Many thanks for the reviews. Have I ever told you guys how awesomely awesome you are? Well, I'm doing it again. You're the very definition of awesome. And if you're not, one of you go make it so on Wikipedia or UrbanDictionary.
So this was it. This was how his life was going to end. Not in some public and degrading spectacle that would live forever online (thank God), not at a ripe old age and surrounded by grandkids (he'd never really expected that one), and not saving the United States from an impending alien invasion (a man could dream, couldn't he?). No, Joe the Cabbie was going to die in an anonymous apartment building in the Narrows with only a poisoned young woman and a sadistic fruitcake for company.
When faced with impending death, even men of Joe's philosophical level could engage in deep and intriguing internal conversations. The cabbie had never read Aristotle and didn't know William James from Calvin Coolidge, but as he sat and waited, Joe had some remarkable thoughts about life, death, and all that goes on across the universe. His thoughts were never going to appear in a college philosophy textbook, but they were still poignant.
Joe thought about his ex-wife; he'd put off analyzing his marriage and subsequent divorce for far too long. With only a few sane minutes left in his life, he figured now would be as good a time as any to relieve himself of any lingering doubts or bitterness. He missed the woman with whom he'd spent ten good years, three fair years, one bad year, and six miserable months. They'd had their good times and their bad times, and maybe Joe was just being sentimental, but he decided the good outweighed the bad by several infinities.
Their marriage had come apart slowly, unraveling like an old sweater. It was half his fault, half hers. Or maybe the split was more along the lines of seventy/thirty, or fifty-two/forty-eight or maybe the fractions just didn't matter.
Either way, they'd gone their separate ways and now Joe wished he'd called her more often to make sure she wasn't living in a doghouse somewhere in the outskirts of Akron. He wished he'd sent her flowers on Valentine's Day. He wished they'd kept in touch. He wished he'd done a lot of things.
"Too late now," Joe muttered.
"Too late for what?" Scarecrow asked.
"Everything. It's too late for everything."
Scarecrow smiled at Joe's misery. Even if he hadn't gotten the obstinate fool to admit it, Scarecrow knew he had thoroughly and completely beaten down the cabbie. Joe wasn't quite a sobbing, broken husk of a man—the last dose would take care of that—but the cockiness had been drained from him.
"Yes, there aren't many life's goals that can be achieved in three minutes, especially when you can't even walk," Scarecrow said.
Joe could have delivered a snappy comeback, but he didn't. His time had wound down to, as the Scarecrow had just said, three minutes. That was hardly enough time to make a bag of microwavable popcorn, let alone make peace with your entire life and find solace in what'd you done with your years.
"As your last two hundred seconds tick away, are you afraid of what's coming? Fear, madness, death, do they intimidate you?"
These last, vanishing seconds were far too valuable to squandered responding to the Scarecrow's questions. Joe pushed the taunting voice from his head and stayed focused. He'd finally acknowledged the pain from his dissolved marriage that had haunted him and no longer had to carry that weight. Now he just had to come to terms and find some closure with everything else. If he was ever going to get to even a fraction of his ghosts, he couldn't allow himself to be distracted.
"Don't feel like answering that one? That's alright. It was more of a rhetorical question, anyway. Of course you're intimidated. You're probably terrified, and if you aren't, you will be soon enough," Scarecrow said.
Joe was not terrified of dying. The knowledge of his impending end was a little off-putting at best and he had no real explanation to elucidate his lack of apprehension. He had no strong, solid belief in an afterlife, he had not been comforted by the words or writings of any great thinker, and he wasn't desensitized. He must have just been weird.
"While you're no doubt recalling all the marvelous things you did in your life, let's see if you can answer this question. For a man of your achievements it may be difficult, but try to be humble. What do you regret?" Scarecrow asked.
Joe had been able to ignore the Scarecrow's first question; this one struck him too sharply. He was pulled away from his thoughts and said a single name.
"Danielle."
That gave Scarecrow pause. He pondered the cabbie's answer. What aspect of Danielle did Joe regret? Meeting her in the first place, failing to protect her, dying before she did?
"Interesting, that a women you've known for all of eight hours would affect you so deeply. I almost wish I had time to analyze the situation and get to know your psyche better. I'll have to settle for shattering it instead."
Scarecrow finished swapping the toxins. The task could have taken only thirty seconds if he'd been in a mood to hurry; he'd purposely taken his time, giving Joe an extra few minutes to stew. There was no reason to deny his victim the chance to stare into the yawning chasm before Scarecrow gave him the final push into the darkness.
"Don't worry too much. She'll be joining you soon enough. Her screams are appealing but nothing spectacular. I'll dispose of her in an hour or so and find a place to dump your bodies. Would you rather the river or a secluded spot in Robinson Park?" Scarecrow asked.
There was no way to get back to his contemplative internal world now. Joe was too outraged and disgusted by the Scarecrow's comments. Killing someone was bad enough; casually discussing another murder and the subsequent dumping of the bodies was an inhuman outrage. Anger he didn't know he had the energy to still feel surged through him.
"Keep me in the freezer for all I care. But don't you dare do anything to her. You son of a bitch, don't you dare."
"And here I thought I'd beaten the sarcasm out of you. Not quite all of it, apparently. You are a truly resilient specimen. I've never met anyone who could take so much abuse."
"I'm not trying to be funny. Listen to me, you weird little nutcase, what you've done is bad enough. Leave her alone or I'll make you regret it."
"I can't believe it. You're still blowing empty threats at me, as if you weren't a minute away from having your mind destroyed. You lost. You are going to die. I win, I'm going to kill you, and I'll do whatever I want with the both of you. If I decide to use your stinking corpse as a doorstop, I will. If I choose to pickle her internal organs, it will happen. Do you understand me?" Scarecrow asked.
There were no words in any known language to describe Joe's fury. Luckily, there was a gesture that could convey his feelings. With both hands, unscathed and butchered alike, Joe flipped off the Scarecrow. The hand that had endured so much abuse throbbed with newfound vigor but Joe shoved the pain out of the way and kept his one-finger salute fully erect.
"Classy. Even to the end, you are true to your nature. Congratulations. Let's have the send off and be rid of you once and for all," Scarecrow said.
Needle in hand, Scarecrow advanced on Joe. The cabbie forced a grin and refused to lower his final message to the villain. Every muscle in his body demanded he at least make an attempt at fleeing, but Joe silenced his survival instinct. This was no time to listen to his fears.
"I see you've dropped my mask, so I'll offer you one last deal. Hand it over to me and I'll put you out of your misery after half an hour," Scarecrow said.
The burlap sack sat in Joe's lap. He'd let it go because he'd decided giving the Scarecrow the finger was more important than keeping his mask hostage. It was obvious Scarecrow intended to kill him, mask or no mask, so Joe had put his hands to better use.
"You want it, take it. My hands are busy working overtime, in case you didn't notice," Joe replied. His maimed hand felt like it had been working five days straight without a rest, and the cabbie honestly didn't know how much longer he could choke back the pain before half his vulgar protest collapsed.
"No early release for you, I see. If that's how you want it, that's how you'll get it," Scarecrow said.
Scarecrow, circling Joe to avoid any last-second attacks the cabbie might have had planned, came up behind his victim. Joe lowered his hands and slumped his shoulders. He had done his best, and while it hadn't been good enough, he wouldn't die totally ashamed.
"Any last words? You have ten seconds, so make them quick," Scarecrow said.
"Yeah, here's two words. Fu-"
"Joe."
Two heads abruptly turned towards Danielle. Joe dared to hope he'd see her lucid and shaking off the fear toxin's dreadful effects. That was the last thing Scarecrow wanted to see; if his test subject was recovering already, it would imply his entire batch of toxin was defective. Having to round up all the necessary ingredients and start over would be an enormous, expensive, and time-consuming task.
Danielle was looking about as aware as the average eggplant. She was still tightly curled in on herself and was obviously still under the full effects of the toxin. There was no way she could have been cognizant to Joe's plight; she was calling out to him because of something she was hallucinating.
"Maybe she still thinks you can help her. Poor deluded little girl. You can't even help yourself, let alone save her. If she recovers before I kill her, I'll let her know how miserable your end was and how misplaced her hope in you was," Scarecrow said.
Before Joe could reply, Danielle called his name again. Her voice was haunted and filled with an unbelievable amount of fear. She sounded like she was facing down the most awful thing in the universe and it was about to snack on her.
Her tormented voice was like a good kick in the ass. It broke through Joe's barrier of resignation and kindled a blaze in him. He had been on the verge of accepting death and taking it without further fuss. Now he realized the long and winding road of his life couldn't run out just yet. There was one more promise he had to keep, no matter the cost.
"Scarecrow."
Hearing his name, the villain looked down at his victim. "Yes? Is there something you want? Funeral arrangements, maybe?"
"Remember when I told you I'd yank your mask off and make you eat it?"
"Vaguely," Scarecrow replied.
"It's time."
Scarecrow burst into merciless laughter. "That's rich, coming from a man who-"
The lunatic's laughter was cut off abruptly when Joe grabbed his ankle and yanked him off his feet.
In a not so distant part of the Narrows, another psychopath was interrupted unexpectedly. He stopped using his carving knife like a drumstick and listened intently. A new sound, one he'd been hoping to hear, reached his ears. It was the low roar of powerful engines, and it was coming his way in a hurry.
Zsasz felt a familiar and marvelous sensation steal over him. It was an amalgamation of fear, anticipation, excitement and pleasure. It was the thrill of the hunt and it never failed to get his blood pumping.
The killer was like a stalking cat that was prepared to pounce, his body thrumming with tense energy. He shifted from a sitting position to a crouch and brought the knife up to chest level. He would move with the speed of a chameleon's tongue when the time was right; when his prey wandered into the alley, he would grab and restrain it before it ever had a chance to defend itself.
After a few minutes of almost breathless waiting, Zsasz finally caught sight of the squad cars. There were three of them, and they were no longer barreling down the streets like they were in hot pursuit of someone. They crept by the alley, but it was obvious they would stop and park nearby.
"Pretty little policemen in a row. Don't keep me waiting too long," Zsasz said to himself.
Two blocks down, the police cars pulled up to the curb. The six officers emerged into the cool night air. Stephens took time to reiterate the dangers of the situation and to remind everyone of the insane killer's long rap sheet. Having been properly warned, the cops paired up, turned on their flashlights and began the search.
"I love the buddy system. It saved me at summer camp once," Benson said.
Stephens knew ignoring his partner would do no good, so he asked, "How? Your fellow camper pull you out of the lake?"
"No, but that would have been less painful. I got stung by a bee, right on the nose, and my eyelids swelled shut. My buddy hefted my blind ass over his shoulders and carried me down the trail. Funny thing was, he was twenty pounds lighter than me and could hardly lift a tennis racket. I don't know how he ever got me off the ground."
"Does every single one of your stories involve bees?"
"Only the good ones."
Stephens resisted the urge to whack his partner with his flashlight. Instead of bruising Benson's head, the detective shined his powerful light down a deserted alley. The reflective eyes of a stray cat peered back at the detectives before the animal hissed in displeasure and bolted.
"Poking around like this will take all night. I'm going to try calling the phone," Benson said.
"Go ahead. It's probably been turned off or destroyed," Stephens replied.
Benson brought out his own phone, punched in Danielle's number from memory, and listened keenly for any music, chirps, or buzzing. There was nothing that sounded remotely like a ringtone.
"The phone's still on; it rings and then is forwarded to voicemail. We just aren't close enough to hear it," Benson said.
"We aren't close enough or it's on silent, or vibrate, or is sitting in Zsasz's pocket. We're looking for a needle in a haystack."
"No, we're looking for a phone the size of a playing card in a dirty, rundown, bombed-out crater. We've got—let me do the math—about 280,000 square feet to search. Always assuming the phone is still here and our man didn't turn tail and isn't half way to Metropolis by now."
"I'd bet you anything he's still here," Stephens replied.
"Alright, here's the deal. We find him, I won't mention bees or a certain cat and mouse duo for a whole week. We don't find him, you come over my house this weekend and watch Tom and Jerry with me without complaining or breaking my TV."
Stephens jumped on the opportunity to earn a week without Benson's awful jokes and wasp-related tales. If he hadn't been motivated to find the lunatic before, he was dead-set on it now. There was nothing that would keep him from dragging Zsasz's sorry carcass straight back to Arkham, where it rightfully belonged.
Nothing, that was, except the nine inches of serrated steel the killer planned to use on his detective friends.
If anyone wants a fun challenge, in this chapter there are five Beatles song titles plus lyrics for I am the Walrus and Happiness is a Warm Gun. All the titles are two or more words long, so Help and Because don't count, just because that's too easy. Happy hunting, if you so decide to accept this mission.