A failing comedian walks into a bar and gets booed. He goes home to his wife and child, but finds himself failing them too. With no money left for food for the loves of his life and no prospect of money for the love of his job, the failing comedian turns to a life of petty crime.
Envisioning himself a thief and hoodlum, the failing comedian dons a cape the color of blood and helmet to hide his identity.
He calls himself the Red Hood.
Back then I asked myself; If I had known that it was the failing comedian behind that hood, would I have shown more mercy? Would I be prowling the streets without one more worry had I investigated more thoroughly?
I don’t dream much, nor do I want to, but when I do, I envision myself striding down that catwalk with the comedian stepping back in fear. I can still hear his ragged breathing and pleads for mercy which, at the time, had echoed out as ragged laughter.
Had I been more careful or more swift in my response… then would this world not fear the chaos brought on by the comedian?
I suppose I should call him by his current alias.
“Where is the Joker?” I ask the goon in front of me. Fear has etched itself on his face. Expectedly so given that he is currently upside down and is hanging on a thin piece of rope. The moment I let go of the grappling wire, his body would fall down ten stories and break every single bone in his torso and head.
“I-I don’t know!” He shouts, dread seeping into every bone. I glare further, tears now running down his face. “I swear to god!”
“Swear to me!”
“I-I swear to you-to you. I promise!” His fitful pleads turns into sobbing which means he no longer has anything I need.
Walking away from the alleyway and towards the Batmobile under the rampant blares of his cries is easy enough to do with a lot of practice. Sure, there are times where mercy and pity interrupts my work and I allow a criminal a slight reprieve from what I’m doing, but more often than not, their combination leads to disastrous results.
Either they try to run away or, more idiotically, they fight back because, apparently, being beaten once is enough anymore. That was when my status as a symbol of fear and justice had yet to take hold within the hearts of every criminal in Gotham and the surrounding cities.
Nowadays, the mere presence of the Bat-signal on the dreary skies of the city strikes enough fear to circumvent whatever drastic situation that alters a criminal's biochemistry to allow them to do crime. Nevertheless, there are those who fear not my presence, but in fact, wait for it.
One of those criminals is the Clown Prince of Crime: Joker.
Unlike Falcone, Mad Hatter or Grundy, his motives are purely for entertainment. A joke within a joke within a joke within a very dangerous situation within which lies an elaborate, and often imbecilic, punchline.
Even now, the punchline of his last joke is still taking effect. The white knight, Harvey Dent, had just awoken from his year-long coma and I fear that his life will never be the same ever again.
As such, the moment I heard of Joker’s underlings being employed by another syndicate, I immediately went to work. Cracking down on their spines and psyche the moment I meet them is easy enough, given our working routine. It’s more like a tradition at this point.
They do a job for the Joker and I break a few bones before allowing them to confess, but this time, no one did. No one knows where he is and that the only person who did, saw him for only a brief moment a few months ago.
I now fear the worst. He is missing.
It is imperative that I find him immediately because the last time the Joker went missing for even a month, I had to save Gordon and his wife from a vat of lava.
There is only one person I know that can lead to a direction or even give me a clue as to how to find him. Only, I hesitate to ask him as his answer would undoubtedly be… a riddle.
After blasting through the city and zigzagging past the windy streets of Gotham, I arrive at the road that leads towards my destination. Past the skyline of the metropolitan area and even past the cancerous fumes of the industrial portion lies the only mental institution that can hold the most heinous of criminals in Gotham and Bludhaven alike.
Arkham Asylum stands on a thin line between rehabilitation and banishment. Coincidentally, after the road and the checkpoint, one would need to cross a thin bridge to enter the asylum proper. Standing atop a mesa and with the wide New Jersey shore below, the gothic asylum looms over both its inhabitants and their wards.
For a while, entering the asylum was a chore. Stealthing in or bribing the guards currently in charge was the way to-go, but after the mass break-out six months ago wherein Amygdala, an emotionally unstable mental patient, killed a prominent council member, I have been ‘unofficially’ awarded a free pass whenever I visit.
“Come on in, sir.” The guard says warily. He too knows that I’m never one for a friendly visit. As long as I’m here, there is a chance that pain and death follows.
As such, going down the lower levels and into the highly secured facilities that houses the criminal I am about to visit is painfully silent and free of interruption. Save, of course, for the howling of the madmen that pollutes the air of this building–most of whom I put inside in the first place.
“How is he?” I ask, startling the guard who is guiding me. More for the protection of the inmates and the fact that he’s the asylum’s canary in this psychopathic coal mine.
“Lots… lots of riddles.” He answers, taking out his badge and deactivating the security system for the lower basement. “I assume you know that drill? No touching the glass. No giving him anything. No weapons–Well, don’t let your weapons out. We have cameras inside and we’ll shoot you at will.”
“I understand.” I nod entering after him.
He stops for a moment and gulps visibly. “And if he… if he tells you anything about yourself or the people you love, don’t kill yourself.”
The guard locks eyes with me for a moment before sighing to himself and continuing on. We enter a hall with four doors in the middle of which is a station with three guards, all armed to teeth. Screens showing dozens of live, color images blitz pass me as the guards share a look before the door to my immediate left hisses open.
Inside is nothing but pure darkness, but through my thermal goggles, I can see a large glass cube with a single bed, bathroom bowl, and a desk with a lamp. The guards flicks a switch, allowing light to enter the room and its sole inhabitant to be aware of his visitor.
“Edward Nygma. You’ve got a visitor.” The guards shout from the doorframe, not once stepping foot inside. He steps aside and lets me in before raising a hand. “Remember… We have cameras and guns inside. We can incapacitate you if the need arises. It’s for your own good.”
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“I will.” I respond, knowing that his fear is slowly taking root and only needs an acknowledgement of his feelings.
I enter inside and the door slams behind me, along with the clicks of nine locks. In front of me is a man with baggy eyes, gaunt face, and a tired body yet a smile is on his face.
“I have a query.” I start.
Nygma’s smile quivers in delight. “Wanna put it to theory?”
“I do and I believe that you do, too.”
Nygma cackles in absolute exuberance, jumping off his seating position and slamming his head against the glass cube. Blood trickles down his forehead and into the pane.
“The knight that flitted the skies of Gotham, now lay in my cell stuck between a rock and the bottom.” Nygma couldn’t be happier, which means that his lips will be looser.
He had always been a nuisance, more than a real threat. Sure, his intellect far surpasses most mortals on the planet which, with his penchant for riddles and mind games, makes him a dangerous and crazed individual, but his ego and starving need for attention makes him far more unreliable and someone who I need right now.
“And you’re stuck here until an orderly gets enough of your riddles and either busts you out of here or stabs you in the neck and sever your larynx.” I respond, inching closer to his cube.
“Then, what ever shall we do?” A twitch in his eyes gets me in a comfortable position.
“A quid pro quo. Will that make do?”
His answer is apparent and quick. Even he can’t get enough of my reluctant participation in his schemes. Yes, I know this will be a long, drawn-out riddle of his. One that will take weeks, months, and even years to come to fruition, but the necessity of the information outweighs the gravity of the situation.
“Shall I start, then?” Nygma gleefully glides along the edges of the cube as I circle its perimeter, not moving within three feet of its edges. “Riddle me this, Batman? Dogs cry when they see me; You sleep as I walk by; I am known to drive you mad. What am I?”
‘He didn’t rhyme it. Why? Does he know that I’m here for the Joker’s whereabouts? Maybe. It’s been a few months since anybody last saw him and his henchmens have loose tongues.’
I stop circling the cube, as well as stop second-guessing my questioning of the Nygma. He grins at me, like a fairytale cat.
‘There must be something with the riddle. Dogs cry only at the sight of other creatures that are not their owners, evolutionary enemies, or whenever someone enters their territory. Since the owner is sleeping when it or they appear, it must be nocturnal in nature and not stationary. A chipmunk or some rodent? No. The final clue lies in the word mad. Mad either means the emotion of anger or mental illness. Something nocturnal, that dogs’ senses might pick up, and is related to the word–Lunatic. It comes from an old French, then old Latin word ‘lunaticus’ meaning…’
“Moon.” I voice it aloud before following up with my reasons, although said reasons are thought of after the fact. “Ancients believed that the moon can somehow make you mad. Dogs are sensitive to new stimuli brought about by the light reflected off the moon.”
Nygma giggled at my answer, tapping his right wrist. “3.14159 seconds. That’s a new world record!” He bellows before leaning in and whispering, “Although a bit slow, even for you.”
“I don’t have time for this.” I say, inching forward until I am mere inches away from him with only the glass separating our faces. “Where is he?”
“Riddle me this…” It takes all my will not to punch through the glass as I stare at him as he continues, “This man has evolved through time and society. Once a servant of the court, quipping at the king’s mercy. Then raised as a religious pedestal to glob at the masses and those who are skeptical…”
My eyes, albeit hidden behind the optic lens, widen at what he’s hinting at.
“Now they serve children and people for fun, although as your enemy, he is as dangerous as a loaded gun.” Nygma presses his face against the glass, slobbering his saliva on the pane. “Ask me again, Batsy. Ask me.”
“Where. Is. The. Joker?” I ask, enunciating each and every word.
“The man on the moon has him.” He speaks in riddles once more, though the cowardly light hidden deep beneath his facade of normality piercings through the glass cube. “Blue is he and that color will always be, such is the hue of the man on the moon. He does not laugh for he does not know humor. He does not smile for he does not have emotion. He is and was and will always be.”
His words click into place and, even though I show no outward appearances of the realization, Nygma and I have been dancing to the tune of violence and rehabilitation long enough for him to realize that his words ring true in my ears. He does not say anything else, merely walking towards his seat and faking a serene expression as he groans downwards and sits on the floor.
“Why did the man on the moon take the Joker?” I ask, even knowing that he will never answer it.
“When did I say the man on the moon took the Joker?” He responds with another question, another of his mind tricks.
“If you're not going to answer my questions, then you are no longer of use to me.” I say with finality which makes his ever-smiling face crumble into pieces. He glowers at me, expecting him to wail or threaten me with the death of my loved ones.
“I have a request!” He says, startling me. At least inwardly. Not once has Nygma have I heard such desperation coming through his voice.
“What is it?” I ask and turn towards him, my curiosity getting the better of me.
He hesitates, as evident by the stammering breaths coming out of his mouth. It isn’t until three seconds later that his eyes glimmer in unknown light.
“Everyone wants something which means you and I have something that both want.”
I urge him along, “And I acquired it. Don’t waste my time.”
“Depends on what information is truly relevant to the situation. Surely, you don’t think that the Joker will just up and appear again once you find the man on the moon?”
“A chance I will have to take.”
“Moronic!” He places an L-shaped left hand on top of his head. “I’ve always known you to be as bullheaded as a, well, bull. What would it take for you to see the bigger picture?”
His words bring me undue worry which must have been his goal all along. To see me falter at this step, even if inconsequential, will have brought amusement for weeks to come; Something he did not have before I came here.
I do not answer, letting him stew in my silence.
“Ugh. Batman.” He says my name with such solemnity that I still at once. “Everything that I have said is true and for that I will pay. But… it will be worth it for who else will be there to marvel at my intellect when you are no longer here.”
“The man on the moon has a lifeline over you?”
“No!” He roars forward, smashing his hands against the glass cube which sends a blaring alert across the chamber. “The man on the moon does not suffer fools. Yet a fool he once was and shall ever be.”
“Do not aggravate the man once you find him.” The words bring me to a standstill. “I fear for my life. So should you.”
“I will.” I exit the premises, not stopping out to greet the guards or the orderlies. Something within his tone sets me off, an ancient alarm in my brain and body that is reminding me of the danger held within the disappearance of Joker. With the drab color permeating the walls of Arkham, I settle into my thoughts as I recall each and every word that Nygma said whilst analyzing every permutation of his facial muscles.
[Master Bruce. We have an emergency.]
Alfred’s voice is a much needed dose of calm, so I tune in on my comms as I enter the Batmobile. “What is it?” I ask, a little gruff than I intended.
[We have a possible abduction at 125th Summerfield Road. Captain Gordon has requested your assistance. Multiple casualties and a possible child abduction. The Serana residence.]
“I’m on my way.”