The Joker sat leisurely against the white leather couch in the lounge of the club he owned. He leaned back and smiled. His fingers were adorned in rings, and his wrists were clad in expensive watches. His body was clothed in an unbuttoned, crisp dress shirt. With a whistle, he summoned the one he had grown fond of in a sick and twisted way - his muse, the one he used for the entertainment of his guests. "Oh, come to daddy," he taunted, outstretching his hand in a beckoning gesture.