Disclaimer: Keep in mind that if I owned Batman, this story wouldn't be here. It would be in a lovely, professionally produced comic book. What else?
Oh yes, The Specialist is a figment of my imagination. (At least my Specialist is. If there's a hero/villain out there with the same name, sorry, too bad for them.) And to anyone out there with the name Jason T. Neilson: sorry again. That name just popped into my head. You are now an underworld arms dealer. Congratulations.
Jason T. Neilson, a man known as The Specialist in criminal circles, waited, shifting uncomfortably on the hard bench outside the little room that The Joker had chosen as his 'office'. The Specialist was a weapons dealer of great standing; his reputation built on efficiency in distributing his custom-made goods to his various illicit customers.
While his smuggling ring usually ran smoothly, there were occasional snags. It was one of those snags that had the Specialist in a dingy, run-down warehouse; preparing to apologize to the most prolific serial killer on earth. The offense: the client's last shipment of weapons had been delivered weeks behind schedule and, due to the incompetence of his staff, ordered incorrectly.
The Joker kept him waiting for a full twenty minutes. Being a proud and successful man, the Specialist hated to wait on anyone. He did, however, want to survive this encounter with the notoriously impulsive and homicidal villain, so he scraped together every ounce of patience, tact, and self-control he possessed. When the door opened and the Joker's gaudy girlfriend ushered him in, he was the picture of cool, calm professionalism.
- X -
"Mr. J will see you now!" Harley Quinn's voice was high and grating, as usual. An annoyance of the highest degree. The Specialist often considered that perhaps it was her impish shrieking that made the Joker so eager to kill.
As the Specialist sauntered into the dim office, his eyes adjusting to the smoke and low light, he was greeted by an exuberant cackle.
"Ah, Specialist! So good to see you. Come in, pull up a chair!" The criminal rose and leaned across his desk, gesturing to a gutted electric chair that sat against the wall.
"Thank you Mr. Joker, but I think I'll stand."
"Mr. Joker? That won't do." The frown creasing the Joker's face was almost as disturbing as his smile. "How many times have I told you, Specialist? Call me Uncle J!"
Despite the inherent danger of his situation, the Specialist allowed himself a small grin. "I'm sorry but that, Mr. Joker, will never happen." He replied, rare flippancy oozing from every word.
Sitting back into his plush, overstuffed chair, the Joker let out a mock sigh and swung his feet onto the desktop. "You're no fun. But hey, if it's business you want I'm more than happy to oblige." The mad glint in the Joker's eyes and beginnings of his trademark grin warned the Specialist of his waning temper. "Where are the goods I ordered? I need them by tonight so I can catch myself a bat. I've always wanted one, I hear they make great victims."
The Specialist was suddenly very nervous, a wholly reasonable response to the intense glare he was receiving from the criminal mastermind. It was as if the Joker was sizing him up, trying to decide whether or not to kill him and make a nice sport coat from his hide. It was now or never, the moment the Specialist had been dreading. He cleared his throat; "I brought most of your purchase with me today. It's waiting for inspection in the warehouse as we speak."
"Most of it? Most? I don't understand, Specialist. I paid for all of the shipment," The Joker interrupted, putting special emphasis on the word 'all'. He was clearly not pleased. "Not most of it."
The arrogance and accusation in his client's voice did little to augment the Specialist's patience, but the man was his best and most dangerous customer, one he could not afford to lose. Forcing his words out from behind a thin veneer of composure he began again. "I'm aware of that, Mr. Joker. I delivered everything I could and refunded the price of what I could not supply. Outside this door are the ten crates of cyanide-laced pies, spare electroshock joy buzzers, and assortment of trick 'bang' weaponry you requested." The Joker still looked testy. "The bang bazooka is especially nice, I'm sure Ms. Quinn will love it."
When all else fails, flatter the boss's girlfriend. Harley started to giggle, excited at the prospect of bazooka-ing Batman into oblivion, and for a brief moment it looked like the ploy had worked. Then the Joker opened his mouth and crushed the Specialist's hopes into tiny, bite-sized pieces.
"What about the deck of razor-edged playing cards I ordered?"
"Those..." The Specialist's voice shook as he answered. The waver was almost imperceptible, but the Joker noticed.
"Yes?"
"I was unable to obtain the cards, Mr. Joker, but I was able to procure a substitute." He said as smoothly as possible, mentally crossing his fingers and praying the clown had enough shredded patience left to hear him out.
"Specialist, what could you possibly have that could replace my signature cards?"
Forgoing the dramatic pause lest he anger the Joker, the Specialist reached into one of his coat's many pockets and pulled out the object that would save his business, career, and very life. "I have this"
"Oh, charming! What does it do?" Count on the Joker to be drawn to a bizarre, possibly lethal device. Under the white skin and green hair he's just like a little kid. Well, the twisted little kid from down the street who would strap firecrackers to action figures and watch how far their limbs flew. But it was that sick fascination that had given him the Joker's full attention, so the Specialist couldn't complain.
"Inside the rubber skin is a core of high explosive that can be set to trigger on impact, with an electric spark, or to self-detonate at a specific temperature."
The Joker reverently took the small device from the Specialist's hand and inspected it closely, an expression of awe and pure admiration plastered across his chalk-white features. "So this is..."
The Specialist gave a confident smile; his gambit had worked flawlessly. "Yes, it's an exploding rubber ducky. There are five cases of them in the warehouse, free of charge."
The Joker flipped the deadly bath toy from one hand to the other, considering his options. The Specialist was sure of what the outcome would be. It was inevitable.
"Well played Specialist, you've outdone yourself this time! Exploding rubber duckies, genius! How many more do you have?" The clown was ecstatic; his warning grin had become a full-fledged grimace of psychotic glee.
"I received twenty more cases from my suppliers. They're packed and ready to be shipped at a moment's notice"
The Joker's smile widened until it seemed like the top of his head would separate from the bottom. "I'll take them all."
It was beautiful, a masterstroke indeed. The Specialist had gone in fearing for his life and had come out with a brand new contract. He had won the Joker to his scheme. Hook, line, and sinker.
AN: Hm... Joker is a hard character to capture. I read through A Death in the Family and the Killing Joke several times in order to be able to write accurate dialog for him, but I think it turned out less like Joker and more like a twisted amalgam of the Riddler and Deathstroke the Terminator. (Which actually sounds entertaining, if you ask me.)