The following excerpts have been extracted from (1) the posthumously published memoirs of one Bruce Wayne, entitled “Thoughts at the End of a Life: A Billionaire’s Confession - Vols. II & III”, (2) the official Gotham City Police Department records of one James Gordon, the former Police Commissioner of Gotham City, and (3) the audio log transcriptions of one Hugo Strenj, the first lead psychologist of Arkham Asylum. The writings have been arranged in ‘as close to’ chronological order as possible in an attempt to give credence to the order of events, as well as to further substantiate the claims made by the contributing parties herein. This volume covers the year 1940, the second year of the Batman’s activation.
While many of the infamous mysteries of this time in Gotham City have been the subject of wide speculation and rumor, this anthology has been compiled in an attempt to ascertain clarity on many of them.
PROLOGUE
From the confessions of Bruce Wayne
Gotham City, NJ, circa 1940. It was Springtime, cool temperatures dominated our days and blistering rain squalls laid claim to the nights. For all that the citizens of Gotham knew, the Batman figure was no more. I had put him to rest for what I could only believe would be forever. It was not to be so, as I am sure you are aware.
For the previous few months, the crime rates in Gotham did not improve one iota, and in fact had actually risen in number. As one Jonathan Crane had been apprehended and the Batman disappeared, there had been a slight few weeks where these statistics had fallen. However, a criminal wave of such tremendous force immediately followed, overwhelming the GCPD like never before. Amongst this shift in fortunes, there was one particular figure looming about, seemingly at the center of the most insidious incidents the city had bore witness to. The newspapers referred to this fellow as the Joker, as he was said to have dressed much like a clown or a jester might, and a joker card had been placed at the scene of each crime. The chaos he wrought upon his victims, however, was no joke at all.
I had turned as much of a blind eye to these developments as I could, ignoring those first few sightings of him as they made their way to the news outlets, for I had wanted to distance myself entirely from any further investigative endeavors. I was finished. I had achieved my goal of ascertaining justice against the man who took from me my childhood, and he was now one of a select few inhabitants of the newly christened Arkham Asylum, a facility for mentally unstable criminals (in which I had also played a pivotal part in establishing over the past year).
One morning, I was disturbed by a rather eye-catching headline written in the pages of the Gotham Gazette. It read, Joker Challenges Batman To A Deadly Game. It came to light that, amidst the latest evildoings of this Joker fiend, he left a note at the scene of the murder of one Howard Branden. Incidentally, this was a man I had shared a previous harrowing encounter with during my time under the guise as the Batman. While my mind told me to avert my gaze, alas I found I could not. I read on, and was treated with an oddity of the highest degree.
My dearest Batsy,
‘Where, oh, where have you gone?
I’ve looked everywhere since coming to this city,
I’ve reaped chaos and fear and any such con,
Yet you’ve turned a blind eye to these indignities.
At last, however, it’s really no matter,
Formy new plan revised, you shall not ignore.
Because, you see, the next heaps of blood splatter,
Will lay waste to the most crucial of Gotham’s core.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
First on the list is Mayor Wilson Klass,
And second, his left hand man, the cowardly commissioner.
Third you must guess, and you won’t get a pass,
And the fourth works in tandem with a ruling positioner.
Enough with the poetry,
and let’s see if you can stop me!’
It had been a great while since I had last ventured into the realm of poetic structures, but what struck me most subconsciously were the ABAB masculine end rhymes. Could this display have been intentional to mean something more? No, no! Perish the thought. Perish all thoughts on the matter, for I couldn’t allow myself to become entwined in such dreadful schemes! Alas, my mind reeled despite my heart’s indignant protestations. ABAB CDCD EFEF GG - a sonnet of the Shakespearian variation. No, that was untrue… the meter was all wrong; it had been far too chaotic in nature. It should have been 10 syllables per line, not… 6, 12, 11, 12, 11, 11, 11, 12, 10, 15, 10, 15, 7, 8… what did they all mean? Perhaps this madman was just poorly at poetic structure, and I was overthinking it all. Stop it, Bruce, for the love of all that is sacred! But my head was set to a spin, and he had spoken to that part of my consciousness that starved for attention. The lilt made no sense. The lilt made no sense, with no real thought to the aesthetic cadence of the piece. Except, of course, the addition or subtraction of a syllable, for which the numbers did not match in the least bit. Was he speaking through syllabic code of some sort?
“‘Mornin’, young Master Bruce,” I flinched at the sudden voice of Alfred as he strolled into the kitchen with a fresh delivery of milk. At that moment, I realized just how captivated and bemused I had become with this poetic little puzzle. I slammed the newspaper down upon the breakfast table.
“Alfred,” I greeted him coldly.
“Thasa rather inhospitable salutation. Might I ask what I’ve done to deserve such contempt this time?”
“Oh, quiet, old man. It has nothing to do with you,” I turned away from him, looking out the window to gaze upon the courtyard. I quickly found that the brightly lit sun offered a bold paradox to my current disposition. “This time.”
“Oh, that?” Alfred nodded in the direction of the newspaper.
I glared at him in response, knowing fulwell he knew exactly what had soured my mood.
“S’nothing the police can’t handle themselves, Master Wayne.”
“It was one of the police who was killed this time, old chap. A man I have had previous dealings with, no less.”
“Well, then, I suppose they’ll be good n’ fired up to apprehend the arsehole who done it now then, won’t they?”
“That’s not the point. This madman is goading me. He says people will die unless the Batman -”
“And what? Ye ain’t got any obligation to play into this maniac’s antics. You’re the one who said ye trusted that Gordon chap to handle these malefactors from now on. He and that district attorney fella… wuzisname…? Bent?”
“Dent. Harvey Dent. And he isn’t the District Attorney yet.”
“Aye, close enough. On both accounts, I might add. Point is, this is not your fight anymore. You did yer part in taking down that Crane nutjob last year, and now it’s time to relax and enjoy your family’s good fortune.”
“He’s making it my fight again. I’m responsible, old man. Surely, you must see it,” I begged and pleaded with my eyes to the best of my abilities. Quite apparently, however, his surety would not be rocked.
“The only thing I see is you trying to break a promise ye made to me that ole this business was ended!”
I averted my gaze then. I had indeed made him such a promise not long ago, and I had meant it. But how, I ask you, could I have foreseen such calamities to mold themselves into fruition? I held no answers on that end, and it appeared that neither had my butler. Whatever was I to do? Was I to own these impending deaths upon my conscience forevermore?
I spent the remaining hours of that day sticking to my usual routines, trying my absolute utmost to wipe these ugly thoughts from my mind all the while. At last, I could take it no more, and entered the batcave to stare upon the cape and cowl I had donned only a few months earlier. They called out to me. They told me I would never escape the clutches of this destiny I’d drawn for myself, for it was already too late for me. This figure of the dark represented my one true self. It was Bruce Wayne who was the sham persona, after all.