Edward Nigma finished carving a question mark
into the brown object on his dinner tray. He set the plastic fork down at
its place, like an artist finished with a favorite brush, and surveyed his
masterpiece critically. He could normally delight in the cache of an
unanswered question represented by that symbol, but not in this particular case.
For this question mark was not used to seal an envelope holding a taunting clue
for Batman, nor did it crow triumph at a crime scene, silently asking what became
of the empty safe’s contents. No, its meaning here on his dinner tray
was all too depressingly clear: It asked What is this thing?
Riddler’s best guess was some sort of
artificial meat… oatmeal? or wheat bran?? marinated in… steak sauce???
and sculpted into… rissoles????
With each new question mark, he grew more
depressed. The worst legacy of Josiah Arkham, Nigma reflected, was not the
asylum that bore his name, but these godawful “Victory Recipes” the kitchens
still served. Oatmeal rissoles and potato substitute might be just the
thing if U-boats are blockading the British isles and your meat ration won’t
stretch to Thursday, but in 21st Century Gotham City, they seemed a
little out of place.
Nigma knew he had to exercise his mind if he
was to stay sane until his release, and rather than try to deduce the
evening’s mystery meat, he turned his mind back to the Hugo Strange
puzzle. He’d confirmed that Strange was the second new
arrival during the session with Dr. Bartholomew:
“Say Doc,” he had asked, “What happens when there gets to
be more psychiatrists among the inmates than on the staff?”
“Most amusing, Edward. Now can we get
started?”
“I’m just sayin’, Doc, Harley and Hugo
admitted in one week. Your colleagues are dropping like flies. Maybe time to tune up your own noggin just to be on the safe side?”
“Thank you, Edward, I appreciate your
concern. But this hour is to be spent on your noggin.
Suppose you tell me what’s been happening since we spoke on Monday…”
And there it was. No denials or feigned confusion. Hugo Strange was back in residence, and Bart didn’t act like it was any
secret. So why wasn’t he in the common room?
Nigma paced as he asked himself the
unanswerable question: How to find out? How to find out? How to find out? “FOOD UNHIT TWO.” In frustration he started generating
anagrams: “FOUND HOOT WIT.” “WHOD INFO TOUT.”
He stopped and cocked his head, looking back at
the question mark on his dinner tray: “Who would info tout?” he asked
the block of mystery meat.
Leland Bartholomew knew positive reinforcement
was vital to the learning process. And his temporary assistant HAD
succeeded in pulling and indexing the notes for all fast-track rehabilitation
sessions for Patient #68-C240 (Crane, Jonathan; a.k.a The Scarecrow).
The only problem was that Bartholomew had asked for Julio Cumanez (Patient
#68-C340, a.k.a. “Duo”). But Bartholomew didn’t have the heart to
send them back. It was practically the first task Brian had completed on
his own without interrupting to ask a dozen obvious questions. It would do
no harm, Bartholomew decided, to review Crane’s file.
Crane’s obsession with fear as a
tool of behavior modification.
Spent first four sessions trying to take control of dialogue.
Seeks to modify doctor’s behavior by inducing “fear” or doubt of the
process of psychotherapy:
Plants suggestion that Arkham doctors are as
crazy as the inmates, if insanity consists of repeating unsuccessful action
expecting different results. Just as “the rogues” (subculture
jargon for costumed criminals) go out time and again to try and defeat Batman,
so too the doctors try time and again to rehabilitate the rogues.
Patient is clearly delusional, prescribe Haldol for delusional trance;
Tranquilizers to calm after entering frenzied state.
Patient cites drug therapy as proof “The doctors all Fear I am right.”
The next morning at 11:15, a full fifteen
minutes after Nurse Chin would be on duty in the infirmary, Edward Nigma
complained of a very mild headache. He carefully stressed
that it was surely caused by the awkward angle at which he’d rested his neck
during his session with Dr. Bartholomew that morning, so foolish of him not to
realize at the time, but he was so engrossed on the good doctor’s insights.
Again, he stressed, that was a very mild and muscular pain, and
that surely the simple old-fashioned remedy of aspirin (as opposed to the 900 mgs
of lithium that was their first response to anything that moved) was all that
was needed.
While this tactic did not, in fact, get him
whacked with 900 mgs of lithium, neither did it get him taken to the infirmary. Regrettably, Eddie realized what he would have to do in order to obtain a
face-to-face with the informative Nurse Chin.
Patient #62-B047 (Blake, Thomas; a.k.a. Catman) was sufficiently recovered from his marathon therapy to join them in the
common room. Nigma strolled over to him and sat down. But instead of
probing for news of the outside as he normally would from a recent arrival,
Eddie let out a low whistle.
“Quite a shiner,” he observed, pointing to
Blake’s black eye. “Batman, of course.”
“Of course. A hunter such as I can only
be taken by a predator of equal skill, no mere sidekicks can hope to-”
“Heh, okay, if you say so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, everybody knows the Bat only wails on
you ‘cause of the cat thing. He’s expecting Catwoman at those crimes,
Blake, don’t you know that? Then when you show up instead, he’s
pissed. Hence the punching bag treatment.”
“That’s a lie,” Blake seethed
dangerously.
“Not a bit. Why everybody knows Selina has
first pick of any cat loot that comes to town, and you get to make do with her
leftovers, so it’s only natural Batman would assume—”
The punch landed on Nigma’s left cheekbone,
which wouldn’t have been his first choice as it would make a challenge of
chewing tonight’s mystery meat. But it succeeded in getting him into the
infirmary with unfettered access to Nurse Chin.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA. Now stop me if
you’ve heard this. A guy goes into a bar with an octopus… Croc, Croc, you in
there? Anybody ho-ome?”
“Croc here.”
“You’re just staring into space, buddy. What’s up?”
“Anger management.”
“Whoa, big words there, Crockers.
So why the staring into space?”
“Croc visualize happy place. Croc
visualize not tearing arms off clown when clown tell joke. Croc think
about swamp. Croc not think about halls of Arkham wet with blood of
Croc’s enemies.”
“Eh, okay then. I’ll be over here.
Check please!”
“My first is traded for fair ladies’ pert
curves. My second, a backwards train. Without my last, there would be no
butchers, bakers, or candlestick makers…” Nurse Chin
listened to this riddling prattle with an expression of tolerant patience, until
Nigma reached the last part, “…and my whole? My whole answers at
212-555-6719. Extension 12.”
Chin grew pale hearing the phone number of the
Gotham Tattler, the tabloid that supplemented her meager Arkham wages buying
information on incarcerated rogues.
“Now Nurse Chin, I don’t especially care if
you sell the occasional bit of gossip, true or false, to some scandal rag. But
then I’m a lot more open-minded than most about that sort of thing. So
it’s probably much healthier for you if we keep this as our little secret.
And in exchange, a little tittle for me not to tattle, eh? How would that
be? All I want to know is: why has Hugo Strange not been sent
to the common room since he was admitted?”
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you,
Bartholomew!”
“Why Pamela, no plant metaphors? That is
an improvement.”
“If you think so, you’re as ignorant as you
are shortsighted, little man. Bone meal is an excellent fertilizer.
I want to talk about Harley.”
“This hour is reserved to talk about you,
Pamela. You know that. And even if it wasn’t, you know I
couldn’t discuss the other patients…”
“Root rot! You know I know what’s
best for her: get her away from Joker. Tell me that’s not what it
says in all your reports.”
Bartholomew looked at his raving patient with a
look of calm and impassive disapproval. He would not be drawn into
validating her outburst or confirming her assertions—however right they
were. Harley Quinn’s file did read: Phase 1: Break obsession with Joker,
Phase 2: achieve realization of enabler co-dependent tendencies, Phase 3:
turn focus from crime and train patient to reenter society and live an
independent life.
“Pamela, the interest you take in your
friend’s recovery is admirable, but if you would focus just a little of that
energy to embracing your own rehabilitation—”
“You have manure for brains,
Bartholomew…”
The doctor’s passive expression never wavered and he made a note without looking down at his pad. Isley was,
despite her psychosis, smart, educated, insightful, and dignified—until
someone disagreed with her. Then she transformed into a violently
irrational harpy.
“…Harley is supposed to be kept away from
Joker. Now that you’ve gone and let him into the common room—and
don’t think we’re not onto the reason why: because you don’t want to
listen to him any more than we do, and you figure he’ll get it out of his
system that way. But he’s in the common room now, and Harley will be coming
in the common room, too. They’ll be together, don’t you get it!
You’ve got to do something about this or, so help me, I’ll…”
Bartholomew tuned it out. More threats,
he was used to it. But Poison Ivy had already inflicted her worst.
The garden view his office was supposed to enjoy was completely obliterated by
an opaque moss coating the window, and he could no longer drive his car to work.
No matter where he parked, vines would coil into his tail pipe and gas tank, and
by the end of the day, he had to get it towed to Max’s Garage, pay $75 to have
it cleaned out, and suffer Max’s gaffaws.
As much as Catman resented being upstaged by
Selina, as much as Catwoman resented pussy jokes, as much as Poison Ivy resented
Gina the Iceberg washroom attendant validating Hugo Strange’s neanderthal
ideas about women, as much as Harley Quinn resented that damn octopus joke,
Edward Nigma couldn’t abide people confusing jokes with riddles.
Jokes, whether involving musically amorous
octopi or not, had no logic. They were frivolous stories meant to set up
the punchline. They were told to get a laugh—or in the case of the
octopus, a pained groan. But riddles were an art form, the work of one mind
that expressed itself by challenging another, a contest between brains that took
pleasure in the intellectual stimulation. One did not laugh at a
riddle. And while Nigma was as inclined to express merriment as the next
man, he did not cackle like the Joker.
If he laughed a little louder and longer than
usual at the Hugo Strange situation, that’s only because it was damn funny.
There was no need, surely, to strap him down this way like he was some hysteric
in a madhouse. At least they didn’t sedate him—which meant, as
long as he remained calm and collected, he would most likely be let up by
dinnertime. And tonight he was looking forward to dinnertime.
Because Saul Vics, a ten-year man at Arkham,
had house payments. How could any sane man not laugh at that? Hugo
Strange was the new ass to kiss at Arkham, and tonight Riddler would enjoy a good
dinner because Saul Vics had house payments!
Vics was a guard, not especially brutal, but
not especially bright either. He had grown accustomed to a tidy little
side income from admitting Joker and Harley Quinn to the little copy room behind
the offices. Since the big split, those bribes had dried up, and Vics,
hard up for cash, had gone about quietly advertising his services. Hugo
Strange was the first to notice and immediately put Vics on retainer. Now
he didn’t have to go to the common room and suffer Joker’s prattle, plus his
own cell was now equipped with comfortable furniture, a portable DVD player, and
best of all—through Vics—he could order takeout!
Anyone lucky enough to obtain an invitation
from Hugo would—after tipping Vics $25—be escorted to Strange’s cell
instead of the common room to partake of stir-fry, barbecue, or deep-dish pizza.
For the bargain price of $49.95, Nurse Chin
agreed to take Hugo a note from Nigma asking for an invitation.
Hugo Strange was pleased to invite a record
four guests to his cell that evening. Riddler had requested an
invitation—a sign, surely, that Hugo was at last beginning to receive the
respect he deserved from the senior rogues.
Catman, naturally. Although the straitjacket he had been placed in since the
altercation with Nigma meant he couldn’t eat pizza. But he must still be
invited, for Catman had a fixation on the Batman that rivaled Hugo’s
own. And since Hugo was destined to one day learn all there was to
know about the Bat, transcending to become Batman himself, it was only fitting
that Hugo Strange: future Batman understand his most obsessed foes like
Blake.
The third guest was Jonathan Crane.
Scarecrow had finally been captured (by Black Canary this time, if the rumormill
was to be believed). The news pleased Hugo greatly. Crane was hardly
a friend. Despite countless hours spent huddled together at the unpopular
table at the Iceberg, Jonathan was stubbornly disrespectful of Hugo’s unique
position in the Gotham underworld. He seemed to view humiliating taunts as
some kind of conversational ritual. Now that Hugo was in a position of
power, for only he could deliver an inmate (or not) from the common room and
oatmeal rissoles, he longed to exercise that power on Crane: You sit in my cell, eat my
pizza and play my
Trivial Pursuit Freudian Edition, you will listen to my Bruce Wayne-is-Batman
Theory.
Nurse Chin had to wait until Nigma was taken
back to his cell before she dared risk a phone call. Once she was
alone, she wasted no time.
:: Gotham Tattler. ::
“Extension 12, please.”
:: Baker. ::
“Hi, it’s Chin. What’s the going
rate for a love triangle?”
:: Depends on who and how much draw they have. ::
“Catman and Riddler came to blows over
Catwoman.”
:: No sale, not buying Catwoman. ::
“But the Post—”
:: I know, I know, the Post got its highest
circulation in forever with that Batman-Catwoman picture. I’ve been in
Times Square; I saw the billboard. So did everybody else, and
they’re all trying to copy it. ::
“But Stu, this is primo stuff. Catwoman
is a draw…”
:: Only if you know what you’re doing,
gorgeous, and the knockoffs don’t. They don’t have the stuff. You can’t just reproduce the Post’s picture, add some adolescent
psychobabble, and think anybody but the cosmically retarded will buy it. ::
“Who do you think reads the Tattler, Stu?”
:: Who do you think signs my paycheck, Chin? ::
“What about using the Catman-Riddler fight
without going into the reasons, then? That should be worth something, shouldn’t
it?”
::I can give you a C-note for that.::
“A C-note! Baker, you’re killing
me.”
:: You know what pays the bills, Chin:
Get me some dirt or get me a diet. ‘Riddle me Thin’ was the best
issue we’ve had this year. ::
There’s always a price.
A EARACHE SPELT IS WRY.
A CLEARWATER YES HIPS…
No, anagrams notwithstanding: There is
always a price. That’s all there was to it.
Sure, the pizza was good. Deep-dish. Metropolis style. Pepperoni & sausage or veggie. Tangy sauce,
just the right amount, not too spicy, not too sweet. And the cheese, pure
heaven.
But having to listen to Hugo’s Bruce Wayne
theory again: Eddie had to admit it wasn’t a vast improvement over the
octopus joke.
Correction, he thought, having to listen to
Hugo’s Bruce Wayne theories. The years of contemptuous disbelief
from his fellow rogues had taken their toll: for it was no longer simply
“Bruce Wayne” in the new model; that was merely his Terran name. On
his native world, he would have been called Mnd~rph~nmahss~hs, which we
Earthlings can’t really pronounce, but as close as we can come, it would sound
like Mann der Fliegen-Maus, don’t you see, Man of the Flying Mouse!
Still, Eddie ate pizza and sat quiet.
It’s not like Hugo was ever playing with a full deck, so it couldn’t be
called a tragic waste. And it was better if he got it out of his system
here, in private, than if he went off like that at the Iceberg. Joker had
taken a liking to Bruce Wayne, nobody knew why, and so far Strange had been
lucky. Thanks to the clown’s gnat-like attention span, he seemed
to have forgotten Hugo’s famous theory. He certainly never put it
together that his good buddy ‘Brucie’ was the butt of the slur. It
would not be wise for Hugo to remind him, but Hugo was so bat-crazed, it seemed
unlikely he was aware of the danger.
“And of course an alien would explain the
signal as well. It isn’t merely to call him; it lights the sky in such a
way that we can’t see the star of his homeworld.”
“Gotcha. And it explains the pointy
ears, too. You going to eat that last slice?”
“What I would like to know,” Tom Blake said
testily, “is why I am the one in a straitjacket.”
“Because you hit me,” Eddie replied,
taunting him with the last slice of veggie pizza.
“Desist in your infantile banter and untie
me, Nigma. For I have news that I shall only impart if I am pacified.”
Hugo’s ears perked up and he forgot his
rambling theories in pursuit of the Holy Grail “news.” Since his
arrival, he had been amusing himself manipulating Blake… His feverish manner
melted into the oozing rationality of the evil psychiatrist. “Now, Herr
Blake, you are a guest here. And guests are expected to sing for their
supper.”
“I haven’t had any supper,” Blake answered
petulantly.
“Give him the last slice, Edward. You
see, Blake, we are all friends here. You are tied up and cannot eat, so
Herr Nigma will feed you. And in return, you will tell us whatever you
learned from the orderlies when they put you in that straitjacket, yes?
That is when you found out this ‘news,’ is it not?”
Blake nodded. “Very well. But
only because it’s deep dish. There’s something afoot on the outside.
Reports are vague, but a new villain challenges the Bat. And should she
fail, her joining us here at Uncle Jerry’s House-o-Fun will be of
particular interest to one now among us.”
To
be continued…
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