ROBIN AT BRENTWOOD
Chapter One
Harley looked at Mister J suspiciously while slowly guiding the van with the darkened windows through the little village of Brentwood, just outside GothamCity. It was odd, he really didn't want to use the Jokermobile, or any of the various fleet of grin-painted vehicles that he kept in a hidden garage…for once he wanted anonymity.
"So you just wanna find the kid 'n off him, Mister J?" The Joker, of course was in a reverie, considering who knows what, as was the habit of the mentally ill. Thinking about how great he was, probably. And Harley loved him…why didn't he notice her more? Why?
The Joker smiled at Harley, his cherry red lips gleaming vividly. Harley wondered how, with almost no maintenance and constant violence, the Joker's teeth were gleaming white and fully intact…he was a gorgeous man in some ways, though in others he looked like Lucille Ball on meth.
"Harley, I have a job that needs doing." The Joker ran a gloved hand through his green locks. "I killed Robin, and now he's back…a new Robin. I want to kill him too…when there's a new cockroach in the kitchen, I must get out the Raid, you know." The Joker laughed loud and long, before continuing.
"Because, of course when the current Robin is with Bats, he's a bit difficult to get to, I've had to hold back, but he's been seen sans old Gloomyguts here in the village of Brentwood, stopping small burglaries and other felony detritus and I have the oddest idea that he may be attending the youth conservatory up on the hill."
"Robin, in boarding school?" Harley was puzzled. She hadn't really thought of what the kid did in his off hours. Harley had gone to P.S. 38 in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and it had never occurred to her that Robin might be a preppie
. During her previous life, as Harleen Quinzel, psychology student, she'd met a few graduates of Choate and St. Paul's in college, and didn't think of them as being terribly muscular, or for that matter, very bright, and young Robin was both.
But the Joker was canny and quite observant for someone who spent much of his time um, clowning around…and he had agents everywhere feeding him information, even when he was straitjacketed at Arkham.
"You see, Harley—Robin has quashed about twelve crimes in the past three months—just when the semester started at the school. Before that, this sleepy little town had never had anything but an incompetent constabulary."
The Joker had instructed Harley to just drive slowly through the streets, looking around and keeping a low profile, which of course Harley Quinn wasn't really into. She'd been quiet and demure for the first twenty-six years of her life, except for a little stickball with her brothers, and since finding her reason for living as the Joker's sidekick and sometime lover—she liked to make noise.
"On September 12th, Robin put down a robbery of Brentwood Savings & Trust…on the nineteenth the police showed up at Brockman's Diamond Exchange in the morning to find bound and gagged men in the main trading floor with long burglary records, in mid-October drug lord Sausalito Sanchez, who had a monopoly in this area for crack and heroin, was dropped off with his evidence at the police station, and so on…"
The Joker grinned at Harley, and she was glad she wasn't Robin.
Chapter Two
SIZING UP THE MATTER
Crouching on the rafters, overlooking the sordid transaction in the warehouse below, the two youths were transfixed by the appearance of the Medico-Maggot.
"His head looks like Jell-O Vanilla pudding" commented Robin to Nightwing, who nodded assent. Salvatore Dali would agree too. From the shoulders down (as he had no neck) Medico-Maggot resembled a doctor on rounds—long white hospital coat with "Maggot" neatly inscribed in red embroidery, normal hands, sober black pants, etc.
But Medico-Maggot's head was bald and lumpy, a bit like the Thing of the Fantastic Four- his face was two tiny black eyes (like raisins in the pudding? Mused Tim) and a wavering orifice below the twin raisins that had to be a mouth.
"What Love Canalwas he born next to," breathed Nightwing.
"Medico-Maggot makes Clayface look like Ricky Martin"responded Robin.
"I have nineteen kidneys here, Wesker" Medico-Maggot croaked lustily, "Twelve thousand dollars apiece, if you will."
Medico-Maggot was reclining on a lumbar-support office chair, with his feet propped on a large oblong freezer. Across the freezer sat a balding, mild-mannered chap with thick glasses, holding a hideous ventriloquist's dummy, sort of a cross between Charlie McCarthy, Junior Soprano and Joe Pesci, clad in a gray flannel suit and fedora, holding a small "Tommy" gun. Doll as it was, it didn't' t look as if this wooden crate would take any bullshit from Medico-Maggot.
"Don't talk to Wesker, Pudding-face!" shrieked the little doll, and above, Robin was gratified that the little mannequin had concurred with his observation.
The little doll's head rolled briefly to look at his lap's host and then back to Medico-Maggot. "Wesker's just a goddam stooge, see, I'm Scarface and I say three grand a kidney, how come you don't have twenty even, Medico? They come two to a vic, right?"
Medico-Maggot grunted. "I fear one of the kidneys perished when it was insufficiently frozen." Medico Maggot paused for a moment, rubbing the lump on his chin.
"But my incompetent staffer will repay me with two of his own kidneys should the error be repeated. But most of your customers will only purchase one kidney, and I cannot part with them for less then ten thousand dollars each, Scarface."
Upon the rafters, Tim Drake blinked behind his mask. The past three of his sixteen brief years had been quite instructive in the ways of evil, both assisting Batman and Nightwing, and in his work with the Titans. Murdered children, intergalactic holocausts, dissected eyelids. The third Robin had observed a lot.
But stealing kidneys? It had been a joke "Is Gotham being de-geeked?" asked WGOT disc jockey Mouth Mullins. It seemed as if a variety of nerdy, obese or just plain people were being picked off in various nightclubs and singles joints in the Gotham tri-city area, though the Iceberg Lounge, owned by the Penguin, seemed to be severely left alone.
"Mortie Herndon, about forty-two, a zit face, he never got lucky here" commented a curvy bartender from the Neon Mist to an inquiring from the Bludhaven Bugle. "Then one night, a honey blond, looked like January Jones is necking with Mortie at the bar, shit, I'd get a tetanus shot if I was her, but they left, and Mortie's not been seen in three weeks."
Neither had Mortie's employer at Gotham Rent-A-Car or Mortie's not-so- heartbroken mother "Finally I can get a tenant for the bum's room."
A sobbing Post Office employee told a similar tale about her sister, a sometime member of Overeaters Anonymous, and president of the Gotham Quilting Bees.
"Gretchen and I were at the Rainbow Room, and a gorgeous guy, looked like Brad Pitt, came over to compliment Gretchen on her sundress, which she'd gotten at Lane Bryant on sale…I wasn't surprised when they left together, Gretch never got that lucky in her life—but I've not seen her in a month now!"
So Dick Grayson had put some fake buck teeth in, attached a cleft lip to his mouth and a bald pate…and just a pillow or two in his belt, and went to try his luck!
Three nights later, at the Nut Hut, a cute little brunette started a conversation with Dick, who stuttered and did some aw-shucks… they'd danced, Dick stepping on her toes to make SURE she knew what a loser he was…but she'd invited him home, offered him a beer…
Dick's nose, trained by the World's Greatest Detective from childhood, had caught the scent of Rohypnol, and feigned near unconsciousness, until the girl and a young man from the back room of her apartment had come to load him in a box…
Certainly they were surprised when, upon lifting the coffin-like box, Nightwing had emerged, tying them both up, and calling in Robin to assist…and they'd gotten an address of this musty warehouse before dropping the two felons off at Bludhuven P.D.
"I'm so glad you called me in on this" Robin whispered to Nightwing. "Boarding school is so boring, and I really miss Stephanie. This skirmish should ease the tension."
"I was tense until I saw the bodies out back…they just took the kidneys and threw the people away." Nightwing said glumly. "Criminals have amazing imagination, don't you think?"
Below, Medico-Maggot and Scarface were beginning to argue."Who the fuck are you going to get to buy these goddamn things if not me, you shriveled prune?" screamed Wesker's doll.
Medico-Maggot laughed. "Are you joking? Killer Croc said he might buy them to eat if you don't want them, Scarface. I suggest you meet my price."
"Jesus, I'm going to hurl" Robin said, and Nightwing patted his shoulder.
DRIVING A HARD BARGAIN
Medico-Maggot had once been relatively ordinary looking doctor, although he was an albino, and had hated the fact that people ignored his brilliance at surgery and other things in favor of pity at his pinkish blond state.
Medico-Maggot had developed a formula that he had believed would make him beautiful…curing his albino-ness, and bringing him the charm and beauty Nature had made available to lesser mortals.
But he'd forgotten to add salt, or something, and the formula had caused Medico-Maggot's head to rupture, it seemed…and had perhaps affected his sanity, for his behavior after the unfortunate experiment had caused Medico-Maggot to be dismissed from BludhavenHospital, and be briefly committed to Arkham Asylum.
Recalling his early days, attempting fruitlessly to get dates at singles bars as a homely young albino, Medico-Maggot had recruited a series of attractive young men and women, usually nurses, doctors and physician's assistants who had lost their careers because of morphine addiction or embezzlement.
Yes—nerds were desperate for dates, and those who were in dialysis would pay well for kidneys…more applicants than donors…and so-
Medico-Maggot's people could both seduce and reduce…bringing in the lonely, drugging them, removing their kidneys surgically, and disposing of the bodies. When Medico-Maggot had enough money from this enterprise, he would be able to conduct ANOTHER experiment that would in fact succeed in making him handsome and charming!
But first the puppet had to pay what Medico-Maggot wanted, and unfortunately, Scarface was now pointing the little machine gun a little too close to Medico-Maggot for his comfort.
Medico-Maggot nodded to his own men, who pointed their guns at Wesker and the dummy…"This can only end in tears, Scarface. If you value your—"
But then there was a shout from above. "Guess that's our cue, Robin!"
And dropping from the rafters were Nightwing and Robin—familiar to Medico-Maggot from the TV news, and of course old foes to Wesker. All on the floor, save the unarmed Medico-Maggot, began shooting at the costumed two, who, amazingly dropped through the hail of bullets like ghosts.
The last thing Medico-Maggot heard before he fled the warehouse was Robin chortling "Don't you know handguns are notoriously poor at aiming, except at close range?" as he kicked a Glock out of an employee's grasp.
Outside the warehouse, Medico-Maggot looked around in the dark, terrified. He did not want to return to Arkham, and the murder of many de-kidneyed geeks might put him on death row…
Suddenly he was confronted with a van pulling up, and the side opening. Was that…a clown? The JOKER!
"Need assistance, dear boy? I understand you were once a plastic surgeon, though sadly, not one who was adept at self-help." A maniacal laugh. "If you could turn a humble harlequin into a high school teacher, albeit temporarily…I could effect your escape from this unfortunate situation, and perhaps give you a bit of the financial ready as well…"
Medico-Maggot knew in his heart that the Joker was a psychotic murderer…but hearing the pandemonium in the warehouse cease, also knew there was a pretty good chance that the capes had won…and would be coming out to look for him. He climbed into the van, and it pulled away, the Joker and Harley howling with merriment over their peculiar acquisition.
A SOPHOMORE WONDERS
Paul Ellis grinned and tapped Tim Drake's foot in the seat ahead of him. "You're falling asleep again, dude. Langstyn will flay you."Drake looked alive, sort of, and smiled vaguely behind him at Ellis.
Chirpy Bellows, Ellis's best friend since they'd started at Brentwood back in the Second Form, also known as seventh grade, roomed with Drake, and had told Ellis on a number of occasions that Drake must be out getting laid, as he left his room around ten-thirty every other night…by the window, and it was a wonder he could negotiate the fragile ivy to the ground.
Now Mr. Langstyn, chairman of the classics department at Brentwood, and teacher of this class on Beowulf, was going on and on…fortunately the bell was about to ring—but would Drake pass out before?
But, blessedly, the bell rang. As the boys left the classroom, cruelly disregarding Langstyn's shout to read pages 133-152 for class tomorrow, Ellis and Drake emerged into the hall, where they saw the Assistant Headmaster with a peculiar bearded fellow, whose eyes and upper forehead seemed to be covered with dark glasses.
"God, the new teachers get weirder and weirder here, Drake."Ellis muttered.
"Maybe dude's a parent" Drake replied, but he cocked his head.
"No, I've been here a while…the weirder they are, the more responsibility they have—"
And indeed, they overheard the Assistant Head say to the bearded chap. "Mr. Shaw, your classroom will be over on this side. I hope you enjoy teaching World History."
THE JOKER'S NEW JOB
The Joker found the beard and the glasses to be not quite as irritating as the artificial pigment that the Medico-Maggot had ingested into his formerly beautiful, glorious alabaster skin.
As soon as Harley had figured out how to continue the treatments to keep the Joker as Mr. Shaw, World History prof, they'd dropped into a funeral parlor and cremated the Medico-Maggot alive, dancing to the Maggot's agitated screams outside the chamber.
The Joker listened to the Assistant Headmaster droning on about schedules and health insurance, and wondered how people could do this sort of thing every day. Go to work, remember timetables—and this was what the doctors at Arkham wanted of him…to be sane.
But normalcy was so repulsive. Even as a child, the Joker had preferred pulling wings off flies and dropping a cherry bomb into the neighbor's toilet to the drudgery of multiplication tables and Little League.
He'd burgled the Gotham Zoo at thirteen, bringing a dozen cobras into his parent's bed, and watched Mama die in agony…and then he'd gone into the room with a machete to assist the snakes, who apparently saw him as a friend, in dispatching Papa as well.
A decade or so later, as the disguised thief the Red Hood, the Joker had had his dousing in the infected acid at the playing card company…he'd fled Batman…but he owed Batman so much! He had not become insane as a result of his skin whitening, his hair turning green or his lips crimson…he'd realized his true potential…and what potential!
"I hope you can achieve your goals here, Mr. Shaw." The Assistant Head patted the Joker's betweeded arm as they walked back to his office.
"Oh yes, I have several." Harley was a genius at falsifying records…and the Joker knew—he just KNEW that Robin had to be a student here at the Brentwood Academy. And if not, if he knocked off a few not-Robins, it didn't seem like a serious error.
It was just a good thing to get some attention—think of Jim Gordon, the idiot Police Commissioner of Gotham—The Joker had paralyzed his daughter, and then shot Gordon's second wife to death, Lieutenant Sarah Essen, during the Gotham earthquake—
And Gordon might hate the Joker, but essentially, he respected the Joker as well. He had to! And, if the liberal, namby-pambies did not want to execute the Clown Prince of Crime, then that was just a pass for more fun, right?
"Mr. Shaw" watched the fat, complacent administrator waddling beside him with contempt. What a life…compare this to ridding Gothamof its irritations…plaguing the Batman, resting up at Arkham before beginning the whole thing again…and the Joker was famous—television psychiatrists tried to analyze him, and he just terrified the world.
Who could have a better life, really?
VICTOR'S VISITOR
Victor Zsasz rode in silence in the van, looking at Harley Quinn suspiciously. "You broke me out of Arkham…why?" Zsasz's skin itched for a fresh slash. He hadn't had a killing since strangling a dishwasher employed in Arkham's cafeteria last April.
Zsasz was seriously considering killing Harley Quinn, after all, she'd once been on the hospital staff…but he didn't want to annoy the Joker. Zsasz was not afraid of much, but the Joker freaked him out!
Also, Harley had helped Zsasz get out of his annoying Arkham coverall and into a nice tank top, a wife-beater which handsomely displayed his many, many hash marks covering his chest and shoulders, each from a murdered—a murderee, there was a new word.
Usually young women, but Zsasz wasn't particular. He was a living guillotine, and couldn't wait to get his hands on a nice big butcher knife.
But now Harley was speaking, as she negotiated the van out of Gotham, heading for BrentwoodVillage.
"Mister J is doin' something interesting at BrentwoodAcademy, like I told you." Harley said, rattling the jingle bells on her jester's hat. "He don't think he needs help, but if he's gonna find Robin and kill him, p'raps you can thin the herd a little too—of boys, you know? Schoolboys."
"I hate Robin. I hate Batman. I hate everybody." For Zsasz, this was almost a daily insight. "It sounds like a plan…wait, stop here, Harley."
Harley halted the van, and Zsasz, taking a discarded letter opener, a pretty silver thing, from the van's dashboard, hopped out, encountering a young woman on a skateboard.
Harley rubbed her nose and looked out the other window as the shriek came, and then Victor Zsasz climbed back into the van, putting on his seatbelt and then carving a small hash mark into his shoulder. "Yes, I'm more relaxed now. So much better than Prozac."
IN A NIGHT'S WORK
It was a great secret of Ian Chastek's that he was secretly Jewish. As leader of the Brentwood Village Neo-nazis, it could have caused him serious grief that he'd been born Isadore Kilovitz…but his followers weren't bright, and what a time they were going to have raping the bound, and nearly naked librarian of the GothamHolocaust Museum.
They'd brought her back to Ian's basement apartment, and there, lying under a huge poster of a purple swastika, Kylie Levenson wriggled miserably.
Ian grinned at his followers. Chauncey DeMars snapped his fingers. "Let's go to it, give the bitch her due, right?" Ian knew that Chauncey, and Lyle Maher and Porky Lofft were quite happy with the find, not only because it would strike a blow against the Hebes but…none of the guys got laid much. Even by women who didn't know they were great Neo-Nazis…
But, as Ian stepped forward and began to unzip his pants, there was a sound of breaking glass…and oops, Ian's door had just been kicked in by—a kid in a mask.
"Well now—so you cowards are about to ruin yet another young woman's life." The masked kid walked over to Kylie, and, detatching his yellow cape, draped it over her nudity…and then turned to the Brentwood Village Neo-Nazis with a grim look.
"Oh, look, is this Robin?" Earl Novello, Ian's warlord grinned.
Jesus, he's just a kid, Ian thought. Here we are, bodybuilders in our twenties, and this little chump can't be more'n fifteen! Shrimpy little bastard—but, as he watched Chauncey DeMars lunge at Robin, Ian wondered if the stories were true.
"Hold still, you little bastard! Ian, help me—Ooof!"
Chauncey had been a Golden Gloves runner-up, and also a Tae Kwon Do expert, but none of this was serving him well in dealing with the uh, Masked Avenger in the faggy red suit. As Chauncey went down, spitting teeth, Earl and Maher ran, Maher swinging a long thick chain with sixty keys on rings at the end—it was quite a weapon!
"Motherfu-" WHAP BANG, POW!
Unless you were kicked in the nuts and the chain was slammed back in your face—this boy wasn't playing around. Not five seven, and now he was throwing Earl Novello, who was easily six four and built like a chimney, into Ian's mantelpiece. Mom would be pissed, if she heard all this from upstairs.
Finally Porky seemed to have Robin in a chubby death grip, and was attempting to squeeze the air out of him, and Ian ran to do a little stomach punching…
But before he'd landed one, Robin's right foot slammed up into his jaw, and then, before Ian actually fell to the ground Robin seemed to climb up Ian's body, disengaging from Porky before slamming a backhand and shattering Porky's upper plate.
Ian was a vicious bully, but he was no coward, and he wasn't going to let some adolescent bury his dream of giving Kylie the old sausage (Kylie had several times rejected Ian's advances as Isidore, back in the Youth Group days of Temple Beth-Israel on the corner of 8th and T)
Taking up a fireplace poker, Ian swung it at Robin's head, but the nimble little monkey ducked, and Ian ended up whacking Earl Novello in a swinging steel arc, as Earl had been attempting once again to grab Robin…
Two little fists, encased in green gloves battered Ian's jaw and stomach and then another roundhouse came—a haymaker like Ian had never suffered, and he went down again, spitting out teeth and blood with vigor.
As Robin helped Kylie Levenson dress, and the police invaded Ian's apartment, Ian lay dazed on the basement floor, and wondered if he might go back to Youth Group as Isidore, and just keep his head down…
Chapter Three
VICTOR CONSIDERS IT
What a drag, cutting roses, shaping hedges…but the lovely clippers! Szazs had been locked up in that horrible glass cage in Arkham for so long. He thirsted for a little flesh, female flesh if he had his druthers.
But he'd gotten the landscaping job, and was trying to do his best to spot Robin. Harley had promised Victor Szasz $500,000 if he could knock Robin off, as it was causing "Mr. J" such stress.
And then Szazs could leave the country, with that kind of bounty, and maybe do a bit of carving in Europe…all those pretty girls! Here it was just damn boys, BOYS, BOYS everywhere, a revolting idea, single sex education.
It wasn't that he didn't have good coordination, Victor certainly did, but he'd not really worked in some time—he was either out killing, or locked up at Arkham. It was a wonder he could keep himself in shape, really.
In the hospital, Victor did lift a lot of weights, but he was so closely supervised—everyone was afraid he'd brain someone with them…but the hospital was so—so confining. And for the crime of putting people out of their misery!
And look at the lives ordinary people led. The other men on the landscaping crew just seemed like robots, and Victor felt sorry for them. Today he was working alone, as he volunteered for overtime…he had little else to do…
Victor admired his muscled body as he worked on the hedges…all the hash marks seemed to gleam in the sun, and those glorious crevices. He had a brand new cut, yes he did, right under his left nipple. He couldn't do it with the murder weapon, so Victor had used a nail file.
But what a glorious weapon he'd used!
Victor put his clippers down and went to see if he'd sufficiently cleaned off the chain-saw. It was back in the shed, and what a festival Szazs had had with it the night before.
Some young mother, coming to see her sullen thirteen year old…she'd wandered by Victor's shed for a smoke, and that was all she wrote, so to speak. And her spoiled kid didn't even ask where she'd gone, after all, she'd given him some money, so the fact that her car sat in the Visitor's parking lot all day, just didn't matter!
She'd screamed, but Victor had put his fist in her mouth as he'd run the buzz-saw, and then carefully put the pieces of Mom into a nice bag. To keep for later, you know…
After the Joker had nagged him, Victor had thrown the body in the BrentwoodVillage canal, but he'd never had such fun as playing with that chain-saw…what a marvelous, MARVELOUS invention.
But when would his next opportunity be? It was such a barren environment, this boy's school, Jack the Ripper would have wept!
"Victor, could I ask a favor?"
Oh, precious Melissa Fotherington, she was smiling at him. Ms. Fotherington was a piano teacher, and wouldn't Victor like to go over her with the chainsaw—cutting off those pretty little fingers…
"Yes, Ms. Fotherington? Do you want some roses, ma'am?"Shuffle and jive…
"Victor, would you consider helping us chaperone the mixer tomorrow night? Mr. Burbridge has bowed out, and if we don't have five or six adults the girls from St. Alyce's really can't come. Would you mind?"
And maybe there is a God…
MIXERS ARE SCARY EVENTS
Ellis and Tim Drake watched as the girls from 's trooped into the gymnasium. "Sucks that we have to use the gym, Drake." Ellis grumbled."When we went to the mixer at Miss Cranston's Academy, the girls had a real dance room."
Tim Drake grinned. "Why do you call them mixers? They're parties, right?" Drake considered. "Well, not really, since everyone is invited. But the phrase mixer sounds so queer."
Ellis shook his head. "Whatever you call them, I've been standing on this stag line for three years now. No luck…I could be in a damn palace, and I'd be standing here, watching Anson Kimball over there, he gets some girl dragging him back to the dorm for a little uh…you know, Drake."
Tim smiled. "Well, everybody has a first time, and I saw you dancing with Sapperstein's cousin at the Cooper Hall Spring Formal. She was nibbling your neck, dude, like you were a banana."
Ellis mumbled something about wishing he was a banana. Things had been a little sad at Brentwood—two weeks ago, Murrell of the Fourth Form had been found dead in the woods behind the tennis courts. Probably he'd been accosted by a tramp while he was jogging, but did the guy have to cut his throat?
Ellis had noticed Drake getting really quiet, and he'd apparently taken Murrell's death hard, although as far as Ellis knew, Drake and Murrell didn't know each other well. They looked a little alike, but that was about it. Who knew what a guy like Drake was thinking…he played it close to the vest, as Granddad used to say.
It was interesting. Mr. Shaw was chaperoning the event, look at him there with his strange beard…but so was Victor, the new dude on the landscaping crew, who looked as if he were one of those guys who shaved his body hair, but unfortunately didn't change his razor much. Was he DROOLING?
ADULT SUPERVISION
Mr. Shaw stroked his beard carefully. He wasn't sure about Harley's latest addition to the BrentwoodAcademy staff. Szazs was too unstable, too—well, of course the Joker was one to talk! But goodness gracious, he was here just to take care of the Robin thing.
It wasn't easy to behave all the time—sanity, even pretended, was such a dull bore. The Joker did enjoy teaching a bit—since he had little formal education, he'd just sort of made up history as he went, but the boys didn't mind.
The Joker explained Washington and Jefferson as eager sodomites; Napoleon as being a male anorexic-and Frederickthe Great of Prussia as being a second cousin of Superman. Mr. Shaw demanded no homework, and the boys loved him—yes.
And, when a parent had pestered him about some nonsense, the Joker had planted a car bomb under her Prius, and after the accident, both her brats had left the school, and neither had returned, and of course that made for a better classroom-teacher ratio, right?
The Joker had planted kiddie porn in the chaplain's office, leading to a distressing arrest, and put methamphetamine in the Purina Horse chow, causing one hopeful amateur jockey of seventeen to be paralyzed from the neck down.
A bit of phencyclidine in the Gatorade dispenser for the Brentwoodfootball team had made for three glorious, if bloody wins for the school, but then of course the team was permanently barred from interschool league games after the Digby boy from Choate was stomped to death by a Brentwoodfullback.
The chairman of the Drama department, who, in the Faculty Lounge had made a humorous allusion to Mr. Shaw's curious beard awakened one morning without a tongue, but it had happened at the chairman's home, and was put down to a grisly second-story man…
Some cyanide in the heating vents had caused what appeared to be four fatal heart attacks of several emeritus professors in the Master's Studies…which had caused little fuss as the Brentwoodpension fund had been under funded for a time… , amateur economist!
Harley had cautioned that filling the pool with battery acid might cause undue attention to his original mission, but the Joker had put just a bit in the birdbath…it had been an interesting spectacle…
But always, the Joker remembered why he was really here, as the months wore on.
After Mr. Shaw had disposed of the Murrell brat, there had been another Robin sighting that night, turning in some pot dealers from BrentwoodVillage Park…so it hadn't been Murrell—perhaps that would be obvious, since it had been so easy to jump him.
Look at Victor Szazs…he was salivating, as the young ladies took off their wraps, and made hesitant overtures to the boys. Certainly they were fetching in their gowns, but it was BOYS that were possible Robin…unless Robin were a transsexual.
Oh dear. Was Szazs asking a girl to dance? Or…no she was asking him about the restrooms, and there he was, guiding her. The Joker was just a bit worried. Harley, you are so stupid.
A moment later, Mr. Landry, the bursar, asked Mr. Shaw a question about the punch. Was it spiked? There had been a problem last year with that. The Joker wished he could spike it with kerosene…how annoying.
A few minutes later, Szasz came back into the gymnasium, alone, and smiling, as if he'd just had a nice Valium. There was a fresh cut on his shoulder. No, not…Victor winked at Mr. Shaw, and of course took a sixteen year old redhead out on the floor, to bump and grind to "Ice, Ice Baby."
SLOW DANCE…BUT NO HICKEYS!
Fanchon Starling smiled up at Tim Drake as they glided along. "Stairway to Heaven' is such an old song. I remember my nanny listening to it, and she was like, fifty years old when I was five."
Fanchon's handsome partner grinned. "Well, it is an old song, but my step mom Dana says that it was a big make-out tune when she was in high school. Dana's great, it's like having a cute big sister…my dad's in paradise with her. You say you had a nanny?"
Oh, Jesus. Was this boy a sensitive scholarship kid? Fanchon was used to being rich, and didn't feel badly about it. After all, at night, back in Newark, New Jersey, she patrolled as the Osprey—and had done quite a great job of cleaning up the filth. Why not be rich in the off hours?
"Yeah, Trinity raised me…she wasn't an English governess type, just a nice girl from Jersey Citywho had been my mom's counselor at summer camp…she was great, though. Taught me hopscotch, how to dance the Hustle—that's from the seventies, like 'Stairway to Heaven'."
Tim smiled. "Yeah, sounds like Trinity and Dana would really get along, except Dana's not in her fifties, she's about twenty-nine."
Fanchon giggled. "Yeah, your dad must be having a good time!" Fanchon shook her long dark hair, and it spilled on her shoulders. She hoped no one would cut in…Tim seemed like a great guy. She was glad she'd asked him to dance.
But, as she leaned in for an experimental kiss, there was a scream from the girl's restroom.
ALL THE FUSS
"Now I know Robin, but who's the cape with the boobs?" Szasz leaned against the wall of the gym, watching police questioning groups of hysterical, weeping girls, and astonished young men…and the two costumed adolescents who had just shown up.
A news reporter from WGOT was asking the same question."Robin is here at the Preppie Mixer Slaughter, as we're calling it, as well as a young female superhero, apparently the Osprey."
Szazs turned to his academic colleague. "What's an Osprey?"
"The Osprey (Pandion haliaetus), sometimes known as the sea hawk, fish eagle or fish hawk, is a diurnal, fish-eating, bird of prey." Shaw said, reading from Wikipedia on his Iphone. "Funny Cobblepot never told me about them in our long nights of incarceration. Think I saw something about her on the news in a Jersey motel once."
Szasz grinned."Well I did good, right? Here's Robin for you…we can ambush him outside, or something." But Szasz was looking as if he would rather show another girl to the lavatory, though presently the ladies room was filled with cops and coroners.
"No, Victor, you didn't do 'good', not at all." Mr. Shaw said disgustedly. "I want to trap Robin in his other identity, when he's not on guard, and dispatch him as quickly as possible." The Joker hated being the heavy, but really, Szazs was out of line.
"Now there will be much too much attention on new staff members, and although you could just disappear, I am afraid Harley's trumped up records won't hold up under the FBI's examination."
The Osprey was indeed quite enchanting. A sexy white outfit, much like Power Girl's, but trimmed with brown plumage…The Joker wondered whether she'd been a classmate at the girl's school, but that would be too fantastic, really.
A depressed young man wandered over to the Joker, plopping himself on a bleacher. "Mr. Shaw, I was going out with Karenna—since last year. And now she's gone, I don't know if I can survive this, dude. Her whole body splattered all over the girl's john."
Mr. Shaw stroked his ever-present beard. "Yes, Rupert, but the Almighty has a bigger plan for us. Your courage in this time is what Karenna's family will need."
Rupert looked at Mr. Shaw admiringly. "God, you have so much character, sir."
WHO'S THE OSPREY?
Robin stepped away from the sobbing young woman he'd been interviewing, and looked at the peculiarly dressed uh, heroine. She seemed to be interrogating in a professional way, but Jesus, there really wasn't much need for two capes here, was there?
Also, since the female breasts are so sensitive, why does she show so much cleavage that could be damaged in a—oh here she comes.
"Hi Robin, I'm the Osprey. Looks like one girl, Colette Eakins was in a stall when she heard Karenna enter the bathroom. Karenna said something like "You don't have to follow me into the girls, dude" and then there was a male voice, deep, 'I've no need of your opinion, honey.' then there was a gasp and a muffled shriek." The Osprey paused. "and then a body fell to the floor of the john."
"Apparently, Colette pulled her feet up in the shitter, " The Osprey continued "She was hoping she wouldn't be seen, but she did peek through the door jamb of the stall and saw a tall male in sleeveless men's underwear pushing a razor blade into his shoulder. And of course the floor was covered in blood."
Robin, trying to use tact smiled. "I think it's great, miss that you are interested in helping out, but this really is work for professionals."
The Osprey gazed at him. "You mean fifteen year olds shouldn't prance around in masks?"
"Now wait a minute." Tim Drake was getting pissed.
"They're so focused on the blood in the restroom, these cops and M.E.'s, that they don't notice that it's dripped back into the dance floor—or gymnasium, this school is cheap."
Robin rolled his eyes.
"But I brought in the Leprechaun, the WeaponMaster, and the Black Widower—Jersey villains—just on the trail of their blood."
Robin got huffy."I don't see any blood in this gym, and I think you've really got to see a psychiatrist, all this about the Leprechaun—" But the Osprey rudeley interrupted.
"But that man behind you…in an undershirt, is dripping, little specks of blood." Osprey pointed. "Standing next to the teacher with the beard…I'm surprised the cops didn't notice, but as you can see—"
"But that blood is from his shoulder, he cut himself—oh shit, on purpose, how could I be so dumb, that's Victor Szazs, the Brentwood gardener is SZASZ."
Robin stepped forward, and Szazs, seeing that he'd caught unwelcome attention, grabbed the ponytail of a little strawberry blonde dancer, and dragged her to him, holding a scalpel under her neck. A surgeon's scalpel…
Suddenly the police were frozen. "We gotta be careful, that's Senator Dimden's kid he's got…" an obese sergeant shouted "you know our pay is up for review—"
"Got a penlight flash in that cute utility belt of yours?" Osprey said, smiling at Robin. She hadn't even turned around, it seemed.
Dumbly, he handed it to her, and then, amazingly she pulled out her compact, opening the mirror. This was no time to check your eyeliner—
But the Osprey flashed the penlight into the compact, and neatly shot the ray right behind her, into Victor Szazs's left eye.
As Szazs screamed, and relinquished his hold on the girl's neck, the Osprey began doing a back-flipping cartwheel, landing her last kick into Szazs's jaw, as Senator Dimden's kid ran screaming into the arms of her hyperactive girlfriends.
Well okay then. Szazs gathered his forces, and began wrestling with the Osprey, collecting his scalpel from the floor, and Robin threw his Batarang, and nicked it out of the killer's hand, and the Osprey, who had been struggling under Szazs, flipped him over her head and he landed with a crash, and the Brentwood Village police were upon him.
As Szazs was being dragged away, he became acutely psychotic, and began pointing at the wimpiest, weirdest teacher on the Brentwood staff. "He's the Joker! Don't arrest me, bring him in, he wants to kill Robin—"
Tim Drake ducked out of an unused locker in his sport jacket and chinos, and walked back into the gym, now almost empty of dancers. He saw Fanchon, the girl he'd been dancing with, picking up a makeup compact from the floor.
"Guess there was some excitement here. Hope I see you at the next dance." Fanchon smiled. She really was pretty.
"Can you use a penlight, it was lying here on the floor…" Fanchon tossed it to Tim, and followed her sobbing friends out of the Brentwood Academy gym. The mixer was over.
Chapter Four
AVAST, MY HEARTIES!
"You just don't have to do that much work to impress a girl." Dick said, grinning at his young friend, who was mesmerized by a much too expensive display of what was, to Dick's experience of 22 years—junk.
Tim looked at Dick quite earnestly. "I did a bit of bagging at Gothamway Market last summer, and I have enough to get Fanchon something really nice. She's a classy girl, Dick, you just—you just don't understand my feelings.
"See, here's a nice eighteen dollar "Sapphire Promise Heart Engagement Ring." Dick ruthlessly ignored the "feelings" speech, and read the little card under the vulgar blue heart-shaped monstrosity. Good enough for a fifteen year old, really.
Tim's eyes were glazed to an emerald display, and the little bald, bearded man behind the counter here at Bludhaven Precious StoneHouse saw a sucker in the making. "My son, you meet your true love just once in your life, and if you are lucky, you get to keep her. What better way to show that she is special than to impress her—"
Before Dick could stop this horrific wave of licentious blarney there was a crash in the Precious StoneHouse's picture window.
Dick beheld an obese man, his face covered in scraggly facial hair, with a tricorn Colonial hat, coal black, but with the skull and crossbones. He sweated through a ruffled shirt that looked just a BIT too small for him…
And he had those thick marauder boots with the big cuffs that usually were only worn by hookers and insecure career girls.
"Avast ye swabs! Captain Redbeard is here!" Behind Redbeard came a variety of men in various peculiar outfits. It was like Gay Mardi Gras had arrived in Bludhaven.
"Men, get to gathering the diamonds. Gather ye swag where you can! Dagger, I gave you what I think is the combination to the back vault, but we can blow it through if needed" said Redbeard with a hearty laugh. "Now where's Pulcifer, that scheming psychopath?"
Dick noticed that Redbeard held a laughable cutlass sword, but a large black dude in a striped tank top and knickerbockers pants was holding a Uzi nine millimeter submachine gun, which he used to punctuate each of Redbeard's sentence, taking down the ceiling a bit, and peppering the walls.
"Damn it, Pulcifer, where are you, you cowardly lout!"Redbeard was enraged, although the robbery so far was going well. Redbeard turned to the big black Uzi holder and patted his muscular forearm. "Perhaps we should shoot a customer for every minute Pulcifer hides."
"I-I'm Newkirk Pulcifer" said a little fat man who was standing behind a display of cushion cut diamonds. "What the devil—who? Oh, God, it's you, Irving."
"Irving is no more! I am Redbeard the Pirate, and I am going to clean you out, finally! Today we take it all. Since Daddy left my inheritance to my dim-witted stepbrother, my minions and I are going to make up the difference immediately!"
Newkirk Pulcifer wiped his watery eyes, gaping at Redbeard."I-I guess I remembered that your doctor said the Halcion wasn't working as well—"
But then suddenly, Pulcifer's words stopped as a machete, thrown from a wizened henchman who resembled Mr. Magoo with bandanna, went narrowly over the middle aged jeweler's head.
"Thank you, Barney." Redbeard said. "My stepbrother Pulcifer is a talky fellow. Newkirk, your life isn't worth a pickled penny, and after we raid this place, I shall slaughter you, or perhaps I will allow Celestine to do it."
And by gum, there was a hot little pirate chickie, blonde and high breasted, wearing quite a vivid purple minidress with a patch over one eye.
"Aye aye Captain." The girl smiled, and leaned up, bussing Redbeard on his pug nose. "I'd enjoy chopping this fellow into little pieces -I'm good at it!"
The large black guy emptied more Uzi into the ceiling screaming, "You customers, on the floor, no movin' around, or the wrath of Redbeard will be on you!"
As Dick dropped to the ground obediently, he looked around for Tim. "I'm wondering what our strategy should be—Tim?" But his young friend had disappeared. No, not behind me…the clerk who was trying to sell Tim the crown jewels seems to have fainted behind the—
"Shiver me timbers, and what rubber room did you split from, Jolly Roger?"
Dick looked around, and standing on a bracelet counter was Robin. Where the hell did he change?
"You young upstart!" Redbeard shouted, waving his cutlass around. "Retreat, or it'll be the worse for you, I'm on a mission of blood here!"
Pulcifer, peeking over the counter of cushion cut diamonds, muttered something about Irving finishing his tree-surgery certification, but it seemed just a little late for that.
Robin somersaulted directly into a couple of Jack Sparrow wannabes just before they'd grabbed a selection of Rolex watches. Dick marveled, watching one boot hit a chin, and the other knock in the stomach of the second felon.
See, it was harder for me, I used to wear little green shoes. The new generation…but as Robin moved in for more trouble in the center of the store, Dick rolled behind the display counter, and did his own transformation right beside the (hopefully) comatose emerald sales-pusher.
THE PARTY'S ON, MATEYS!
Robin's hands were full with oncoming pirates. Here came one dude, clearly an ex Hell's Angel—porcine, sleeveless jean-jacket, with tattoos. He swung, and connected. Robin's forehead got the brunt of the meaty fist, and he fell back against a box of toe rings, before arising.
"Now you little masked bastard, I'm going to make you weep. That fuckin' Batman sent me up to Blackgate one too many times!" Taking a huge buck knife from his jean jacket, Fatty Gang-boy opened it as he ran closer to Robin.
"And also, Blackgate has a shitty methadone program!"
What's he want, a superhero to fight or a Grievance Committee?
Shaking stars from his eyes, Robin wondered where the hell Dick was. Here comes Motorcycle Boy with his knife. Lunge in, sucker.
Robin went to his feet, neatly chopped the guy's windpipe (helped that it was tattooed, unbelievably, with a dart-target) and then flung himself over the prone body, to charge new windmills.
"Bentley! Q-Tip! Grab him!" Redbeard screamed this as he assisted Dagger in tossing pearl necklaces into a bag. Robin was not sure which was which, though Q-Tip might have been the one with the awful dyed pink hair…
Pink Hair jumped for Robin, but as Robin rolled under him, the other dude, with a handlebar moustache had pulled a little handgun. Robin kicked Pink Hair's buttocks as he rolled, and he fell into Gun Wielder, and both were startled for just a moment.
Robin shot a Batarang directly at the gun guy's right wrist, and the pistol, probably a .38 fell on the floor. It shot and wounded one approaching scumbag, right in the knee.
Robin laughed. Bruce is wrong. Who says guns aren't useful?
Then Robin hurled onto Pink Hair's back, and, doing a bit of chicken-fighting, punched and kicked the disarmed pirate and two others while riding Pink Hair - who helped, by running about madly, trying to disengage the chortling teenager.
Robin recognized one horse-faced assailant, Bruton McNabb. He and Batman had put Bruton and his brother Oather into stir last year, and Bruton had a glass jaw, just one kick, and he'll go flying…Yes!
Finally, Robin jumped from Pink Hair's back, kicking him into a wall as he went. Robin grabbed a ceiling fixture, and propelled himself into further melee.
Redbeard had dropped the bag of pearl necklaces, and was once again screaming soliloquies. "My poor father was ripped off by you, Pulcifer, and I'm taking the store back, the only way a man should! It'll be my buried treasure!"
Redbeard noted Robin's approach, and swung his cutlass, and then dived right in, swinging more. The sword did an arc just over the young hero's head, but Robin knew he had to work fast.
"Redbeard, dude, you really should become acquainted with Arkham Asylum. It's just what you need for a little post naval rest, you know."
I've got to counter with some stomach punching, but that's some stomach!
WHAM! Robin's fist crashed into the ruffled chest, and Redbeard screamed, grabbing at Robin's throat. Robin ducked under Redbeard's hammy arms.
There we go, right between his legs. Bruce always taught me that that little area, the "barmaid's defense shot" usually calms the guys down. But it appeared that Redbeard must be wearing an athletic jock protecter, because he turned and tried to stomp Robin, who scuttled away.
Redbeard might be nuts, but he certainly was no wimp. But, strength wasn't everything. Being a prankster could help at times. Redbeard threw his powerful arms around Robin, who was now standing, and Robin reached out and tweaked Redbeard's pug nose, and then thumbed his right eye, hard.
As the big man fell back, gasping, Robin did a one-two combination punch, dislodging a few teeth, and, Redbeard was down.
Robin heard some smashing and kicking behind him, and, whoopee, Nightwing had come to join the fun. But there were like, eighteen pirates. And they were all armed with one thing or another.
"Hey, Captain, I tangled up the cops, what do we have here?" a new, harshly southern voice came.
Robin spun back around, and there was a peculiar looking dude in black, with a black moustache. He was dressed like something from the Old West - bolo tie, kind of a Bat Masterson dude.
Complete with six-guns in holstered hips, he wasn't quite in the buccaneer motif, but Robin was realizing this was an unusual day.
The dazed Redbeard, right eye still streaming tears, propped himself up. "Oh, thank God, Stringfellow, can you do something about the brat there?" To Robin, Redbeard smirked. "I just broke Stringfellow out of a Jersey City lockup, and he'll make you dance!"
Bolo Tie grinned. "Yes, I'm here to re-match with the Osprey, who I know has been spotted here, but why not get a little practice on the local talent!"
Oh Jesus, the Osprey again. Robin was still a little unnerved by that crazy girl, who had admittedly been helpful during Szazs's Preppie Mixer Massacre.
"I went by Tommy Tangler before Osprey put me away the last time, but I've increased my skills and my arsenal, and you capes are going to regret that you riled me, all of you!"
Stringfellow pulled one of his Colts from a holster and pointed it at Robin. But, instead of a bullet, five or six ropes shot from the instrument, and landed like snakes on the Boy Wonder's shoulder and chest.
As Robin attempted to brush them off, one slender rope twirled around his wrist like a snake, and another crawled up and began a slow strangle on his neck. Jesus!
Robin began his struggle with the ropes pulling and stretching them, and then was felled by yet ANOTHER rope that crawled down his legs, binding his ankles. He fell.
My God, I'm going to die… The ropes were getting stronger. What the…
But, as Robin looked up from the floor, a Batarang, shot over his head, snapping right into Stringfellow's belt, and all of a sudden the ropes were limp, as ropes should be.
Robin arose and jumped on Stringfellow, pounding his mustachioed face into the floor, as Nightwing laughed.
"Don't you ever check Batcomputer files, Robin? This moron's utility belt is creepier than ours ever was…but it's all in the belt!"
MUTINY, OR AT LEAST BAD PLANNING
Newkirk Pulcifer, who had spent many unsuccessful years trying to get people to nickname him "Doc" watched as the capes and the villain costumes tore down his nice store.
The guy with the rope gun was now out cold, but more pirates, it seemed had entered the jewelry store. Irvingnever lacked for bad company, that was for sure.
It's just going to drive my policy up through the roof…Mom marries a shmuck with a foundering jewelry store, I drop out of my C.P.A. program to bring the store into the black—AND I buy my loser stepfather out…and then his looney son wants money.
Oh lookit, Pulcifer watched Nightwing, who had appeared from nowhere (was there a broken window in back?) knock the Tommy gun or whatever they call them now, out of the black chap's hands, but now another colored guy is trying to brain Nightwing with one of my mother's antique chairs!
Nightwing ducked, but of course the Louie Fourteen chair, with gilted wood, been in our family oh, how long, is splintered as it lands in the face of another of the pirate guys.
First Irving's expelled from Princeton, court-martialed, the Navy…I hadda fire him from Bludhaven Precious StoneHouse for embezzlement, he loses his mind, we commit him, and now this…all 'cause my mother has to date losers on .
Watch little Robin go. Couldn't be more than fifteen, five foot six, maybe? Kicks one thug, punches another. Another grabs Robin by the cape, and the kid throws the two hundred thirty pound fellow over his shoulder. Judo, maybe?
Oooh, more shooting…Pulcifer ducked again, but then there was a terrific crashing sound and all was quiet. When Newkirk "Doc" Pulcifer looked up again, the young costumed heroes had Irvingand his boys all tied up.
Pulcifer climbed over the display case. "I am so grateful to you both, Nightwing, Robin, and as evidence of my gratitude would like to offer you half off on a couple of excellent Seiko watches…"
I AM TOO A GENIUS, MISTER J!
Harley Quinn, dressed in her civvies, moved cautiously through the woods. Oooh. Two-no three adolescent bodies with the jackets and the Brentwood crest, all on the path. And there's my Cutie…wipin' his hands of all the nasty plasma.
"Harley, how are you? You have to get me more of that solution that makes me the loser teacher. I'm starting to turn white again, and of course the beard fell off." The Joker, whose face now had almost resumed the clownish familiarity, smiled.
"But of course y'dint need yer teacher outfit to uh, dispatch the boys, huh?" What could she say? He must be awful bored here at Brentwood.
"Well, I decided to ask the boys if they wanted to go butterfly hunting, or a nature walk—I chose four—there's one further back in the forest here—who looked like they could be Robin, and on we went, I found a spare scalpel in Victor's old room, but after I did my good work, I looked under the blazers, and no Robin costume."
Harley tried to look sympathetic. She was never sure with her darling, whether sympathy would annoy him or soothe him. From early blonde puberty, Harleen Quinlan had always had men under her thumb…until she'd met the Joker in her first weeks as a psychologist at Arkham. He was so unusual.
Harley remembered a quote from "Gone With the Wind" that Scarlett had always been able to control men, who were usually boys at heart, until she met Rhett Butler and Ashley Wilkes, who were real men, and they had fascinated Scarlett.
But the Joker was Rhett Butler SQUARED, man. He was nothing like anything Harleen had ever experienced. Sure, she threw away her career, crushed her family's dreams…the sweet scholarship Bronx girl who had made good. But it was all worth it.
Think, she'd probably have to dig graves here or burn the bodies while Mister J went back to school and took a hot bath…and his Teacher medicine…but it was worth it in the end…as was the new plan she'd come up with…
"So I got you another helper!"
The Joker looked weary. "Harley, I don't think I need much help, dear. You've already created nothing but trouble with the Szazs issue. There have been police running around campus, Anne Rule wants to do one of her true-crime books…they don't seem to object to boys being slaughtered, but one girl in a dance bathroom…tsk."
Harley knew this wasn't true. Eleven male students had disappeared from Brentwood, and that was a big reason the cops were still swarming. Channel 42 had been wandering about, also, and they were fairly sharp, that bitch Vicki Vale and all.
She was aware, even if the Joker wasn't, that he would have to find out who Robin was soon, and kill him, or the game would be up here.
"I think you may need to juice things up a little here, hon. And an old friend of yours, Dr. Jonathan Crane, has a great idea, really he does."
"THE SCARECROW?"
"Yeah. I hadda let him fondle me a little bit, 'cause he don't see much profit in this" Harley tried not to retch as she recalled Crane's sweaty little hands in the room at the Best Western.
"I don't need another NUT here, Harley. My work has already been compromised. Do you know how much trouble—"
"God, I miss the old days when you used to laugh all the time, Mister J. It's been so damn long. I want to wrap this thing up so bad. And the Scarecrow has something called an Insecurity Powder."
"What? No more fear, eh? He's dumbing down?"
"No, it makes people anxious, panic attacks, and then they act up and say stuff they might not otherwise—but they don't all DIE."
The Joker looked vaguely interested. Emboldened, Harley continued.
" See what I'm sayin'? Then you can just kill whoever the Robin is and we can split—or we can kill 'em all and split, but this one at a time thing, picking off the student body, is really bringin' in Gotham's finest. I saw Commissioner Gordon walking by Randall Hall."
"And what do I pay Scarecrow for this? Because the profit's all revenge for me."
"It's all right. He's my fiancée, um for a while. Anything for family, he says." Harley shuddered.
The Joker laughed uproariously. Of course he wouldn't be jealous. Oh no. He didn't care about sex, or women, or anything except causing misery…Harley, trying not to weep, got a shovel and began digging a pit for the preppie bodies…
Chapter Five
WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?
Varney minor (long-suffering younger brother of Varney major, the arrogant lacrosse asshole) looked into Simcox's room. "Who is that dude—he's using some kind of spray thing."
Simcox shrugged. "I guess we have fleas, he's from a pest control place."
Simcox and Varney looked in at the guy, skinny and geeky, with dirty blond hair and a surreal grin. The guy had a thing that looked like a vacuum cleaner, but it sprayed out of the hose, and Simcox's room seemed to be filling with clouds, and it was seeping in all the hallways as well.
Monteleone of the Sixth Form walked by with Bob Finster. "I think I'm going bald, man, Do you know how to get Rogaine on the Internet? This is serious." Varney snickered…Dude, you're seventeen.
Varney looked behind him, and Clemons from the room next door was telling his roommate something about how he knew their family was going broke, but keeping it from him. What a laugh, the Clemons's owned the state's largest Mercedes Dealership.
"Simcox, you coming? I was going to ask you about this party?" Varney continued.
Simcox ducked into his room, just to grab his Game-Boy, and when he came out, he was coughing a bit. "Jesus, that pesticide stuff's putrid." He looked at Varney. "You going to that townie chick's party, Rachel, what's her name?"
Christopher Alan Varney shared one annoying trait with his big brother and that was, they were constantly getting in trouble with townie girls. Dad had told Varney major that if he had to pay for one more white-trash abortion, he'd make them both join the Marines.
But, Rachel and her friends Hannah and Triestewere very cute, and Trieste had a tongue stud that was very interesting….what the eff was wrong with Simcox? The big blond guy was rubbing a small blemish on his chin as if it were Kaposi's sarcoma.
"Jesus, I don't want to get a pockmark here, but I can't help but pick at it. My dermatologist—"
"Simmy, you okay man? Yeah, let's get Cridley and Krusemeyer, cut dinner and go get a keg for the party. My brother will lend me his Jeep."
Nichols from the Fourth Form was making a horrible racket down the hall, crying into his cell phone about missing his mommy. What a loser. Just last night Nick and Varney had been towel-whipping twelve-year-old first years in the gym, and now—what a wuss!
Varney looked again at Simcox, who was now rubbing his face with both hands and trembling.
"I-I don't know. I think I'm breaking out. My parents have me on Accutane but my skin is in bad shape. I feel like my face is breaking out in pustules, it's really bad."
Varney's mind was still on little Trieste, who had worn an aquamarine tube top when he'd seen her at Brentwood Creamery Monday, even though it was like 60 degrees outside.
Varney wandered into the can to take a whiz, noting Andy Parnell, who was sobbing in the mirror. "I'm losing my fuckin' hair, man. What the hell's going on?"
"Yeah, and you're u-ugly too." Varney snickered, as he went to the urinal. "Parn-Parnell d-d-don't be a d-douchebag." Varney shook his head. What the hell?
Varney had had a speech impediment as a kid (that his brother and creepy friends had made horrific fun of) but it had cleared up with a lot of therapy. Varney had gone to the same speech therapist who had worked with the famous sports broadcaster Howard Cosell, also a secret stutterer, and he had not missed a word since he was ten.
Varney had also been a chubby kid. Chubby, glasses, stutter. But that was all behind him, right? He was a stud, who serial dated slutty townies.
It can't come back n-now! I-I've got a party tonight. T-Trieste. God, I can't even th-th-think wuh-without s-s-tuttering! Varney spun from the urinal and splashed some water on his face, and looked in the mirror. C'mon, you're Chris Varney…halfback on the B-Buh Brentwood Buh-Buh-Badgers.
But, as Varney looked in the mirror a little more closely, he noticed that his neck was getting a little fat. His cheeks too. M-muh-muh-My ch-cheeks are l-luh like a chipmunk's. Have I-I-I buh-been overeating at duh-duh-dinner?"
And Varney felt like he wanted a butt, and he'd quit Marlboros last year with the help of a very expensive antismoking clinic…but he wanted a cigarette NOW.
When the fat, stuttering weirdo Varney got back out into the hall, he noticed all the guys were out of their rooms, some shouting, some weeping, and Ostrow the Math Team captain was in a fetal position on the floor.
Tillotson major was on a cell phone, shouting at his grandmother about sibling favoritism, and McGurk, usually the sixteen year old comedian, was hysterically washing his hands in the hallway drinking fountain.
Varney felt his gut over spilling his pants. He wondered if he should start doing the bulimic thing, throwing up after every meal. He knew the guys, distracted as they seemed, must be looking at him, and thinking what a fat, ugly weirdo he was.
Simcox staggered past Varney, shouting that he needed surgery for his harelip. Simcox duh-doesn't huh-have a harelip. He m-m-must be making fun of my weight.
Varney tried to get into his room, but it was locked. Varney tried the key, and his roommate, Pressman screamed through it "Go away! I have a chair under the knob. Get out of here! You can't hurt me anymore, Varney!"
"W-w-what a-a-re yuh-yuh-you tuh-tuh-talking about P-Pressman? Duh-don't yuh-want to go to the p-party tonight?" Jesus.
"I know you tried to cut my eyelids off when I was sleeping last night. You won't get away with it again!"
Varney suddenly saw his big brother coming through. Oh, shit…he's going to make fun of me "Fattie, Fattie two-by-four-can't get through the kitchen door" Donald Varney had always been so cruel to Chris when they were kids.
But, when Varney major met Varney minor he looked at his younger brother and began crying. "Chris, all the guys on our rowing team are plotting against me. I think they want to kill me. What the hell am I going to do?"
Chris Varney tried to say something, but the din of screaming, sobbing adolescent males in the hallway was almost unbearable.
STRING 'EM UP
God, the exercise yard here was just…primeval. Moronbodybuilders lifting weights, gang members skulking around each other, as if it were the O.K. corral. What a bunch of human detritus.
Stringfellow was heartily amused at the BludhavenCounty lockup. He had quickly hidden his apparatus before the boys in blue had charged into Precious StoneHouse. Fortunately, his little gizmo was tiny and he'd taped it behind his right ear. Guards are so fascinated with searching the corn-hole, but they never look in the most obvious places…
But, here String was in a regular cell. They didn't understand him the way they did in Jersey. He fingered the tiny box with its little buttons. Once he'd used the little buttons to make a velvet rope on one of those metal posts that make lines in banks rise from a bank in Trenton and strangle a teller until she'd given him the money.
String preferred to use his guns, but the apparatus could be used to do anything. Once, when String was doing a nickel-dime in Leavenworth, some of the big, tough convicts had knitted, (unbelievably) and String had been able to unroll a ball of black yarn from four feet away, and have it hook a gun out of a guard's holster and bring it to him.
Another time, Stringfellow had untwined a scarf from a college girl's neck and used it to blindfold an enemy thug who had a gun on him. When he'd been sick of his ex-wife's bitching, he'd tied her tongue up with her own hair ribbon.
Another time, Stringfellow had horsewhipped a mobster with a coil of wire, but—nothing like that was here.
Maybe thread—Stringfellow had done some serious damage with thread, but he had to find some that was loose on pants or a shirt. He clicked his little button, but everyone apparently had safely stitched clothing.
But—was that a chain fall hoist? That's right, they're creating the new South Block, moving concrete here, best deal with workers you can pay a buck an hour to, and they can't quit, OR blow their pay on booze.
A hoist, with those pulleys, to lift the cinderblocks and stuff. Look, with a hook and everything. String looked down at the little box in his palm doubtfully. Could it really control anything that was um, string like, no matter what the weight was?
It was the Gobi rock that made things work for Stringfellow's ropes…When Stringfellow had been plain old small time hoodlum Fornicatin' Fitzie, he'd worked with Baron Blackfinger, an evil super-villain who'd almost killed the Osprey with his fire and lightning shooting ebony gloves…
Fitzie had served the Baron so well, that finally the Baron, who was deported back to Czechoslovakia, had given him a present. "You'll always be a small-timer, Myron Fitzgibbons, unless you have a gimmick."
Was the Gobi rock magic? Stringfellow had no idea. He had it well hidden, in his mother's basement, and he'd chipped off little pieces over the years. He'd get locked up, his tools confiscated, and if he could get back out somehow, he'd get more Gobi.
Yes, the Gobi rock was amazing and its power over string, ropes, cords and the like…was amazing.
It would really help if the chain fall thing was using wire rope which would be lighter, but if indeed the Gobi rock could control ANY string…
Yes, theoretically, it wouldn't matter that much that a chain was terribly, terribly heavy, would it? Stringfellow pressed a few buttons on his little gizmo. He'd sure be happy when he got the string pistols working again, but for now…
YOU JUST DON'T SEE IT EVERY DAY
Lieutenant Joliffe "Jolly" Taggles, who had never smiled a day in his life, looked sourly at the dirt bags he'd been paid to watch for thirty-six miserable years. Ever since Jolly had been brought home from Khe Sanh, where he'd been written up for unnecessary force on those miserable little gooks, not court-martialed mind you but…
And he'd been deemed too unstable for the cops, and not fit enough for the Fire Department (bastards) and so he had to guard these scumbags who were unbailable and had to await trial here. Ugh.
Jolly looked at one prisoner, who he'd ordered to sit behind a pole during a baseball game, the fella had complained he couldn't see, and Jolly'd whacked him one with his set of keys…just to keep order, you understand.
The captain didn't like Jolly, but hey, Captain Gosport had just been an ordinary hack, just like Jolly, and gotten what Jolly felt was an undeserved promotion, yes sir. The coddling little shit.
"Lieutenant Taggles, sir?" Jolly looked over at Levison, his favorite snitch. "Sir, there's a chain movin' around on the ground, sir."
"What? I thought you were going to tell me whose been smuggling the meth in—"
But Levison pointed a shaky hand, and sonofabitch. There was a thirty foot chain rolling along the ground. No, no it can't be. There it goes, splitting up Squik Temple's crap game, creeping like a snake, inmates are looking down at it, one fat little black kid reaches down to touch it, but it loops up and whacks him in the face!
The colored thief now unconscious, the chain moves on. Jolly Taggles only had eighteen months till retirement, and didn't want to do anything risky, but he cautiously walked across the yard, following the chain at a clip.
The front end, supposedly the head, had a hook on it, and Jolly realized then that it was the chain from the winch on the construction thing. He watched approaching slowly, as the chain began rolling around one of the metal timbers that held up the North Tower, where a guard with a gun was..yup, it's rolling up…
Knox Cutts, the gun guard looked out of the tower, and was absolutely astonished, at least to Jolly's eyes when the hook had nearly gotten to the top. Cutts shot at the huge metal chain, but of course the bullets harmlessly bounced off the steel chain.
The hook got to the top, and cracked Knox Cutts one right in the face, it did, and then the big, HUGE hook pulled the rifle out of Cutts's hands, and began rolling down the tower again.
Two other guards perhaps less close to retirement age than Joliffe Taggles, jumped at the chain as it hit the ground, and began wrestling with it, trying to get the gun from the hook, but the chain neatly bounced up made two loops, and oooh right around their necks and it SQUEEZED…
Taggles had never thought much of either Lefevre or Poston, the little goldbricking shits, but now he'd be going to their damn funerals!
Taggles backed away to the wall, and watched as the chain approached a prisoner who had a little black moustache, kind of a short Hitler type, The little Hitler guy took the gun from the hook and then put the chain between his legs, holding on to it with one hand as the chain, incredibly began climbing the high wall of Bludhaven County Jail.
As the little Hitler fellow rode the chain to the top he looked back, right at Jolly Taggles. "Hey Taggles!" The little moustache smiled. "Here's for putting me behind the post at the ball game last night!"The rifle went off, and Jolly Taggles was jolly no more.
MY BOYFRIEND'S FALLING APART
Fanchon Starling parked her little Mustang Cobra, a sleek black hunk of metal, in the Visitor's Parking Lot at Brentwood Academy. She got out, and straightened her denim miniskirt.
Jesus, I have to talk to Tim…I'm really worried. Fanchon had not been able to reach Tim online or with her cell phone, and the brief conversation she had had with her best male friend at Brentwood, Dabney Fry, had not been encouraging.
Dab had just come out to his parents and friends last year as a young gay man, and Fanchon had been so proud of him…but when she'd talked to him today, Dab had told her that he was convinced Neo-Nazis were going to break into his dorm room and cut off his you-know-what.
And Dabney was always one of the toughest people Fanchon knew. They'd known each other back home since fourth grade, and it was so weird. Fanchon had almost told Dab that she was a secret superhero, but as unstable as he seemed on the phone, it probably was good she hadn't taken the chance.
Walking across the campus, Fanchon only saw three people in the quadrangle…she recognized one hulking dude, he was halfback for the Badgers, and Jesus, he was lying by a tree, weeping.
A few steps more towards the school building and Fanchon saw another guy—no—no this was a corpse. Stiff, and bloody.
He looked like a teacher, about fifty-five. Lying in front of the flagpole. Bleeding from both wrists. God, she should call an ambulance, but she took his pulse, bloody as it was, and he was gone.
Fanchon now ran into the building that housed Tim's dorm. But suddenly she paused. Beeepbeepbeep BeepbeepBEEP. It was the Ospreymeter. Fanchon dug into her purse automatically, and put on her tiny nasal filter, which kept her immune to anything from tear gas to a cyanide chamber.
Fanchon's Uncle Cahill, who'd passed the Osprey mantle on to her before he'd passed away on her twelfth birthday, had always warned her to never, NEVER ignore the Ospreymeter, and Fanchon had learned that this was indeed the case.
Fanchon went up the stairs, seeing various quiet or crying boys. Had someone died? She tried to talk to one kid with a shock of red hair, who she'd danced with once at a party, but he ran from her screaming about castration.
She turned into familiar Robertson Hall, and walked through. There was Baldwin Beane, who Fanchon had dated last year, and found to be a bit of a macho tool. No more, though…he was holding a blanket and a teddy bear. "I wet the bed again, and my Daddy is going to hit me with a belt!"
When Fanchon got to Tim's door, she knocked, and knocked again, and then tried the knob. It was locked. Didn't study judo for nothin'.Her kick opened the door with vigor, and inside, there was Tim, lying on the floor in his underwear. Just the shorts.
CAN IT GET ANY CHEERIER?
Mr. Shaw, the new history teacher was in high spirits. My, the Brentwood campus had become entertaining. In the Master's Dining room, and also in the teacher's studies, he'd watched quite the metamorphosis.
Now he was soothing a colleague, patting the poor chap on the back. "Now Mortimer, you know your wife isn't unfaithful. I'm sure she isn't. With her weight problem—"
Perhaps I shouldn't be nasty. Jonathan's Insecurity Powder certainly …it really should be called Paranoia Powder, it's got everyone in an uproar.
Funny though—ten or twelve boys have come and told me their miserable secrets—some wear girl's panties, at least three have sex in public restrooms with truck drivers, and one ripped off the bursar's office, but no Robin as of yet.
Wilders Raine, the chairman of the German department had taken a nose dive off the chapel tower, and several other teachers just hadn't shown up, and since all the boys seemed to be in need of a Mental Health Day, (or possibly a week, or a month) the Headmaster had cancelled school for a couple of days, and signed himself into the Intensive Care Unit at Rivington Psychiatric, the rich man's Arkham.
What Mr. Shaw had to do now was go through the dorms, with just a bit more counseling to do…and possibly the Boy Blunder would begin blubbering. And then the Joker could do a quick murder, and he'd be out of there.
Mr. Shaw wondered how Harley was doing on her "leaf peeping"vacation with Jonathan Crane. Engaged now, and of course the poor thing was miserable. But Mr. Shaw thought they made a handsome couple.
The Scarecrow had left such damage and extensive re-gassing here at Brentwood he really wouldn't be needed, until the entire school had committed suicide or some such.
Mr. Shaw regretted now that he had dropped out of school so young. Education truly was fundamental, the wall posters were right.
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