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This was taking forever! The Riddler ground his teeth and clutched the steering wheel hard enough to instigate finger cramping. It took all his self control not to start pounding on the horn and shouting that the cops weren't fit to organize bingo night at the retirement home, let alone disperse a traffic jam.
The problem with getting people back in their cars and sending them on their way was that, upon seeing Killer Croc, most people had fled…to the nearest bar. While it was a huge boon in business for the bar, the cops were faced with determining sobriety before anyone could drive away. Apparently, as part of their evolved defense mechanism, when a Gothamite was faced with a terrible, mutated lizard-man, his instinctive response was to consume alcohol until all the teeth and car-crushing horror faded into the ether.
The Riddler looked behind him. He was at the very end of the congestion, and if the owner of the damned pickup parked directly behind him would move his hulk of a truck, the Riddler was sure he could back up and escape. Where was the bastard?
Oh, there he was. And he was drunk! No, scratch that, he was utterly plastered off his keister. And there he was attempting to climb into his truck. And there he was shouting at the cops. And there he was getting arrested. And there went any chance the Riddler was going to wait out this hellish mess.
Edward Nigma reached the end of his rope. He waited until the drunk was dragged away before slipping from his car. He assumed the police would order him back into his vehicle if they saw him run now, so he ducked down and crept around the side of the Cadillac. Being the talented little sneaky snake that he was, he managed to elude two cops who had their backs turned and their minds focused on the giant unconscious crocodile that still hadn't been trucked off to Arkham.
It was too early to celebrate with a cup of tea in his "I am a genius" mug—and there was the little issue of both tea and snarky mug being back in his apartment, likely smashed to crap by Crane—as the Riddler was now without a car. But at least he was mobile. He could leg it. He had other hideouts. He…didn't know alleys could get this dark.
As though he had stumbled into the Blair Witch's lair, the Riddler retreated from the alley as fast as his legs would carry him. This was going to put a damper on his plan to sneak across Gotham unnoticed. It was difficult to hide in the shadows when you were too afraid to enter the shadows because any number of rogues with far higher body counts might mistake you, the undisputed king of villainy, for a hapless civilian.
Like a child checking under his bed for the boogeyman, the Riddler peered into the alley, trying to determine if anything was lurking in the gloom and waiting for his blood. He took a tentative step into the alley and then pulled his foot back. He still had a foot attached to his ankle, and wondered if he should risk it again.
"You're a grown man, Nigma! Are you honestly afraid of the dark? You know, logically, there are no demons, there are no monsters, there is nothing in there listening to you talk to yourself. Now stop being such an infant and walk."
Right, exactly. No vampires, no ghouls, no creatures of the night. But what he wouldn't give for Buffy or Van Helsing or even Peter Vincent to accompany him!
Lacking a vampire-slaying escort, the Riddler ended up running through the alley with his arms wrapped around himself in a comforting hug. Nothing grabbed him and he emerged at the other end intact. He wiped the sweat from his brow and promptly lied to himself, saying he had been as smooth as Swiss chocolate.
The Riddler pondered his next move. He had a ridiculously accurate mental map of the city and surrounding suburbs, and it only took him a few seconds to get situated. He considered his options. He could try to make it all the way downtown to the bus terminal and buy a ticket to anywhere that wasn't Gotham. That was risky and he was a bit low on cash: the jacket he'd stolen had sixteen dollars and change in the pocket. A better option would be to steal another car. It wouldn't be reported stolen until morning, and by then Nigma figured he could be either in western Ohio or south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
Grand-theft auto it would be, then. With that decided, the Riddler scouted for a car. There were a few cars parked along the street, but the Riddler, still shamed over the Hello Kitty scooter, could hardly afford another blow to his ego. He was not desperate enough to steal any of those junk heaps.
Something moved behind him. The Riddler felt his body locking up like that of a fainting goat. He managed to turn around before he could entirely become a statue.
The something turned out to be a middle-aged hooker who was carrying her three-inch, sequined, red high heels in one hand and was using the other hand to hold a cell phone to her ear. She had just emerged from the alley that had nearly given Nigma a heart attack, and she didn't look remotely fazed by the experience.
By chance, the Riddler was standing in front of the prostitute's car. He didn't realize this was the reason she was walking toward him, and not because she wanted one last client. He considered running to avoid the situation entirely, but decided to politely decline her offer before continuing on his hunt for a car.
"Not interested, honey." The prostitute pushed past him.
"I wasn't going to ask—"
"Got no drugs, either. Keep looking."
"I don't need drugs and I wasn't going to request your services."
The hooker turned and raised one recently waxed eyebrow. "Then what are you doing here?"
"I don't have a car anymore, thanks to Killer Croc."
"Small world. He's the reason I'm closing shop and going home."
The Riddler waited as the hooker opened her car door and sat down. He continued to wait as she started the engine and put the car in drive.
"What are you still standing there for?" she asked.
"I thought you were going to offer me a ride, since Killer Croc disrupted both our lives."
"Yeah, no. Maybe if you were taller and a little less ginger. Redheads kinda creep me out."
Without further comment, the hooker drove away, leaving the Riddler to stare after her with his mouth hanging open.
He had just been utterly humiliated and dismissed…by a forty-year-old street walker. The Riddler felt his carefully maintained ego dry up and shrivel to the size of a pea.
Awash in shame, Nigma now had no trouble finding a suitable car to steal, as riding a go-cart couldn't have damaged his ego any more. He was lucky enough to find a van that had been left unlocked, most likely on purpose and with the hope someone would be desperate enough to illegally remove it from the owner's hands. The van's owner hadn't been kind enough to leave the keys in the ignition—that would look a little too suspicious on an insurance claim—but the screwdriver sticking out from under the passenger's seat was the next best thing. Nigma jammed the screwdriver into the ignition slot and the van found it a suitable replacement for the key.
He again had wheels (though the wheels didn't have hubcaps) and wasted no time detouring around the mess that Croc had created. Free of the vehicular quagmire, Nigma drove towards the city limits. There was nothing to stop him now! He was free as a bird and... And he had condemned his only chess-mate and the closest thing he had to a friend to an unspeakable death.
He was dirt.
Nigma was dirt. Cops were dirt. The dispatcher too stupid to read the fear in the traitorous officer's voice was dirt. Handcuffs were dirt. Back seats too compact for men with long legs were dirt. Cars from the 80's were dirt. Being tortured was dirt. Dying was dirt.
But dying at the Joker's hands, that transcended dirt. That was the worst thing imaginable. That wasn't fair, goddamn it, it wasn't fair!
Crane wished he was three years old, so throwing a tantrum and then sobbing his eyes out would embarrass only his mother. Since he was a grown man, and one who was most certainly not going to sully his reputation by crying in front of a policeman, Crane had to bottle up his emotions. Unfortunately, the bottle he was pouring them all into was rather small, and it didn't seem to have a lid.
"I'm sorry. I know it amounts to nothing, but I'm sorry, Scarecrow. If my life wasn't on the line, I wouldn't be doing this," the cop said.
"Your life? Oh, your figurative life. Your job, your rat-infested apartment, and the relationship you have with whatever creature was stupid enough to marry you. Things that won't kill you if you lose them, in other words," Crane replied.
"How'd you know I was married?"
"Wedding ring. Not that it matters. It's not like I can return and do any harm to you or your wife. I'll be dead, you see, and likely in pieces. Many pieces."
"I'll be destroyed. If the Shark spills the beans, I won't be able to get a job at Taco Bell."
"I'll try to take solace in that as I'm being tortured to death."
The cop made a choked noise of despair. He'd done some scummy things in his day—one thing scummy enough to get him involved with a lowlife like the Great White Shark—but this had to be worse. This was murder, even if he wasn't actively participating. He was handing over the victim with full understanding of what a group of lunatics planned to do to said victim.
It was almost enough to make the cop pull over to the side of the road and release Crane. The only thing that stopped him was the phone call. The Shark knew he was coming and was expecting him in ten minutes. If he didn't deliver, not only would the Shark ruin his life, but the Joker would be pissed. The cop had no doubt White would give his name to the Joker, and from the clown there would be no mercy. Even if the Shark was as crooked as Bernie Madoff, he was still a businessman and might be reasoned with or bought off. The Joker was a maniac and nothing more.
"I can't let you go, but maybe there's something I can do for you."
Crane didn't fall to his knees in gratitude, and not only because the back seat didn't give him enough room. 'Maybe' was a word like 'interesting,' in the sense it could be used to mean anything and more often than not meant nothing. In this case, Crane suspected it was a ploy to keep him from emotionally melting down while clearing the cop's conscious; when Crane was handed off to his executioners, the policeman could rest easy, knowing he hadn't actually promised to help.
"And what would that be?" Crane inquired.
"I don't know yet. I'm still thinking."
Nothing but bullshit, just as Crane had suspected.
The Joker had some time to spend before he got his Scarecrow, and he used it to hammer out the finishing details, such as whether or not White's mysterious delivery boy got to leave alive and who got to play with the Scarecrow first. The delivery boy's fate couldn't fairly be decided until the Joker met him. If the guy looked like a rat, the clown would have him iced; if he looked like he knew how to keep his yap shut, he might be spared. Figuring out who had the privilege of first whack at the Scarecrow was easier.
"Rock, paper, scissors," the Joker announced.
"For what?" Black Mask asked.
"First chance to whump Johnny."
White looked down at his hand to make sure he had the necessary fingers to play rock, paper, scissors. He mimed the actions, and though his rock and paper were lacking, they were recognizable. Satisfied that he wouldn't be at a disadvantage, Warren joined Zsasz and Black Mask.
It was a decisive one-game victory for Zsasz. Both the Shark and Black Mask had assumed the scarred serial killer would go with scissors and countered with rocks. He anticipated their move and eliminated them both with paper. Their demands for best out of three were ignored.
"Wouldn't have put money on that one," the Joker said.
The losers were then given new jobs. The Joker assigned them the duty of waiting out on the street corner until Crane was delivered, and escorting him inside. Black Mask followed the Shark, but made sure it was noted that nobody ordered him around in his own lair before he left.
Waiting was boring, so the Joker tried to strike up a conversation with Zsasz. He would have had better luck talking to the desk Zsasz was searching.
"So, Vic, what are you looking for?" the Joker asked.
"Letter opener."
"Tell me if you find a bottle of scotch in there. I don't know where Black Mask put it, and I wasn't done with it."
It didn't take much ransacking for Zsasz to find what he was looking for. He triumphantly held up a letter opener that looked sharp enough to slice open more than envelopes. The Joker offered to enhance the moment by reciting a few lyrics from Sweeney Todd. He rescinded his offer when Zsasz glared at him and jabbed the letter opener in his direction.
"Somebody doesn't appreciate a good musical," the Joker said.
Zsasz grunted, affirming the Joker's statement. Some people had no taste, and there was no helping it.
Even if Zsasz wasn't going to respond—or do anything except run his finger down the edge of the letter opener's blade—the Joker could always monologue at him. There were a few rules the clown wanted to lay down, and he thought they'd penetrate into the weirdo's disturbed brain.
"Hey, Captain Choppy, I'm happy you finally found a friend, but I've got something to tell you." The Joker made sure he spoke loudly and clearly, as though addressing someone who was a bit deaf or mentally stunted.
"Tell it."
"You can't kill the Scarecrow. That's rule one, and that's my job and mine alone. Rule two: you can't hurt him so badly nobody else gets a turn. Because Black Mask and the Fish will whine and that will annoy me. And rule three…meh, two rules is plenty."
"No killing, and no mortal wounds. Alright."
Though the Joker knew Zsasz would forget all about the rules as soon as he was left alone with the Scarecrow, the clown was satisfied enough. If and when Zsasz tried to open Crane's throat, the Joker had a contingency plan. Until then, they'd all get a good show out of it. The Joker was a fan of Zsasz's work—the Mona Lisa had nothing on a carefully posed, recently deceased Arkham guard—and it would be fun to see how Johnny would react to being cut.
And speaking of Johnny, the delivery boy had two minutes left in his half-hour window. If there wasn't a Scarecrow on the corner in the next 120 seconds, somebody wasn't getting a tip.
Author's Notes:
In Shaun of the Dead, one of Shaun's fantasies involves him drinking from a mug that reads "I am a genius".
Peter Vincent is the (fake) vampire hunter from Fright Night. Van Helsing is from Dracula. And Buffy, of course, is from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
A fainting goat, when threatened, becomes rigid and falls over.