feel it through his eyelids.
He hates his eyelids.
He notices quickly that his situation has improved. Slightly.
1. His head now feels like a small-medium sized boulder has rolled lazily across his skull. Bouncing is no longer involved.
2. He is probably still lying on a prickly, uncomfortable surface, but he has properly identified it. Grass. Pokey grass.
3. He can no longer sense anything alive in his immediate vicinity.
His taste for orange juice has only gotten stronger.
Might as well open his eyes now.
…
…
…
Ten more minutes.
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"Oh, sorry! Did I wake you?"
Loud. Loud. Loud. Now is definitely time to open his eyes.
He does.
Blur. Sun. Golf course. Figure. Right in front of his face.
"Hey." Joker grunts weakly.
"Morn-ing!" chirps Bruce, setting down the pan he has accidently been banging against the bars of the golfcart. He smiles widely. "You're pretty when you sleep."