And that's the second time, in less than five minutes, that someone has patted the Joker.

He really doesn't care for being patted.

And to be laughed at – and, oh yes, he is most certainly being laughed at right now – as if this all will be permitted to pass? As if Joker and his faux property are simply a couple of helpless suckers out for a stroll, to be walked into and patted and laughed at with impunity?

As if he's still Jack...

No. No, that's not going to fly. Not one little bit.

Which is exactly the way Joker wants it.

His smile widens, sunny as any Pollyanna's, as he deftly removes one of the two nearly (but not quite) identical revolvers from beneath his jacket. Grunty has time to make it about a step away before the gun is leveled straight at the back of his head.

"I think you misunderstand me, pal." And despite his sunshiny smile, Joker's voice has slid into the low, cold purr of the true psychopath. "You apologize to it, or you dance with me."

His other hand, the one not pointing a gun at a stranger in broad daylight, shifts almost imperceptibly as he moves something down into his palm.