One of Those Days by Random Equinox

Edward Nigma, a.k.a. The Riddler, was on top of the world for one simple reason: he was having a good day.

It started when he woke up in the afternoon, six hours before his next heist. He called Ho Sai Gai, ordered the fried rice with a side order of sweet and sour pork, and decided to see what was in the fridge to tide him over until the delivery boy arrived. Lo and behold, a feast was there. Deep dish pizza, Gotham style. Caesar salad from that new Italian place that served pretty good grub for a cheap knock-off of D'Annunzio. A full bottle of Villa Aterrenorosso and a half-eaten slice of tiramisu!

This might be the beginning of a good day.

After cancelling his order from Ho Sai Gai, Eddie popped the pizza in the microwave, opened the Gotham Times and started his crossword puzzle. A real challenge to intellectuals: the Gotham Times crossword puzzle. Not a joke like that sensationalist crap in the Post or the half-assed attempt in the Daily Planet. To his delight, he set a new record for the crossword puzzle: two minutes, seventeen seconds!

This was definitely turning out to be a good day.

Things only got better that evening, when he'd successfully stolen a painting from the Gotham City Museum of Modern Art (by some artist who'd been inspired by The Da Vinci Code and apparently failed to realise that that ship had sailed a long time ago). After all, the riddle he sent to the dullards who fancied themselves Gotham's Finest wasn't his best work. In all honesty, it was so elementary, even a toddler could figure it out. Furthermore, the frame of the painting itself was built in the shape of a question mark. If anything would scream "Riddler target", this would be it. And yet, he completed the heist without any interruption from the Dark Knight or any of the junior Bats!

Clearly, without any doubt, this had been a really good day.

So, Eddie did what any Rogue would under the circumstances: he went to the Iceberg Lounge to celebrate. Well, after dropping off his latest acquisition at his hideout. It wouldn't do to go to all this trouble and get away with this stunning piece of art, only to have Killer Croc crush it underneath his foot or Hugo throw up on it (he claimed his recent inclination towards only drinking mineral water was a stand against the feeble-minded cretins who he was forced to interact with, but Jervis said it was really because he'd contracted some stomach malady that only manifested itself if he consumed alcohol. Say what you will about Jervis, but his gossip was always accurate, though Eddie really didn't want to know how he learned about that particular tidbit.).

In any case, he waltzed up to the bar with a grin on his face that would put Joker to shame. By the time he's sat on the barstool, Sly had already opened a new bottle of Glenondrumm, his favorite Scotch, and had poured him a glass.

"'LEND A NORM MUG,' Mr. Nigma?" Sly asked.

"Right you are, Sly," Eddie declared. "Fitting, too. For today has been OY GOLLY ADA DEAR."

"In that case, I guess you want to open a tab, Mr. Nigma."

"Right again, my good man. Open a tab. I'm in a mood to celebrate, because today has been OY GOLLY ADA DEAR, a really good day!"

Edward Nigma, a.k.a. The Riddler, woke up ten hours later, with one hell of a hangover.

He vaguely remembered finishing a bottle of Glenondrumm, and another, and then… did he start a third bottle? Certainly, he'd had more than one. Or maybe he switched to something stronger?

Silk. He felt silk. And it couldn't be his pajamas, since he lost his silk pajamas three hideouts ago. Nope, those were definitely silk sheets. And he felt those silk sheets because…


He must have had one heck of a good time. Shame he couldn't remember the details.

"So you're finally awake, are you?"

That voice. Where had he heard that voice? And why did it fill him with a looming sense of dread.

He turned over... and instantly regretted it as an orchestra began blaring off-key in his head. Once the cacophony died down to a dull roar, he was able to focus... on an equally naked Richard Flay. Fine arts professor, art connoisseur... and gay enough to give Will Truman a run for his money.

"So you finally came out to see my art collection. Wasn't it worth the trip?"

Eddie just sat there and stared. For once, there was only a single thought running through his mind.

This might be the beginning of a really bad day.