Super annoying pre-chapter A/N: oops another non-Joker pic hahah ha ha. Some shit goes down this chapter and I'm v excited!!!!

"Some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money. They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned, or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn."
–Michael Caine

I AWOKE ON A TUESDAY morning to the smell of crackling bacon and freshly fried eggs.

It was a peculiar scent, one I hadn't smelt in years. In fact, the last time I remembered smelling fresh breakfast in the morning was when I was sixteen, three days prior to Mom's death. She absolutely adored making breakast every morning, which was probably the most mature thing she'd ever done.

Surprisingly, my internal alarm clock failed to initiate at four in the morning. It was unusual for me to sleep past that time ever since my mothers demise, and today was the third day in a row that I've done so. Today also marked three days since the Joker and I became "roomies".

I balled my hands into fists, furiously rubbing the sleep from my blurred vision as the fleece blanket — maroon in color — slipped from my shoulders, pooling into a thick ball against my lap. The couch cushion sank beneath my weight as I rose into a sitting position, several strands of wild hair stuck up in random places as I attempted to smooth them down with my clammy palm.

The sudden scent of cigarette smoke intermixed with the smell of breakfast, prompting my nose to crinkle in disgust at the shift in scent as I rose from my spot on the old sofa.

Groggily, I slid my socked feet against the stained carpet, slinking around the living room wall as I strut into the bright kitchen.

Heaps of sunlight poured into the room from the broad window that hugged the right wall, which apparently hadn't been boarded up like the one window I'd seen. My focus, however, did not remain on the elegantly shaped trees that sat beyond the thin glass for very long.

A very shirtless Joker hovered the kitchen counter, damp, ashy blonde curls tickling his shoulders as beads of water dribbled down the pale skin of his back. Which, by the way, was extremely toned...

I blatantly stared, mouth agape, as the muscles in his back flexed with every miniscule movement, a shiny metallic spatula held in his right clutch as he flipped several golden pancakes over in the sizzling pan.

My mouth salivated at the sight — Whether it be due to the pleasant aroma of homemade breakfast, or the equally delightful contractions of Joker's back muscles — I wasn't quite sure.

I'd gotten so caught up in the depths of my mind that I hadn't even noticed a pair of cocoa-hued orbs focused directly on me. My jaw instantly snapped shut, teeth clattering upon impact as a savage shiver traveled up the length of my spine.

"Mooooor-ning." Joker gleamed, a slight twinkle in his eye as he diverted his gaze to meet the cooking pancakes once more.

"M-Morning." I croaked, my voice laced with sleep as I took my spot on a nearby bar stool. The wooden seat groaned beneath my weight, scraping obnoxiously against the chipped tile floor as I winced in retaliation.

"How'd yah sleep?" The man droned, placing perfectly browned pancakes onto a nearby paper plate before extinguishing the vibrant blue flame beneath the pan.

"Great, actually. That couch is a lot more comfy than the hotel bed was." I dryly joked, pupils widening as the painted-face man placed a plateful of pancakes, eggs and bacon in front of my face.

"Don't-uh, ge-t used to this." The man grunted, twisting on his heel as he piled his plate high with freshly cooked goods.

"Thank you, boss." I gleamed, retrieving a shiny metal fork from his grasp as I dug into my plate. The food was absolutely heavenly, prompting my eyes to nearly roll back in my head in ecstacy as I swallowed large mouthfuls of fluffy pancakes.

"What's the occasion?" I added through a mouthful of food.

"It's Halloween," Joker gleamed, tossing the soiled pan into the sink. "My fav-or-ite holiday."

"Mine's Christmas." I blandly spoke, avoiding the clown's hardened gaze as I continued to munch away on the homemade meal.

"'Course i-t is," his tone severely shifted, transforming into a deep, dark pitch as his blackened gaze met mine. "Doesn't-er, surprise me, considering you've go-t a fuck load-a Who's on your trunk."

My jaw stilled at his statement, a particularly large gulp of pancake easing uncomfortably down my throat as I choked it down. My azure gaze lay transfixed on the rigid man, his palms meeting the comfort of the cool, granite counter as a shiny, silver chain glimmered around his neck.

I hadn't noticed it before, but the Joker wore a fucking necklace. It was unlike any other I'd ever seen — So shiny and sparkly that it literally gleamed beneath the mixture of natural and artificial lighting of the kitchen. By the looks of it, the clown must've polished the silver regularly to maintain it's shine. The chain traveled downward, slipping between petite patches of fine, blonde hair that littered his chest as it lead to a destinct shape — That of a paper airplane.

Brows raised in curiosity as I studied the charm, focusing on the intricate dips and grooves of the silver plane as it lay slung around the madman's neck. I felt instantly compelled to question the jewelry, but immediately bit my tongue.

"Does tha-t little speck trans-form into a snowflake at Christmas time, hm?" The painted-face man continued to taunt, completely disregarding my blatant stare at his bare chest. He slightly paused, determined pink tongue interrupting his line of speech as he poked and prodded at the left laceration imbedded upon his cheek.

"And do they say — There is no place like Whoville around Christmas day — hmm?"

A swallowed painfully, eyes remaining unblinked as Joker abandoned his post, circling the oblong island counter as he thrust his ungloved hands into the air, using them to further enunciate his speech.

"Every Who down in Whoville liked Christmas a lo-t," he recited, lips smacking together in anticipation as a slight giggle emerged.

"Oh, but the Grinch, who lived jus-t North of Whoville — did not."

I remained deathly silent following his quote, audibly gulping as I sat frozen on the bar stool. The Joker stood within three-or-so feet of myself, his hands still dramatically raised as a sinister grin encaptured his features.

"Y'know wha-t I'm hungry for, Horty?" Joker hummed, eyes contorting into slits as his haunting gaze bore deeply into mine.

"P-Pancakes?" I whispered, palms growing clammy as I brisky rubbed them against my jean-clad legs.

"Who flesh!" Joker announced, lunging forward as I instinctively lept backwards, heart nearly bursting from my chest in fright as I toppled from the rickety wooden stool. My ass met the chipped tile floor, lower back obscenely cracking against the surface as I let out a distressed moan.

Joker, however, didn't appear to be too concerned about the status of my aching back, as he currently lay doubled-over a yard away. Thick tears pertruded through the cracks of his closed eyelids, a colorant-tinted palm clutching tightly onto his bare stomach as he burst into mirthful laughter.

Patches of goosebumps arose on my exposed flesh at the sonance, chills encapturing my trembling spine as I backed my way against the nearby wall. The square of my shoulders abruptly collided with the surface, short gasps of air tumbling from my lungs as I struggled to breathe.

Finally — after what seemed like an eternity — The man's laughter ceased. Black greasepaint tracked down his cheeks like mascara, intermixing with the vibrant white color as the back of his palm met his face. Several splotches of paint smudged upon impact, the blood red paint seeping deeply into his gruesome scars as he circled the counter once more, lifting a discarded metal fork in his grasp before stuffing a particularly large bite of pancakes into his amused mouth.

I laid stunned against the drywall, mouth dry as a bone as I struggled to comprehend what the bloody fuck had just happened.

"Ge-t ready," Joker growled.
"You have a lesson in sixty."

The balmy water coated my destressed features in thick sheets as I lay defeated on the lukewarm tile floor.

I'd been in the very same position for nearly twenty-five minutes, curled into a pitiful ball on the shower floor as the water continued to emerge in a steady stream above me. When I started to feel trapped in the hell that was my very own mind, I came here — To this little cubicle (which was drastically cleaner than the black and white checkered tile at the Inn). Something about the scalding hot water had managed to clear my head, to rid my mind of the vexatious thoughts that bombarded it.

I wasn't quite sure what this "lesson" with the Joker would entail. To be entirely frank, I was fucking terrified to find out. Following our peculiar interaction during breakfast — and Joker's odd comparison to the Grinch — I couldn't help but feel a bit on edge.

Time managed to escape me, and I found myself combing my fingers through my knotted hair, the heels of my feet just barely tucked into my ratted Chuck Taylor's as I stumbled into the door which concealed Joker's "torture chamber" (nickname courtesy of me...)

I practically fell through the cremé tinted door, a sharp breath hitching in my throat as the soles of my sneakers obnoxiously squeaked against the discolored concrete floor.

Joker's neck snapped upwards in response to my ostentatious entrance, a set of brows raising questionably as my gaze instantly settled upon an unconscious individual laid upon an eight-foot long foldable card table. My friends and I used to use those very same tables to play beer pong on back in high school. However, there was never a motionless (presumably deceased) body laid upon ours...

"Ah," Joker mused, fiddling with a bloodied knife in his ungloved grasp. The crimson liquid glimmered beneath the artificial lighting of the room, which was illuminated solely by a single lightbulb, cast downward by a metal chain.

"I was starting to think you'd-uh, chicken out." The madman taunted, setting the blade aside on a nearby table, which was short and stocky, unlike the long table which the stranger lay upon.

"Whose this?" I breathed, eyes widening dramatically as I cautiously approached the painted-face man.

I nearly let out an audible sigh of relief when the strangers chest inexplicably rose—Signalling that he was, in fact, still alive.

"Let's call him Stu." Joker dismissed, clearly not concerned with the mans proper name as readjusted the sloppily rolled sleeves of his maroon dress shirt. Several insistent splatters of blood coated his fingers, prompting my toes to perilously curl.

"Any-who..." the man added, tiny pink tongue interrupting his line of speech as it darted outward from the depths of his mouth. I forcibly diverted my stare, settling it upon the mess of medical instruments that littered the torn fabric of the inky card table before us.

"Mis-ter Stu has gotten into a bi-t of a pre-dicament. And-uh, since you're my new trusty steed, you'll need to know how to care for me in a-uh, emergency."

My eyebrows instinctively raised at Joker's statement, the idea of his life literally falling into my hands made my heart painfully race...

"Correc-t me if I'm wrong, but you were a successful dealer, hm?"

"Yes, sir. I was." I muttered, eyeing the steadily oozing wound pertruding from Stu's left side.

Was that there before...?

"Any-uh, experience with candy?" Several blonde ringlets tumbled in his eyes, which were heavily focused on the empty syringe held in his grasp.

"Yeah, I sold a bit of heroin." I gulped, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I didn't mean to brag... but I was a bit knowledgeable on every drug that I'd crossed paths with. As a dealer, you have to know the shit you're selling.

"Typically, I'll try and-uh, keep some high grade morphine in my first aid ki-t. Buuuut, if that's not a-vail-able—"

"Use heroin. Got it. Great for pain." I swiftly interrupted. My chest ached when Joker's speech ceased, worrisome gaze creeping upwards to meet his. I desperately attempted to prepare myself for the worst — To prepare myself for the stab in the neck I'd probably earned from that measly interruption.

However, that event never quite occurred.

Hastily, my neck craned upward, a sea of blue swiftly colliding with a soft shade of brown as Joker's amused glare fluently met mine.

"Righ-t." He confirmed, delivering a somewhat harsh pat on the back inbetween my shoulder blades.

Reluctantly, I cowered away from his abrupt touch, flinching beneath the weight of his palm as he delivered a keen slap to my back. My peculiar response seemed to go unnoticed, as Joker instantaneously refocused on the task on hand.

"So," Joker drawled, his lips curling into a dramatic "o" shape as he overpronounced the latter letter in the word. "I've-uh, created a scenario. Ickle Stewey here has a gun sho-t wound, and a stab wound. I wan-t you to properly care for both. Understood?"

"Of course, sir." I confidently countered, addressing the ample amount of sterile medical supplies that littered the table.

"Gloves first." Joker dryly ordered, thrusting a fresh pair of latex gloves into my clutch.

I merely nod, tugging the stretchy material onto my swollen fingers as Joker intently observed. Thick beads of sweat littered my forehead as he continued to stare, and suddenly, I found it quite difficult to tug the gloves onto my clammy palms...

"Clean the wound." The clown blandly instructed, nodding in the direction of the unconscious man laid upon the table.

An audible gulp traveled through my throat as I simply nodded, retrieving several antiseptic wipes from the table before approaching the inert man.

"Why is he unconscious?" I pried, the slight glimmer of the paper plane pendant obscuring my vision as it slipped from the depths of Joker's unfastened shirt.

My stare lingered for several seconds too long, prompting the madman to shoot me a stern glare before nudging me in the side sharply with his elbow.

"Focus." He snipped, avoiding my inquiry as I brought my trembling fingers to Stu's oozing wound. I could clearly feel the clown's hot, staggered breaths against my exposed neck, prompting a collection of goosebumps to arise on the skin.

My gloved fingers met the flushed flesh of Stu's side, the wettened wipe becoming slick with blood as I daintily applied pressure to the stab wound. The laceration was rather deep, and stretched along a good three inches of his flesh.

My nose crinkled in disgust as the wipe became soaked with blood, slipping from my grasp as I discarded it into a nearby waste bin before snatching a fresh wipe and continuing to clean the skin. Joker remained silent beside me, blackened gaze fixated on Stu's wound as I continued to thoroughly clean it.

Once the gash was completely sterile, Joker wordlessly instructed me to retrieve a needle, which was already threaded with bright, yellow thread.

"Close i-t."

I thickly swallowed, nodding curtly before claiming the tiny needle in my shaking grasp. I'd gotten stitches three times in my life, so I think I know how to do it...

With one final burst of confidence, I brought the needle to Stu's wound, piercing the bunched skin with the sharpened edge of the needle before threading the string through.

I grimaced at the sight, the bile rising from my stomach to my throat as I forcefully choked it down. My eyes slightly watered as I sloppily sealed the injury, not once glancing over my shoulder to view Joker's stern stance. If I couldn't care for unconscious Stu, I'd surely be kicked to the curb for good. Or worse...

Once the wound was properly sealed, Joker thrust a large, rectangular white bandage into my arms, instructing me to dress the treated wound and finish the job.

With latex-coated digits, I smoothed the edges of the bandage down, securing the material over the wound before tugging the bloodied gloves from my hands and discarding them into the trash.

Questionably, I glanced over my shoulder to view a skeptical Joker, who brushed past me rather abruptly to view the job. I watched, jaw agape as he laced his slender arms behind his back, prompting the silver chain to clink against the unbuttoned buttons of his silky dress shirt.

His painted face sat mere inches from the dressed wound, inspecting it before glancing amusingly in my direction.

"Good, goooood." He mused, lacing his arms around my broad shoulders as he tugged my frozen frame to his.

My shoulder harshly collided with his chest, forehead grazing the chalky, white paint imbedded upon his chin as he enveloped me in some type of peculiar, half-assed embrace. The food buried deeply in my belly painfully churned as he held me close, the distinct thumping of his heart against my shoulder prompting my toes to curl beneath the fabric of my sneakers.

"Alrighty, Hor-t. Next, the bullet wound."

Sixty-seven minutes. That's how long it takes the Joker to get into his Halloween costume. Over a fucking hour.

He hadn't told me what he was going as, but he'd managed to toss a thick, plastic clown mask in my direction before his departure, so it was evident that I didn't have a choice in the matter.

The pad of my thumb intently traced the deepest grooves of the mask, dipping down and around the pre-cut eye holes as I thoroughly inspected the bulky plastic. Just as I began to turn over the plastic to view the creepy face plastered on the front, the sound of a door slamming broke me from my trance.

I immediately darted upward from my spot on the sofa, leaving behind a considerable indent where my weight once lay as the mask nearly tumbled from my grasp.

Cobalt gaze eventually settled upon a broad figure, which emerged from behind the hallway wall. My lips immediately parted at the sight of the Joker, who was practically swallowed by the abundance of black he currently wore.

His torso was clad with a bulky leather trench coat, leading into a pair of nearly identical inky leather pants, the ankles tucked messily into a pair of unlaced combat boots. A plain, slightly torn cotton shirt lay beneath the parted flaps of the coat, a considerably large hole—about the size of a quarter—hovered over his left peck, revealing the pale skin beneath. Although my gaze attempted to settle upon the blatant silver chain tucked beneath the fabric, I couldn't help but openly gawk at the mans appearance.

His overgrown, ashy blonde curls were currently nonexistant, masked by a dark black tint throughout. The shadowy curls elegantly framed his routinely painted face, his forehead, unscarred surface of his cheeks, nose and chin all masked by chalky, white paint. Soft, cocoa-hued eyes were heavily circled by dark greasepaint. However, the circles were also accented by a single thin, vertical line, partial above the brow, and the rest below the eyes. The deep, crooked scars imbedded upon Joker's cheeks were concealed by black greasepaint, versus the typical blood red hue.

"Geee-zuuuus," Joker droned, running an ungloved hand through his newly dyed locks. "Take a fuckin' photo, good lor-d."

My jaw instantly snapped shut, teeth clattering upon impact as I shifted my weight against the disheveled carpet. Joker still hovered the drywall, eyes twinkling beneath the heavy amounts of paint as he stared perplexedly in my direction.

"Eric Draven?" I questioned, unable to tear my glare from the precisely dressed man.

"Ding-ding-ding!" Joker chanted, the tone of his voice high-pitched as it echoed within my ears. The miniscule hairs that coated my skin instantaneously stood tall at the sound, my throat running dry as a gleeful grin encaptured his features.

"How d'I look?"

"Frighteningly similar to Brandon Lee." I gasped. "You could be twins. Minus the — uh — scars, o'course." I stuttered, tearing my stare from Joker's.

"It-uh, only seems appropriate to go as him this year, since I'm twenty-eight 'n all." Joker droned, readjusting the tangled curls atop his head as he tucked his shiny Glock-17 into the depths of his trench coat.

"Let's go."

The pair of us spent the majority of the car ride discussing the novelistic masterpiece that was The Crow.

He hadn't told me where we were going. Then again, I didn't really ask about our final destination. However, a little part of me hoped and prayed that our heist wouldn't involve the likes of innocent children, who want nothing more than to collect an abundance of candy from strangers...

"I used to love trick or treating." I observed, gaze glued to the vibrantly dressed children skipping along the neighboring sidewalk as the van tumbled down an unfamiliar — yet lively — neighborhood.

"Me too." Joker grumbled, rapidly approaching a single-story home near the back of the surburban area. The amount of gleeful children on surrounding sidewalks seemed to dissipate on this end of the road, as well as any lights on surrounding homes. It was as if we'd entered a graveyard of some sort. Back here, the houses were spaced further apart, unlike the homes near the front, which were packed in like sardines.

Joker directed the van into one of the dimly lit homes' driveway, leaving very little room between the front of the vehicle and the garage door as he killed the engine.

"Jus-t a few things," Joker began, dipping his palm into the abyss of his leather coat. An abundance of black greasepaint lay imprinted upon his skin, faded in color due to the possibility that he'd attempted to wash most of it off, but to no avail.

His free arm darted outward, grazing my lap as my heart literally leapt into my throat at the sudden contact. Joker's dainty digits laced around the eerie mask, thrusting it up towards my face.

"Keep this on at all times." He instructed, retrieving a firearm from the inside pocket of his trench coat. I watched curiously as he efficiently loaded the gun, cocking the slide back routinely in order to put one in the chamber.

"Yours is in the glove compar-tment." The madman added, stern gaze focused on the shiny pistol that lay entrapped in his grasp.

I wordlessly nodded, my somewhat trembling fingers instantly lacing around the compartment handle as I tugged the storage unit downward to reveal a mess of crinkled papers and a compact handgun.

I mirrored Joker's previous actions, efficiently preparing the firearm for action as his bottom lip pouted outward to blow away stray strands of black ringlets from his eyes. The sight of the Joker without his greasy blonde curls was — odd.

"You look good with black hair." I observed, cradling the loaded pistol in my clammy grasp as Joker's neck craned in my direction.

A toothy grin claimed his lips, tugging the blackened scars up the length of his cheeks.

"Thanks, pal."

With that, the man promptly exited the vehicle, shoving the door open with the toe of his boot as he let out a strand of unattainable, muffled phrases.

I, too, shuffled from the idle van, the soles of my sneakers colliding roughly with the mahogany brick driveway as I secured the mask over my worrisome features. Joker still hadn't specified why we were here or what we were doing, and I couldn't help but feel extremely anxious at what was to come.

I circled the hood of the car, sucking in my excess weight in order to properly squeeze between the minimal space left between the front of the van and the garage door. Joker, a nearly spitting image of The Crow's Eric Draven, stood patiently several yards away, Glock-17 glimmering beneath the coach lights.

"Don't speak. Jus-t follow my lead." He lowly instructed, jabbing an index finger directly in the center of my heaving chest as he elegantly twirled on his heel and started towards the front door.

The single-story home was pretty bland, an off-white paint job coating the deteriorating concrete. Several obnoxious stains littered the surface, varying in dimension and hue. A single metal foldable chair sat perched outside the olive front door, completed with an orange plastic bowl (littered with petite ghouls and ghosts) filled nearly to the brim with candy.

Joker raised an amused brow, shooting me a questionable glance before digging his fingers into the bowl and claiming a handful of Halloween treats, stuffing them into his coat before knocking three consecutive times on the front door with his fist.

I stood idle behind my employer, gun held tightly in my grasp as I struggled to maintain my breathing beneath the incredibly hot mask. I could literally hear every single breath that escaped my parted lips, and boy, did it drive me fucking insane. The thick plastic was beginning to make me clausterphobic.

What seemed like an eternity later, the door swung widely open, revealing a middle-aged man with thick spectacles that magnitized his cocoa-tinted eyes. His incredibly thin lips parted in preparation to speak, but the Joker had already beat him to it.

"Trick or treat." Joker spat, a giggle slipping through his stained lips as he pointed the firearm directly between the mans eyes, which widened significantly at the sight.

He stepped backwards, thrusting either arm into the air in surrender as he allowed both Joker and I entrance into the musky home.

Directly beside the door sat a broad wooden dresser, accented with miscellaneous trinkets and another bowl of candy.

"Give me something goo-d to eat." Joker lightly added, shuffling slender fingers through the additional bowl as he snatched several Heath bars.

The air was thick and cloudy inside the home, courtesy of what appeared to be cigar smoke as we shuffled further into the premises.

The compact living space was uncomfortably cramped, crowded with an abundance of used, matted furniture. Numerous empty beer bottles littered the putrid carpet, which appeared to have once been a lovely milky color, only to be detriorated to a grimy yellow tint.

Joker practically skipped his way through the home, bobbing and weaving between the furniture as a low round of "duh-dums" fell from his parted lips. The loaded firearm slapped against his side, inky curls thrown astray by a nearby ceiling fan as the pair of us approached a crowded dining room table.

Four burly men sat at the rickety table, fat cigars clinging to the corners of their lips as thick smoke pranced along the ceiling and the walls. Each man strut a substantial amount of facial hair, concealing their scarred faces as pairs of black, beady eyes flickered in our direction. A dozen-or-so cards lay in each of their grasp, fanned outward to display each individual card.

"Ah," Joker beamed, scars tugging up the length of his face as he thrust a free hand into the depths of his trench coat. "Finally! A game I can con-tri-bute to!"

Brows raised as the clown tossed an amplitude of Joker cards onto the surface of the table — Well over a dozen in quantity.

The quartet remained deathly silent, continuous streams of smoke erupting from their still lips as Joker took a kiddy-corner seat at the table, snatching a nearby wooden chair and plopping down into it.

I stood frozen beside the rectangular dining room table, arm outstretched as I settled the barrel of my gun upon a plump man opposite Joker.

The Joker let out several high-pitched cackles, exchanging his target several times as he continuously altered the guns aim, sharp elbow resting upon the surface of the table as several discarded playing cards shifted beneath the weight of his arm.

"Hello, Joker." The plump man opposite him began, round fingers tearing the half-smoked cigar from his chapped lips.
"I assume you have an answer for us?"

"I do." Joker grinned, retracting his aim from the confident man as he precisely stowed the firearm into his coat once more. I, however, kept my arm steady, gun at the ready juuuuust in case...

"How much you want?" A second man chirped, voice significantly deeper than the plump mans.

"Uh, half." Joker pressed, determined tongue toying with the corner of his blackened lips. "Bu-t I-uh, want it up front."

All four men raised conspicuous brows, exchanging questionable glances as a third man rummaged through his olive hued coat.

"I expect you'll live up to your standards, Joker. I want you to make a statement outta Loeb." The man grumbled, tossing a heap of bright green paper into the center of the table. The bills were held securely together by a flourescent orange rubber band, which was tied several times around to ensure that no individual bill would manage to slip out.

Joker's ungloved fingers grazed the pile, snatching it from the center of the table as his bum raised ever-so-slightly from the chair.

"Is i-t all here?" He thickly inquired, eyeing the profusion of hundred dollar bills in his grasp.

"Have your man count it if you don't believe it." Money man exclaimed, hands folded atop the table as Joker merely shook his head in response.

"No need." My employer simply dismissed, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he eyed me briefly.

"It has to be done tonight, clown." Plump man pressed, fingers lacing around a nearby Joker card as he lifted it from the safety of the table, turning it over several times in his palm as if to inspect it.

"Have I ever disa-ppointed?" Joker keenly spoke, snatching a nearby discarded cigar before placing it neatly between his lips, taking a considerably long drag before tossing it aside.

"No." Three men spoke simultaneously. The fourth man remained silent, as he hadn't spoken a single word since our arrival.

"Expec-t a nice, nasty kill, men!" Joker cheered, jumping up from his seat as his left leg lurched backwards, sending the chair flying back several feet as it toppled loudly to the tile floor.

"D'you-uh, have a lit-tle boys room, Joseph?" Joker lowly inquired, toying with the hem of his exceedingly long coat as I shuffled in place.

The money man — apparently named Joseph — nodded curtly, eyes wild as he jabbed a thumb in the direction of a petite bathroom around the corner.

Joker nodded in response, rounding the table to meet me in one swift movement as his lips just barely grazed my ear. His warm palm met mine, a cool set of metal keys slinking between my fingers as he whispered huskily against my earlobe.

"Start the van."

With that, the hunched man abandoned my rigid frame, headed solely in the direction of a nearby restroom as I silently bid the mob members a goodbye before scurrying from the room and out the front door.

Violent shivers overtook my spine as I ignited the engine, which groaned to life as my palm continued to tingle where Joker had touched it. I'd felt his bare fingers against my skin — The warmth of his touch against mine...

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sudden racket of Joker rapping against the window, his pertruding knuckles colliding with the glass as I crawled over the gear shift and settled into the passenger seat.

Joker climbed into the vehicle, slamming the door closed with ease as several obscenities filled the stale void.

"Were going to kill Commissioner Loeb?" I shyly wondered, avoiding Joker's hardened expression as he tore the vehicle from the mob's driveway.

"No." He countered, speeding down the road as he let out a considerably noisy grunt, thrusting a pointer finger in the direction of a discarded pack of cigarettes on the dash.

I hastily retrieved the half-empty pack, snatching a single smoke from the paper carton as I slipped it between Joker's parted, prying fingers.

Joker swung the van around, prompting my body to topple forward into the dashboard. The theatrical mans fingers laced around the gear shift, thrusting the vehicle into an abrupt park as we fully faced the home we'd just left mere moments ago. Once my blurred vision finally cleared, and the sudden scent of cigarette smoke filled my lungs, I'd noticed that Joker was struggling to contain his insistent giggles.

"What?" I asked, chest painfully heaving as I refocused on the home a mere half-mile ahead of us.

"Watch." Joker sneered, lounging back in his seat as his index and middle finger claimed the cigarette, readjusting the stick between his lips. Long, lanky legs tugged upward, resting comfortably against the broad steering wheel as his free arm laced around the back of his head, supporting his relaxed neck as I raised a curious set of brows.

Just as I'd parted my lips to question Joker's motives, the bland home burst into bright, blue flames, before settling into a harsh orange hue.

An audible gasp slipped off my tongue, a meaty palm clamping over my agape mouth as I immediately diverted my gaze to view the Joker.

He sat lounged beside me, lit cigarette held tightly in his clutch as scarred lips formed into a loose "o" shape, allowing several oblong shaped rings of smoke to emerge. His calloused thumb swiped against the filter of the stick, where a thick ring of black greasepaint lay imprinted upon the paper.

Several exaggerated shouts and screeches instantaneously filled my ears as many individuals scurried from their homes, viewing the dramatically burning home before them as we lay in utter silence beside one another.

Suddenly, realization dawned upon me: He'd planted an explosive in the bathroom before he left.

That sly fucking dog.

"Holy shit." I announced, avoiding Joker's incredibly lax and undeniably sexy stance.

"Holy shi-t is right." Joker chuckled, tossing his used cigarette out of the cracked window as his legs messily tumbled back into the depths of the seat, fingers lacing around the rubber steering wheel as he tore the vehicle from the crime scene.

"Happy fucking Halloween!" The madman cheered before abandoning the burning building once and for all.