They say only the worst criminals wind up in Arkham, but that isn’t true. The worst criminals wind up on Wallstreet. Arkham isn’t even truly a home for the criminally insane, it’s a home for everyone that society wants to forget about. It’s nightmare fuel to keep children in line, and medicated people too scared of retaliation to ask to switch to a different prescription.
As Bruce Wayne, I’d tried everything I could to fix Arkham. But I truly think it’s hopeless. The place is more corrupt than the GCPD, and for a long time I didn’t think such a thing was possible. The guards are abusive, the doctors all quacks, and the bureaucratic red tape surrounding the place makes admission and release a nightmare. I think the city would be better off if the institute was shuttered for good.
But it’s what I have to work with.
When Oracle confirmed that the Joker was locked up in Arkham during Minstrel’s attack, I wasn’t surprised. The crime didn’t seem to fit Joker. It wasn’t too hard to eventually convince Gordon that our Minstrel likely bought some Joker Venom off the self-titled Clown Prince.
“But,” Gordon said to me, “what in the hell could someone have that the Joker of all people would want?”
I was glad he asked the question. I myself had been wondering it since I first realized that Joker couldn’t have been behind the attack. An average college student couldn’t just walk up to Joker with three-week’s pay and ask for a gallon of his most well-known weapon.
The entire situation was too strange. The Venom was more than just Joker’s favorite weapon, it was his calling card. He’d never let just any one run around with it, no matter how much money they gave him. Minstrel had to be special in the Joker’s eyes, or at least have something special to trade for it. The idea of what the Joker would consider special bothered me, because it could only spell trouble for the people of Gotham.
Joker was the only lead I had, I needed to talk to him. I recruited Nightwing to come with me, in case any complications arose while we were at Arkham. I didn’t need to be alone during another riot in the facility. But I didn’t just want him to have my back in a fight. I’m not infallible, and I knew that an extra set of eyes could be invaluable in this case. And out of all my apprentices, Dick Grayson was probably the one I worked best with.
The orderly that led Nightwing and I through Arkham to the Joker’s room was named Clifton. He was a short, thin man who looked like he’d be more suited to taking care of the elderly than working at Arkham, with deranged criminals that wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. Clearly aware of that fact, Clifton had two night sticks and a taser attached to his belt. Odd attire for an orderly, but warranted in this case.
“He’s right through here, Mr. Batman,” he said while leading my partner and I through a long, narrow, corridor.
“Just Batman will do for him. Mister works for me, though. Please call me Mister,” Nightwing joked.
Clifton smirked, “Okay, Mr. Mullet.”
“It was popular back then,” Nightwing protested.
“No it wasn’t,” I said. To the orderly, I asked, “how many nurses usually tend to him?”
Clifton stopped in front of a cell door and reached for a ring of keys on his belt. The door was a large, rusted sheet of metal with one viewing slot at the top. On the left side was a series of shiny, new locks. All analog, but well-built. I estimated that it would take me about three minutes to pick them if I needed to.
Turning to me, he explained, “A physical lock is better given his computer skills. And it’s usually just me, sir.”
“You?” Nightwing’s tone was a bit more surprised than polite. He began stammering, trying to undo the personal injury.
Clifton held up a hand, “Nah, it’s cool. I know what you’re thinking: tiny dude like me? Weighing one hundred forty-one pounds? No way I can stand a chance if this fool goes on a rampage again. And you’re right. But what no one ever seems to realize is that everyone thinks like that.”
He pointed to each cell surrounding us, one by one, counting off their occupants.
“Killer Croc used to be in that one. Next to him was Mr. Freeze. Pyshco Pirate. Condiment King. Cat Man. Solomon Grundy. I treated all of them, and confronted some of them during riots. They usually leave me alone, since they don’t see me as a threat, or even interesting enough to kill.”
He tapped the Joker’s cell, which he was still struggling to unlock. “As for this guy? People used to draw straws when it came to check on him. But I wasn’t as scared as most, so I just started volunteering. For every minute I spend with him, I get fifteen from the orderly pool added to my time card. My student loans will be all paid off in six months.”
Nightwing was impressed. I wasn’t. I was too busy counting locks.
“Seven locks. That’s a fire hazard.”
Clifton turned to me and raised a sarcastic eyebrow, “I don’t think a man that dresses in a militarized children’s costume and punches people for a living should judge us. And I’m one of your fans, Batman.”
“No one deserves to die in a fire,” I said.
Clifton shrugged. “If Heaven is a place on Earth, then why can’t Hell be?”
The last lock finally gave way. The “click” of the bolt sliding out of place rang around the entire hall. Clifton jumped when he heard it.
The Joker was crouching in the darkest corner of the room. His head resting in his knees while his arms hugged himself, the man looked like a frightened toddler during a thunderstorm. Not phased by his latest ruse, I walked into the room and prompted Nightwing and Clifton to follow.
“Joker,” I commanded.
He whispered something I couldn’t quite make out.
“Hey, Joker,” Clifton said, “you got visitors today. No, it’s not Harley Quinn. And no, it’s not Jennifer Lawrence in a Harley Quinn costume, so don’t even ask again.”
He whispered something else.
Nightwing hummed suspiciously, “I don’t know, Batman. Maybe we really did catch him on a bad day.”
I raised a hand to hush my apprentice up. Leaning closer, I struggled to make out what he was saying. His voice was hoarse and his speech fast, but eventually I realized that he was reciting a song.
“Now the world don’t move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you may not be right for some. It takes diff’r’nt strokes, it takes diff’r’nt strokes, it takes diff’r’nt strokes to move the world. Now the world don’t move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you may not be right for some. It takes diff’r’nt strokes...”
Continued in Chapter 4.1
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