This is proof that I've completely and totally stopped taking myself seriously. So, a friend of mine brought up the idea...when he's not...out…you know, Jokerizing, where does the Joker live? So, just for fun and for strictly amusing laughs, these are the tales of the Joker (of course, under the alias Cleveland Roger Punsworth, which can be translated into Cleave R. Pun, or Clever Pun, since I got off my ass to consider this for a second) and a haphazard next-door neighbor who he basically pals around with. No relationship of any strict sense will be involved in this—I just see him being an unpleasantly social guy, in the kind of way that makes you feel awkward. I own nothing, except the name Cleveland R. Punsworth and Harvey Tinkle who is, amusingly, not a male. Bear with me, writing the Joker as a person sans Batman interaction is a little complex, I'm working on getting the hang of this. On with the show!

XxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Fuck-hole. That is the only way I can describe this place. I am moving into a fuck-hole. People have told me that paying rent on Gotham apartments is second only to paying rent on apartments in New York City. In this experience, I'm believing it.

My name is Harvey Tinkle and, yes, I am female. I get a good enough laugh at my own expense, just on how many people find it so funny. I used to get angry when I was a kid, I used to seriously consider legally changing it, then I thought about it and I realized, who cares?

I've lived on the outskirts on Gotham my entire life, swaying to and fro between country and city, dabbling in only on trips with my mother and father to see the occasional show or concert. All the action exists in the heart of the dark borough, and though I've never liked it, it's the only place one can go to make something of themselves really.

Armed with a meager degree in journalism, an array of profane statements and a mildly sarcastic wit, I have secured myself an apartment in Gotham Heights. The clichés abound that I've learnt to tolerate, moving in is my new, thrilling experience.

And this, my friends, is a fuck-hole.

I will admit, I'm not a clean person. I leave things lying around all over the place, I never straighten up, if it were up to me my mother's rules of 'cleaning up' before company wouldn't exist. I see, now, that this is going to require I do something.

But now to the current situation. My scrawny self trying to drag up the stairs a very large suitcase. I am considerably smaller than this suitcase. And apparently, no one in Gotham City is halfway decent enough to assist me when I glance up the staircase in wide-eyed fear. And after I mustered up my courage, I grabbed a tight hold of that handle and yes, by God, I pulled. I would assume the feelings in the base of my spine were it disconnecting from my actual spinal cord itself, but with a triumphant bump the large bag made it up stair after stair.

And then I heard it.

"Ya havin' some trouble there, girly?" When I glance up, I can't help but stifle a considerably disturbed look. The man glancing down at me from his open door, right at the top of the stairs, is a lanky creature, clad in nothing but a pair of heart-patterned boxers. He's not defined, fairly pale, and he looks thin enough that he either refuses to eat or satiates himself on only celery. His face—oh his face. But what do you say to things like that? In each cheek is embedded what seems to be an intense incision that must have been made by a serrated blade of some form. The scars are deep, and though he seems to grin they make the expression a smile. It's wide, wicked, and his dark green eyes glimmer artfully to accentuate it. There's something about him that makes me terrified.

I grunt. "Yeah," and hop up another stair. I can tell he's going to be the greatest next-door neighbor I've ever had. He's already so eager to carry my bags. "You just gonna stand there?"

"Darwinian Theory, girly. Only the strong survive," Does he greet everyone like this? "If I helped you, I'd be screwing with the natural selection and all that crap."

I grunt. Again. And finally manage to drag the immense, exploding object to the top of the stairs. The man's strange, curly hair falls in funny blonde wisps, but I swear I can see the tinge of what is a bad dye job to what I also swear is the color green.

He pauses, licks his lips like surveying, like a predator to the kill. His tongue is serpentine, darts out of his mouth for a flicker moment. He fidgets like a stupid kid.

And I just stand there. In room one-oh-three, I can see a dully shifting television, the dim, scratchy light reflecting on a badly upholstered, maroon-colored couch. Maroon? I hate that color.

Room one-oh-four is my brand new home. Only problem is, mister 'girly' with the face won't let me get in.

Comically, I watch him step back into his own doorway. His shoulders drop, making his already notable slouch more obvious; his arms leveling out one over the other and he drops his tone a few octaves. It sounds like a drawl, "After you, girly."

And this, I imagine, is the reason the ad for this apartment has been in the paper for years.