When the Doctor awoke, he was distinctly uncomfortable in every way possible. He knew right away he had been separated from his TARDIS, that he was tied up, and not only was his sprawled inelegantly on the floor, the floor was moving. A constant in his life was being tied up, and in some sense he was used to it. He was usually able to get free eventually. What concerned him more was who had tied him up. He didn't have to wonder for long.

"Doctor, let me offer my sincere apology for hitting you." The voice was Dr. Crane's, and the Doctor noted he was lying on what appeared to be the flat bed of a mack truck/lorry with Crane leaning over him. Except now Crane was wearing a charcoal-colored suit. And a burlap sack over his head. "It was the only way I could think to detain you, so the Joker and I could express our appreciation for your help in the escape."

The Doctor studied the sack. It had eyes cut out where Crane's dead blue ones were now staring out with an insane smile. The face of the sack was carved up like a scarecrow. Ah. The Scarecrow. "I'm very relieved to have the opportunity of being thanked by a clown with a paper bag over his head."

There was a horrible hooting laughter from the back of the truck, and the purple-clad figure the Doctor supposed must be the Joker turned. The Doctor recoiled. He had changed into a garish purple coat and with the purple pinstripe trousers, it was almost a parody of the Doctor's own suit. Worst of all, he'd daubed his scarred face in white paint with black smirched around his eyes and a gruesome, exaggerated smile of painted red. The Doctor's lip curled in disgust. The Joker, however, just laughed.

"Doc! Did you say something about clowns?"

"I knew you were disturbed," said the Doctor. "I just didn't realize quite how much."

"Maybe," said the Joker, leaning down next to the Doctor and stabbing a purple-gloved finger in his face. "But you are the one who freed us, isn't that right, Crane?"

"That's right," said the emaciated psychologist.

"I think he felt sorry for us," said the Joker. "Was that it, Dooooooc? Was your heart just bleeding for us?"

The Doctor edged away as best he could. "You lied to me."

The Joker squealed with laughter and began kicking around on the floor of the truck like a child agonized with laughter. "Oooh-hooooo! Listen to this! And I thought HAHH-very was fun to bait. Batman will be so happy to find out the person who busted us out of Arkham was a do-gooder with a conscience to rival his own."

The Doctor gritted his teeth. Batman? Was the clown absolutely out of touch with reality? What had they said—Gotham was the city where Arkham was located? Was the Doctor just going mad? Was he having a horrible nightmare? Was this a trick of the Celestial Toymaker's? He glared at the Joker, who was still quivering with laughter, and Crane in turn, and wondered if it was worth provoking them to their utmost. Why hadn't they just killed him like they had killed the guards? They obviously had no compunction about taking life. What was their plan? What did they want?

The Doctor inhaled and managed a charming smile. Despite the carnage he had witnessed, he must not let them see that they'd gotten to him. "You do manage to travel in style, don't you? Where are we headed? St. Tropez? Jamaica? I've heard Lanzarote is lovely this time of year."

"A vacation is definitely on the horizon," said Crane. "But first we have to have money."

"Oh, I see," said the Doctor. "And what's your line of work, exactly? Bank robberies? Jewel thefts? Drugs?"

The Joker gave Crane a warning look and reached deeply into the pocket of his coat. "I dunno, Doc, I found something on the floor that might sell. Whaddya think?"

He flashed the sonic screwdriver right under the Doctor's nose. "Oh, no, not the sonic!" the Doctor cried, struggling to get to his feet despite his bonds. "Where did you find that?!" He shuddered to think the Joker might have been going through his clothes! "Give—it—back!"

The Joker licked his lips. "Or what?"

The Doctor seethed, growling in frustration. Oooh, if he just wasn't tied up—some Venusian karate might come in handy in a situation like this. He began pacing the truck, wondering for the billionth time where they were going and when he might have a chance to escape. When he turned back, Crane and the Joker were studying him. "What?!" he snapped.

"What do you think?" the Joker asked Crane, sotto voce. "Do you think he's got the same r-r-r-rules as Battsy Fattsy?" Crane shrugged. The Joker lunged forward and grabbed the Doctor by the collar. "Okay, Doc, you can have your sex toy back—"

"Sonic screwdriver!" the Doctor snapped.

"—but ya gotta come and get it." He gave the Doctor a shove. The Doctor landed painfully against the front end of the truck. The Joker came toward him with a gleaming knife. The Doctor met his gaze coolly and didn't blink. The Joker leaned in and cut the Doctor's bonds and then shoved the knife into his hand.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" asked the Doctor, bewildered.

The Joker held up the sonic screwdriver. "Simple. Take—it—from—me."

The Doctor shook his head. "Nuh-uh. Mind games don't work on me. Two against one, never encouraging odds. How do I know you don't have fifty more knives hidden away?"

The Joker chewed his lip. "I'll empty out my pockets if you empty out yours."

"Come on," said Crane. "This is going to go on forever."

"Shut it, Crane!" the Joker snarled without even turning around.

The Doctor looked down at the knife in his hand and up and the sonic screwdriver. "Are you looking for pain? Is that what you're about? Are you one of those sad people who could never get a girlfriend?"

"On the contrary," purred the Joker, smoothing back his greasy hair with his free hand. "They do say every girl crazy 'bout a sharp-dressed man." He cracked his neck.

The Doctor made a face. "Oh, that is just minging. Yuck."

The Joker placed the sonic screwdriver under the toe of his boot. "Now will ya try to get it back?"

The Doctor's eyes were molten. He threw himself forward and held the knife up against the flesh of the Joker's neck, where the white paint had rubbed off. "Do it," said the Joker. He showed his yellow teeth. "Cut, and slice, and stab. You know that if you let me go, I'm just going to cause you problems. I'll be there, trying to blow up all of your little friends, taking innocent lives, and annoying the hell out of you. So just—do. It."

The Doctor grimaced, his hand trembling. He tossed the knife into the pocket of his jacket at the same moment he sprang away and began to unlock the rolling door. "Let him go," urged Crane. "He'll never survive a fall from this thing."

"There's something you should know about me. Faced with fighting or running away—I run away every time," said the Doctor breathlessly, leaping up to hang from the handles on the side of the truck as he kicked the sliding door open. Pavement flashing by at a hundred miles an hour was his backdrop.

"You're not performing according to plan," said the Joker, trying to grab the Doctor and succeeding in removing one of his trainers. The Doctor gave him a hard kick in the chest with his other foot that sent the Joker sprawling against the other side of the truck.

"Whoooooaaaaaa!" the Doctor cried as the truck went careening to a halt that sent the entire body of the vehicle wheeling in the opposite direction. Hanging on for dear life, the Doctor flew half in, half out of the truck, waving one stocking-footed foot helplessly. The truck groaned and nearly flipped, the tarmac smoking as metal and rubber sparked. At last the bent and mangled truck came to a screeching halt. The Doctor half jumped, half fell onto the pavement. He looked out on the highway and hesitated for a split second. As the blinding force of two headlights sieved the tarmac inches away from the truck, the Doctor shouted, "Get out! Get out!"

The Joker and Crane reacted when they heard the honk of a car horn. All three leapt from the truck as a National Express coach stopped just feet from smashing into it. They flew over the guard rail and into the bushes on the side of the highway, hearing the screams of the National Express passengers. "Did you do that on purpose?!" the Doctor shouted at the Joker.

"He saved our lives!" the Joker babbled, grabbing Crane by the lapels and shaking him. Crane seemed slightly dazed and didn't respond. "My hero!"

"What?!" asked the Doctor, stalking his way toward the ruined truck and then back again, running a hand agitatedly through his hair. "The M4?"

There was an inhuman growl from behind them, deep in the undergrowth. "What was that?" the Joker tittered. "A welcoming committee?"

The Doctor, still desperately looking toward the National Express coach and back again, moved cautiously toward the sound. "Weevils," he gulped. "Run!"

"Doc, don't ya think you're overreacting a little?" asked the Joker, nonchalantly rubbing his forehead where blood was streaming. He held up the Doctor's abandoned plimsoll. "Oh, and here's your shoe. I mean, what can a little bug do to—"

The Doctor was halfway to a police call station along the M4—the M4!—when he heard the Weevils attack and a noise that could be frenzied laughter, could be screaming. He sighed deeply. Why, why, why, why couldn't he just walk away? Why couldn't he let one of the most annoying, most evil people he'd ever met just die? If he liked pain, well, mauled to death by a Weevil was the way to go. The Doctor swore in every language he knew, smacking his forehead with his palm, and ran back.

By the time he'd gotten there, though, a curious scene presented itself. Crane was standing with an outstretched arm, and the Weevils were actually retreating from him. They were shivering and whimpering, bowing down in genuine and abject fear, moving back into the night with luminous, alien eyes.

"What did you DO?" asked the Doctor, fearing to hear the answer.

"Fear toxin," panted Crane. "Funny how the very thing I got put in Arkham for is what saves my life." He removed the burlap mask and wiped his sweaty forehead on it. "Doctor, what were those things?"

The Doctor didn't answer. He was looking at the Joker lying down in the grass. One hand was holding a knife, stained black with Weevil blood, and it was difficult to distinguish what was makeup and what was a bloody smile. "I hate to ask," said the Doctor, groaning, "but is he okay?"

The Joker coughed. "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."