A city like Gotham breeds a unique class of people. Studying and understanding them increases the effectiveness of manipulations of the mind.
Gothamites are stubborn.
There are only so many responses a population can have to living in such a crime-ridden environment. The weak flee like rats from a sinking ship. The average civilian hunches over to push through the psychological blizzard that is the stress of daily life, growing calluses of the mind that allow him or her to get out of bed every morning. The strong of body or clever of mind rise above the storm to ride its currents to personal satisfaction.
Those who remain are resilient, often prone to exaggerated beliefs of self-worth and an inability to see the errors in their ways of thinking. A perfect example of this mindset is a psychiatrist who goes by the name of Dr. Matthew Valdez, a man who has made a reputation for himself in the study of Gotham's unique phenomenon of costumed law-breakers. He was consulted for the case revolving around my first arrest, and it was by his advice that I was committed to Arkham.
The construction of my Scarecrow persona was, in his words, a "clear sign of mental instability requiring professional treatment." I could hire any thug without a history of mental illness off the streets to commit crimes wearing a specially designed costume and this man would slap a label of insanity on the case for the courts without a second thought. Something must be done about such an appalling level of incompetence.
Gothamites are prone to superstition.
The first order of business when I found myself free of the clutches of that filthy institution was to observe the subject in his natural environment. Dr. Valdez, like many professionals, finds comfort in routine. His house is tidy, his lawn is well tended, and he only drives cars of the finest and most expensive new models. Every hair must be in place and every wrinkle banished from his clothing before he dares set foot out the door every morning. Such desperate clinging to physical presentation masks insecurities that can be exploited once exposed.
On my third day of observation I took note of a small black cat that had curled up to sunbathe on the hood of Dr. Valdez's car. The creature perked its head up when it heard the front door open, before leaping down to investigate. Apparently used to human contact, it approached the doctor on the footpath with an easy stride and a tail carried over its back. Dr. Valdez froze at the sight of it.
The signs of fear were beautifully displayed in the doctor's posture as he stared down at the harmless animal. He leaned back, tense, face drawn tight as it came closer. In a sudden outburst he swore and swung his briefcase at it to shoo it away. When it was out of sight he crossed himself and hurried on his way to his car.
Stress encourages people to place faith in religion and superstition. The harsher the occupation or environment, the more desperate they are to feel that there is some way to maintain control over their destiny. They chose a god to follow or a symbol of good luck to protect them and nurture this illusion of control. It was the sign of weakness I was searching for, the key to cracking the crackpot's mind.
Gothamites are out of touch with nature.
"Panthera onca
The jaguar is the largest species of cat native to the Americas. Jaws that can crush a turtle's shell and a love of water make it a flexible predator. The black or melanistic form is a rare beauty."
The drivel written outside the animal's cage shows just how far we are removed from our ancient origins. Only modern man, raised in the urban jungle, would go on about the beauty of a beast capable of popping a human skull like a ripe watermelon. The glowing yellow eyes sent a delightful shiver down my spine as the cat watched my men and I set to work.
I am surprised the Gotham Zoo didn't improved security after the Joker stole those hyenas.
Gothamites are quick to succumb to their fears.
There are many different recipes for revenge. The ingredients for this one are an abandoned building with a room on the bottom floor sealed off, a drugged doctor in a cage, a starved jaguar, and a good seat on the second floor.
Dr. Valdez awoke to warm breath in his face and the sound of hungry sniffing. His groggy movements excited the cat, causing it to claw eagerly at the bars of the cage. As soon as he was lucid enough to realize he was not dreaming he flung himself against the opposite side, screaming in terror. The cat drew its ears back against its head and roared.
I waited patiently, giving him time to come to his senses. A weak man gives in to fear quickly, letting it dominate him and reduce his chances for survival. His flailing and noisemaking were only whetting the beast's appetite, but it took him several minutes to calm down enough to realize that it could not actually reach him. Yet.
Perhaps he only gave up because he wore himself out. He was, like many who choose the pursuits of the mind over those of the body, not in the best of shape. I could hardly have offered the creature a choicer treat.
He finally quieted and scanned the small room, taking in details that could offer clues to his predicament. I cleared my throat and helped him put it together.
"Not so pleasant being on the other side of the cage, is it, doctor? Perhaps now you know what it was like to be sentenced to live among the inmates and guards inside Arkham."
He spun around, looking up to search for the source of my voice. His eyes met mine, which glowed yellow in the shadows of my mask like those of a cat in the dark.
"Oh god!"
"Do you really believe your god will save you? If you make the sign of the cross, will he show up to make this all go away like a bad dream?"
He trembled, uncertain, but unable to tear his eyes off of me. The jaguar paced outside the cage, moaning for its supper to be released to it.
"You have never seen your god, but you believe in his invisible presence anyway. I have fashioned myself a new identity as a god of fear, and here I am, a tangible presence standing before you. How can you possibly claim to be more sane than I am? I do not believe in things that are not there!"
His gaze hardened. His voice was soft, almost inaudible over the growls of his executioner.
"I stand by my assessment, Scarecrow. No sane man would proclaim himself a god, or believe that a ridiculous setup like this is an appropriate way to settle an argument."
My hand shot to the rope beside me and I gave it a tug. The door of the cage lifted several inches off the ground. The movement caught the cat's attention and it pounced, thrusting its arm into the opening and clawing for its prey. Dr. Valdez shrank to the back of the cage again. Something crinkled beneath his foot, and he looked down to see the pen and paper on the floor of the cage for the first time.
"I am giving you one last chance to correct yourself. Rewrite the statement you gave to the courts. Let the world know that Jonathan Crane is of sound mind and should never have gone to Arkham Asylum!"
"What?"
"Correct your mistake! Give me back my reputation! Give me something to be remembered for besides being one of Arkham's costumed freaks!"
He picked up the paper and crumpled it in his hand.
"You are calling me delusional? I am not the one who thinks that writing a thing will make it true!"
He threw the ball of paper between the bars, out of reach. It was hopeless to expect anything more from him except for a bloody and entertaining show. I gave the rope a hard tug.
The wall crashed inward beside me and something flew through the air to hit my wrist with a painful crack. I whirled around to release a cloud of my fear toxin from the canisters hidden underneath my burlap sleeves, engulfing myself and my assistants in a haze of green fog. We were all wearing masks with filters, but unfortunately our attacker was as well. No prizes for guessing who could have come so well prepared.
It was surreal, watching them fight in the fog. I stood transfixed for a few moments before I realized the significance of the men being felled one by one and turned to make a hasty exit. I did not get far before something snaked out from the haze and tripped me, sending me tumbling off the edge to land in a heap in the makeshift first floor dungeon.
It is hard to think when you have fallen on your head. Objects swam in my vision, one of which was a black blob leaving the side of a bigger gray blob to come in my direction. The blurry object cleared as it approached, revealing yellow eyes and long white teeth. I will admit that I screamed, but only a little bit.
The jaguar attempted to claw my face off, but fortunately it only tore off my mask. Its claws got stuck in the burlap, distracting it from attacking further. As I curled into a ball and stared up at it, the creature's hindquarters suddenly rose several feet into the air until it could only stand helplessly on its front paws.
A dark figure made a surprisingly quiet landing beside me. I leapt up and prepared to fight for my freedom, but falling on your head does not tend to leave a man's reflexes in good shape for dodging fists.
Gothamites have strange priorities.
It was a few days before I managed to get my hands on a copy of the Gotham Gazette. There was only a short article about what had transpired, mostly commenting on the medical status of the zoo's "prized black jaguar." Apparently Batman broke its tail when he hoisted it up to prevent it from eating me, and veterinarians were debating the possibility of having to amputate it. The writer also took the time to criticize me for starving it half to death for my scheme. There was no mention of Dr. Valdez, though I later learned that he had sadly survived unharmed.
I am still trying to understand the strange people who populate this miserable place. Perhaps the next time I get out of Arkham I should murder the jaguar and see how they react.