AN: Here is some more mindless happiness, straight from the sludge that constitutes my mind to you.
If your life starts to resemble the reality of the story, see your doctor.
The mood is heavy the next morning as the orderlies of Arkham take one of their most dangerous inmates, the Scarecrow, out of his cell and cart him into the rec room. There they carefully undo all his bindings and return his costume before ushering him to a sofa, where all the other high profile inmates currently staying at the asylum are seated. The head guard watches the proceedings with a grim yet professional look, nodding his head in appreciation of his underlings' good work.
"Alright, people. Make sure none of them are sedated or restricted in any way. I don't wanna think about what might happen if they got access to drugs or restraints."
The other guards stare up at him with admiration in their eyes.
"Wow, Seth, you think of everything."
"Yeah, man, with you on the job, we got nothin' to worry about."
Seth blushes furiously.
"Aw, shucks, guys."
The staff share a group hug, with plenty of praise and other constructive comments flowing between them.
Meanwhile, the villains currently chilling on the sofa are having words of their own, albeit nowhere near as beautiful.
"Is it just me or is the world unusually idiotic this week?"
The Riddler looks to his diminutive neighbor for an answer.
"What world?"
The Hatter can not keep up a normal conversation any more than usual, so perhaps the world has not been turned on its head.
"Does Crane look unusually mad or is it just me?"
This time the Hatter only raises an eyebrow.
"Well, for one, he's waving at the air. And he's cheerful. This doesn't strike you as odd?"
The Hatter stares at him blankly.
"He's not waving at thin air," Garfield Lynns answers as he points out the object of Scarecrow's attention. Riddler looks up and screams.
"What the hell is that?"
Everyone in the room hears the scream, but no-one finds it worth their time. The staff are still busy hugging it out, the patients are busy trying to avert nuclear war. Only the Riddler and Firefly seem shocked that there is a man hanging upside down from the ceiling, watching them. He's wearing rather stylish sunglasses.
"That's Dr. Coverunder," explains the Hatter. "He's new."
The Riddler stares at the man.
"Why and how is he hanging like that?"
"He's eccentric," explains the Hatter.
There is a short silence.
"And why does his beard defy gravity?"
"He's eccentric," explains the Hatter.
Firefly loses interest at that answer and decides to occupy his time by staring at the floor. Only the Riddler is left to ponder the strange mystery before him. Well, above him.
"Is it just me or does his hair resemble ears of some sort?"
The Hatter shrugs.
"He's ecc…"
"Forget I asked."
While all this transpires, there is commotion at the entrance to the asylum. A mud monster enters the gate, greets the receptionists and the guards and Dr. Joan Leland, who is there for reasons unknown.
"Hello," the clay says.
"Welcome to Arkham," squeaks a giant of a guard.
"I'd like to check myself back in," the monster goes on, a small hole in the top of the blob serving as a mouth.
"Hokey-dokey," whimpers the giant, oozing a tough-as-nails attitude, unlike the monster, who is simply oozing.
"Oh, hang on," says the abomination known as Clayface. "Forgot something."
The monster stops. There is some movement in a spot of the clay that one could call a stomach, if one were feeling creative. Most of the staff stare dumbfounded. Slowly two shoes are pushed out of the clay, followed by shins, no doubt two in number as well.
"Oh my God," Joan gasps.
The giant guard averts his eyes. The receptionists show no emotion. Joan's eye twitches. Soon a whole corpse has been spat out. It lies limp on the floor, covered in goo and dirtying the floor. The staff all stare, varying degrees of horror playing upon their faces. Then the presumed corpse wakes up.
"Whuzzat?" The dirty man mumbles as he shakily gets to his feet.
"You gotta find some other place to live, Clyde. I'm sorry."
The monster forms a sad face. The bum starts to stagger away.
"Than's f'r the ssshhelter. Warmesht bed I's ever known."
But as the bum turns his back on the beast, a dozen muddy tentacles shoot out and grab him all over, raising him high up in the air. Even to the untrained eye, the pose is provocative.
"Oh, please God, no," Joan sobs, already feeling the need for a shower to end all showers.
But the monster does nothing untoward, merely hugs the bum fiercely, nearly absorbing the poor man once more.
"I'm gonna miss you, buddy!"
The monster then groans or wails, Joan isn't quite sure, but it sounds very sad. If the Oscar were awarded to mud-people, Basil would have a future.
"Okay," comes the bum's heartfelt response.
Clayface becomes a lovely maiden crying into a handkerchief as he waves his friend off. Said friend nearly returns at the sight, deterred only by Clayface's quick change into a dumpster.
"Things will get better soon, buddy, I just know it!"
The dumpster's voice moves everyone to tears. Apart from the receptionists, who still remain expressionless, apart from the slight twinkle of inhuman malice in their eyes.
AN: Everything is moving along quite nicely and logically. Good work, people.
