Howdy, folks. Proper author's note at the bottom and all that.
It was dark, dingy, and smelled strongly of dirt, hot metal, motor oil and grease; about what you'd expect out of a worn down, abandoned garage at three in the morning. However, the building was only abandoned insofar as the business was shut down. There was plenty of activity inside.
Most of this activity was centered around a semi truck, two or three people fiddling around under the hood of the thing while another man stood to the side of the trailer, peering up at the logo emblazoned on the side:
LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICINE.
He made a low 'harrumph' noise and crossed his arms, gloved fingertips picking idly at a fraying purple thread near his elbow. It was a serviceable truck, of course, but it just lacked a certain... panache.
Flicking his tongue over his lips, he did an abrupt about-face and crossed to a nearby shelf crammed full of various mechanical implements, boot heels clacking purposefully against the grimy concrete floor.
The henchmen scattered around the building jumped in surprise at the first loud crash as the Joker began rummaging through the shelf, sending bits and bobs and car batteries crashing to the floor with very little regard for how many pieces they wound up in. Eventually, the goons relaxed and went back to work – the truck was something of a salvage and needed a few replacement parts for the Boss's not-plan. (This not-plan was, of course, thought out to its finest detail, but it would never be called a plan. He hated the idea of people thinking he was a schemer, after all.)
As the three at the truck went back to work, a couple of the others got into a squabble over the stereo. A muscle-bound man littered in prison tats had been running the evening's music for most of the night, but he'd stepped out for a cigarette and the others, having grown sick of rap and country music – the channels picked up in this part of town were limited for choice – were now flicking through the stations.
The squabbling continued until a thin and greasy-looking guy finally elbowed his way into the small crowd around the stereo and stuck a CD in the tray.
The Joker paid little attention to what his little employees were doing – it kept them out of his hair, at least, and he rarely found it in him to give a damn what drivel the stereo was bleating out at any given time. However, as the drums and guitar kicked in, he perked up a little bit. This was new. It was chaotic and fast-paced and his fingers automatically started tapping against his leg.
From dust to blood, who wants to live forever?
He went back to rummaging through the shelves, listening with half an ear as the song continued.
I've been waiting for a long time, baby. I've been waiting for the world to – burn!
Burn - the churches; burn - the banks; burn - the precincts; burn city hall!
Burn - the courthouse; burn - the schools; burn - the prisons; burn the shopping malls!
The Joker clamped his hands to his mouth and doubled over with repressed giggles. Oh, yes. This one had the right idea. Everything burned.
He sent a few more items crashing to the floor before he found one of the two things he'd been looking for. Whistling almost in-time with the song with the newly-found can in hand, he walked to a low, wheeled toolbox and began rummaging through it.
"Aw, man. The fuck is this crap?" The goon who'd gone to smoke had returned and was reaching for the stereo with obvious displeasure at the loud rock song playing. There was a loud, distinctive snick as the Joker turned around, blade in hand. He cleared his throat, then gestured at the radio with the knife. "The first person to touch that radio will get some free, uh... facial reconstruction surgery. I like that song." The goon froze mid-reach, then took a very obvious, exaggerated step back from the radio. The Joker smiled, but it wasn't friendly. "Any takers? No? What, don't trust that I could give you a smile to be proud of? All right, then." He switched his grip on the knife and winged it across the room, where it found a new home buried hilt-deep in the throat of the goon who'd complained about the music. The rest of the group flinched back as a whole, and he raised his eyebrows at them. "What? Show's over. Get back to work. And start that song over, wouldja?"
He turned back to the toolbox as the goons all but tripped over themselves to get back to whatever they'd been doing – the greasy, skinny guy stopping long enough to start the song over – and began digging through it again. It didn't take him long to find the second item he'd been looking for. He grinned at the paintbrush.
Bringing the paint can and brush back to the truck, he pulled yet another knife out of his pocket and used it to pry the lid off of the paint can, humming in delight at the color.
A few flourishes later and the 'artist' stepped back from the truck with a self-satisfied grin. The side of the semi now read:
SLAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICINE.
Much better. He thought, then threw his head back and howled with laughter, startling a nearby goon into dropping his wrench.
Author's Notes:
Alrighty, then. For now, this is just a one-shot. I'm toying with the idea of a Joker/OC fic but I'm not too sure if that'll go anywhere. For one: they're really hard to do right, and for two: I'm one of those writers that might update ten times in a month, or once every five years.
The song used in the fic is "Burn" by Tim Skold. I suggest you look it up, it's a pretty damn good song for the Joker.
Song belongs to whoever holds that particular copyright.
The Joker, Batman, etc, belong to DC comics and so on and so forth.
No profit was made from this and no infringement was intended. Please don't sue me. All I have to offer is a cat that won't stop howling.