"I used to have a real name, you know." Crazy Quilt said, back turned to his guest, gazing out at the pitch-black night sky. "Paul Dekker. I am an artist. I was an artist."
Crazy Quilt was a sharp-looking man, with sallow skin, gray eyes and a pencil-thin mustache. Most notable, however, was his choice of wardrobe. A golden helmet, white scarf, and bizarre suit adorned with patches of red, yellow, green, and blue.
"But that was then. This is now. Since then, I discovered my current alias well after I was born. I was born to refer to myself as such. This answer must frustrate you, I imagine. Ultimately, what you WANT is a narrative. A convenient clown for you all to laugh at and feel better about yourselves." Crazy Quilt said to the person behind him. "But, believe it or not, Miss Vale, I don't blame you. You're a reporter. It's your job. You have a choice. You don't have a choice."
"It may surprise you to learn that I was actually a happy child." He mused. "My family never had much. We always had everything. The one little signature I put on my canvas was being briefly colorblind when I was four. I don't exactly remember what it was I had, but the important thing was I got better. And when I did get better, and all the colors of the world were exposed to me? It was like I was Dorothy Gale in the movie, exiting my house and entering Oz for the very first time."
"If I'm boring you, please let me know." he added to the person behind him. "You can stop me at any time, I don't wish to be a rude host."
He cupped his finger to his ear, and heard only silence. "That means a lot, you know. Don't have a lot of people I can just… talk to these days. You've been a very good audience, so please indulge me a bit longer."
"And so, instead of playthings on holidays, I asked my family and friends for paper. Books on famous artists. Easels. And paint. Lots and lots and lots of paint. My little stubby little fingers twitched when they weren't kept busy. I actually repainted houses for people in my neighborhood to make some extra money every once in a while. And when I hit it big? I sent personalized checks to every single family who allowed me into their homes to practice my craft. I wish I could have seen their faces as they realized little Paulie Dekker is the one who was sending their children to college."
Crazy Quilt allowed himself a sad little smile as he overlooked his city.
"I was happy, then. My big break came when I entered a pay-to-play art show. I'm an artist, not an accountant, but even I knew a 500,000 entry fee was a bit much. Millions of dollars on the line for the one artist who could wow the hungry audiences of Gotham City. When I longingly told my parents how I'd love to enter it they immediately came to the conclusion I must be in this show. When my birthday rolled around a few days before the sign-up closed I got an envelope containing a word of congratulations from the art director. They believed in me. Or, at the very least, were very good at humoring me."
"I spent the next couple of weeks slaving over my canvas. And I finally came up with my first truly exceptional piece of work. How my parents' eyes bulged when they had seen what I had put together. They asked me if I was absolutely sure I wanted to present it. I assured them I was comfortable taking a huge risk right off the bat. I was terrified."
"And then, the big day came. The Baker's Dozen of Gotham had thirteen cloaks over their paintings, and all revealed it simultaneously. I held my breath as I shared my vision with the world. The crowd eagerly milled about, eager to find the art they could place on their mantles to appear cultured among their brethren. We were not required to stay at our stations, so I too looked around to scope out my competition. They were all very, very good. I was so fascinated to see where my fellow artists took the assignment that I neglected to man my station for about an hour."
"As I returned, it was of little and absolute surprise that the crowd was drawn the most to mine. The judges were whispering in harsh voices to one another, wondering if they were allowed to enjoy it. You've doubtlessly seen the silhouette before replicated in graffiti, but the original portrays The Batman himself. He is holding a bag of takeout from Big Belly Burger, standing over the corpses of Thomas and Martha Wayne in Park Row."
"But that was just one of four major revelations of the evening. The second came as the crowd parted to see Bruce Wayne himself arrive, wearing a tucked into the pocket his tuxedo that stated he was a judge. I hadn't known he would be here tonight, the panel had been kept a secret. His expression was unreadable as he stared up at the depiction of his parents' murder. He asked the crowd who had made it. I immediately raised my hand."
"What does this mean to you, Mr. Dekker?" he asked. "What made you choose this? I'd like to add your perspective to mine."
"Well," I answered, "It was to say Gotham was the one that failed your parents. That's why Batman's logo is shaped like our city. That Batman saw the bat-signal and decided to stop for drive-thru on his way to save your parents. He was distracted by his own impulses, and was too late to do his job. Even though the place is called Park Row, I used the colloquial name its inhabitants use. That's why the piece is called Crime Alley."
"He took this all in and gave my work another look."
"'Mr. Dekker, thank you for your submission. You really brought my parents to life.' He shook my hand and went over to the judges to deliberate. As his admirers patted me on the back and offered their own words of congratulations, I simply nodded and thanked them, a big smile on my face. And that is what launched my career. And that is why I killed him. I did it for no reason."
Crazy Quilt gestured at the corpse beside him, which was bloodied and bruised all over. His organs had been removed, drained of their blood and slapped across a canvas like a wet towel entitled Vicki Vale's Folly.
"It was the beginning of my career." Crazy Quilt said. "The one physical thing I had left before I turned to my life of larceny, and Mr. Krill submitted the same piece to the same place, but with polka dots. I know the good lord will forgive me for what I've done. Take you, for instance, bugging Sue Williams and Lois Lane and sniping their experiences. You are nothing, Miss Vale. A parasite. A pretty picture over a moldy canvas. And there is nothing you can do about it. The bell cannot be unrung, not even for you. Good evening, Detective."
"It's over, Dekker." Batman said, withdrawing from the shadows.
"You've caught me red-handed." Crazy Quilt chuckled, turning around and mockingly extending his hands as though he was being handcuffed. "Bet you're feeling blue you didn't solve this one yourself, eh? I simply couldn't help myself, Miss Vale was positively green with envy and you do know how I hate a plagiarist."
"I know you love yourself." Batman responded. "The attention, certainly. Where is The Joker, Dekker?"
"I love you as well." Crazy Quilt chuckled. "We were one another's muse for a few months. You never caught me, I never killed you. It was enormous fun. And then… you just had to go and ruin it with an inferior follow-up. The Boy Wonder. Three's a crowd, after all."
"Be very careful what you say next." Batman whispered.
"I'm actually unique among your rogue's gallery in that I hated him more than you. Loved the costume, though. Before my smiling friend returned your overcooked turkey's trimmings back to you. We were all there, you know. All your muses. Cobblepot, Dent, Nygma, Zsasz, Sionis, Garzonas… all wanted a souvenir. Would you like to know if he was yellow when he died, Detective?"
A gloved fist immediately knocked Crazy Quilt to the ground, with another breaking his nose.
"That's not very careful."
When Crazy Quilt came to, his fingers had all been broken and he was handcuffed, costume ripped in the front and a Bat-Brand covering his chest. Red and blue sirens glowed through the windows, but the orange glow of a flame burning all of Crazy Quilt's art in a metal drum was what truly filled the supervillain's heart with terror.
"You think this will stop me?! I created you, Wayne! THE REAL YOU!" Crazy Quilt screamed, spitting out blood as he laughed. "What you call villainy, I call artistic differences."