Author's note: Okey-dokey, so this is my first post/attempt at a Joker Fanfic. I do not own the Joker, and honestly, though I love the character, I don't think I would like to own him.

I don't think he'd want me to own him either.

But anyway, yea... read on. Constructive criticism is welcomed :)

The first thing I noticed when I regained consciousness was the intense migraine that pounded through the front of my brain. The next thing I noticed directly after that was the intense urge to blow chunks; which is exactly what I did.

Apparently, and thankfully, someone else was aware of this intense feeling, and before I could spew all over my jeans, I was forced up off my back to lean my head over a waiting bucket. Regurgitating my last meal didn't exactly help my migraine.

"Ugh… see, that's the only thing I can't stand about chloroform. It has such messy side affects," a nasally voice rose up over the gurgling of my painful retching, and I looked up to see where it came from. A man dressed in a ridiculous purple suit paced –well, truthfully, he sauntered- back in forth a few feet away from me, flicking a silver switchblade in his hand. He shrugged, "Meh, merely a small price to pay for the convenience it allows in transporting … uh, difficult cargo."

I only stared at him in response before I commenced hurling into the bucket again. I coughed, tears streaming down my face from gagging on my own bile.

"Ow…" The pain in my skull felt akin to what one might feel if a body builder smashed an axe into their forehead… if they lived through it to actually feel the pain, that is. After I was sure that I had nothing left in my stomach to choke up, I fell back, limp. It was when I fell back that I noticed my hands where bound behind me.

"Whoa, whoa… sit up there, Sick-y. I need your full attention," The man in the stupid suit strode over to me and lifted me by my shirt collar again. Despite the blinding pain in my head, my eyes were well focused enough, and as he hauled me upright again, I got a good look at his face. His countenance sported a carved smile and countless other scares around his lips, which were smeared with red lipstick. His dark eyes were encased with black, which stood out profoundly against a chalk white base. You'd have to have horrible short term memory to live in Gotham and not recognize this face. It was the Joker's, and from that point on, I knew, I was royally screwed.

I was too weak to fight the harlequin from Hell when he shoved pills into my mouth. He poured water into my mouth and ordered, "Swallow." When I didn't immediately oblige, he looked me straight in the eye, "Trust me, Toots, you don't want me to force them down." I swallowed the pills and water, the liquid soothing my burning throat. The Joker patted my face, "Good girl!"

The back of my shoulders slammed against a nearby wall as he practically threw me from his grasp. I blinked a few times, clearing my watery eyes. I noticed that the room we were in wasn't very big. The walls were covered in brown, peeling wallpaper, and the only furniture I could see in the dim, fluorescent light were an antique desk and chair. The thing I was now sitting on was a cushy, over large pillow. The distinct odor told me it was a dog bed. Oh, that's degrading… I also noticed that there was only one other person in the room with us. He was a burly looking chap with broad shoulders, and his slightly aged face was stippled with five o'clock shadow. I surmised he was the one who held me up to puke… I'll have to thank him later.

The Joker stood back up to his full height and walked back over to the spot where he was pacing. He pinched his nose and waved his hand in a slightly dainty fashion at his thug, motioning for him to leave. He did just that, taking the hint to take the bucket of puke with him. "Jeez, girly, what did you eat?"

As a few minutes passed, I realized that the pills he gave me must have been extra strength Tylenol or something, because the pulsing pain in my head dulled a bit, so I no longer heard the blood pumping in my ears. The joker pulled the rickety chair up next to me, sitting in it backwards. His purple pants rode up as he straddled the chair, revealing tacky argyle socks. I looked up at him, but quickly looked down. Something about his gaze scared the piss out of me. He didn't say anything; his head rested on the back of the chair, over his folded arms. His posture looked innocent, but his gaze was… maddening. The silence was very uncomfortable; I hated silence. The whole staring thing didn't make it any less uncomfortable. Blinking at my lap, I started thinking of the ways I could break the silence, because obviously he wasn't going to. I went with the most obvious way, "Ugh… Where am I?"

I chanced a glance at him, and was relieved that he had broken his gaze from me. His brow furrowed briefly, eyes shifting from side to side, "Uh, I thought it was obvious?" He looked down at me again, like I was stupid, "It's a room."

I muttered down at my lap, "No shit, smart ass." He didn't hear me, because he was up again, now pacing in the middle of the room, playing with the blade again. He continued talking as he paced, heel to toe, "Besides, the question you should be asking is why, not where. Because… See, the why part is much more important… In that, it determines whether you live to see the end of this… uh, this or-dee-uhl."

My head snapped up as he uttered the vague threat. I narrowed my eyes at him, then asked, "Okay… why?"

"Why what?" he quipped, not looking at me. He turned on his heel and paced heel to toe towards the only small window in the room.

I gave a sigh of exasperation. A lot of people who had experienced this guy first hand said he was terrifying, disturbing, sadistic… I expected this from him. Right now, I wasn't exactly feeling fear of him, more like irritation of him…

I tried asking the question again, a tone of impertinence laced in the inquiry, "Why am I here?"

The answer I got was a sharp back hand across the face. The force sent my head sharply to the side, knocking me over. The clown then seized me by my collar and hauled me to my feet, pressing my back against the wall. Though his actions were violent, his face was extremely, eerily, calm. Those dark eyes bore into mine, like they were trying to look into my soul and tear it to shreds.

Oh, there is the fear…

He clicked his tongue, as though he were scolding a child, "Don't take that tone with me, missy. Insolence is a nasty little pet peeve of mine. It insinuates disrespect… and I don't like that either." He released his steel grip, and I fell heavily on my knees at his feet. The Joker straightened his collar, and walked away from me. He opened the door to leave, but before he exited, he turned to face me again. "And, in response to your quest-ee-on… Why would I tell you that?" With a mad titter, he slammed the door closed with unnecessary force. A soft click followed shortly after.

My shoulders slumped forward as I released a short breath. I shifted from my knees to my butt so I could lean my back against the wall. I worked my sore jaw; damn he hit's hard. That wiry body is very misleading.

In the silence of the dingy room, I thought about my situation, and how utterly pathetic it was. Here I was, bound by the wrists with biting plastic cord, sitting on a dog bed that smells like it hadn't been washed since Jesus was crucified, in a room that a troll would find cozy. I shivered, feeling goose pimples cover the bare skin of my arms.

"Well, at least I still have light," I said aloud, allowing some rare optimism to show through. Suddenly, as only my luck would have it, the dim light bulb flickered and burned out, casting the dank room in shadows. My head fell back against the wall in exasperation, lifting my gaze to the water stained ceiling.

"God, this sucks."

So, Whaddya think?

I'm not exactly sure where I am gong with this, and inspiration is lacking these days. So, if anyone has any ideas that they would like to share, please, by all means, share.