[Gotham]
"Thank you, sir. Come again!" The cashier's voice sliced through the low hum of the fast food joint—cheerful, rehearsed, and entirely forgettable.
I gave a lazy nod in return, too focused on the steaming burger in my hands to bother with small talk. The paper wrapper crinkled under my fingers as I peeled it back, revealing a glistening patty nestled in a bed of greasy cheese and pickles. One bite in, and I let out a low hum of satisfaction. Smoky. Savory. Perfect.
Sliding into an empty booth by the window, I let the urban chaos of Gotham paint the backdrop. Rain drizzled in streaks down the glass, neon signs flickered with that signature Gotham buzz, and distant sirens blended into the white noise.
Unlike my past world, the technology here is far more advanced. Holographic ads danced across windows. Drones zipped overhead. Even the napkin dispenser had a touch screen.
I bit into my burger again, chewing slowly, taking my time. I had no missions. No one breathing down my neck. Just me, a half-warm booth, and a burger that—
Crash!
The front door slammed open so hard it rebounded off the wall with a bang. The laughter came next.
High-pitched. Unnatural. And unmistakable.
"Well, well, well! Isn't this quaint? The smell of grease, despair, and low self-esteem. Mmm, Gotham's finest!"
The Joker strutted into the restaurant like he owned the place, a bouquet of purple coat, green vest, and blood-red lips stretched in a manic grin. Behind him, six goons poured in—two with shotguns, one with a baseball bat, and the rest already flipping over chairs.
Everyone froze. Customers screamed. The cashier dove behind the counter.
Except me.
I simply took another bite of my burger.
Juicy. Warm. A little too much mustard, but still worth finishing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the Joker's men hesitate—confused why someone wasn't panicking like the rest. But I didn't give him the satisfaction of a glance.
The Joker noticed.
"Ohoho! Look at this one!" he said, gesturing wildly. "Sitting there, chewing like it's just another Tuesday. What are you, pal? Some kind of emotionally detached sociopath? Because if you are, we might just be soulmates!"
The laughter that followed was sharp and jagged, like broken glass on linoleum.
I chewed slowly and swallowed before replying, "No. I'm just hungry."
The Joker blinked.
"Hungry?" he repeated, almost offended. "You mean to tell me I storm into a perfectly fine dining establishment with guns, bombs, and personality, and you're focused on eating?"
"Burger's good," I said flatly. "You're not."
A pause.
Then the Joker's grin returned, twisted with delight.
"Ooooh, I like you," he said, practically vibrating with amusement. "You've got guts, sass, and a suicidal attitude. My three favorite things!"
I took another calm sip of my drink, then wiped my mouth with a napkin.
"I've got a joke you'd like."
That actually stopped him. The Joker raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Even the remaining goons slowed their destruction to listen. The air grew heavy with expectation.
"A joke?" Joker repeated, smile twitching. "From you? Please, enlighten me, Picasso. Show me your art."
I nodded solemnly.
"Okay, here goes."
I stood, cleared my throat, and delivered the line with the gravitas of Shakespeare… and the comedic timing of a brick:
"Why did the scarecrow win an award?"
Joker cocked his head. "Hmmm… do tell."
"Because he was… outstanding in his field."
A beat of silence.
One goon actually groaned.
Another whispered, "Oh God…"
Joker blinked. Then blinked again. His mouth opened slightly, as if trying to comprehend the level of anti-humor he had just witnessed.
It hit him like a slow burn.
He began laughing—not maniacally, not his usual shrieking madness—but an awkward, confused, wheezing laugh that sounded more like a balloon losing air than a criminal mastermind enjoying himself.
"PFFHHHHHhhhaahaha—wait, what?! That was… that was TERRIBLE!" he sputtered, clutching his sides. "Even I wouldn't say that at gunpoint!"
I gave him a thumbs up. "You're welcome. I weaponized dad jokes. I call it comedic psychological warfare."
The Joker clapped sarcastically, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes from sheer cringe. "Oh, bravo, bravo! Someone give this man a late-night show and a shovel to bury his career in!"
He pointed at me, still laughing.
"I was going to blow up this whole place, but now I'm reconsidering—just out of pity!"
I casually grabbed the toothpick holder from the table and turned it in my hand, selecting six with a flick of my fingers.
"Yeah, well... you should really be more careful when you stick your nose where it doesn't belong."
The Joker blinked. "Wait, wha—"
With a flick of both wrists—snap snap snap snap snap snap—six toothpicks shot through the air like bullets, guided by perfect trajectory and subtle wrist angles.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Each one embedded directly between the eyes or through the temples of the six goons who were just starting to raise their weapons.
They dropped like marionettes with their strings cut.
The restaurant fell silent again. Even the flickering neon seemed to hesitate.
The Joker slowly turned his head, eyes wide, looking at the collapsed bodies of his crew, then back at me.
"...Toothpicks?" he asked, voice pitched somewhere between horror and awe.
"Deadly wood. Eco-friendly," I replied. "I recycle."
The Joker stared at me, stunned for the first time all night.
Then, after a long beat—
He started laughing.
A slow, disbelieving chuckle that built into something wild and manic, echoing off the greasy walls.
"Oh, this is rich! A guy who fights with jokes and table utensils! What are you—some kind of gourmet vigilante?!"
I shrugged.
"No. I'm just a guy who wanted to eat in peace."
My open palm met his face with the force of a sledgehammer. His laugh died mid-screech. Eyes rolled. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
I exhaled through my nose.
"Should've stuck to comedy."
Without another word, I slung his limp body over my shoulder and walked out of the restaurant
[Later – Unknown Location]
The sound of cold water splashing echoed through the hollow metal shell of the vehicle.
The Joker gasped and sputtered awake, blinking rapidly as water dripped down his pale face and smeared the faint remnants of his makeup. His eyes darted around wildly.
He was inside… a bus?
The windows were blacked out. The interior stripped bare.
And in the center aisle—right in front of him—sat six large red barrels.
Each one labeled in thick black letters:
HIGHLY FLAMMABLE.
"...Well," Joker said slowly, licking water off his lips, "This is new."
I was already in the driver's seat, calmly adjusting the rearview mirror.
He caught my reflection.
"You kidnapped me onto a school bus full of explosives?" he asked, both amused and intrigued. "What's the plan? Reeducation through combustion?"
I turned the key.
The engine roared to life.
"No," I said, voice like steel. "I'm sending you to hell."
Without another word, I slammed my foot on the accelerator.
The tires screeched against cracked pavement as the gutted bus lurched forward, rattling like a death rattle in motion. Outside, the ruins of Gotham's forgotten industrial district flew by in a blur—rusted fences, broken lamp posts, shattered windows. No people. No witnesses. Just the dead bones of a city that used to care.
Joker laughed again, but this time it was strained, uncertain.
"Okay… okay, you've made your point, sport! Great performance! Real vendetta vibes! But let's not get too dramatic, yeah? I'm the Joker. You can't kill the joke. It ruins the punchline."
I didn't answer.
Ahead of us, looming out of the shadows, stood a decaying warehouse—its support beams cracked, its walls half-collapsed, and its foundation unstable.
Perfect.
Joker thrashed against his restraints now, the laughter long gone.
"Alright, now wait—let's talk! Let's talk! You're not really gonna—!"
I gripped the wheel tighter as the warehouse came into view, just seconds away.
Cracked concrete. Rusted girders. The perfect tomb.
I smirked.
"You wanna hear one last joke?"
Joker's eyes widened. "W-what?"
I cleared my throat theatrically.
"What do you call a clown..
...who doesn't get out of the way of a speeding bus?"
He stared at me in horror.
I looked at him.
"Road pie."
Joker screamed—not from fear, not from the fire, but from secondhand embarrassment.
"No—no no NO, THAT'S NOT EVEN—THAT'S NOT A JOKE, THAT'S A TRAGEDY!!"
I gave him a smile.
"Exactly."
Then I slammed the accelerator.
The front of the bus crashed through the weakened structure of the warehouse like a battering ram made of hate and twisted metal. Beams snapped. Debris rained down. The red barrels in the aisle jostled—then ignited with a thunderous BOOM that swallowed the entire world in fire.
A burning punchline that left no room for applause.