Colour tattoo of the Joker's grinning face with green hair on the lower leg, shown above a white sneaker.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Joker portrait tattoo on the lower leg

Calf · Colour · Photo

A large portrait of the Joker, with a wide red-lipped grin, bared teeth, wide eyes and green curling hair, fills the lower leg. The lines are bold and inked in black with comic-book style shading. Colour is mostly red, green and pink against a dark background, with a white sneaker visible at the bottom of the frame.

Calf Joker Grin Portrait

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You have the rye half-kneaded when the back door bangs open, letting in a draught of wet cardboard and cheap aftershave. Nobody comes through that door before five except the milk float and Mr Pilling from the council, and neither of them grins like that. The man in the doorway is all teeth. His hair is a green tangle of curls that the flour dust can't dull, and his lips are painted the red of a fresh cut.

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"Good morning, baker," he says. "You're up early. So am I. Isn't it lovely when two professionals meet?"

He introduces himself as Mr Cardew, though the name sounds like a joke he has told before. He has been buying one malt loaf every Tuesday since October and tipping the change into the jar marked for the hospice. "I admire your work," he says, leaning on the proving drawer until it creaks. "So I've been studying it. Did you know you can taste a man's nerves in a tin loaf?" He laughs, a high wet sound that rattles the cooling trays, and you realise you have never once heard the bell over the door ring on his way in.

You reach for the big tub of salt to tip into the dough. It is sugar. Every batch since Monday has been sweet enough to sting, and the Tuesday loaves were never for eating. You turn round, but he has already gone, and the bench is crowded with a tray of rolls you did not bake, each one scored with a wide, lopsided smile.

Dawn comes up grey through the window. Beside the rolls someone has left a folded note in careful capitals: SAVE THE SALT FOR TOMORROW, DARLING. You scrape the sugar into the bin, wipe the bench, and start the rye again from the beginning.