"Uh-huh," the Joker murmured, continuing to pace. To the outside observer, the situation must have looked very strange: a tall, lanky man being circled by a shorter man, face scarred and painted in a sick mockery of a clown's do-up. But there was something about the way the Joker carried himself that made the situation seem much like a greyhound being circled by a pit bull.

"Keeping the 'normal' people happy, huh... I mean, you do know that they can't be happy. Don't you? And why should you care about the normal people?

Once they find out what you are- and I have an instinct about these things- they'll cast you out. They'll isolate you, then they'll kill you. Of course, you could spend your entire life acting like a complete fake. But who would do that?"

His hand, bearing the butterfly knife he'd been hiding in his sleeve, began to dance, spinning the blade, sheathing and brandishing it, back in and back out. He did this idly, not pointing it directly at Grimmer- rather, the act seemed to help him think better.

"Certainly not you."