On the way there, the Joker had imagined countless times what kind of trap Batman might set.
He knew that once he reached the address on the paper, Batman might already be waiting for him there.
And him? He had prepared nothing at all.
No hostages, no maniacally cackling man-eating piranhas, not even a bomb ready to blow.
He hadn't even killed anyone for Batman!
He should have been standing amid dozens of corpses grinning wildly, applauding to welcome the late-arriving Batman, offering his most beloved darling the daily greetings of Gotham, then spraying him with an acid boutonniere or throwing Joker explosives at him—like a lovestruck maiden offering her sweetheart a kiss.
Then his bat would reward him with his favorite resounding slaps, like a lover dotingly scratching the delicate nose of his young maiden, before sending him to Arkham in a wonderfully satisfying beating.
He might receive a few roses—vomiting blood from the beating—several hickeys—having a few ribs broken—or perhaps an ecstasy that nearly strangled him to death.
But now there was none of that. No explosives, no hostages. It was like skipping straight past the movie, candlelit dinner, romantic date, and fireworks that should come before a wonderful night, abruptly and crudely fast-forwarding to the two of them sitting on the bed and staring at each other.
But that was all right, wasn't it?
Because this was what Batman wanted.
Mayor Carlo was just a tattered old garment. No matter how he—or she?—put it on and flaunted it, he still couldn't seduce Batman.
Then that garment was worthless.
The maiden's heart was filled with anxiety. She could feel her lover's affection slipping away, but she had no idea how to win it back.
If even Mayor Carlo in that sheer black stocking bunny-ear miniskirt couldn't seduce her