by Marv Wolfman
Batman smiled but said nothing. He knew the answer but he wasn’t going to share it with the madman. Ivy did this. When her plants held me, when that thorn pricked me.
“Whatever your secret, you cannot hold out forever. And if I cannot make you suffer fear, I will watch you die… painfully. Either way, I win.”
Batman saw the Joker sitting in the back of the van, tied up in a straitjacket, his hands trapped behind him. He was happily whistling a song Batman didn’t recognize. It was about losing your mind and never being able to see daylight again.
For the very first time since that terrible night in the well, Batman truly felt fear.
45
Arkham Asylum, founded by Dr. Amadeus Arkham in the early nineteen hundreds, was named after Elizabeth Arkham, Amadeus’ mother. Elizabeth had long suffered from mental illness and eventually committed suicide, although legend had it that Amadeus had actually euthanized her.
Whatever the truth, Elizabeth was the asylum’s first patient, as well as its first victim. Over the next century there would be hundreds of others.
For more than a hundred years, Gotham City’s most sick and twisted were sentenced to Arkham to undergo rehabilitation, although none of its proprietors ever seemed to succeed in ridding their patients of any of their madness. Harleen Quinzel had served there as the asylum psychologist, and, for a short while, so had Jonathan Crane. Hugo Strange had worked with the Asylum as well as the Gotham PD, analyzing criminal behavior—when he wasn’t chemically transforming his own patients into monsters.
The joke among the brutal asylum guards was if you weren’t criminally insane when you entered Arkham Asylum, you would be before you broke free. It was funny because it was all too true.
* * *
Drugged into submission, Batman was chained to a gurney and wheeled down an old stone corridor to the main examination room, a dark, gloomy laboratory that wouldn’t have been out of place in a black-and-white monster movie. He didn’t bother struggling—even if there was a way to free himself, there was no place he could go.
He felt the Joker’s blood taking control. Soon he would no longer be able to think straight. He wondered how much longer after that he would try to kill his first prey. He could not let that happen, either to Gotham City or to himself.
Arkham, in all its hideousness, was probably the best place for him to be.
A thick brace kept his neck pinned to the gurney, but he could still see Robin tied to a chair. The boy’s face showed signs of a beating and there was blood everywhere.
Another damned failure.
“I’m so sorry,” he stammered. “I am so very sorry.” Robin was gagged and unable to reply, but his eyes showed no fear.
TV cameras had been set up and stage lights were in place, ready to light up on command. Whatever Crane’s plans were, they were going to be broadcast live.
Scarecrow ran a syringe-encased finger across Batman’s mask, then tapped him on the shoulder.
“You have been playing a game with Gotham City for too long. You made its citizens believe in you. Belief led to trust and trust to dependence. But you are no heaven-sent angel, are you, Batman? You are merely some foolish dilettante devoid of hope, betrayed by his best friend, and ultimately crippled with fear.” Scarecrow turned to the lighting crew and nodded. A moment later five 2,400-watt tungsten lamps brought sudden daylight to the gloom.
He turned to the camera crew and three professional camcorders started up, recording the scene. Every angle was covered.
Then he whispered softly and turned to camera one.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Gotham City, I am about to show you the true face of your once much-vaunted savior.” He peered into camera two and gestured for the operator to pull in for a close-up on Batman’s masked face.
“One doesn’t need to see the true face of the devil in order to fear him but I show it to you because you’ve elevated this… annoyance… to a level of adoration that only the gods should command.” He circled Batman, and gently ran his needled fingers across his armor. Then, suddenly and viciously, he slapped his face.
“But he is no saint, nor is he some meta-powered divinity. I show this to you so you will fully understand that all your hopes have been resting at the feet of an ordinary man who gets his kicks wearing black armor, while pretending to be nothing more than some flying rat.”
He gestured to James Gordon, struggling while being held by two of Scarecrow’s mercenaries. Camera one turned at his direction.
“For those of you who don’t recognize this man, he is Police Commissioner James Gordon. An upstanding man who actually believes there is a place for hope in this cruel world. Like all believers, he is amazingly naïve, but we can forgive him that. Everyone is innocent until they’ve been shown the truth.”
The mercenaries pushed Gordon toward Scarecrow. The commissioner looked down at Batman, lying helpless on the gurney.
“Commissioner, for nearly a decade you’ve been this demon’s closest ally. You lied for him when the city’s fathers wanted to have him imprisoned. You worked with him despite his violent, illegal methods. And until recently, when you learned he’d been lying to you for all these years, you were perhaps his only friend.
“And now I want you to have the honor of revealing Batman’s true identity. I want you to remove his mask, and let the world finally see the truth.”
Gordon stared at Batman, then turned to Scarecrow.
“No. I won’t do it,” he said.
“Then you leave me no choice.” Scarecrow spun and faced Robin, then casually shot him just below his ribcage. The boy screamed in pain.
Gordon’s eyes went wide, and he had to steady himself.
“You bastard!” he shouted at Scarecrow. “I’ll see you die for this.”
“No. You lost your control the moment you cooperated with the demon. But he doesn’t control you any longer. I do.”
“No. Never.”
“Oh, you will. Do what I say, or my next bullet goes through the boy’s heart.”
Batman looked up at Gordon.
“It’s okay, Jim,” he said, his voice weak and the words forced. “Do it.”
Gordon shook his head. “It’s not okay. You know what this means.”
“I know,” Batman said. “And I welcome it.”
Gordon glared at Scarecrow, then looked back to his old friend. “If I do this everyone will know who you are. There’ll be no hiding.”
“Trust me, Jim. Please. Do it.”
“You heard the Bat, Gordon. Do it. NOW!”
Jim Gordon put his hands on the mask and closed his eyes. He had no choice. As the camera moved in tighter, Gordon pulled off Batman’s mask.
Bruce Wayne’s face filled the TV screens.
It was covered with cuts and bruises, his eyes blackened by repeated beatings. He looked into the camera but didn’t try to speak. His life had been exposed for everyone to see, and there was nothing he needed to add.
“Bruce Wayne,” Scarecrow said, leaning into the shot. “Billionaire philanthropist, son of Thomas and Martha Wayne—murdered by some insignificant thug when their son was only eight. That event twisted the young boy, caused him to fixate on revenge against anyone who did him wrong.
“Do I lie, Bruce?”
Wayne didn’t reply.
Scarecrow turned back to the camera and addressed his unseen audience. “And so a legend is now laid bare. Powerless. Human. Afraid. And that is not the stuff of heroes.”
Then, in a single move, Scarecrow slammed a syringe-covered finger deep into Batman’s neck. The cameras tightened on him as Bruce shouted in pain. He struggled with his ropes, but was unable to move.
Scarecrow gestured, and the image on the monitors became a split screen. The audience would see Scarecrow slowly walking around the gurney, every so often stabbing Batman with yet another syringe-finger, injecting even more toxin into him. They would witness Bruce’s reactions, but they would never see the fight inside his mind, t
he struggle with the Joker, the final battle between the two old foes.
* * *
“I’m feeling weird, Bruce,” the Joker laughed. “No, not funny weird. Strange weird. Sickly weird. Painful weird.”
Then the pain stopped. The Joker looked around, again searching for Batman, but finding nothing. But now he was in front of the wreckage of the G.C.P.D. headquarters. The city behind it was in flames.
The Joker grinned. The city deserved to burn. That was something he’d always wanted but had never achieved. How odd, he thought. It took his death to accomplish his life’s ambitions.
“Hey, Bats, don’t know if you can hear me with all that Scarecrow toxin flowing inside you. But you know what’s great? It hasn’t affected me. Guess I’m toxin proof, eh? All it’s done is give me everything I ever wanted. Hey, Bats? Don’t you want to say something mean to put me down?
“Bats? You still there?”
No answer. The Joker could only hear a distant beating sound, like switches being flipped. With each echoing thump the city lights turned off, blanketing him in darkness. He turned right, then left, then spun and looked behind him, but there was nothing but darkness. Nothing but endless nothingness.
“If you think this is going to screw with me you’re greatly mistaken, Bruce. I’m not afraid of the dark. I am the dark… but I come with my own light.” He suddenly held a WayneTech rifle in his right hand. A torch beam flickered on, revealing a small, stone-walled room. “Now you’re trying to screw with my mind, aren’t you? So where am I? A crypt? City Hall? Maybe some old museum celebrating all the great things Gotham City used to be but no longer is. All forgotten. Like you.”
A painting hung on the stone wall: Batman holding up the Joker’s corpse as he exited the old Monarch Theater.
“Is this wishful thinking, Bats? Memories of better times? But guess what, Brucey? I’m still here.”
He heard a sudden rattling behind him and whirled, expecting to see the city still on fire. But it was no longer Gotham City that was burning. It was him. The Joker. Lying on the incinerator mesh. Hundreds of blue gas flames, a scorching 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit, were dancing on what was left of his body. He watched as his flesh and bones disintegrated, and then he laughed.
“Gotta tell you, Bats, I outgrew that emaciated body anyway.”
No answer. No reply.
No acknowledgment he was even there.
“Where the goddam hell are you, Bats? I’m here. Talk to me. No, no, maybe you are. Maybe this is all your deluded way of you trying to tell me I’m dead? Well, look at me, Brucey. My skinny little body may be gone, but I’m still here. I’m not dead. Hell, I’ve never been so alive.”
A sound behind him. Barely perceptible. He whirled to face the painting, only it was gone. In its place was an open doorway.
“I’m supposed to go through that? Sure. Why not. You can’t hurt me now.”
He stepped through the opening. He was still inside the crypt but somehow outside, as well, surrounded by tombstones. He looked to see who was buried beneath them but the markers were blank. No names. No chiseled birth or death dates. No solemn declarations from loved ones.
He made his way past each stone until he found a memorial with a statue standing over it. The grave was overgrown with weeds and littered with trash and bird crap. The statue over the sarcophagus was broken, missing an arm as well as its head, but there was no mistaking who was supposed to be buried there. He saw a crow resting where his own head should have been. As the Joker approached the crow screamed then flew off.
“This is supposed to be my grave?” He laughed a nervous laugh. “No, no, no. This is too small for me—and look at it. It’s a wreck. Surely my followers would be taking better care of…”
He paused then laughed again.
“Oh, I get it. You’re trying to tell me my sycophants have forgotten all about me. Very funny, Bats. But that’s not gonna happen.” He looked at the statue again then hurried away from it. “You obviously have no clue how to be funny. Some jokes can be in bad taste. Leave the comedy to us professionals.”
The Joker took another step then saw a second door to yet another room.
“So what’s here, Bats? What do you want me to see now?”
A crying sound. Then Batman was suddenly behind him. “What? You?”
Not Batman. A statue. Stone. Unmoving. Silent.
“Good one, Bats. Almost funny.” This time the Joker wasn’t laughing. He lifted his gun and fired. The statue quietly exploded.
“See, old boy. You aren’t the death of me.”
Another door. The crying was coming from there. Inside were empty chairs. Row after row of empty chairs. All pointing at a pathetic-looking buffet and the half-torn banner that hung over it.
JOKER’S WAKE. THANKS FOR ALL THE LAUGHS.
The crying continued. From behind the furthest chair. Sitting on it was Harley. Harley Quinn. The only one who had come.
“Hey, Harley, where is everyone?” She didn’t respond. “Wait a second. You forgot to send the invites, didn’t you?”
She couldn’t hear him. He leaned over to her and shouted.
“Quit crying, you useless idiot. Rustle me up a wake.
“Harley! Dammit, Harley!”
Still no response.
He laughed again. “Of course. Of course. Brucey, this is you trying to send me some lame message, isn’t it? I know what you’re doing. This is the toxin talking. You and Scarecrow are trying to scare me. But this doesn’t cut it, Bats. It doesn’t even come close.”
Another room. On a plain wooden coffee table was an old-fashioned radio. Flanking the table were two blown-up newspaper front pages. “JOKER DIES. CITY DOESN’T CARE,” was the first headline. Next to that another front page. “POLLS SHOW TWO-FACE MORE FEARED THAN EVER.”
“Oh, c’mon, Bats. Is this the best you’ve got?”
Suddenly, the radio crackled with life.
“Welcome to Good Evening Gotham. I’m Jack Ryder.”
Then a second voice. “And I’m Vicki Vale. So, Jack, it’s the one-year anniversary of the Joker’s death. Any thoughts on the occasion?”
“Sorry, Vicki…? Who?”
Vicki Vale laughed. “Oh, you remember. The Joker.”
“Oh, right,” Ryder chuckled. “The question mark guy. He’s dead?”
Vicki laughed again. “No, not him. Try again.”
“Gosh darn it, Vicki. I’m clueless. Help me out.”
“You know what, Jack?” Vicky laughed. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s forget about him and move on.”
“Yes, Vicky. You’re right. Let’s forget about him and move on.”
Vicki cleared her throat and continued with her report. “In other news, a museum dedicated to Batman and his arch-nemesis, the Penguin, opened on Bleake Island today…”
The radio faded to static, then silence. The Joker stared at it then looked up, away from the table.
“Oh, you think that’s scary, Bats? When I get out of here I’ll write my name in blood on every street corner. I’ll carve it on every corpse. No one… no one is forgetting me.” He gave a self-satisfied humph then searched the room again. “Now how do I get out of here?”
The room looked bigger to him now, extending far beyond where the wall had been just a moment before. The table with the radio and newspapers seemed to vanish, and near where it had stood was another large statue of Batman, this one with flaming red eyes.
The Joker laughed then shot at the statue. “Running out of ideas already, Bats?”
More statues suddenly surrounded him. The Joker raised his gun and fired. The closest statue exploded, but instead of crumbling, a flesh-and-blood Batman stepped from it, grabbed the Joker and threw him to the floor. The Joker raised his weapon again, but his attacker was gone.
“Come on, Batman. Where the hell are you? Show me some sack, Bats. Look me in the eye. Talk to me. Let me put a bullet through you.”
Silence. No Batman. No statues. The Joker was b
ack in the room where he had started, but this time it wasn’t completely dark. Through a crack in the wall he could make out a sliver of light.
He aimed his gun at it and fired.
The wall gave way, revealing an open space with a steel gantry that projected into the distance.
A way out.
“So long, Bats,” he laughed. “Good try. Hell of a ride, but I’m getting off now.” A switch was on the far wall. As he pulled it he could hear distant machinery whir into life. The Joker let out a deep breath and relaxed. “You know, Bats, you almost had me scared back there. Me. Ha! I mean, what have I got to be afraid of?”
The machinery sounded louder now, like an elevator rising to his floor.
And then a voice.
His voice.
“You’re afraid of being ashes. You’re afraid of being forgotten. And you will be forgotten, Joker.” A door appeared where there hadn’t been one. It slid open. Batman was standing inside.
“Because of me,” he finished, and he stepped closer even as the Joker stumbled back.
“No. Get away.” Another step back. “Die, damn you.” Another step. “Stop. Stop. Stay away.”
But Batman wouldn’t stop.
“No. Just die,” the Joker begged.
Batman wouldn’t die.
“I am vengeance,” Batman said. “I am the night.”
His voice deepened. “I am Batman,” he growled.
His gloved fist lashed out and the Joker fell to the floor. Another fist slammed him along the corridor. Yet another sent him sprawling back, and back, and back. All the Joker could do was plead for his existence.
“Bats, please. Don’t do this.” Another fist pushed him back to the floor. “You’re making a mistake. C’mon, Bats, after everything we’ve been through.” He tried to stand but he was knocked down yet again. “I’ll be good. I’ll tell jokes. Nice ones. You don’t have to do this.”
He felt a wall behind him and he tried to use it to push himself back to his feet. The wall vanished and he fell again. “I know. I know what we can do. We can share your brain. I’ll take it on weekends. Listen, listen to me. I’ll leave Robin alone. I’ll be nice to him.”