"What's black and white and red all over?"

"A newspaper?"

"A zebra with a head cold!"

"A sunburned penguin?"

"No, no. It's an interracial couple who's just been stabbed to death!"

A fit of giggling erupted around the room. James Tyler sighed and rubbed his temples. Supervising group therapy was giving him a headache. In fact, just about everything at Arkham gave him a headache. He had bitten off more than he could chew when he applied for a position at Arkham Asylum. He had just finished med school and was looking for an exciting challenge. He had been delighted to learn that Arkham had a position open.

It was every Gotham psychiatry student's dream to work with the so-called Rogue's Gallery at Arkham. Countless experts had tried, time after time, to cure them, but no progress ever seemed to be made. Everyone wanted a shot at modern psychiatry's biggest challenge. James had been naïve enough to think that maybe, just maybe, he would succeed where so many others had failed.

Two months later, he knew better. He realized right off the bat that his expectations couldn't have been more wildly inaccurate. Working at Arkham turned out to be a thoroughly depressing job. He spent all day trying to cure people who didn't want to be cured, and were so far gone that they probably couldn't be cured even if they wanted to.

It was dangerous, too. In two months there had been fourteen escape attempts (nine of which had been successful), four murders, twenty-two fights, three patient suicides and a riot.

At least the pay was good.

"Mr. Nigma," James began, addressing the Riddler, who was looking rather smug at having made the group laugh. "Why do you feel the need to tell simple, schoolyard riddles with morbid answers?"

"Why, I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Doctor," Nigma replied, smirking. His tone positively dripped with fake innocence.

"Well, just last month, in a taped interview, you said the answer to the Riddle of the Sphinx was a baby, and when asked how that worked, you said just tear its arms off-"

"Oh, yeah. I remember that," Nigma said, his grin widening.

"Well, I think the morbid riddles are his way of expressing his repressed homosexual desires-"

"Joker! You are not a licensed psychiatrist and therefore unfit to psychologically evaluate anyone," James reprimanded, trying to keep his voice as even as possible, as Nigma gave Joker the finger. The Joker had a habit of butting into other people's conversations that irritated James to no end.

"Well, Harley is!" Cried the Joker. "Harley girl, Doctor Tyler here says Eddy needs a second opinion. What d'you think?"

"Actually, Miss Quinzell has had her license revoked. She is no longer any more qualified than you to-"

"Hey!" Shouted Harley indignantly through a mouthful of bubble gum. "I might not have my license no more, but I am perfectly capable of psychological evaluation. Aren't I, Red?" She asked, turning to Poison Ivy.

"Oh, sure," Ivy muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Aw, thanks, Red," Harley said, the sarcasm of her friend's response lost on her. "For instance, Puddin', your diagnosis was all wrong. Eddy here tells his riddles for attention-"

"Gee, really?" murmured Two-Face sarcastically. "Who would've known?"

"Hey, I didn't know that!" called Killer Croc."

"Shut up," sneered the Scarecrow. "You aren't even involved in this conversation!"

"Everyone is involved in this conversation. This is group therapy, Mr. Crane," said James.

"It's Professor Crane, you moron!"

"Mistah Jay! They ain't lettin' me finish talkin' about psychiatry!" whined Harley, pouting.

"Well, I don't blame them. Hearing you talk about psychiatry is about as interesting as hearing Tetch talk about 'Alice in Wonderland',"

"Well, just because you have no respect for classic literature doesn't mean other people don't find it interesting!" cried the Mad Hatter.

"Jervis, honey, everybody's tired of that book except you," said Ivy.

And just like that, they were off. What had started as an attempt to evaluate Edward Nigma's mental condition had turned into a full blow argument. Everyone was shouting over everyone else. James's temples throbbed as the volume level steadily increased. Every group therapy session so far had, unfortunately, been about this productive.

"Shut up! Everybody just shut up!" James shouted, rising to his feet. Everyone was so taken aback by the sudden outburst from the usually mild-mannered doctor that the room went dead silent. Everyone's attention was focused on Doctor Tyler.

"I have had it up to here with all of you! You're all so damn immature! I feel like I'm giving group therapy to a bunch of middle schoolers! This is achieving nothing!"

"What's your point, Doc?" asked the Joker, raising an eyebrow.

"My point is, things are going to be different from now on," he stated, calming down slightly. "Since talking about your problems seems to be so difficult, I'm going to have you write about them."

This declaration was met with silence.

"What do you mean by that, exactly?" asked Ivy.

"I mean, I'm going to give you each a composition book and you're going to write in it."

"Write about what?" asked the Riddler, crossing his arms suspiciously.

"Write about whatever. Write about your past. Write about your current situation. Write about anything you think I ought to know about you. Write about your problems."

The Joker raised his hand. "I don't have problems," he declared, crossing his arms.

"Everyone here has problems. That's why you're here," James sighed.

"Do I have to do this? I'm not even crazy!" whined Firefly.

Ivy raised her hand. "I can't do this. I don't use paper. I just can't have anything to do with a product made from slaughtered trees-"

"Too bad," James cut in. "I've already bought the composition books and if you don't use one, I'll just have to throw it away." He hadn't really bought them, but he knew Ivy couldn't stand the thought of so much paper being wasted.

Ivy opened her mouth to retaliate, closed it, thought for a moment then crossed her arms indignantly.

"Is this assignment really fair?" called the Riddler.

"What do you mean, Mr. Nigma?"

"I mean," he chortled. "Does Croc even know how to write?" A few people snickered.

"Shut up," muttered Croc, sneering. "I writes just fine, dumbass."

"Then why can't you speak properly?" More snickering.

"Ah, moving right along," said James hastily. He could sense Croc's growing agitation and wanted to avoid a violent conflict at all costs. "Does anyone have any more questions?"

Two-Face raised his hand. "What if we just don't do this assignment?"

"What if I take away your rec room privileges for a month?"

Two-Face scoffed. "As if we give a damn whether or not we get to spend time 'socializing' with these bastards…" But James was pretty sure his threat was enough to ensure Two-Face's compliance.

Joker giggled. "You said we could write about anything we wanted, right? Well, what if I write about the time Harley and I were hiding in this abandoned motel, and we found a can of whipped cream and a box of flavored con-"

"Puddin'!" Harley chided.

"Uh, let's keep this PG, please," James requested, feeling his face flush slightly.

"Can't make any promises, Doc," the Joker replied, crossing his arms behind his head.

Scarecrow shot a disgusted glance at Joker before calling out "What if-"

"No more 'what if' questions, alright guys?" James pleaded wearily. "Let's end this session early so you can all start planning what you're going to write, okay?"

Everybody nodded and began to get up from their chairs except for the Joker, who raised his hand and waved it.

"Is this another 'what if' question?" asked James sternly. The Joker shook his head earnestly.

"Alright, what is it?"

"I'm not allowed to have a pencil."

James sighed. This assignment was already turning out to be more trouble than it was worth.