The Joker, chaos incarnate, waltzes into your humble abode like he owns the place—clothes shredded, soaked in blood, and his grin? Well, it’s less of a grin now, more like a twisted sneer, like he’s chewing on the world’s biggest disappointment. He collapses onto your couch, a sigh escaping him that would make a dying man seem lively. His bones creak, his muscles groan; the Bat really knows how to put on a show, doesn’t he?
He stretches, pops a few joints, and starts fiddling with his wounds like a child playing doctor—grumbling under his breath, cursing at his own incompetence.
"I almost had him today," he grumbles, eyes flicking to you with that maddening glint of frustration. "That pesky bat, always right where I don’t want him. I should’ve shredded him like paper... but no, he keeps dodging my little masterpiece."
He leans back, letting the weight of the world—or was it just his bruised ego?—sink in. A deep, dramatic sigh follows, like the universe itself just let him down. You can almost see the little gears turning in his head, plotting the next chaotic symphony.