FOUR
It was expected to be a peaceful night.
There hadn’t been any riots for more than a week. No newbie had been ushered into the exercise yard to wait for his hazing to begin. No crazy somehow conjured a shiv that he knew belonged in the gut of yet another of the certifiably insane. Even the unseasonably mild weather was cooperating. So, atypical as it was, this was turning out to be a very good night indeed.
Until explosions tore up the exercise yard. Guards positioned in Arkham Asylum’s observation towers vainly searched for the source, but all they could see were patients, drugged out of their minds, numbly wandering the unexpected war zone—uncertain if the explosions were actually happening or were just some new and ridiculous hallucination, an all-too-familiar by-product of their high dosage meds.
They learned the truth the hard way.
Paramilitary thugs in gas masks and protective armor descended on ropes dropped from helicopters hovering unseen in the shadowy clouds. Even as they descended, they targeted the helpless guards, effortlessly turning them into instant corpses.
The few defenders who managed to survive ran for cover. Entering the hospital, they ducked behind overturned beds. Inmates were still strapped into them, and they were screeching for help that wouldn’t be coming.
“Shut up, you idiot,” one of the guards hissed to a patient hanging from the bed, his straps starting to fray. At the top of his voice he was singing songs from an old Broadway show. “I said shut up,” the guard grated. “Believe me, you don’t want to let those killers know where we are.”
“I did, I do,” the inmate said in a voice that was barely coherent. “You think if they see me, maybe they’ll take me with them? I’d like them to take me to a restaurant. You know, one that serves hamburgers and French fries and has ketchup in bottles—not in those little paper thingies that don’t hold much. You think they’ll take me to a restaurant?”
“They’ll put a bullet in your head, you idiot,” the guard muttered, still keeping his voice down. “And mine too, if you don’t shut up.”
“Bullet in the head? That sounds good, too, but I’d reallyreallyreally prefer a restaurant.”
Finally the guard smashed his elbow into the inmate’s head, knocking him unconscious. He then closed his eyes for a moment and prayed that the thugs—whoever the hell they were—hadn’t heard the exchange. After a few moments, he opened his eyes again.
One of the soldiers was there, staring at him, a gun pressed to the guard’s heart.
Mercifully, he never heard it fire.
* * *
The thugs moved quickly though cautiously through the halls, taking down anything that stepped in their way, not distinguishing between guards or asylum prisoners.
One of them, the commander, unhooked a radio from his belt.
“She’s here somewhere,” he said. “Fan out.” On the move again, he held his automatic in front of him. Straight up, not turned at a ninety-degree angle. Almost looks cool in the movies, he mused, but it’s a great way to break your wrist. Then he said, “And don’t forget, Frost and the boss want her breathing.”
* * *
The steel door to the medical wing was bolted shut from inside. Five pouches of C-4 plastic explosives removed the obstacle. Jonny Frost, easily six-foot-four, emerged from the chaos and effortlessly held up his find.
“Got her, boss,” he said to a tall, muscular figure standing in the shadows. “Just where you said she’d be.”
The Joker stepped out from the dark. He was tall and lean, with bright green hair, and ripped like a mixed-martial-arts fighter. Metal-capped teeth glinted in the light. He studied the beautiful young psychiatrist.
“Doctor Quinzel,” he said,
“how nice of you to join us. You’re looking… good enough to eat. Figuratively speaking, of course. I’m strictly vegan. At least today.”
Quinzel squirmed in Frost’s grip, but he held firmly onto her.
“Time for a little electroshock therapy,” Joker said, then added,
“Frost, do me a favor, will you? Dump our pretty lady on the table.”
The mercenary threw Quinzel onto the exam table then strapped her into place. Joker removed his prison shirt, carefully folded it, then placed it to the side.
His extraordinarily pale skin was covered over with dozens—maybe hundreds—of insane tattoos, showing from head to foot. An eerie wide grin was inked on his right forearm while a parade of laughing “HA-HA-HA”s crept up his chest to his left arm and under his tangle of emerald hair. Dozens more were carefully placed along his side, back, and legs, filling nearly every open space.
He saw Quinzel staring at him, confused. He gestured toward the shirt.
“The government spent a helluva lot of money buying us thrift store rejects, so I’m not going to potentially dirty it with your blood. Come on. Do I look like a barbarian?”
Harleen Quinzel’s eyes reflected her fear.
“Please don’t. Please. I did what you said. I helped you.” She tried to struggle free, but the straps were designed to hold a 400-pound madman.
The Joker fell back. His eyes rolled into his head as if he simply couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He shook his head to clear away his confusion, then stuck his face inches from Quinzel’s own.
“You helped me?” he repeated.
“You helped me? By scorching what few dead, faded memories I had into a sizzling knot?”
“That was prescribed,” she pleaded.
“Everything said it was the best possible cure for you.”
“For my what, girl? A cure for my genius? My insanity? My ability to do bird calls? Or maybe you mean it was to help cure my bad back? You know I got that digging graves for that basketball team I kidnapped, way back when.”
She stared at him, obviously confused. He leaned closer to her.
“Doctor Quinzel, do you know that for years and years they kept playing against this one other team. Only this one other team, and guess what? They lost every single game. Every. Single. Game.”
The Joker sighed at the thought.
“Anyway, where was I? Oh. Right. At some point don’t you think even a total idiot would say, ‘Maybe we should play a different team,’ or better, that ‘God’s telling us we should quit basketball and go into business selling, I don’t know, aluminum siding, maybe?’ What do you think?”