In the Hall of Justice's dungeon, the Joker, still reeking of Clayface, crouched in a corner of his cell. With his head lowered, he used lipstick to draw a swimming duck on the wall, chatting and amusing himself with Mr. Spoon.
"Perfect artwork. This is the divine bird Phoenix, quack quack quack. What? You say my dear police chief has reacted? Then I have to take a look. Oh my, he really seems to have gone Soul Out of Body, just as Deathstroke said before. Everything is under that dark mercenary's control. Remind me, next time I play with Batwoman, I can hire Deathstroke to help."
Just as the Joker had muttered, Gordon in the other corner had been cursing nonstop ever since entering the cell. Yet a few minutes ago, he had suddenly fallen silent. Now, he sat there drooling vacantly.
Glistening strands of saliva dripped down one after another, wetting a small patch of metal floor tiles.
The Joker turned from his wall art and immediately burst into delight. He picked up the lipstick, preparing to give Gordon a buff—a cheerful smile.
But then Mr. Spoon in his breast pocket said something to him. His left hand grabbed his right hand, and he nearly fell over.
"What? You say I promised Deathstroke that thing? Right, but why should I listen to him? Can't I go back on my word? Hee hee."
Mr. Spoon: "."
"Mm, you make sense. If he does everything he can to get Superman and Little Bat together, that would be a threat to me." The Joker's smile vanished, the corners of his mouth drooping. "If Batwoman stops playing with me and spends every day fighting alongside Superman, then I... wah wah wah."
As he spoke, he actually began to cry. It was unclear whether