Chapter Six: Comprachico
From the confessions of Bruce Wayne
“On two occasions now I could oh so desperately have utilized one,” I explained to Lucius on the evening of April the 12th. Feeling bruised and lacking the necessary sleep, I had opted for a phone call rather than a visit to his laboratory on this occasion.
“A glider…?”
“Of a sort, yes,” I confirmed.
“Aren’t you starting to take this animorphism just a little too literally now, Mister Wayne?”
“I said glider, not flyer,” I chastised the man.
Mister Fox was silent for a time, deep thought, trying as he might to work his way into my mind’s eye. “And it needs to be portable…?”
“Precisely.”
He sighed, “You’re going to have to start paying me more. Alright, I’ll see what I can drum up for you.”
Indeed, I should have felt waves of deep shame for asking so much of the man and working him to the bone, but his assistance was essential to the cause and the results he produced were ever-astounding to me. The two occasions that came to mind where a gliding mechanism would have come in handy were a) when I had jumped from one rooftop to the next while in hot pursuit of the Joker, and b) when on the previous evening I had been forced to jump from the fire escape, landing audibly and ever so conspicuously onto the lower levels of rafters, rattling my bones and looking far less the menacing figure of the night than I’d hoped to convey. A gliding device would have provided both speed and eloquence.
“Please understand, it’s not my intention to put you out,” I attempted an explanation.
“You don’t have to explain. Remember, the less I know, the better. For both of us.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Lucius. I mean it in the absolute rawest sense.”
“Abyssinia, Mister Wayne.”
“Toodle-oo.” I hung up the phone with an audible sigh.
“Ye still stickin’ to that bloody fairytale then?” Alfred was standing in the doorway of my study wearing a skeptical look upon his face.
“I’m telling you, old chap, it happened!”
“Gah!” he swatted the air dismissively. “The whole bloody story reeks of bollocks, ye ask me!”
“I do so solemnly swear, Alfred! I lobbed across that giant gap with not but a single grappling hook device, and climbed the rest of the way up.”
“Phooey, Master Wayne. It’s ole in yer head. I told you this newfound lifestyle of yours was gonna drive ye bonkers, did I not?” He sat down on the sofa across from me and stared upon my being looking ever-so-smugly. “And that Joker fella, like something out of a nightmare, he says! Just how bloody scary can a man in clown makeup be?”
“It wasn’t the outfit itself - it was his aura. Something behind his eyes was like the devil himself.”
“Well I still don’t bloody believe you.”
I frowned then, thinking upon my dreadful first encounter with the Joker. There had been something bothering me about it ever since, but it wasn’t until this moment that I was able to sort out what it was.
“You know, old chap… there was something almost familiar about his appearance, actually. Like something from a dream or… or the movie pictures.”
“The pictures, ye say?”
“Mm, indubitably. I can almost see it in my mind, Alfred. The slicked back hair, and the widened smile unveiling those insidiously large teeth. It’s the smile… I know I’ve seen it before, or at least something very like it. Terrifying to look upon, and yet… it feels somehow iconic.”
“Icon - wait, wait, wait, sir, I know this one! I bloody well know what yer going on about!”
“You do?” I jumped to my feet, anxious for any semblance of hope that we’d finally found some kind of clue.
“Blimey, I think so… it’s that fella… he’s crying in the poster but still wearing that damnable hideous smile.”
“Yes! I forgot about the tears! What is it, Alfred? What was that feature called?”
“Hold on now, lemme think…” He placed his palms upon his eyes and churned the gears behind them roughly. “The laughing man… the laugh of a man… the… the bloody man who laughed! It was called The Man Who Laughs! Really popular silent film from ten or so years ago, before all ‘em dreadful talkies. Great fun, that one!” My brilliant caretaker beamed with pride at his wonderful sense of memory.
It struck me, “That’s it! That was the one I was thinking of. My god, man!” I remembered the poster even more vividly now as I had first seen it posted on the walls of the movie theater all those years ago.
“Ye’ve seen it then?”
“No, I believe I skipped it. But I remember the poster very well, and the way he looked. That’s exactly the look of the Joker, I swear it upon my life!”
“Queer that,” Alfred remarked with a frown. “The man in the movie was a sympathetic fellow, and not some serial murderer. I can’t for the life of me believe there’s any connection.”
“Hmm, that is a bit odd. But I simply can’t ignore it. Make a reservation with one of the theaters, Alfred. I will pay whatever they want, but I must have a private showing of that movie as soon as possible!”
“Are ye outta yer bleedin’ mind? Who’s to say anyone even still has a copy of it sittin’ around?”
“Please, Alfred. We simply must try! If it yields any insight into the Joker’s origins, it is worth the investment.”
He contemplated for a moment, and then solemnly relented, “Aye, suppose it’s worth a try at least. Meantime, seems to me, I remember it being based on a book. Ye might try heading down to the library to see if ye can extricate anything from that.”
“Brilliant!” I rejoiced, unable to contain my excitement. Then, “No! Crimedy!” I stomped my feet in sudden frustration as yet another thought hit me.
“What’s the matter now?”
“It’s past 6. The library’s closed.”
“Bugger that. I’ll start on those calls, sir.”
From the audio logs of Dr. Hugo Strenj
Strenj: This is Doctor Hugo Strenj of Arkham Asylum, audiolog number twenty-five. April the twelfth, nineteen forty.
On this day, we have ourselves a new guest to Arkham. Fresh from Blackgate, so to speak. A Mister… Waylon, is it? Waylon… Jones?
Jones: Yes.
Strenj: And you… committed murder against your… aunt. Really, this handwirting is terrible, I do so apologize.
Jones: That was a long time ago.
Strenj: I see, yes, there it is. Eight years ago, and you had been in Black Gate ever since. Lucky for you, our facilities are primed much more towards someone of your uh… I want to say magnitude, you are quite the hefty boy, aren’t you? But no, what I meant to say was, your needs.
Jones: What I need is to be let the goddamn hell out of here!
Strenj: Oh… I must have assumed incorrectly then…
Jones: About what?
Strenj: Well, it’s just that… your… condition. What was it called again?
Jones: Lamellar Ichthyosis AND psoriasis.
Strenj: Right, right! You must be in absolute excruciating pain on the regular, but at least here you are being treated to alleviate the itchiness and stinging. Why would you prefer to leave?
Jones: I was doing just fine before they locked me up. Had myself a little kiddie pool I could lay in all day, it made things much less painful.
Strenj: Well, yes, but I am told the water has ill side effects when submerged for too long. No doubt, the skin would harden when drying and that would escalate the discomfort, and when the skin shrivels under water, it most assuredly would fall off… am I right?
Jones: It was still better than THIS.
Strenj: I see. Let it be known for the record, these two painful skin diseases cause Mr. Jones’s skin to appear both grayish in color and scaly in texture. Working in tandem, this has made his knees and elbows harden to the point that they appear much like protective padding. His stay here is not one of necessity, but rather it was seen as a kindness, as our facilities are much better equipped to treat his conditions. As well, he’s no stranger to the occasional scuffle.
Jones: They had it coming!
Strenj: How so?
Jones: Anyone who mentions my scales gets a pounding.
Strenj: Even at your own expense, it would seem. Last time an entire cauliflower head of skin was sheared off from your fist. It says here you went into shock.
Stolen story; please report.
Jones: I ain’t no pansy. Those wiseguys ought to know better than to mess with me.
Strenj: You’re hurting no one more than yourself, the way I see it. So these treatments, they are unsatisfactory then?
Jones: Better than nothin’.
Strenj: Indeed. Well, on a typical day, if you were a typical patient, I would delve into your history and psyche. However, as you are an atypical patient with physical, rather than mental traumas, I will instead issue you with a warning. This is my facility now, you understand? It is a privilege to be here, and you will relent to this one truth or I will have no issues sending you back from whence you came. You are neither of interest nor of any worth to my professional ventures, so it makes no difference to me one way or another. You will behave yourself at all times, and if I catch any word of your causing a nuisance to any of my other patients, you will lose this privilege. Do I make myself clear, Waylon?
Jones: You’ve got one set of balls on you.
Strenj: Am - I - Clear, Mr. Jones?
Jones: … Crystal.
Strenj: Then I would invite you to enjoy your stay. Until next we meet, Waylon, I bid you adieu. This has been Hugo Strenj, signing off.
From the confessions of Bruce Wayne
Luck was on my side, ever so slightly as it may have been. Alfred managed to find a local theater with a copy of The Man Who Laughs in their stockpile, and the staff were willing to screen it for me on this very night for a not unreasonable sum. In the morning, I would set out first thing to the library to pick up a copy of the book, lest it contain further useful information not included in the adapted material.
Today was the 11th of April, and the next attack, which I had believed to be aimed at my friend Harvey Dent, was to take place on the 14th. It did not leave me with much time to catch the Joker before his final inning could commence. And what would happen after that? I shuddered to think upon it, for there was no telling what may follow. Perhaps he would attempt to punish me for my loss with an even greater and far further reaching attack upon the city. Or maybe yet another game would then begin. I knew - much as I might wish for it - that he wouldn’t simply get bored and go away. In any case, I could not be bothered by such assumptions or worries until after I’d conducted a proper investigation into this film.
And oh, what a film it was, indeed! I took extensive notes as I watched, hoping to stumble upon some cleverly veiled connection it may yield with my villainous foe. Everything from the names of the opening credits to the names of the characters, locations featured, historical implementations, and more were jotted down at as great a speed as I could manage while refraining from taking my eyes off the screen.
The 17th century set story told of an unfortunate soul, named Gwynplaine, who had been dealt a poor hand in life. Beginning with an opening sequence wherein the court jester, Barkilphredo, informs King James the 2nd of the capturing of a man named Lord Clancharlie. The king then declares to this lord that his young son, Gwynplaine, has been the subject of a mutilation conducted by a Comprachico surgeon (a term I was yet unfamiliar with at the time) named Hardquanonne, carving a wide and permanent smile across the boy’s face. Subsequently, Clancharlie is then executed.
Following this incident, the king then bans all Comprachicos from the country of England, and our young protagonist is left to his own survival. He then rescues a blind baby girl whose mother has died, and they are taken in by a good showman going by the name of Ursus. The story then jumps fifteen years into the future, and our hero Gwynplaine is now a young man. Gwynplaine and the blind girl, Dea, are in love. She is unaware of his disfigurement, but he still feels the shame of it, as he has become a well known spectacle known as The Laughing Man.
The Comprachico, Hardquanonne, stumbles upon our lad by chance, and recognizes his own cruel handiwork. Knowing that the boy was heir to the Lord Clancharlie’s estate, he uses this information to then blackmail the Duchess Josiana, who is the current occupier of the lord’s estate. However, the letter sent to her is intercepted, and a slew of entanglements occur. Queen Anne, being at the center of the confusion, decrees that the duchess must marry Gwynplaine in order to legitimize her holdings, to which Josiana laughs in the face of our poor laughing man.
After a touching scene where Gwynplaine and Dea reunite, he is then thrown into prison for refusing the queen’s orders. As Dea and Ursus believe Gwynplaine to be dead, they attempt to flee England by seatravel, but not before our hero manages to escape the clutches of Anne’s kingdom and makes his way back to his true love just in the nick of time.
I am simply synopsizing, of course, but that was the jist of the plot.
The clearest connection I could render between the good hearted Gwynplaine and the Joker was again only of a physical nature. The scars along his mouth mimicked those carved upon the protagonist’s mouth. But what was the reason for his fashioning his appearance after such a fellow? What deeper meaning could there possibly be between them? Perhaps it was just another one of his sick games, but there had to be some significance lying behind it. But in truth, it could have been any number of things, including perhaps some sort of homage to the actor, Conrad Veidt.
In the morning, after rushing to the library to try and discover anything further about Compachico folklore from the original text by one Victor Hugo, again it only further bewildered me. In the introductory description, it intimated thusly,
‘The Comprachicos, or Comprapequeños, were a hideous and nondescript association of wanderers, famous in the 17th century, forgotten in the 18th, unheard of in the 19th. The Comprachicos are like the "succession powder," an ancient social characteristic detail. They are part of old human ugliness. To the great eye of history, which sees everything collectively, the Comprachicos belong to the colossal fact of slavery. Joseph sold by his brethren is a chapter in their story. The Comprachicos have left their traces in the penal laws of Spain and England. You find here and there in the dark confusion of English laws the impress of this horrible truth, like the foot-print of a savage in a forest.
Comprachicos, the same as Comprapequeños, is a compound Spanish word signifying Child-buyers.
The Comprachicos traded in children. They bought and sold them. They did not steal them. The kidnapping of children is another branch of industry. And what did they make of these children?
Monsters.
Why monsters?
To laugh at.
The populace must needs laugh, and kings too.’
Yes, I do own a copy of it now, from which I am transcribing this passage. While other portions of the text similarly divulging the history of the comprachicos offered more hints as to their dastardly nature, it still befuddled me as to how any of it related to this Joker fiend.
Child buyers… and mutilators. Could such a practice actually be going on in Gotham itself? And what were the potential implications of such a revelation? It seemed preposterous, but I had to try to find out for sure. If anyone would have heard rumblings of such an evil nature, it would be Captain Gordon. With time of the essence, I had to arrange a meeting on this very night.
“Gordon,” I growled into my communication device as soon as I’d returned home.
“You,” he said accusingly. “I’ve been needing to talk to you. Why haven’t you been answering me?”
I had turned the device off, not wanting to open myself up to simple fraternization. As unfair as it may have seemed, this communication machine was for my initialization, and mine alone. He would need to be satisfied with being on the receiving end only.
“I’ve been busy. We need to meet. Tonight.”
“Where and when?”
“The usual spot, on the roof,” I hadn’t the time nor the patience to ponder out a new meeting area, as matters were far too pressing at present. With that sorted, I promptly turned my receiver off.
From the audio logs of Dr. Hugo Strenj
Strenj: This is Doctor Hugo Strenj of Arkham Asylum, audiolog number twenty-six. April the twelfth, nineteen forty.
I am so happy to once again be here with my friend, the good Doctor Jonathan Crane, who has been making remarkable strides these past few days. Bravo, my venerable compadre.
Crane: I… I can’t remember, what have we been discussing?
Strenj: Oh, don’t be silly! You know very well we’ve delved into the murders you committed and the reasons you stand by for committing them. Colleagues and randomized victims alike.
Crane: No… no, I wouldn’t have told you that. I am innocent!
Strenj: He said with absolutely no conviction whatsoever… let it be on the record, our poor Doctor Crane has been suffering from a bit of brain fog. This is not uncommon when breaking the surface of such heinous crimes, as the mind wants to reject what the body has done, and the lucidity of realization begins to take hold. I am so sorry, my friend, as I know this can be difficult.
Crane: No, NO! It isn’t true… Put that on your record, please! PLEASE!
Strenj: Ah, ah, ah, Jonathan. We mustn’t regress now. You have finally begun to take ownership of your crimes. You must understand, the desire to separate oneself from such traumatic events is natural, but we must keep an open mind while facing these crimes.
Crane: What have I done…? WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?!
Strenj: Yes, it is simply awful, I know how this must feel.
Crane: I mean how could I have confessed?! What have you done to me?! What are these drugs you’ve administered?!
Strenj: Now, now, we mustn’t pass the blame onto others. You know perfectly well you are in complete control here, I am merely helping you to see the path for -
Crane: LIES! YOU ARE A LIAR! HELLLP! HELLLP MEEEE!
Strenj: Oh, for crying out loud… Hhhh… I suppose it can’t be helped. We will have to do this another day when you’re feeling more yourself.
Crane: HELLLP, PLEEEASE!
Strenj: This is Hugo Strenj signing off. Calm down, Jonathan!
From the confessions of Bruce Wayne
There were many parts to my next conversation with Gordon, and I will try my utmost to relate them here as truthfully as can be remembered. The first thing I can recollect is the look upon his face when I’d scaled the roof of the GCPD. His expression was much lighter and more vulnerable than ever before. In retrospect, I do believe that this was our first instance in which he’d given his trust over to me completely, as I had been there to protect his family when he could not.
“Hi,” his greeting was softer than normal. It was somewhat unnerving, given our tense meetings of the past. “I want to thank you, in person, for what you did -”
“You don’t owe me anything, Jim.”
“Will you just let me talk?” He stubbornly sighed as he reached into his suit’s pouch for a cigarette. “I don’t know how you knew to be there, but I’m glad you were. If anything had happened to them…”
“I know,” the words accidentally slipped. I suppose I was growing agitated, as there were urgent matters to discuss, and I cared little for his heartfelt sentiments.
“Well… thanks. I know I’ve been difficult to deal with from time to time. That ends now. You have my trust.”
“Good,” I was perhaps too dismissive. “I may have a lead on the Joker.”
“Really?” he perked up.
“I need you to confirm something for me first. The Red Hoods, that’s what the members of the Joker’s gang call themselves… I need you to conduct a strip search of their bodies.”
Jim gawked at me in utter surprise, frowning in doubt. “Why? What exactly am I looking for?”
“Suspicious scarring. Anything out to the ordinary. Any possible signs of trauma or mutilation, perhaps stretching as far back as their childhood.”
“Mutilation! What in the hell are you on about?”
“Just a hunch. I need absolute confirmation. I may have some inkling as to where he’s recruiting his men from.”
“Where?” Gordon demanded.
I ignored the question. “Are you aware of any sinister tales of child buying rings in Gotham?”
“You don’t mean… like prostitution?”
“Maybe. Anything relating to the purchasing of children for any type of reason.”
“Just… rumors. Mostly of a time past, but you do know that the prostitution rings in this town… well, they’re obviously not legal to begin with. But yeah, lots of ‘em are far too young to be out there.”
“These rings, do they have any relation to torture?” I had to know the truth.
“Not that I’m… wait, you don’t think…? You think these red hoods might have been trafficked for the explicit sake of violence…?”
“That’s what I need to find out.”
“Look, I mean yeah, this city has its nasty side, sure, but… something like that, I just can’t even imagine! Selling children for the sake of cutting them up, and… god knows what else!”
“See what you can find on those you’ve apprehended. If the signs are there, see if you can get a confession.”
“You think the Joker might have been trafficked too?”
“I don’t know. He had scarring around his mouth. Might just be a trick he used to gain their trust.”
Jim took a long drag of his cigarette and coughed harshly, lost in thought as if I wasn’t even there. When he finally came to, he looked in my eyes with sympathy creased upon his brows, “I don’t know that I’m prepared to know the truth of this one.”
“We don’t have much time. We’ll meet here again tomorrow night,” I swung around and headed for the ledge I’d climbed.
“What are you gonna do?” he called.
“Anything I can, Jim.”
After taking my leave, I knew I had a rather large decision to make. Would the Batman venture back into the red light district to conduct a hostile and coercive interrogation of anyone and everyone who might fit the profile of a child trafficker? Or, perhaps, would multi-billionaire Bruce Wayne have more luck in infiltrating such vile and depraved activity circles? As much as it posed a weighty risk to my personal reputation, I knew that with so little time allotted to me, the quickest option was indeed the most preferable. And in dealing with scoundrels of such a dark nature, I also knew money would likely talk faster than threats.
As such, I changed into my best fitting dress suit and shoes and headed back out into the night as Bruce Wayne, deranged and depraved billionaire.