It's absurdly gratifying, watching Fido crumble to the grass. Every detail of it is perfection: the helpless grabbing for the collar, the hurts-so-good moan, even the mouthing off between jolts. Joker's smile widens to its most famous version, the wide, cruel, self-satisfied one that's terrified so many in Gotham.

"There, now," he praises quietly, smiling down at the dog at his feet. "That's a good boy. You see how nice it feels to be corrected? To know that even a useless, stupid mutt like yourself can still prove himself worthy of attention, every once in a while?"

He crouches beside the dog and, with loving care, begins to scratch behind the pup's ear. "Now: as soon as you can speak again, I want you to say, 'Thank you, Sir, for correcting me.' If you can manage that, I'll give you a treat. And if not, well..." He gives the remote a little waggle. "I suppose you'll get a treat of a different sort."