Entropy

"He who every morning plans the transactions of the day and follows out that plan carries a thread that will guide him through the labyrinth of the most busy life. ... If the disposal of time is surrendered merely to the chance of incident, chaos will soon reign."

-Victor Hugo

I've given this god-damned city a better class of criminal.

The SWAT team found me hanging upside down from the Prewitt building shortly after Batman went running off to find Dent. I was brought down and the first thing they did was cuff me. They searched through my pockets and confiscated every gun and knife, everything down to the lint. They seemed to think I had enough skills to even Houdini a weapon from dust bunnies. Not so. I have psychopathic mentality on my side. I could tell that there aren't many who were going to be insusceptible to manipulation. They're completely vulnerable and don't even know it. Smart cookies, they are. Their pasts, their thoughts, and personalities, were all over their faces. Like an open book.

They made haste in dragging me by my arms and cuffs, tugging me by my hair every so often, and threw me into the truck along with five other armed team members. I could've killed every last one of them if I wanted to, bashing their heads against the wall, wringing the breath out of them with these cuffs. But I didn't. The longer I wait, the sweeter revenge will be. Not that I'm focused on revenge; I just want to send a message.

I had nothing to do on the ride but twiddle my thumbs, the Glasgow smile growing on my face. The guys exchanged discomforted glances, their eyes attempting to hide their impending anxiety. I sensed whatever twinges of fear and reveled in it, fed off of it. They were right to feel anxious, afraid, even. I did, after all, pull off the largest bank robbery in Gotham history, kill at least six public figures, blow up Gotham General and turn this city's White Knight into a monster. I left this city broken. I won. And I laughed.

Gotham has bigger problems than Maroni's mob now. Maroni? He's a measly little rat. I set the bar high. Not even if they were half-stoned would they have the stomach to concoct an explosive contusion in another human being, nor find it in their greedy little hearts to slash up their victim's face. A bunch of cowards, that's what they are. Mobs have plans. They have motives like money, smutty-clad women, their Cuban cigars and their precious status. Those "values" are what hold them back. They don't want to risk losing them. I look down on the mobs as one big herd of sheep. They're after all those material things, and it sickens me how controlled by them they really are, even if they'd like to think differently. So I don't have to worry about those things. I have no motives, no plans, which is what they need to get through their thick skulls to even to begin to comprehend how I do what I do. Nothing's holding me back from killing anyone. I could even blow my allies to bits if I wanted to. Take the Chechen, for example. I fed him to his own dogs and burned all sixty-eight million dollars of the money I stole, and it was all to send a message to the surviving members of the gang. All he cared about was his money and cigars, and look how his pathetic motives got him into the bellies of his own "loyal" and hungry dogs. I showed the survivors who has the power, and who owns this city.

Oh, and I shouldn't forget the Batman. He has plans and motives like everyone else. He's only human. How I loved toying with the mind of a so-called superhero. Now, at first, he almost didn't seem movable. I have to admit, I liked the challenge it took to eventually begin to bend him. It was just a matter of finding the motive. Obviously I found he wasn't the type of guy to necessarily care about his status in society, though it bothered him slightly. He appeared to understand that people would find the Caped Crusader rather strange, and accepted it. He didn't mind being known as a freak. But then I remembered Harvey's little squeeze when devising the plan for the mob to take them both. Batman went a little haywire and aggressive, that minute hardening of his eyes as I aimed the gun at her. For a minute it felt exhilarating knowing that he realized that I knew about his pathetic, unrequited love.

"Know there're only minutes left, so you're going to have to play my little game if you want to save one of them."

His grip slackens a little, hesitating. His breathing almost staggers, and I can see a little more of the whites of his eyes. "Them?"

Then the taunting begins. "You know, for a while there," I say before craning my neck above his arm, "I thought you really were Dent." I look to the wall behind him, as if trying to recall the heroic memory with a mocking tone. "The way you threw yourself after her…"

The corners of his mouth pulled into a scowl. So the Batman even feels the sting that comes from a forbidden love. The cops looking from behind the glass are more than likely clueless. Well, the more I'd keep taunting him, the more they'd see his true nature. "Vigilante" they'd probably murmur amongst themselves.

He hurls me onto the table, my back impacting the hard surface. It hurts, yeah, but has pain ever stopped me? Look at the scars. I begin laughing hysterically. This is just too much fun, knowing his dirty little secret. It's the straw that broke the camel's back. Who would've thought that the prude, bride-to-be would be the Caped Crusader's Achilles' heel? His soft-spot for her is more pathetic than I'd expected it to be.

Then he pulls a chair in tow as he strides over to the door, ramming the back of it under the handle. He seems to think that brute force is going to win my cooperation. I wonder if he's even thinking hard enough on the possibility that I have a high threshold for pain. Amused, I ridicule him again. "Look at you go!"

I stretch my back, hearing a crack a couple cracks. He's approaching me fast. Yet I pry at the weakness that's got him all worked up. Anybody else in my current situation would have had the living daylights scared out of them and not had the courage to even think another thought. "Does Harvey know about you and his little bunny?"

He grabs my scalp and smashes my head into the glass. "Where are they?" he bellows.

I fall to the floor, but instead of giving in immediately, I decide to remind him of his pathetic little rule. "Killing is making a choice" - another blow to the head from his iron fist-

"Where are they?"

"Choose between one life, or the other" –he pauses to listen- "your friend, the District Attorney, or his blushing bride-to-be…" I can't finish before I break out into laughter again.

That didn't sit well with the Batman.

He delivered a blow that knocked me almost completely to the ground. I couldn't get up from the exertion of laughing so hard. He will punch until he tires. "You have nothing—nothing to threaten me with," I manage between wheezing laughs. "Nothing to do, with all your strength."

Batman wrenches me up to his level, preparing for another bit of beatings. "Don't worry; I'm going to tell you where they are. Both of 'em," I say smugly, "and that's the point—you'll have to choose."

He's listening intently. "He's at, 250 52nd street," I switch the numbers at lightning speed, "and she's –uh- on Avenue X, at Cicero."

As expected, he throws me to the ground and storms out the room. Of course he's going to go save his squeeze.

I'm alone in a cell at the Arkham Asylum, and everything's white, even down to the uniform I'm wearing. You'd almost think at first glance that if it weren't for the cold, iridescent lights that I'd be in heaven. Heaven, I think as I chuckle. It's a joke. Something created by people, for people. It's a made up place where there's paradise. No chaos, no anarchy. Just peace and equality, important religious leaders say as they cram requirements, offerings and paperwork down people's throats while they sit back and watch them begrudgingly fulfill these tasks all to belong to religion. I found the concept of religion to be too…jaded, skipping around revealing their true colors.

While me and my clowns were robbing the bank, and I was handing everyone smoke grenades, I managed to hear a woman praying quietly as she huddled in a corner under the counter. I laughed as I placed a smoke grenade in her hand. She probably knew nothing about weapons, but her eyes widened as she looked at the object in her hands and back up at my masked face. I said, "I'm sure your God'll help you."

It's fun, mocking people, I have to admit. Bad things occur, and people begin to question their faith. It begins to bring out the darker side in people that I enjoy. Brings more chaos, something this city needs a bit more of.

They've taken me here to the Looney bin rather than admitting me to the MCU under Gordon's custody. The Commissioner won't be making that mistake again. They think I need help because I have a psychological problem. But there's no cure to being the Joker. I'm the fucking Russian roulette.

This mental institution thinks they can keep me here under lock and key. It's laughable. They all take these ridiculous precautions on me. They tie me in a straitjacket sometimes when my psychiatrist, his name escapes me, has a therapy session with me. They're all afraid of me. And they should be.

They have a miniscule fissure somewhere. There's always that one weak link.

The door buzzes. I have no idea of what time it is, but I assume I have another therapy session. I hear heels click on the floor and I stop wringing my hands and look up. A blond in a tapered suit and white lab coat walks toward the table with a clipboard at her side. Black, thinly-rimmed glasses sit on the bridge of her nose. Every feature on her face, save for her eyes, is small. She almost looks like a doll.

"Well, hello, beautiful," I address. I start to smile. Then I lick my lips, which has become a habit despite my chipping war paint. I rake a hand through my hair.

She says nothing, and doesn't even look up at me. A burly man, a bit on the rotund side, walks in after her. I assume he's the guard, sent in to supervise, just in case. He stands beside the door, hands locked together in front of him, staring at the wall behind me, and the table. Behind that stern expression, his eyes say it all—he'd rather be anywhere but here. All of Gotham and the Narrows have heard my story. No one is safe. At the first attempt I make to grab her throat, the first jolt I make for him, he'd run. He'd run and never look back.

The doc's eyes dart up to me. If eyes were windows to the soul, then her white lab coat, her tightly pulled-back hair, her nerdy glasses, her scrawled notes and numerous degrees in criminal psychology were all a façade. Her eyes contradicted that bland, professional vibe she's probably successfully pulled off for everyone else. She's not afraid of me. A little anxious, but the war paint when she lifts her head up doesn't startle her, doesn't even faze her. She glances at the scars and I don't see her wince or draw back. Her eyes don't even widen. She forgets that she should fear the psychopath. She should fear the criminal mastermind. Curious little thing, she is. It sparks my interest. There's too much fiery determination behind those eyes for her to be a doctor.

She places a tape recorder on the table. I look up at her from the recorder. A couple wispy strands of hair fall near her eyes as she scribbles a couple lines of information down on the notepad with such concentration that it reminds me of a high school nerd. She looks too uptight. Time for flattery. "Now, how'd I get such a beautiful doc, this session?"

I have to restrain myself from shuddering at my question. This is so unlike me.

The corners of her lips twitch as if they're fighting the urge to smile. It seems to be working—at least something good came of it. "I'm taking up your case, for now," she answers, her voice soft. Her delicate fingers reach over and press the play and record button. "September twentieth, Doctor Harleen Quinzel with inmate number 1534, the Joker," she recites.

"Do you have an alias?" she bluntly asks.

"Hmm?"

She takes a glance down at her papers, off-guard for a fraction of a second. "You never told us your name, so you're just called "The Joker" for now."

I make myself comfortable, stretching against the back of the seat. "Well of course. I'm not giving my name up. You psychiatrists must get the delusion that you think I'm stupid and inexperienced." I lean forward and look her directly in the eye. "You, however, can call me Mr. J."

She tries so hard to act like that didn't affect her, but her skin defies her, the blood rushing to her cheeks, tingeing them pink. She's loosening up, warming up to me. "Harley, Harley, Harley Quinn," I say.

"Excuse me?"

"Come on, seeing how we're going to be spending time together doing these therapy sessions" –I shudder at the word- "I don't think you'd want me calling you Dr. Quinzel, all the time, hmm?" A silence, and then I ask, "Well, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head, pushing her glasses up on her nose. "It's just…Harley…as in… the motorcycle?"

"No," I retort. "Harley Quinn, as in the harlequin—painted on the outside, complex on the inside."

Well, I seem to have shaken her up a bit. I enjoy the unease. "You're different that them," I state, "do you realize that?"

"What makes you say that?" she asks as she scribbles more on her notepad. I don't ask what exactly she's writing. It's not like I care what assumptions she's making about me on that piece of paper. Besides, it's written on her face. Like a book. She's thinking, figuring me out, if only little bit by little bit. But thinking won't save her. She won't be able to completely figure me out in time.

"You're trying right now to skip around admitting the fact that I might be right about your being different. You might not fit in with these, uh" –I lick my lips- "these 'sane' people for a reason." She doesn't look up. Tough crowd. I lean in closer, so close I can almost smell the scent of her hair. "It's written all over your face."

She looks up at me, her fingers gently tapping the clipboard upon nervous habit. "I'm afraid I don't follow…"

I cock my head, running my tongue quickly over my lips again. I'm staring at her as if she should know what I'm talking about. "There's something about you that doesn't fit with the rest of them. See"—I lean forward again on my elbows- "you're scared…of yourself."

I have her attention, and I see the tables begin to turn, so I continue. "You've read up on criminal psychology for, say, ten years. You've come to understand it. And then you get me. And you seem to be the only one who isn't afraid of me. Perhaps you're curious?"

The color leaves her lips and I smile. Such an easy object for manipulation. So naïve she is.

Moments later, she leans in as well, the guard advancing cautiously as she does, and retorts. "Our primary focus is on your therapies, Joker. Not on whatever problems you claim I have."

"Oh, a little fight in you," I reply, my eyes boring into hers. "I like that."

Then I lean back and crack my neck. "But you, my dear, are only disagreeing because that's how they taught you to avoid getting too involved with 'monsters' like me, huh?" I laugh darkly and wave my cuffs in front of me. I hold them up long enough so she can catch a glimpse of the raw and red skin on the wrists by which the SWAT team dragged me. Their own personal revenge. "Aren't I right, Harley?"

"I'm trying to help you treat the conditions that you've been diagnosed with."

No more "Mr. J." My gaze hardens on her. "Look—listen, Harley. Let me tell you. There's no cure. You guys think I'm insane?" I look between her and the guard. "No, no, no, no," I retort, "no, you see, out there is the real asylum. They're all just in denial. They're held back by values, and material things. Once they're gone…they turn cannibalistic.

"So this isn't a matter of being 'sane', really. It's about…" I trail off and lick my lips as I act like I'm searching for a word. "It's about how far ahead you are. I'm ahead of the curve. But don't worry—you'll catch up."

She hastily shuts off the tape recorder. And I look back up at her.

"I think that's all the time that we have," she says in that soft, controlled voice.

I lick my lips, leaning in as I say, "That's what they taught you to do, hmm?"

She doesn't react, gathering her papers in an organized way. I begin laughing, laughing at the irony, the fear I've invoked on everyone, the power I have through fear, but mostly at her. I stand corrected—no one is immune to manipulation. Not even Miss top-of-her-class Quinzel is comfortable around me. It'll be all too easy to bend her. I've found my weak link.

"Well, Dr. Quinzel," I address. I lean in even closer; our noses are almost touching as her eyes meet my face. She jumps. "It's a funny world we live in."