In a deep alley, in a dark, damp basement.
A broken drainpipe upstairs had flooded the basement, and shoes floated on the water's surface.
A rat swam past, only to be pinned into the water with a snap by a fork missing several tines.
"My sleep is getting worse and worse. This life is awful." A man in a purple pinstriped suit lay on the bed.
Looking at the ceiling so close above him, if the water rose another centimeter, his nose would touch it.
The terrible living conditions had left his body soaking wet.
His makeup had run, but the scars at the corners of his mouth still revealed how hideous they had once been.
He was the Joker, the Joker who had returned from Hell. He was free, freed from that place that was like a toilet.
It should have been something to celebrate, but the Joker had discovered a very serious problem: he was sick.
Not tuberculosis, not cancer, and not because his crazed state had finally been diagnosed as him being a normal person.
He had lost something precious: his smile, the smile that filled his world with color.
No matter the situation, even if he was about to die, he could burst into laughter and mock this damned world.
But it was gone. Or rather, the Joker had forgotten how to laugh. Just look at that dead man's face in the mirror.
With a crack, the Joker stabbed the mirror to pieces with a small knife and tossed the shards into the water.
This was the tenth mirror he had smashed.
Maybe he should see a doctor, but those quacks always said he had depression, or some kind of laughter disorder.
They prescribed him a pile of expensive, disgusting medicine and sent him away. Thanks