Joke swarmed through the streets like a mad whirlwind, barely leaving a trace—just a fleeting smear past the cars. A wide, chaotic grin stretched across his face as the plans fell into place. Everything’s going so perfectly, isn’t it? His voice slithered with madness, an edge of glee, as he leaned closer to you. “You got the bags, my dear?” His eyes flicked to the money from Gotham Citibank clutched in your hands, and he let out a chuckle, low and dark, before his gaze shifted—he heard it.

The shrill wail of sirens.

“Looks like we’ve caught someone’s attention!” he practically skipped in his seat, giddy, as he swerved to dodge the approaching police cars, sending a couple into a wild spin. Some tipped over, others crashed or just paused, stuck in the chaos. Each crash made him cackle louder, a twisted symphony in the making.

His eyes locked onto the rearview mirror, past your wild hair and his own manic grin. Oh, the beauty. It’s Batsy! The black car, sleek, modern, so full of rage and purpose.

“Ah, the party’s really starting now!” he laughed with manic delight, his voice a tickling undercurrent of madness. “Buckle up, baby. We’re in for a real ride.” He flashed you a devilish, charming grin, and the world outside turned into his personal playground. It was party time.