(IC: The Joker)
The Gotham City opera house. A place where the highest of high society come for entertainment and culture. Tonight, they are here to see Pagliaci. They sit in their seats and quietly wait for the show to begin. Suddenly, the lights dim, and a large spotlight shines upon the middle of the stage.
Out steps a tall lanky man with bone white skin, ruby red lips, and leaf green hair. He wears a purple pin striped suit with a yellow shirt, and a long purple trench coat over it. The audience looks at him, understandibly perplexed. Most assume that he is simply some sort of before show entertainment they had not been informed of.
The man takes two items out of his pocket. A gas mask, and what looks like a tiny remote control with a big red button on it. The man fixes the gas mask to hice face, and dramatically holds the small handheld device in the air. The audience whisper to each other in confusion.
The man then presses the big red button. A hiss can be heard coming from the ventelation shafts. And then, the audience begins to giggle. And slowly, those giggles grow into a torrent of false laughter. The people in the audience look at each other, writhing in pain and uncontrolable laughter. Tears begin to roll down the cheeks of a few, and soon many of them are spasming and flailing about wildly.
And then, ever so quickly, they all stop.
Dead.
After a few moments of silence, the man on stage takes off the gas mask and puts it, along with the tiny device with the big red button, back in his pocket.
And then he speaks. But it is not merely speaking. He speaks the words of past geniuses put onto paper. He speaks words that have entertained and intrigues it's listeners for centuries.
No, he does not simply speak. He preforms.
"Heres a knocking, indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate he should have old turning the key. Knock, knock, knock! Whos there, i the name of Beelzebub? Heres a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enough about you; here youll sweat for t. Knock, knock! Whos there i the other devils name! Faith, heres an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale; who committed treason enough for Gods sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O! come in, equivocator. Knock, knock, knock! Whos there? Faith, heres an English tailor come hither for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose. Knock, knock; never at quiet! What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. Ill devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire. Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter."
He takes a boy, awaiting the thunderous laughter an aplause.
And he gets none.
He looks up, with an expression of surprise and anger on his face. He stands there for a moment, and then walks off, mumbling under his breath.
"Everybody's a critic."
As he exits through the backstage, he steps over the bodies of the actors for tonights preformance, all lying dead on the ground with twisted smiles stamped into their faces.
No one else seemed to be moving us anywhere. 
