Rocco and Vince sat huddled in the front of their rented SUV, listening to the game on the satellite radio, cheering like a couple of regular hometown goobers as their boys lit up the scoreboard with a pick-6 interception return for a touchdown.

"Frickin' amazing! Dat Jackson kid's a god," Rocco exclaimed. Rocco Zipetti was a jovial fellow, portly but not to the point of morbidity, with a smooth, wide baby face that made people smile to be around him. Cheerful and boisterous, he made fast friends, and possessed a sense of loyalty and duty that rivaled that of any soldier. Dressed as usual in a rumpled old gray suit and bow tie, he brushed crumbs from a muffin off his dingy white button shirt with one chubby hand.

"He's had one hell of a year," Vincent Paglia replied. Vince was to Rocco a polar opposite in physical frame, a tall, angular man with shiny greased back hair, a rounded stud in each ear, and the kind of severe face usually associated with knife fighters and drug dealers in comic books. He had the sallow complexion of a long-time drug addict, which he had once been until a few years earlier. He too wore a plain suit, though his was black. A styrofoam cup of coffee hung just below his mouth in one long-fingered hand. "Kid's got what, nine interceptions on the year now?"

"Somethin' like that," Rocco said. He quickly checked his wristwatch, sat up. "Time's comin'." He started the vehicle's engine, looking out of the driver's side window at the forboding structure in the middle distance, looming like a black cathedral dedicated to shadow worship. There was a sudden blast, the night sky lit with roaring flames and burning debris. "Well shit," Rocco grumbled. "I thought Jimmy said the explosives were low-yield."

"Jimmy's a moron," Vince said quietly. "Probably a crispy one now. Hey," he said, peering into the back seat. "Boss's suit in that box?"

"Yeah," Rocco said. On the radio, Metropolis University had just completed a twenty-eight yard pass, gashing Gotham U's secondary. "Jesus, this's been a good one. Radio tuned to the game in the boss's car?"

"I don't know," Vince replied. "And I didn't wanna try putzin' around wit' all those dials and buttons. Knowing my luck, I'd hit an eject button and hit the roof."

"Fair enough," Rocco said, watching the nearby woods for signs of their boss. He rooted around in his suit coat for a minute, pulling out his cell phone. "Worse comes to worse, I'll pull it up on my radio app." He tucked the phone away again, then clapped his hands and pointed to the woods. "There he is!"

Running at a swift clip toward them was a pale man with ratty green hair and bleached skin, his teeth prominently displayed in a nearly permanent smile. He looked like a clown, but for the orange inmate pants and tattered straight jacket, the last buckles of which he was currently shrugging out of. By the time the Joker got to the SUV, he was able to toss the jacket aside and haul himself inside.

Rocco didn't bother with pleasantries right away; as someone who'd been working with Mr. J for a little over a decade on and off, he'd become familiar with the laughing lunatic's rhythm. Without looking back, he just said, "Suit's in the box, Mr. J."

"Ah, well-prepared, I see," the madman replied, opening the box and shimmying out of his Arkam-issued orange pants and pullover. Rocco took a glimpse in the rearview mirror, wincing as always at the myriad scars covering the Joker's bleach-white skin like a latticework. One of the new ones, still bright pink and puffy, stood out just over his left hip. "You know what they say, Rocco, the clothes make the man." Joker pulled on his purple trousers, his pale yellow button shirt and purple jacket. His green string tie came next, though Rocco could see his hands were trembling.

"Vince, get the boss's tie," Rocco said, carefully navigating them out onto a main thoroughfare minutes from the asylum. The scrawny hoodlum turned around and crawled over the seat into te back, the Joker grumbling to himself unintelligibly as Vince did up his tie. When he was finished, he went to lean back, but Joker slapped him upside the back of his head.

"Get back up front you ninny," the Joker snapped. "I want to stretch out! Now, doggy, there's a good boy, hehehehehehaaa!" Vince clambered back up front as Rocco drew to a stop at a red light. "What are we listening to," Joker asked casually.

"College ball, boss," Rocco said. "Gotham U versus Metropolis. We're up 28 to 17 right now."

"Hmm. No scanner?"

"It's a rental dump. Harley didn't want to waste what little money we've got for this breakout."

"Since when does she worry about the budget," Joker asked, stretching out in the back seat.

"Since we let Bobby go," Vince replied. "Hey, turn two blocks down, I'm friggin' starving. You want anything from Wendy's, boss?"

"Hold that thought, Vincent. Why did you let Bobby go? He was brilliant with the books," Joker said, taking a bottle of water from the bag of goodies Rocco had stashed in the back. He drank deep and sighed.

"Well, Harley let him go," Rocco said, his voice hesitant, nervous. "There was an incident."

"What kind of incident," Joker asked. Rocco told him the details, at which point the smiling lunatic, now scowling, sat up in the back like a ramrod.

"Skip the food," he barked. "Take me to his apartment."

Bobby Henshaw lounged in his La-Z-Boy leather recliner with the game on, watching the Gotham U boys rip Metropolis's defensive line apart, their back goring them for 8 and 9 yard carries down after down. It was a good game. His hairy back was starting to cling to the seat, so he adjusted just before the knock came at his door.

"This'd better be good," said the muscular thug, swigging down the last of his beer. The apartment wasn't much, but he enjoyed having the spare scratch to not have to work. Pulling jobs for the Joker had been lucrative, and after getting canned, he'd found more work as hired muscle for the Riddler. Nigma ran quiet jobs mostly now, profitable without drawing down the Bat. Bobby liked that.

He walked toward the door as another knock rang out. "Keep your shirt on, jeez!" He hauled open the door, immediately regretting not looking through the peephole or grabbing his gun. Rocco Zippeti and Vincent Paglia stood there, flanking the Clown Prince of Crime. "Uh, Mr. J," he choked. The Joker wasn't smiling; he was, in fact, possessed of the kind of thunderous scowl he usually showed when he was furious enough to approach something akin to sanity. With a shout the Joker launched one finely polished wingtip shoe up into Bobby's crotch, dropping him like a sack of grain.

"Pick him up," Joker said, stepping over Bobby and sauntering into the apartment. Bobby groaned, trying to cup his aching balls as the two thugs dragged him back inside and kicked the door shut. They deposited him on the floor by his coffee table, looming over him as they waited for Joker to come back into the squalid little living room.

"Yeesh, you bring women back here on dates, Bobby," Vince asked with a sour grin. "Place screams 'bachelor for life'."

"Nah, dat's just the fungus on that pile of plates begging for release," Rocco quipped, pointing to a mess of old dishes on one end of the coffee table. They could hear Joker snickering in the direction of the kitchen, and when he came back to them with a meat cleaver in hand, walking with a carefree spring in his step, he pointed the square end at Rocco.

"That's pretty good, Rocco, pretty good, heh heh! You see? You're finally learning about comedy! Now," Joker said, adjusting his collar with his free hand. "Get his arm on there and hold him." Bobby yelped and struggled, considerably more built for combat than these two, but lacking the kind of devotion to training that he could have used to get free. Rocco pistol-whipped him to get him still, staring desperately up at Joker.

"Please, Mr. J, what's this about? I didn't do nothin', I never skimmed!"

"That's not what this is about," Joker rasped softly, eyes narrowing, "and you know it." He took from one of his coat pockets a pair of black plastic zip ties, setting them carefully on the floor next to Rocco before stepping back to where Bobby could look up at him. The Joker then snatched Bobby's cell phone from the arm of his recliner and dialed 911, without hitting 'Send'. "Bobby, I know you've been a very naughty boy."

"Please," Bobby stammered, trying to pull away from the toughs.

"I know you tried talking Harley into doing dirty, dirty things with you. I know when she told you to get lost, you tried convincing her with some pinching and grabbing, until she kicked the crap out of you."

"Mr. Joker, please, I was just foolin' around, honest," Bobby said.

"Ties on his wrists," Joker snarled, and Rocco and Vince sprang into action, using the zip ties to crank down on Bobby's wrists, then holding his arms out on the coffee table.

"Dear God, no!"

"This will teach you to keep your hands to yourself," the Joker shouted, laughing maniacally as he hefted the cleaver high and brought it crashing down on Bobby's hands, just below the zip ties. The squelch of blood and snap of ones was deafening, as were Bobby's howls of horror, but Rocco and Vince held steady as Joker hacked twice more to cut the hands free. He dropped the cleaver and hit 'Send' on the phone. "If you live, you'll not soon forget this lesson," he quipped playfully, laughing as he led his thugs out of the apartment.