As the car roared back toward the city, the Joker gestured expansively, while Camilla silently recoiled.
“You will soon see, my sweet, that I’ve provided for your every need. Your smallest whim shall provide meaning to my meager existence!”
Camilla said nothing.
The Joker said, charmingly, “You may call me ‘the Joker’—or ‘Joker,’ for short. Shall I call you ‘Camilla’? or ‘the Mime’? Or simply, ‘Mime’?”
Camilla said nothing.
Several silent minutes later, the Joker was escorting the shell-shocked young woman regally to the door of his condemned castle, his two stooges tagging along.
“Well,” he said, working the key in the lock, “you’re shy. I can understand that.” He opened the heavy wooden door, which swung open creakily. “For the nonce, we’ll make it ‘Ms. Cameo.’ ”
Camilla took in the surroundings with wide eyes—the motif of playing cards, toys, and clowns clung to the walls, even the furnishings. She stared hollowly at Harpo in a gigantic framed photo of the Marx Brothers as the Joker escorted her through his palace, gesturing solicitously.
“You’ll be my guest until you’ve had a chance to reorder your, uh . . . affairs.”
With pride, the Joker swung open a doorway, gesturing within. The young woman, walking zombielike, entered. It was a bedroom, a feminine bedroom decorated in black-and-white harlequin masks in keeping with the Mime’s style. Prominently on one wall was a mammoth portrait of her pasty-faced host, signed “with gobs of love—Joker.” On the theatrical dressing table, light bulbs framing its mirror, were several framed Joker portraits of varying sizes and coy poses.
“We’ve taken the liberty,” the Joker said shyly, “of preparing this suite for you—hope it suffices . . .”
The Joker stood behind her, both hands on his heart, while Camilla sat at the dressing table, compulsively applying her mime’s makeup, “My dear,” he said, “I don’t mean to be forward—but I must speak my heart.”
Camilla continued to apply her makeup, fingers gouging her cheeks.
“Since the moment I first gazed upon you—why, it seems like only yesterday—well, actually, it was only yesterday . . .”
Her face was white now. She stared at herself in the mirror.
“But, be that as it may, I must say that I do admire you so . . . your style, your grace, your poise, your very essence.”
Now, as she looked in the mirror at herself, the Mime once more, she saw the Joker’s grinning face beside hers, and there was reflected in her eyes the horror of recognizing that there was, indeed, a similarity.
“Is it my imagination, my dear, or were we made for each other?”
The Mime said nothing.
The Joker moved gently away, gestured with one hand in the air, as if painting a picture, his other hand resting on the nearby shoulder of his blank-faced beloved.
“We have so much to discuss—the arts, philosophy . . . ‘What is the sound of one hand clapping?’ ‘If a tree falls in the forest, is there . . .’ ”
The Mime spoke.
She said, “AIEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
The Joker reared back, stunned.
The Mime rose from the dressing table and leaned into him, her tiny hands clenched.
She said, “Will—you—please—shut—up!”
She forcibly pushed the shocked Joker out the bedroom door and into the hall.
“But my dear,” he said. “My love . . .”
The door slammed in his face.
The Joker, confused, shrugged pitifully to himself and spoke to the closed door.
“Was it something I said?” he asked.
Once again gloom descended upon the king of jests. He sat moping on his throne while his nervous stooges stood before him.
“She won’t come out of her room, boss,” Kennison said.
The Joker leaned forward and with utter sincerity asked, “Tell me, boys . . . and be brutally frank: do I talk too much?”
“Oh, nooooo!” Kennison said. “Are you kidding?”
“O-o-oh, no, no, boss!” Bobcat said.
Lying through their teeth.
“Perhaps,” a thoughtful Joker posed, “I moved too quickly.”
“Y-y-you gotta court her, boss,” said the Bobcat. “G-g-get her a nice present or something.”
The Joker snapped his fingers gleefully. “A present! Yes! What better way to express my esteem?”
“W-w-what are you going to get her, boss?” Bobcat asked.
The Joker smiled.
The sleek, black custom car glided along the Gotham City shoreline. Behind the wheel of the Batmobile was the Dark Knight himself, his face thoughtful behind the mask. Next to him, Robin wore a puzzled expression. If Batman looked foreboding in his dark attire, the Boy Wonder in yellow cape, with his red-breasted vest and emerald-green sleeves, gauntlets, and trunks, looked strangely festive.
“What do you suppose possessed the Joker to spring Camilla Cameo?”
“It’s a mystery to me, Robin,” Batman said, wheeling the machine into two parking spots in the lot of the Sprang Marina. “Their facial complexions may be similar, but their complexions as criminals couldn’t be more dissimilar.”
The night was cool and the moon reflected off the rippling water of Gotham Bay like the bat signal hugging in a dark sky. The pair jogged along a gravel path toward the docks. The police radio had said the Mime was sighted at the marina.
“You mean,” Robin said, jogging, “the Joker breaks the law for fun and profit, while the Mime is a sort of social protester?”
“Yes,” Batman said, “but it’s also a clash of styles.”
Robin and Batman came to a stop on a buoyant walkway and looked out at a maze of similar boardwalks; the vast moonlight-bathed marina was filled with pleasure craft.
“The police call mentioned the Mime,” Robin said, “but not the Joker.”
“Perhaps once the Joker got Camilla out of the authorities’ hands,” Batman said, surveying the scene, “they went their separate ways.”
“Or maybe somebody spotted a mime,” Robin suggested.
“A possibility,” Batman admitted. “Lots of street performers around an area like . . .”
“Batman! Look . . .”
Running down one of the dock walkways, with boats in the nearby background, was a slender figure.
The Mime.
“I’ll handle this, Robin. Keep an eye out for the Joker and his pals!”
With impossibly long strides, the Dark Knight streaked down the gravel path to the boardwalk where the Mime ran with easy grace.
“Camilla,” he called, “stop!”
But this mime was not Camilla, though Batman did not yet know as much. This mincing mime was male, his back to his pursuer, hiding a grotesquely grinning face under a wig that resembled Camilla Cameo’s hairstyle.
“Stop!”
The Joker hopped onto the deck of a craft, a good-size boat outfitted with sail and a motor. He nodded to Kennison and Bobcat, lurking in the shadows, holding on to a rope that extended upward.
The deck appeared empty when Batman hopped aboard. No sign of the Mime. The Dark Knight stood on the deck of the ship and looked around.
But not down: beneath him, spread out on the deck, under his feet, was the heavy crosshatch of a fishing net. “Camilla?” Batman said.
The Joker’s two stooges yanked hard on their rope. Batman, caught in the sack of a fishing net, was pulled bodily up off the ground.
Still in the Camilla-like wig, the Joker peeked up from a trapdoor in the deck to look gloatingly at the netted Batman.
Exasperated, Batman hung in the fishing net and suffered the Joker’s taunts.
“Batman, Batman, Batman . . . you should’ve known there’d be a Joker in the deck!”
The Joker climbed out of his hole and leaned over, with mock sympathy, to smile at the upside-down Batman, the fierce scowl of his square jaw turned into a bizarre grin.
“You mus
t be lonely,” the Joker said, “hanging around the marina on a dark night like this.”
“You only think you’ve caught me, Joker.”
“My! What a good imagination I must have!” The Joker yanked off his wig and walked to the wheel of the craft, a faithful stooge at either side. “Well, boys, let’s head for home. I think we’ve caught the limit!”
Robin, who had witnessed this from a distance while running along the boardwalk to intercede, found himself standing at the end of the dock, cape flapping, fists raised in midair, watching with infinite frustration as the boat headed out, an unjumpable distance away from him.
The Joker stood, hands clasped, bending forward, listening at Camilla’s bedroom door.
“My dearest one,” he said tenderly, tentatively, “I have a surprise for you . . . a gift . . . a very special gift.”
Within the bedroom, Camilla—the Mime—stood with her back to the door, captured by curiosity.
The Joker’s voice from behind the door was supplicant. “And if it doesn’t convince you that I’m your soulmate, if it doesn’t touch you, move you . . . I’ll gladly step out of your life—forever.”
Hesitant, Camilla exited the bedroom; the Joker bowed grandly to the supple figure in black and white face.
“Ah—accompany me, my love, if you would,” he said, offering his arm. “And I must say you look lovely.”
The Mime pulled away, looking at him with suspicion and obvious dislike. The Joker ignored the reaction and gestured theatrically. He walked along and she followed, reluctantly.
“Now,” he said, “consider that your run-of-the-mill suitor might have brought you chocolates—or perhaps said it with flowers.”
In his main chamber, the Joker gestured with both hands as the Mime approached with puzzlement and even fear a huge package wrapped in colorful playing-card wrapping paper and a large red bow.
“Instead,” the Joker said, “I’ve given you something much more . . . personal.”
The Mime stared at the package, which was much taller than she.
“Open it, precious . . .”
She began to tear off the wrapping paper, haltingly at first, but soon with the enthusiasm of a small child on Christmas morning. Curiosity made the eyes in the white face seem larger than life.
Shortly, her present was revealed; an unconscious Batman strapped to a chair, a big red ribbon and bow around him; a brightly painted Joker face could be seen carved into the high back of the chair, rising above its slumbering occupant.
The Joker touched the shoulder of the shocked Mime, who viewed the unconscious, bound Batman without her usual expressiveness; her masklike face was blank.
“My gift of love,” the Joker said, with a sweeping bow. “Our mutual nemesis!”
Camilla stood frozen.
The Joker placed a gentle gloved hand on her shoulder. “Shall I kill him for you, now, my sweet?”
She did not reply; ever so gently, he turned her to face him, gesturing grandly with one hand.
“You see, we really must decide quickly—he’s a resourceful one.”
Camilla touched her lips with one hand, confused, while the Joker walked to the desk before his joker-throne.
“We tranquilized the beast, my love . . . and we removed the porcupine’s quills.” The Joker displayed Batman’s utility belt, lifting it from the desktop. “But even weaponless, he’s troublesome—he won’t remain groggy long.”
Camilla stared at her present, which seemed to be coming around slowly.
“So, my precious . . . help me choose an artistic, a colorful means of demise for my love offering.”
While the Joker gloated within his crumbling castle, Robin prowled the back streets of Gotham in the Batmobile, watching the dashboard computer screen on which a street map glowed and a dot blipped.
As long as they haven’t tossed out Batman’s utility belt, the youth thought, I can track the signal.
Within minutes Robin was stepping out of the Batmobile, facing the entrance of the tumbledown building that had once housed the Jester Novelty Company.
Inside, the Joker held up a small gas canister with an oxygen mask attached; his two stooges smiled their approval. Batman himself, fully awake now, wore a faint, wry smile. The disturbed, frightened Mime wore an exaggerated expression of dismay.
“Might I suggest, my sweetness,” the Joker said, “a lethal dose of my laughing gas?”
The Mime blinked.
“I think the Joker likes you, Camilla,” Batman said.
The Joker, unable to contain his excitement, painted the air with his hands, while Batman listened, unimpressed, smirking.
“Imagine it, my love—the bat boob is convulsed with gales of laughter . . . laughing till his heart bursts—his face frozen in a grotesque, eternal grin!”
At this the Mime recoiled.
But the Joker, caught up in himself, in his love for the Mime and his hatred for Batman, failed to notice. He approached the Mime, touching her shoulder tenderly.
“And all for you, my dear—for your love.”
The Mime screamed silently, but the Joker did not hear, or see, for that matter.
“For my . . . dare I say it . . . future bride.”
The Mime slapped the Joker.
Hard.
The sound rang out like a rifle shot.
The Joker touched his face with splayed fingers and, with the expression of a child who has suddenly had a nagging question answered, said, “The sound of one hand clapping!”
The Mime sat on the floor, huddling, despair-ridden. The Joker hovered over her, trying to keep his distance at the same time. He was crushed, truly dumbfounded by her rejection. He did not notice, behind him, that Batman had struggled to his feet, despite being tied in the chair.
“I don’t understand,” the Joker said pleadingly. “I gave you a present! Why, I’d have shared it all with you—made you my queen!”
With those words the king of comedy was crowned, as Batman, still tied to the chair, bent forward forcefully and conked the clown with the upper portion of the high-backed throne, hitting the Joker hard on the top of his head with his own grinning image.
The Joker, stunned and sitting on the floor with his knobby knees pointing north and south, respectively, winced as Batman, bound in the chair but on his feet, sneered down at him.
“Oww!” the Joker said, rubbing his head.
“You’re no king,” Batman said. “Just the court fool.”
The mad jester’s nostrils flared and his eyes filled with rage as he pointed a long purple finger up at Batman.
“Get him!” the Joker cried.
But the Joker’s two stooges were busy.
Robin had come up behind them, tapping them on the shoulder to ask, “Excuse me—shouldn’t you get me first?”
For a moment, they looked stupidly, blankly back at him.
The Joker was on his feet again, fiercely commanding his boys, “Get the brat! I can handle that caped clod with—”
“Both hands tied behind my back,” Batman sneered, just waiting for the Joker, chair or no chair. The Mime, standing once more, took all of this in, not quite sure what to make of it.
Robin ran down the hallway where the gallery of framed comedians hung off-kilter. He smiled, the two stooges in close pursuit.
“You guys are really wearing me out,” he said over his shoulder.
Robin dropped to the floor, saying, “Mind if I stop for a rest?” while Kennison and Bobcat tried to put on the brakes. Both of them tripped over Robin and hit the floor hard, with twin WHUMPS! Robin, resting on his stomach, stifled a yawn.
Then the Boy Wonder stood over the pair of dopes, his arms folded, and said, “Gee—I guess you hoodlums are a little worn out yourselves. Take five, why don’t you—years.”
In the main chamber, the Joker stood before Batman, his purple fists pumping the air before him, ready to defend the honor of his ladylove.
Batman conked him with the chair again.
The Mime stifled a smile as the groggy Joker staggered, regrouping to try again. Purple fists pumping.
Only to be conked once more.
Knocked goofy, the Joker sat on the floor, counting the planets and stars that revolved before his vision.
And the Mime broke her silence with laughter worthy of the Joker himself: “HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!”
“I think she liked that,” Robin smiled, as he untied Batman.
Tears streaked the white makeup off her face as she roared with glee, her laughter echoing through the old factory.
“Yes,” Batman said, rubbing his arms where the ropes had been, “but I know something she won’t like.”
“What’s that?”
“Her new home.”
The next morning, within the sprawling, stern gothic structure of Arkham Asylum, a guard escorted a wide-eyed, shell-shocked Camilla Cameo—once again stripped of her mime’s makeup—down the asylum hall. Walking along beside her was a frequent resident of the facility, a man whose whiteface could not be washed off.
“You’ll like it here,” the Joker was assuring her. “I’ll put in a good word for you with my therapist, you’ll make friends . . . there’s plenty to do . . .”
Camilla said nothing.
But she wore a big, wide smile, not unlike the Joker’s.
Only Camilla’s seemed rather glazed.
Neutral
Ground
Mike Resnick
Kittlemeier’s shop was in a poverty-stricken area of town. To say that it was unimpressive would be an understatement. Its windows were patched with plywood, and its door handle was so rusty it almost posed a physical threat.
The shop was not listed in any telephone book. Its door bore no street number. No sign proclaimed what it sold. Those who peered into it from the doorway saw only a dimly lit room with an ancient counter, an old-fashioned cash register, an out-of-date calendar from the local service station, and a curtained doorway leading to another room that opened onto the alley.
One would think, to look at it, that Kittlemeier’s shop could not possibly attract any customers, and in truth it did not attract many. But those who needed Kittlemeier’s particular services always seemed to know where to find him.
The Further Adventures of Batman Page 14