"I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cute your hair. I hate the drive a car, I hate it when you stare. I hate your brown Italian shoes, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick, and even makes me rhyme. I hate the way you're always right, I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all."
The Joker was not one for idle chitchat. Magnificent and glorious monologues, yes. But smalltalk had never been his forte, and he doubted that it ever would be. So his current predicament was very uncomfortable for him. Joker sat, handcuffed, across from Commissioner Gordon in the treatment wing of Arkham. In Gordon's hands was a crappy cup of coffee, and in Joker's was a pen that he'd been twirling around his fingers to amuse himself during this horrendous interview, if you could even call it that.
"You're never, ever going to be released if this keeps up, Joker." Gordon said, his eye flicking between glaring at the Joker and glaring into his cup of coffee.
"This?" Joker asked. Gordon's glare settled on the Joker's face.
"This—these outbursts." Gordon said. "No one is going to even consider trying to rehabilitate or treat you if you keep attacking other inmates."
"Ah…" The Joker said.
"So, so, why did you attack Jonathon Crane today?" Gordon sounded weary, almost bored.
"He… irritates me." Joker said, his deft fingers spinning the pen faster. "First of all, his last name is Crane and he's tall and skinny and he dresses up as a Scarecrow who instills people with fear? And people say I'm melodramatic." Gordon shook his head in confusion.
"What do you mean?"
"Seriously?" The Joker said, sounded disgusted. He leaned as far forwards as the leg braces that held him to the chair would allow. "Ichabod Crane? The Legend of Sleepy Hollow? What did your parents read to you as a bedtime story?" Gordon sighed and set his coffee down on the table.
"I don't know, fairy tales and not horror stories about headless men who ride around trying to decapitate total strangers." Gordon said with a shrug.
"Well, I remember that… That and the German story about the little girl who lights herself on fire..." The Joker said, gazing absently at a spot behind Gordon. "That was a good story…" Joker's scarred lips spread into a taunting smirk.
"Anyways, the point is that the Batman has volunteered someone to look after your case. Funnily enough, he's also the one paying for all of your security measures." Gordon said.
"Who's stupid enough to manage my case?" The Joker asked, and the answer was not far away.
"Me." Joker looked up to see a tall man in an expensive suit leaning in the corner.
"Joker, I'd like you to meet Mr. Bruce Wayne."