Match Tricks
Told from the perspective of someone who thinks a villain is a great person.
"You just don't understand Mistah J. like I do, B-man," Harley Quinn said from the backseat of the Batmobile, her jester suit peppered with scorch marks left behind by a incendiary burst of (stolen) fireworks, "and you don't understand how to have fun either."
"Spare me the excuses, Harleen," Batman growled between gritted teeth, "I don't see how setting off a warehouse worth of fireworks outside the Gotham City Retirement Villa at one o'clock in the morning is in any way—stop laughing, Quinn!"
But Harley was already hunched over in a fit of poorly-suppressed giggles, her face so reddened from laughter that bright patches of crimson peeked through her white greaspaint, for she knew something that Batman did not—somewhere else in Gotham, there was an even bigger stash of gunpowder-packed fireworks, and next to it stood Joker, lighting a match between his gloved fingers and flashing a terrible, toothy grin.