AN: Limpid tears bathe my face, friends. Does no-one feel the need to request characters? Is there no-one who feels a burning desire deep within their bounteous souls, a secret wish to see Captain Stingaree or Polka-Dot Man emerge from the shadows and bathe themselves in the glorious sunlight? I cannot believe it. I refuse to believe it.

Stephanie steps forward, anger etched on her face. But in the thick cloud of smoke she loses her way, and both old men and hyenas fade from view. She stumbles, falls, crawls onward.

"Help! Someone?"

Through the haze she can hear the sound of large animals grazing, and a banjo being plucked masterfully.

"Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam."

The fog clears, and the musician comes into view. It is a bald man in a lab coat. Though she would have known that voice anywhere. She shakes her fist, muttering darkly.

"Strange!"

"Isn't it just?"

She rears her head to see this new nuisance. It is the Mad Hatter, lying on the back of a buffalo, cowboy boots adorning his feet. He is smiling, with a straw in his mouth.

"And what the hell are you doing?"

He tips his hat upward and looks down his nose at her.

"I am a cowboy."

She stares at him with sadness and confusion. The holiest of ideas has just been trampled under foot.

"But-but you can't be a cowboy. You don't look like a cowboy at all. And you don't have a horse. And you like tea parties. And you don't exactly have the best grip on reality."

He smiles harder.

"And you do?"

Hugo croons in the background.

"Oh, don't fence me in."

She shrugs in surrender. The Hatter pulls out a revolver and empties it into her.

"Agh, god dang it! What the heck?"

He smiles apologetically down at her.

"Just doing my job, ma'am."

She looks up from her new spot on the ground. His costume has morphed into a blend of a police uniform and a cowboy outfit.

"What is that?"

He flashes a golden badge. An inscription on it reads: I am the law.

"I am a cowboy-cop. I have found my purpose in life."

She shakes her head as she struggles to her feet.

"Nope. Doesn't exist. And you'd be a terrible cop. The worst cop."

His buffalo trots lazily past her and on the way he casually sprays a can of mace in her face.

"Aaargh!"

She tumbles to the ground once more, rubbing helplessly at her eyes.

"Still not enough! Not good enough to be a cop! You suck!"

His buffalo kneels with a smile, allowing him to lean over and taze her prone form. As she convulses she gives him the thumbs up.

"Alright, alright, you'd be a good cop. Jeez, cut it out already."

He smiles, and relents. His outfit beams with pride. This is what it's all about.

The Batman crouches by a strange carcass.

"Mr. President, when did you find the victim?"

Zsasz scratches his head, his wings cumbersome.

"A paparazzi told me, just an hour ago. He too was murdered shortly thereafter."

The Batman's brow furrows.

"Hmmm."

The corpse lies on its face, butt sticking proudly up. The hands are twisted in some inexplicable manner, entwining around one another no less than three times. In the nether regions the unmistakable outline of a stolen vase or majestic equipment can be seen.

"666 stab wounds. Probably. It's hard to tell where one ends and another begins."

He scratches his chin.

"Whoever did this was a professional. This was a hit. Clean and methodical. I just need to find out who this man was."

The victim suddenly moves. It rolls onto its back.

"Urgl."

Through unholy will the bloodied creature raises a hand and starts drawing idiotic symbols onto the floor with its blood.

"Death spasms. Air passes through the body, causing it to move and try to speak. Please, do not be alarmed."

The president pulls out a bloody knife.

"Oh, but I am a sensitive soul. Do you mind?"

He puts the knife to the victim's throat.

"Well, it's highly unusual. But I suppose exceptions can be made, for exceptional men."

Zsasz starts sawing the head off. The Batman blocks out the noise as he stares down at the messy crime scene.

"If only you could speak."

He clenches a fist and looks sorrowfully at the fallen man.

"Who were you?"

Finally the head is off. Zsasz drops it off to the side.

"All done."

The Batman stands, arms crossed on his chest.

"Who has access to the White House other than you, Mr. President?"

The president taps bloody fingers on his chin, deep in thought.

"Usually I am alone in here. But the occasional paparazzi can get in. And my bodyguards are sometimes outside."

The Batman's eyes light up as his deductive talent and mighty intellect combine to form an idea.

"Could you call in one of your bodyguards?"

The president shrugs his shoulders and sets off. Twenty minutes later he returns with a man in black.

"I could only find one. The others have all been murdered, by the same killer no doubt."

The Batman sets to work, raining blows on the special services man. Between the blows he bellows.

"Where is it?"

Thud!

"Who are you?"

Crack!

"Why did you do it?"

Hit!

"Are you the Joker?"

Break!

"Did the Joker do it?"

Smash!

"Where is he?"

Facial reconstruction!

"Swear to me!"

The detective and the president stand over the unconscious secret service man, the former breathing heavily.

"This looks like it's going to be a tough case." He pants. "But I have at least ascertained that the murder weapon was a hammer or a sickle. Possibly both."

The president looks at him with a trusting smile.

"Thank you, Batman. Your help has been invaluable."

The Batman wipes sweat from his face.

"I will be continuing this investigation. But in the meantime, please go about your business as usual."

The two men shake hands firmly. The still warm blood on Zsasz' hand smears onto the Batman's. Batman embraces the president.

"Stay strong."

Zsasz pats him on the back.

"I will, Batman."

The Penguin walks down the street, his cane drumming on the pavement with every step. He is surrounded by a cloud of smoke, from his own cigar and the cigars of the gang of children following him.

"Well, boys, it seems this city has gone completely mad at last."

His face darkens, though it's hard to tell through the smoke. Only his legs are visible beneath the grey cloud.

"And no-one remembers the Penguin any more. Waugh! Not mad?"

He lashes out, his cane laying low a passer-by.

"I'll show them mad!"

He throws his cigar at an elderly lady sitting on a bench. It fixes itself firmly between her lips and she starts puffing happily away.

"Fah!"

Immediately the children stand on each other's shoulders, forming two human towers. One tower supplies a cigar, the other lights it, all without missing a single step. This assignment completed, the towers disassemble once more. The Penguin raises a hand.

"Stay here, boys. You there!"

He points a stubby finger at a man eating two-faced ice cream. The man freezes in his tracks as the Penguin approaches.

"Do you know who I am?"

The man swallows nervously, nods. The Penguin raises his arms and starts flapping them up and down. He circles the man repeatedly, his head swinging back and forth with every step.

"Cock-a-doodle-do! Are you not afraid, peasant? A-doodle-do!"

The man trembles so that he drops his ice cream to the ground. He immediately follows suit, sobbing uncontrollably over his wasted delicacy.

"Waugh, waugh, waugh! Farewell, my little bottom-feeder. Never forget who reduced you to this."

He takes a step forward before looking over his shoulder.

"It was the Penguin."

The Penguin trots away merrily, his band of smoking urchins following. But through his monocle he can see the other pedestrians. And they do not look the least bit impressed. They are in fact not looking at all. He harrumphs. Then, with surprising agility, he clambers up a tree and perches himself out on a branch.

"You there! You vermin who populate this street! I am the Penguin, and I am a crazed villain, dangerous beyond compare."

He turns his head 180 degrees, his wide eyes focusing on a chihuahua.

"Hoot! Hoot!"

He jumps off the branch, gliding swiftly through the air. He swoops down on his prey and grabs the little dog between his polished shoes, making off with it into the sky. He returns to his branch, reveling in the terror on the owner's face and the confusion among the rest of the people.

"Waugh, waugh, waugh! Look on me, ye filthy, and despair!"

Zsasz enters one of his many rooms, drawn to the sounds of a rowdy bar. There is a man with a tiny mustache sitting at one of the tables, a glass of sparkly in his hand.

"Who are you?"

The stranger looks up at the president with drunken humor.

"Me? They call me Matches. Matches Malone."

The president tries to raise an eyebrow, before remembering they are at a peace conference somewhere.

"What are you doing here?"

The man takes a long sip of his drink.

"I'm out of work at the moment, so I'm just having a good time, keeping an ear open for jobs and rumors."

The president stares at the boisterous man.

"But this is the White House."

Matches ignores the comment.

"You haven't heard of anything…weird happening around here, have you?"

Zsasz is quiet a moment.

"No. But I know a man who has. Hold on."

He returns momentarily, a bloody head in his hands. He puts it down on Matches' table.

"There you go. Enjoy yourselves. I will be around, if anything should go wrong."

Matches raises his glass in appreciation. The president leaves.

"So. I'm told you've got a story to tell."

The head does not answer, though its half-open eyes seems to be mocking him.

"I see. Maybe I better buy you a drink first, eh?"

A rum and coke now in front of it, Matches steels himself for a story. Minutes pass.

"You're a quiet one, friend. Could it be that…guilt... has rendered you mute?"

There is no answer.

"I've seen it before. You think you're tough, that nothing can scare you. But then something happens. It's not your first kill. But for some reason this one is different. It leaves you shaken. You can't think straight. You're always tired. And then come the dreams. Everything changes. You don't know who you are anymore. The money doesn't seem worth it. Neither girls nor drink can make you forget. You see that face, over and over again, wherever you turn. You pray to a god you've never believed in before. If he does exist, he's not answering. You give away your money, but it doesn't help. You try to do good, but deep down you think you're the scum of the earth. No matter how you try you can't escape it. There's always that voice, that insufferable voice, telling you how much it hates you, how little your life is worth. You shave every hair off your body as penance, but then you just get cold. You buy rich furs to keep you warm, you turn the heat up, but nothing helps. Do you know why? It's because the cold is coming from within. It's your heart. It's crying, and those tears are cold, my friend. But no matter how much you water your pillow, it doesn't grant you forgiveness. You design a byzantine machine to spank you throughout the night, rough, rotating paddles smacking you for hours on end. But no matter how kinky, ridiculous or painful it gets, your reddened cheeks don't soothe your soul. Yes, it's rough. Believe you me, I've seen it all before. You send embarrassing photos of yourself to everyone you know, so that your isolation and penance can become complete. But that don't wash the blood off your hands, it don't. You write a terrible novel, publish it under your own name, expecting to be torn to shreds by the critics. But guess what? It's a best-seller, buddy. Soon you're swimming in the money. But it chafes. Boy, does it chafe. And you're not seeing old Benjamin's face. No, you're looking at the face that haunts your every waking moment. You try to shake off the money, but the bills are stuck to you like glue. The face opens its mouth, gnawing at your very being. And that's not the worst of it. The face now loves you. It has forgiven you. But your heart? Yeah, that's right, it's never gonna let you forget. You try to kill yourself, but the bullets won't come. The guns sprout flowers. Beautiful flowers. Before you know it you've become a painter, and your paintings of nature become a hit. Your name will live on in history, as the name of the best artist who ever lived. Finally you crack, you try to admit your crime to the police. But it's too late, my friend. They make you an honorary member. As you leave the station, your mother calls. She has suddenly given birth to an exact replica of you. The prophets arrive and tell you this new man will have the exact same life as you. He will make all the same mistakes, make all the same breakthroughs, suffer the same as you have. Before long you will meet. You will fall in love with each other's misery. You will spend your nights spilling hot candle wax over each other and crying. And it will never stop hurting. No matter how much you snuggle up to your clone, your soul-mate in suffering. Unless you get it off your chest right now."

The head says nothing. Malone bristles.

"I see. You don't respect me enough, is that it? Think you're too tough for me? Well, you got another thing coming."

He lunges for the head and starts brawling with it.

"Raaagh!"

Ten minutes later he is back in his seat, panting. He sports a black eye, but the head is in worse shape.

"You're a tough one, I'll give you that."

He pants, downs his drink.

"Wooh! Lemme buy you a drink, bud. Then you can tell me your story. I think we both agree I've earned it."

He returns with a drink. He sets it before the head. But it does not spill. He regards it coldly.

"Hold that thought, bud. I'mma powder my nose."

He walks away. But as soon as he is out of the head's line of sight, he pounces! Chloroform is pushed against the suspect's face, and it is the Batman's voice that is growling in his ear! How long has the vigilante been listening? Who can tell?

"Where is he? Where is the Joker?"

There is a short struggle, but soon the Batman removes the cloth. He picks the head up and crams it into his utility belt.

"I have ways of making you talk," he growls.