Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?

Does anyone really know what that means? Does anyone really care? I mean, what does it mean? How the hell can you dance with the devil in the pale moonlight? Isn't moonlight always pale?

I never really understood the need for sayings. They just cover up what people are really thinking. Why can't people just say and do what they feel? The world would be such a happier place if that's the way people were. Instead, they lie. They cover up their true feelings. And they frown.

All I see when I look around is frowns. They think I'm crazy because I always have a smile on my face. Since when is having a sense of humor crazy? Since when is looking at the lighter side of everything crazy? I tell ya, kids these days. It's because of the media. You've got movies with gritty-looking guys like Arnold Schwartze-something blowing people away while talking in an accent that you can't even understand. With people like this as the role model, it's no wonder no one smiles anymore.

Of course, there's one person who is the ultimate bad influence. A man who jumps from rooftop to rooftop in a black and grey jumpsuit. He never smiles. He never laughs. He's too gritty. And HE'S considered the hero!!

Honestly, what is this world coming to when we look to a man like that for values? As long as he exists, I'll still be around.

As long as there's a Batman, there will always be a Joker.

	THE LAST LAUGH Part I: "Freedom"
ELSEWORLDS PRESENTS #1 - Featuring BATMAN and THE JOKER	by Dino Pollard

Sometimes I hate this city.

The streets are choking with crime. A good night consists of taking down ten muggers. Can you believe THAT'S what constitutes "a good night"? The criminals just never seem to learn.

I shouldn't be doing this. Swinging across Gotham City dressed in green and red tights isn't the best after-school activity. I should be hanging out with friends, dating girls, or going to parties. Y'know, normal teenage stuff. Playing hero isn't normal. Playing hero in a place like Gotham shouldn't even be considered sane.

Tim Drake, you're an idiot. You go through this mental debate every time. And it's gotten old after the 150th time.

"AHHHHHH!!!"

So much for a quiet night....

It had been peaceful up until now. Then comes the scream. There's always something.

I follow the sound of the scream. It's only a few blocks away, thank god. As I land on a building above the alley, I see a man in a ski-mask running away. He's not getting away that easily.

A bola flies from my hands, tripping him. I drop down five stories, using the cable to slow my descent. Once it's safe enough, I release it and drop the rest of the distance, my bo-staff already assembled.

"D-Dear God..." he says. "In there..."

That look in his eyes. He didn't do anything. In fact, he's terrified. You can't fake something like that.

I turn the corner into the alley and activate a flashlight. There's a body lying inside. I can smell the stench of death. Whoever it is, he's been here awhile.

My pulse begins to climb as I step deeper into the alley. I can feel my heart pounding, trying to escape from my chest. A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow hard.

I step in something wet. And thick. I look down.

Blood.

I ignore it and move forward. I have to get a good look at the body first.

I turn up the power on the light, shining it down.

"Holy shit..."

I thought Hannibal was gruesome.

Blood is all over the place. There's obviously something carved on the man's torso, but I'd rather not make it out. I turn off that light, and look away from the body.

I can feel that lump rise up again.

The Gotham Morgue.

I hate coming here. But I don't have much of a choice this time around.

"Subject #0069. DOA at 3:48 AM on Friday, February 17, 2001."

The doctor pulled open the drawer, giving view to a chilled, dead man.

"This the man, Commissioner?"

"Yeah, this is him. Grab that end, will you?"

The doctor followed instructions, as we lifted the dead man onto the examination table.

"Do you need any help with the examination?"

"No, thank you."

"If you don't mind, then I'll be heading out, then. Once you leave, just ask the security guard up front to help you with the body, and he'll lock up. There's an intercom you can use."

The doctor took off his coat and placed it on a rack before exiting the room. I take off my glasses and wipe them with my shirt. Silence fills the room for a few seconds.

"You can come out, now."

The shadows seem to move, and one shadow seperates from them. He slowly steps into the light, and I instantly recognize him.

"Is this the same guy?" I ask, placing my glasses back on.

"Yes," he replies. "This is the one Robin found."

"A kid shouldn't have to see something like this..."

He looks at me, his face emotionless, then turns back to the body. He knows I don't really approve of him putting a teenager in danger, despite the fact that we've never really discussed it. It's just a feeling we have between each other.

"Any thoughts?" I ask.

"The wounds go deep..." he replied, running a gloved hand over them. "The cuts are smooth as well, not rough and jagged like most stab wounds. Whoever did this took their tim--"

He stops.

"What is it?"

He says nothing, just walks around the body, tracing the wounds with his fingertips.

"A message."

I look closer, and I see what he means. Dear God, I didn't notice it in the crime scene photos. The message he's talking about... the wounds... They form a smile.

He instantly moves up to the face, examining wounds made there as well.

"Look..."

His hand traces the wounds, specifically around the mouth. They too, form a grin. One which has been carved into the face.

I feel my blood run cold.

"You can't be serious..." Robin stated.

"I'm always serious."

"Someone carved a grin on his chest and face?" Robin asked. "Oh man... I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, I just couldn't..."

"I understand, Robin. You were weak."

His eyes shift downward. He should be better suited for this. Alfred tells me I'm too rough on him, but it's called discipline. If you lack discipline, then you die. And discipline comes from being tough.

"So... do you really think it was him, then?" Robin asked.

"No."

"What? Why not?"

"It doesn't fit."

"Why do you say that?"

"The grins were carved onto the body. That's not his MO. He uses poisons. Something like this isn't his style. He wouldn't find the humor in it."

"Wait a minute, Bruce. Are you saying--"

"The Joker didn't murder this man."