Across Gotham, people stood frozen in front of their TVs, eyes wide, hearts pounding. The gunshot echoed through every screen, every living room, every corner of the city. For a moment, the world seemed to stop as they stared in shock, unable to process what had just happened. The face of Mark Richards, the beloved talk show host, was gone—replaced with blood and chaos.
And in the middle of it all was Joker.
Jack—no, Joker—ran across the stage, laughing, reveling in the chaos he had unleashed. His movements were erratic, filled with a manic energy, his face a mask of twisted glee. The audience scrambled for the exits, screaming and panicking, while police burst into the studio, their guns trained on him.
"GET ON THE GROUND!" one officer shouted, his voice booming over the chaos. But Joker just laughed, the sound wild, unhinged. He held his arms up, his body vibrating with exhilaration. The gun slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the floor as his laughter grew louder, echoing through the empty studio.
The officers rushed forward, wrestling him to the ground, handcuffing him, but Joker didn't resist. He let them take him in, his laughter never stopping, his eyes wide with a crazed satisfaction. They hauled him out of the studio, dragging him into the blinding lights of the police cars waiting outside.
Later, sitting in a dim room, Joker stared across at Dr. Greene, his breathing uneven, his body still trembling from the high of the chaos he'd created.
"I made an impact," he whispered, his eyes alight with something dark, something terrifying. "I'm not Jack anymore. I'm the Joker."
Dr. Greene watched him carefully, her expression guarded, her hands gripping her notepad tightly. But before she could respond, Joker's lips curled into a wide grin, his body shaking with a laughter that spilled out uncontrollably. The room filled with the sound of his mad cackling, each burst of laughter louder than the last.
Outside, riots broke out across Gotham. The city burned. The people—those who had felt forgotten, abandoned, used—took to the streets. Joker's chaos had spread like wildfire, igniting a frenzy of violence and anger.
"That's the fucking punchline!" Joker screamed, his voice hoarse, laughing like a man possessed.
Across the city, Thomas and Martha Wayne hurried out of a theater, their son Bruce between them. Thomas glanced around nervously as the distant sounds of chaos echoed through the night. "We need to get home. Now."
Martha tugged Bruce closer, her hand shaking slightly. "Let's cut through Crime Alley. It'll be quicker," she suggested, her voice tense.
Thomas hesitated but nodded. The three of them turned down the narrow, dark alleyway, the shadows stretching out long and cold as they walked into the night, unaware of what fate had waiting for them.
The night was cold, and the wind howled through the narrow streets of Gotham. Thomas, Martha, and young Bruce Wayne moved quickly, their footsteps echoing off the crumbling walls of Crime Alley. The distant clamor of the city's unrest, the sirens and faint shouts, were muffled by the oppressive quiet that hung over the alley. Thomas pulled Bruce closer, glancing nervously around them. The sooner they got home, the better.
"Let's get home, quickly," Thomas muttered, his voice low but tense.
Martha gave a soft nod, her hand clutching her husband's arm. "Maybe we should've taken a different way," she whispered, her voice laced with concern.
"We'll be fine," Thomas reassured her, though even he didn't believe it.
As they continued down the alley, a shadow shifted in the darkness ahead. A figure stepped out from the shadows, the silhouette of a man with a gun glinting in the dim streetlight. He moved with a predatory calm, blocking their path. His face was partially hidden under a tattered hat, his eyes cold and empty.
"Alright, folks," the man growled, his voice rough. "Wallets, jewelry. Now."
Thomas instinctively stepped in front of his family, shielding Martha and Bruce with his body. His heart pounded, but he forced his voice to remain calm. "Take it," he said quickly, pulling out his wallet and throwing it to the ground. "Take everything. Just leave us alone."
The man didn't move, his gun still pointed directly at Thomas's chest. His gaze flickered to Martha's necklace, the pearls shining in the faint light. "The necklace too, lady," he said with a smirk, his eyes narrowing.
Martha's hand trembled as she reached up to unclasp the necklace, her fingers fumbling with the pearls. Bruce clung to her side, his wide eyes darting between the man and his father.
But something shifted in the robber's eyes, a darkness that ran deeper than mere greed. He wasn't just here for the money or the jewels.
Thomas saw it, a split second before the man pulled the trigger.
The gunshot rang out, shattering the silence. Thomas stumbled back, his hands clutching his chest as blood began to pour from the wound. He collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, his eyes wide with shock.
Martha screamed, grabbing Bruce and pulling him close. "No! Please, don't!" she cried, her voice shaking with terror.
The man smirked, raising the gun again, pointing it directly at her. "I told you to give me the pearls."
He pulled the trigger.
Martha crumpled to the ground, her hand outstretched toward Bruce, the pearls scattering across the pavement, bouncing and rolling through the blood pooling beneath her. Bruce screamed, his small voice breaking as he dropped to his knees between his parents' lifeless bodies.
The man hovered over them for a moment, watching the scene with cold detachment. Then, with a twisted grin, he leaned down toward Thomas's dying body, his voice low and cruel.
"Here's the fucking punchline," he muttered, before disappearing into the shadows, leaving nothing but chaos and death in his wake.
Bruce knelt in the blood-soaked alley, his eyes wide with horror, his body trembling. The sound of the gunshots echoed in his ears, the weight of what had happened sinking in. His parents lay still, their bodies cold, their lives stolen in an instant.
He would never forget that night. The cold. The blood. The sound of the gunshot.
And the final words that had stolen his parents from him.
Here's the fucking punchline.