The Further Adventures of Batman

by Martin H. Greenberg

  SPLASH PANEL

  Complete Side View Body Shots of Batman and the God of the Razor: The scene is dark, but not too dark. (Don’t forget that cold slice of moon.) Batman’s head is being pushed back and his teeth are clenched and we can see the muscles swelling in his jaw. His muscles push out his costume in the shoulders, arms, and legs. He has his left hand up, holding back the hand with the razor, and he is using his right hand to push at the God’s other wrist, trying to break the strangle hold the God has on his throat. Batman’s cape is twisted and we can see it hanging limp and touching the ground as his knees are bent and he is forced back.

  The God of the Razor looks happy as a winning politician. His smile is so wide his teeth are brushing his ear lobes. His left eye (the only one visible to us) appears to be lit from within by a hot, red bulb. His ragged coat is bulging with muscles. His thin legs are knotted with the same, and his prominent head-shoe is splitting across the forehead and teeth are popping out of the mouth like popcorn because of the pressure of his left-leg-forward stance. Barrett’s pathetic, near colorless shadow is flowing loose and distorted into the darkness of the open grave.

  In the background is a great oak tree. Through its naked branches we can see the silver curve of the moon, and to the right of that, a dark cloud.

  A yellow block at the bottom of the panel alerts us to what Batman sees as his head is being slowly pushed back:

  IN WHAT SEEMED LIKE HIS FINAL MOMENTS, BATMAN SAW A DARK RAIN CLOUD ABOUT TO SLIDE OVER THE FACE OF THE FRAGMENTED MOON LIKE A WOOL MASK.

  JAMES W. GORDON

  —I pounded up the hill toward them and dove for the big guy’s leg, grabbing him just above the knee.

  I might as well have been a flea. He kicked me off and I tumbled away.

  I was on my hands and knees, about to try it again, when suddenly it grew darker, and in that same instant, Batman, still clinging to the big guy, dropped to his right side and stuck out his foot to catch the creep’s knee and send him flipping forward toward the open grave.

  Just before he disappeared into the darkness, I saw that it was Barrett falling, the big guy’s shadow following after him like black silk sliding over polished bone.

  From inside the tomb came a snapping sound, and Batman rolled to a squatting position and produced from his utility belt a little penlight. He shone it into the grave. I went up the hill and stood behind him and looked down into the little pool of light. I watched as Batman moved it up and down Barrett’s body.

  Barrett lay face up with his back across the steps. His head was pointing down, and his legs had swiveled so far his buttocks were pointing up. You didn’t have to be a doctor to know his spine was snapped.

  His right hand was outstretched and open. The hilt of the razor was in his palm, the blade gleamed against a damp, moss-covered, stone step.

  It started to rain.

  BATMAN CASE FILE A-4567-C, last of the informal notes (computer entry—November 1)

  The Barrett boy was boxed up and sent home to his parents. I don’t know what Jim told them—an accident of some kind, I think. Whatever he said, it wasn’t enough. No one could say enough, but at least Barrett won’t be charged for his crimes. It won’t look good on Jim’s record that Subway Jack got away. The files will read OPEN, but that’s fair play for Barrett. The killings have stopped and it wasn’t Barrett anyway. It was the God of the Razor, and he’s gone to his dimension to wait for some other fool to let him loose.

  That won’t be as easy next time.

  Jim and I carefully stored the razor in a metal box and hid it. After Barrett and what was left of Jim’s men were hauled away, we took the box and put it in a metal drum and filled the drum with concrete. We let it set and harden. The next night we met at the docks and took a police launch out to the middle of Gotham Bay and pushed the drum overboard.

  It’s deep there. I like to think that’s the end of the bad things the razor can do. It won’t bring Jim’s men back, and it won’t bring those bag ladies back, and it won’t bring Jack Barrett back, but at least it’s out of sight and grasp of others.

  When we were through we sat there on the boat and looked at the water, watching the bay gather in drops of rain. I thought about my parents and how their deaths had led me to become Batman. I thought about my strangest cases. I thought about the God of the Razor, over there safe and happy in his wild dimension. I thought about a lot of things.

  Then, just before morning, the light rain stopped and I looked out at the water where we had pushed over the barrel, and there on the face of the bay was the wavering reflection of

  the . . .

  . . . moon.

  This story is for Keith Lansdale

  The Sound of

  One Hand Clapping

  A BATMAN AND ROBIN STORY

  Max Allan Collins

  The Joker sat on his playing-card throne behind a grotesquely grinning desk and frowned. His frown was as exaggerated as his (currently absent) trademark grin, and it reflected both emotional and physical pain: to summon a frown from a face frozen into a grin by a long-ago acid bath required effort, and concentration.

  On those rare occasions when the Joker was depressed, when there was no news of earthquake devastation, school bus collisions, or toxic-waste spills to cheer him—he had to work hard at his despair.

  “What is the point of it all?” mused the white-faced, green-haired, purple-jacketed psychotic. “Where is the joy in my life?”

  He stood.

  And paced.

  And spoke to himself: “The pointlessness of my existence is no laughing matter.”

  He returned to his throne, his frown as down-turned as his usual crazed grin. He shook his elongated head, and wrung his purple-gloved hands.

  The dreary castle from which this melancholy monarch ruled was a run-down, deserted toy factory near the slum area called Crime Alley. Jester Novelties had closed down years before, and stood condemned, even as was its current occupant by every local, state, and federal law enforcement agency you might name.

  But the surroundings within the old factory were considerably more cheerful. On this rainy Gotham night, the clown prince of crime rested moodily on an oversize throne sculpted in his own harlequin image. The interior walls of the condemned factory were gaily, if not sanely, appointed with oversize playing cards—jokers, one and all—and bright yellow wallpaper smattered with hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds.

  No, it was not his castle that depressed him; it was his kingdom itself that had dimmed the demented devil’s droll disposition—a kingdom of the mind in which a jester ruled.

  “The boss is really depressed,” whispered Kennison, a heavyset stooge in a long flasher topcoat and a black knit beret. “I’m afraid the boss is havin’ a mid-life crisis.”

  “Th-th-that’s only part of the problem,” whispered back a second stooge, one “Bobcat” Goldman, a disheveled nervous wreck in tattered sweatshirt and tennies. “Th-th-that letter the Penguin sneaked outta stir to the boss—braggin’ up the joys of bein’ in love—has really, like you know . . . bummed him out.”

  Even now, the sour, self-pitying Joker stood behind his desk, reading the letter for perhaps the thousandth time. The Penguin had met his true love—Dovina—through the mail, a lonely heart’s club friendship that blossomed into romance and impending wedlock.

  “If that tuxedoed twerp can find happiness,” the Joker pondered aloud bitterly, “why not moi?”

  The Joker looked skyward, summoning his considerable powers of self-pity. He gestured to himself theatrically, a fourth-rate actor putting the ham into Hamlet.

  “Here I stand at the midpoint of my life—and what have I to show for it?”

  Kennison took a tentative step forward. “You’ve had a brilliant career, boss!”

  “Well, that’s true,” the Joker said absently, as he casually plucked up three hard balls, not unlike those used in the game of croquet, and began to juggle.

  “Y-y-yeah, Joker,” Bobcat sai
d, with a stupid nervous grin. “You’ve had a wonderful life!”

  “Also true,” the Joker admitted, juggling with lazy skill. “But who do I have to share it with?”

  Kennison glanced at Bobcat and gestured with two big open hands and risked saying, “Us?”

  It was a risk not worth taking.

  “Precisely my point!” the Joker sneered, and savagely hurled the hard balls at the two stooges, who scurried away into the darker recesses of the warehouse-room, one hard ball bouncing off the head of the wincing, whimpering Bobcat.

  “Where is the female companionship that could give my life resonance?” the Joker asked the sky—or, to be more precise, the skylight. “Where are the progeny who might carry my great tradition into the future?”

  The Joker’s long legs flashed like swords in a duel as he exited his inner sanctum and moved down a hallway, where framed portraits of famous comedians—from Eddie Cantor to Steve Martin—hung askew. His two stooges fell into step behind him—but at a safe distance.

  “Boss,” Kennison said, “you gotta cheer up—we gotta get back to work—”

  “W-w-we haven’t pulled a job in weeks,” Bobcat said. “We’re broke!”

  The Joker glanced back at them with tragic self-pity as he entered the dark protective womb of his viewing room.

  “Leave me to my solitude,” the Joker said. “Perhaps Rodney will show me the way out of the slough of despond.”

  The Joker settled himself into a plush seat in his personal theater and summoned the image of Rodney Dangerfield on the giant television screen before him. As Rodney tugged at his tie, complaining of the lack of respect he received, the Joker remained unamused.

  “I told my doctor I wanted a second opinion,” said Rodney. “He said, ‘Okay—you’re ugly!’ ”

  “Bah!” the Joker said, and he shot the screen with his remote control. “Even the great Rodney gives me no relief.”

  But the clown of crime, in turning off the VCR, had inadvertently filled the screen with another image, courtesy of a local news broadcast.

  The image of a beautiful woman.

  A woman in a black leotard, her face white, her lips bright red, her cheeks dotted with bright red circles, her long-lashed eyes dark and hauntingly sad.

  This image—apparently that of a street mime—struck the Joker hard, like a loose board in a wooden sidewalk, leaving him awestruck. His mouth yawned open like a skillet awaiting eggs.

  “Oh my,” he said.

  On the screen, a plump, middle-aged, balding blond male newscaster stood, microphone in hand, in front of a massive modern building.

  “. . . Bellew, Eyewitness News,” he said, “on the scene at the Gotham City Civic Center . . .”

  The image suddenly shifted as, amazingly, that sweet haunting slip of a girl was shown grabbing two rock musicians by their wrists, shocking them senseless.

  “. . . where the criminal known as the Mime has attempted to disrupt a rock concert—”

  A still photo filled the screen now, of a beautiful, pale, dark-haired woman.

  “The Mime is believed to be, beneath the greasepaint, Camilla Cameo, heir to the Ortin Fireworks fortune.”

  Then the screen was filled with file footage of Camilla and several other mimes as they gracefully performed on stage.

  “Cameo’s acclaimed mime troupe reportedly exhausted her inheritance and was disbanded, after government funding for the arts was withdrawn.”

  Then the screen was filled with the image of the taxi whose windshield had been spider-webbed from a gunshot.

  “The recent shooting of a taxi driver in a noisy traffic jam is also believed to be the work of the Mime, whose crimes are thought to be a protest against the cacophony of sounds that litter the urban landscape.”

  The Joker, starry-eyed, was no longer frowning; he was smiling at the screen, a smile enormous even for him. His hands clasped to his heaving bosom, he said breathlessly, to no one in particular and to the universe in general, “She’s—she’s beautiful—beautiful.”

  On screen, the newscaster continued to speak into his mike, while behind him the lovely sad Mime, hands cuffed behind her back, was led off by the cops.

  “The Mime has made no public statement,” the newscaster said, “but her captor has.”

  The Joker cringed at the next image that filled the screen: a tall, muscular figure in cape and cowl.

  “Miss Cameo,” the Batman said, “is a gifted artist who has suffered a great deal of stress. It is my hope she will be given suitable medical treatment.”

  Enraged, the Joker, his nostrils and eyes flaring, thrust an accusatory finger at the screen.

  “You!” he cried. “You!”

  “The Dark Knight,” the newscaster was saying, “is often thought of as a cold avenger, but his compassion here is evident. Goodnight for . . .”

  “Compassion!” the Joker screamed. He fired his remote control at the big-screen TV, killing it with a KLIK! “Compassion my lily-white ass!”

  He stalked out into the hallway, where his two stooges cowered at the sight of him. He lifted them each off the ground by the back of their collars, holding them up like puppies plucked from a cardboard box; they looked back at him with confused looks befitting plucked-up puppies.

  “The most beautiful, sensitive soul in creation has been incarcerated!” he explained at the top of his voice. “And it’s the cape cretin’s doing!”

  He dropped the pair to the cement floor, and looked up at nothing in particular, and stretched out his arms and hands and began to laugh: HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!

  Between laughs, he made a pledge: “I will rescue her! I will woo her—and win her!”

  The stooges looked at each other and shrugged.

  The next morning, on the street outside the Gotham City jail, the costumed vigilante who had earned the trust of a city spoke to the police commissioner who regarded him as a friend and ally. At Batman’s side was Robin, the colorfully attired youth who accompanied him into battle.

  “The staff psychiatrist agrees with you. Batman,” said Commissioner Gordon. “Ms. Cameo’s being transferred to Arkham Asylum for observation.”

  Indeed, even as Gordon spoke, a jail matron was turning over Cameo to a pair of cops near a squad car.

  “Good,” Batman said. “If nothing else she’ll be able to find some peace and quiet.”

  Her makeup washed unceremoniously away in the city jail shower the night before, the Mime—a.k.a. Camilla Cameo—sat in the backseat of the squad car; but now she would meet the world minus the whiteface mask she so loved to hide behind.

  Soon the jail, Batman, and the city had been left behind, as the squad car cruised a quiet, shady country road on the way to the secluded asylum. Camilla Cameo sat stony-faced behind the wire mesh. The young cop looked back at her and said to his older partner, who drove, “She’s a quiet one.”

  “Hey, don’t knock it,” the older cop said with a smirk. “It’s what I look for in a broad,”

  The country solitude broke apart with the sound of a siren—RRRREEEEEE—and the young cop glanced curiously out his window. A helmeted cop on a motorcycle was drawing up alongside the squad car, waving them over.

  “What the hell’s that all about?” the older cop, behind the wheel, asked.

  “Must be an emergency or a change of plans or something.”

  Camilla Cameo, behind the wire mesh, winced, and covered her ears at the piercing siren.

  The squad car drew to a stop.

  The motorcycle cop dismounted, placing his hand on his helmet, to remove it as he walked toward the squad car. The young cop leaned out his window, concerned.

  “What’s the problem, pard?”

  The cop’s helmet came off and his white face and red lips and green hair were revealed; he bent down and grinned at the two true cops seated within, and reveled in the beauty of Camilla, who wore an exaggerated expression of wonderment.

  “Why, there’s no problem, officers,” the Joker s
aid cheerfully. “Life is wonderful this sunny morning—don’t you agree?”

  He showed them the gun in his hand, which was no joke.

  “Hands up, now,” he said. “You’re about to release your charge into my protective custody, gentlemen.”

  A bright red convertible rolled up alongside the squad car, driven by Kennison with Bobcat riding shotgun.

  Bobcat helped Camilla out of the squad car and into the convertible while the Joker trained his automatic on the two dismayed cops, whose hands were raised. In the Joker’s other hand now appeared a small, round, red object that might have been a Christmas tree ornament, but wasn’t.

  “And now, before we go on our merry way, and just to brighten up your morning, gents, so that you might start out the day with a smile . . .”

  The Joker tossed the red bulb in the front seat between the two men, and it began to sizzle and smoke.

  “. . . here’s a little party favor for you. Ciao.”

  As if in joyful appreciation of the Joker’s gracious gesture, the cops began to laugh uproariously. Tears rolled down their eyes, as their faces bobbed in a cloud of gas.

  Camilla, sitting alone in the back of the convertible, looked with wide, bewildered eyes toward the Joker, who stood beside the car near her, pulling apart the Velcro stays of the cop uniform to reveal his “normal” attire.

  “They seemed depressed, my dear,” he explained, running a hand through his green mane, which had been matted down unattractively by the helmet. “I thought a smidgen of laughing gas might cheer them up.”

  Bobcat squealed away on the motorcycle, while the Joker slid into the back of the convertible, easing an arm around the confused Camilla’s shoulder; Kennison drove them away.

  “I know you must feel positively naked without your makeup, my sweet,” the Joker said, heady with the closeness of her. He leaned toward a shell-like ear to confide: “I myself would never dream of going out in the world sans pancake, lipstick, and rouge,”