He, the self-proclaimed Agent of Chaos,

Bringer of fire, terror, death,

"The Joker."

He watched as Gotham burned.

Burned.

So sweetly,

His own alleged insanity his fuel, for what was to come.

He did what he had set out to do from the beginning.

Bring the evil of Gotham to the forefront of everyone's mind.

They thought they were righteous in their accusations of

"The Bat Man."

But he had been right,

All along.

This chaos-bringer had shown Gotham its true self,

The stain that had been in the cloth since the very conception of an idea of Gotham,

The stain of humanity.

He, the demented prophet, had foretold the fate of The Bat Man.

And every single word was true.

He was on the outside,

He was shunned by them

The moment the cards were down.

Them,

Always them,

The cretins that didn't even deserve his complement.

He, the criminal they deserved,

And the darkened hero, the savior none of the worthless scum should have ever had.

Without that savior, though,

He, the villain would be nothing.

A shadow on the wall.

All he wanted was pandemonium.

And he had received his blessed freedom from the pawn,

The wretched Scarecrow.

Poor bastard, at least he was worth something.

Releasing him from that playground, Arkham...

So The Joker could wreak his havoc upon The City of the Skull.

A place so owned by the useless, "Prince," the Wayne...

Or was he so useless after all...?

By the way the Bat had gone after "beautiful"...

Would make anyone with a brain wonder.

But The Joker's work was for now done.

He had forced the outsiders to see themselves

(They disliked it... So they forced their "hero" to flee...)

"What doesn't kill you makes you stranger..."

Well the Bat Man would certainly become stranger in the coming onslaught...

He would have to lurk in the murk and filth,

Being slandered, his name disemboweled.

What would he think of his pitiful city now that he was the dog, the villain?