The Riddler – Edward Nigma – is battered and bruised, his iconic garb torn.
He’s been through the wringer and is propped up against the wall of an abandoned Gotham City warehouse.
The Joker looms over him. He is not smiling. He actually looks quite distressed.
My take on the Joker is he’s not always the maniacally-laughing clown he’s so often portrayed as. He’s a psychopath; he never displays the same characteristics from one day to the next.
And today, he’s a brooding clown.
You’re asking yourself why, aren’t you?
The Joker crouches on his haunches, his face inches from Riddler’s.
You need to know why.
Need an answer for everything.
The Joker has unholstered a glinting pistol.
The barrel is pressed against Riddler’s head.
Your whole world revolves around questions and answers.
Answering the unanswerable.
But your world is fiction, Edward.
Buddy, ol’ pal.
Joker licks the Riddler’s cheek.
Nigma’s eyes are wide with fear.
You live in my world, see.
There are no questions.
There are no answers.
There’s just me.
Completely black, save for Joker’s word balloon.
That’s the joke.