Disclaimer: The idea of the Joker's diary is not an original of my own—it is merely an inspiration of another story I have read here on fanfiction that is in my favorite's called "Jack's Diary" which is about Jack Sparrow and his thoughts throughout the movie of POTC: curse of the black pearl. I fully give my appreciation and thanks to fancyfantasyfairy for coming up with such an amazing and hilarious story that made me crack up each time I read it. I strongly suggest you all read it because it is fantastic. So, while I do not own the idea of a diary for the Joker, as I have just explained above, I also do not own Batman or anything else created in either the DC comic world or in the Batman Begins/Dark Knight world. I do however, own the story that I create. I hope this is enjoyable for you all to read!
Entry 1: The Robbery
I am always telling myself it's not about the money. It isn't. It really isn't. Or is it? Nope. Definitely not about the money. Glad to have killed all of those buffoons I hired. Still can't believe they made me wait on the sidewalk today for nearly 20 minutes. I really should have just taken care of them right then and there in the car—but that would have been too easy.
It made me giggle a bit to hear them talk about me though—not knowing why I call myself "the Joker". Why do they call him the Joker? He wears face paint. War paint? What the hell was that all about? I should have just popped them both and been done with that superfluous discussion. It certainly would have given them a pretty good reason—HAHA Joke's on YOU! But that would have spoiled all the fun. Can't spoil all the fun right away. Then it's no fun at all. Not as fun as making them guess why I do the things that I do. They'll never be able to nail it on the head—no one ever will.
It was so gratifying—beautiful even, to see the bank in shambles. A brilliant way to send my message to Gotham. I'd have to say it was a rather glorifying message to send—one that they will never truly begin to understand. What must that be like—not being able to understand me. Everything makes sense to me—life in this world needs to be conducted without rules—a very simple and blatant message.
It was such a conundrum for that bank guy—he really didn't know what I believed in—he didn't even know it was me. I told him that I believe whatever doesn't kill you simply makes you stranger. I think that got to him. It's the truth. If only he knew what I'd gone through he'd understand—anyone would understand if they knew. I think I like it better this way—not having to explain myself to people. I just do…things. I like that. I like it a lot.
I really need to hire better henchmen, though. They think they're so crafty, but they make it too easy for me. I need a challenge—I need the Bat. Things are just…so boring. But things are not so boring with the Bat. I just can't wait for my next meeting with ole Batsy. It's been too long and the anticipation is nearly eating me alive. It's all I can think of. I can't focus my thoughts on anything else, which is so strange for me. I can always think of something…some way to amuse myself, but Gotham is just so…boring. I've really got to liven things up a bit.
Maybe I should doodle on the newspaper. I like it when I doodle on the newspaper.
Maybe I'll hire better henchmen. Or better yet…I really need the Bat.
Maybe I'll crash in on the Maroni crime family—they've always got interesting things going on. I also like that guy's accent. Too authentic!
I wish I had an accent. Maybe I do and I just don't realize it.
Sometimes I am just too ordinary—too boring. There's nothing more exciting than loading up on hand grenades and finding a reason to use them. Maybe I should have done that today in the bank. Or in the car, even. I should have loaded the car with grenades and blown it up once we arrived at the bank. That would have been fun. But still not as fun as Batsy.