Joker woke with a ringing in his ears. He sat up in his cot, scowling, annoyed to have been disturbed. And he'd been having such a lovely dream: pulling the wings off bats. The ringing carried on. Maybe he should answer it.
Or he could let it go to voicemail.
"Who would be calling at this late hour, anyhoo?" he wondered aloud.
It was a shame he didn't have caller I.D. That way he'd know whether it was worthwhile picking up. If only to hang up; or know who to string up.
There was one person he'd like to hear from. One person he missed, an ache growing in his heart with every moment of absence. One person he couldn't live without. No, not Harley. Batman.
Sinking back into his pillows, he sighed contentedly. He could picture it now, lolloping on the cot of his Arkham cell, twirling the telephone wire in one hand, playing with his hair with the other. Applying red polish to his ten little toe-nails like the girls in those nineties Rom-Coms. They could talk for hours, gossiping about good old times in Gotham Playground, poking fun at all those other losers in the Rogues' Gallery. Just pretty pictures to frame on Batsy's wall. Not even that pretty, really. They didn't have Joker's smile.
Of course, Bat-brains wouldn't talk much, maybe a threat here and there. But that was just how Joker liked it. A chance to talk uninterrupted, an understanding ear. After all, nobody understood him like the Bat.
Oh if only he could call! Did they have the right to a free phone call in Arkham? Honestly, it'd never crossed his mind. How delightful it'd be to hear those sweet gravelly tones, the dark sullen brooding and deep heavy breathing on the other end of the line. He could talk about his problems: the stress of coming up with new gags, the effort to stay positive while unappreciated, or his defective posterior that needed sending back to the manufacturers – it has a crack in it!
Ah, if only.
He hadn't had a phone on the outside. There was no-one to call. He was old-school in that respect: he did his talking in person, face-to-face. And, after all, actions speak louder than texts. If he wanted to talk to the Batman, he'd use smoke-signals.
On the other hand, cell phones could do marvellous things. He could take pictures to document his fun, video even. Smile for the camera phone! And then there was the interface software, like Siri. Helpful tool, so he'd heard.
He stuck out a thumb and forefinger and pressed them to the side of his face, miming being on the phone.
"Siri," he said to the empty room. "What's the funniest way to kill someone?"
I do not have this information. Sorry about that.
Of course not. Why would they programme it to be useful? Smart phones were only as smart as the dopes that made them. And anyone who decides typing is too much effort has to be a detriment to the gene pool. He sat up in bed again, feeling a little put out.
"Siri, do you have a sense of humour?"
I was not programmed to be funny. Sorry about that.
Joker's own imagined responses were beginning to annoy him. He slammed his finger-phone against the hard brick wall and cringed at the impact. Then he did it again and again and again. There was a crack, and his bleeding knuckles left a red smear on the wall. Blood dripped on the pillows. His little finger looked a little bent out of shape.
Siri is experiencing technical difficulties.
"Oh no!" Joker cried, giggling. "What ever is the matter?"
The difficulty is, technically, we are insane.
Joker cackled, slapping his thigh with his damaged hand. The voice in his head was right. Still, it was so hard to find good conversation. He might as well enjoy it while he could. He put his 'cell' back to his ear, trying to speak through the fits of laughter.
"Siri, what's the best way to mess with the Bat?"
Kill him.
Joker stopped laughing. That wasn't funny. That wasn't funny at all. Siri had said it so simply, so seriously. What joy could he have out of a dead Batman? Who would he play with then? Smart phone, huh? Smart mouth, more like. And Joker hated smart mouths.
He slammed his mitt against the wall again, the mechanical voice pleading emotionlessly, dispassionately, crazy.
Stop. Stop. It tickles. Stop…
The voice droned and faded out, like an old tape chewing itself up. Joker's hand was nothing but a lifeless lump at the end of his arm, the finger-phone broken to bloody bits.
"Look at that," he crooned. "A dead ringer."
He sniggered for a while, listening to the persistent chimes. He shook his head, wondering if it'd make the bells jangle faster. It didn't. He couldn't even remember why he was hearing the noise. There'd been a loud noise at some point, he knew that. But why? Ironically, it didn't ring a bell. A bomb, probably. That sounds about right. What was it he'd destroyed? Oh yes! A small shop selling party supplies. Clown costumes - none of them stylish - conical birthday hats, candles, wrapping paper, ribbons, streamers, crackers, party-poppers, banners and badges – so many wonderful things. Where better to have a party of his own?
Joker had left a present at the back of the store, with the helium and the latex and the foil. He'd blown up the balloons.
He chortled at the memory. Now he knew what the ringing was all about; now he knew who was calling. He slipped from the bed, and stooped to write his name on the prison cell floor.