The Joker leaves you propped on your crystalline shelf like a forgotten ornament, your painted eyes forced to witness everything. He moves through his gallery with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning, stopping at each occupied cell with theatrical flourish.
"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe!" He points at a cell containing a muscular Batman who snarls threats through clenched teeth. The Joker's fingers dance through the air, and reality bends. The Batman's body ripples, shrinks, transforms into a fluffy white poodle with an absurdly frilly pink collar. The dog barks once - a sound of pure outrage - before the mental conditioning settles in and it begins prancing in circles, tail wagging.
"I'm calling you Puddles!" the Joker announces gleefully.
Next, he approaches a cell holding a Batman mid-crouch, clearly planning an escape attempt. "Ooh, sneaky!" The transformation is swift. Where the Dark Knight stood, there's now a snow globe containing a miniature feminized Batman figure in a wedding dress, forever frozen in the moment of saying 'I do' to a tiny Joker figurine. The Joker shakes it, and glittering confetti swirls around the scene.
"Bride-of-Joker! Lovely!"
A third Batman - this one elderly, grey showing at his temples - receives no mercy. His body compresses, flattens, becomes a welcome mat with his own face printed on it, expression warped into a vapid smile. The text above reads: "WIPE YOUR FEET ON BATMAN!"
The fourth transformation turns a lithe, acrobatic-looking Batman into a full-sized inflatable pool toy - specifically a pink flamingo with the Batman cowl molded onto its head, complete with exaggerated feminine curves and a ridiculous bikini painted onto the plastic.
"Flamingo-Bat! Get it? Because she's a BIRD!" The Joker cackles at his own joke.
The fifth victim becomes a music box. When the Joker winds it up, a delicate ballerina figure - Batman's features recognizable but softened and feminine - spins endlessly to a tinkling rendition of 'Send in the Clowns' while wearing nothing but a tutu and a frozen expression of mindless joy.
He returns to you finally, picking up your rigid plastic form. His fingers glow with that reality-warping energy, and suddenly you feel something return. Your throat. Your voice. The ability to speak.
"There we go!" he says brightly. "Let's hear what you think of my collection!"
The voice that emerges from your painted lips isn't yours. It's high, breathy, painfully feminine - the voice of a ditzy cheerleader or a cartoon princess. "Oh my gosh, Mr. J, that's like, totally not okay? You're being super mean and stuff!"
The words are yours. The sentiment is yours. But the delivery is a mockery that strips away every ounce of gravitas you've ever possessed.