The doors of Arkham Asylum slammed shut, one door at a time, each heavy lock clicking into place as the door closed. It was a safety procedure that was as old as the asylum itself.
A $20 bill crumpled into an orderly's hand.
"I say he doesn't make it past 30 minutes," said Mike, one of the newer orderlies.
"Fifty dollars that he lasts an hour," said Joe, waving the new, crisp bill smugly.
"And I say $75 – $75 that you are both wrong," declared Schuster.
The orderlies' stunned silence was punctuated by the sound of the slamming thick metal doors of Arkham. Schuster was a good 20 years older than both Mike and Joe, whom he considered "spring chicks" in comparison to his long, hard years at the asylum. By comparison to Schuster, Joe and Mike were "pretty boys," handsome and strong while Schuster had a cracked left incisor from a particularly violent inmate five years ago and never bothered to repair it.
"Why bother fix it? I'm no looker," Schuster would say.
Schuster also had graying hair and a healthy bit of stubble he wasn't too fond of shaving before coming to work.
"I say both of you are wrong, boys," said Schuster. "Seventy-five bucks that he not only lasts, but he breaks the Weevil."
The Weevil was an especially notorious patient that doctors at Arkham Asylum usually couldn't stand more than a few minutes let alone treat. Mike and Joe laughed at Schuster.
"I think we should now commit you," cried Mike. "No doctor has broken the Weevil. The Weevil breaks the doctors."
"Oh, not this doctor. There is something special about him. The look in his eye – I don't know. Something different about him – chilling somehow," muttered Schuster, rubbing his chin. "If someone can break the Weevil, it's him."
"You're mad, but we'll take you're money all the same," snickered Joe. "And when he screams out, crying for his mommy, we'll drink to your health on your money at the bar tonight."
"Yer gonna lose fellas," said Schuster. "But a bet's a bet."
Schuster grinned, showing his yellowed, cracked tooth.
Slam! Clack! Slam! Clack! Slam! Clack!
One by one the heavy steel white doors of Arkham unlocked, sliding back the heavy bolts, letting the doctor through. He was oblivious as the doors closed and locked behind him. His eyes were to his notepad as he walked, busily perusing the patient's file.
Eric Amsters – a.k.a. The Weevil. Received name for the ability to creep into people's minds, including doctors.
This should be fascinating. Finally perhaps even a patient worthy of study.
The last door slammed heavily behind the doctor and the young orderlies fought hard to suppress a snicker while Schuster gazed upon him with the utmost respect.
"And that is who you're willing to lose $75 to, old man," Joe laughed.
The doctor almost looked like a teenage boy dressed up in his father's best suit. He was a phenomenon to some, a "freak" to others, depending on who you talked to. Dr. Jonathan Crane, the youngest psychologist ever to graduate from Gotham City University with a dual doctorate summa cum laud in biochemistry. Already he was known for his daring and bold research studies, rocking academia with difficult (if not disturbing) questions and controversial case studies into the foundations and possible "cures" to common phobias and fears. Dr. Jonathan Crane, a name already being talked about amongst academia (not always in positive terms) – and he wasn't even 30 yet.
So absorbed was Crane in the patient's file that Mike was tempted to trip the young doctor (who looked a great deal like the many nerds he used to torment in high school). To Mike, he seemed like such a little weakling, so different from what he heard of the so-called illustrious Dr. Crane. Surely they couldn't be talking about this Dr. Crane? They had to be joking. He could beat him up in the washroom and nobody would be the wiser. No, this weakling wouldn't stand 5 seconds in front of the Weevil.
Crane stopped outside the now famous door of the Weevil, which didn't look any different from any of the other plain white metal doors. He momentarily looked up from the patient's file and gazed at Mike. Suddenly the young orderly was looking into those chilling blue eyes and Mike thought he saw something, a hint of whatever Schuster guessed at in the young doctor. It made Mike feel as though he wouldn't ever want to be at this young man's mercy, because he would find none.
"Is Mr. Amsters ready for treatment," asked Dr. Crane.
"Weev – I mean Amsters is ready, sir."
"Dr. Crane is sufficient, Mr. Peterson."
Crane gazed through the wire-enforced glass and his blue eyes suddenly seemed to turn as cold and as hard as steel.
"No, Mr. Peterson. I see he is not ready. I see you have not read my specific orders before my arrival."
Mike gazed dumbfounded while Joe fought to suppress a snicker and Schuster pretended to be arranging the plastic cups of the patients' medication.
"According to my specific orders, Mr. Amsters is not to be restrained." Cranes eyes were ice. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
"Y-yes, sir – uh – Dr. Crane."
At that point Mike was hoping the Weevil would rip this self-pretentious nerd apart if he couldn't.
Mike went into the Weevil's room and quickly unbound him while Joe held the tranquilizing gun in case he decided to attack. To the contrary, the Weevil was more than overjoyed to be free of the restraining chair and even thanked them for it. Once Crane saw his orders were followed and the room was clear, he smoothed back the pages of the patient's file and confidently entered the dimly lit room.
Slam! Click!
The Weevil's eyes lit up with the sound of the heavy door slamming and locking behind the young doctor.
"So you're here to cure me," whispered the Weevil. "I heard the Crane was coming. That they would send the Crane."
"And so they have sent me, Mr. Amsters."
"No, no, no. Call me Weevil." His pale gray eyes lip up. "I like that so much better. Amsters – Amsters is the name of my father. Don't like my father. No, no don't like my father. Amsters also rhymes with hamsters. Hate hamsters. Like weevils. Teeny tiny beetles burrow, wiggle, deep down deep."
The patient known as the Weevil wasn't physically imposing. Crane had met many more frightening people in many a dark alley in his day. But the Weevil had a quiet, insinuating menace about him that Crane could automatically sense. Weevil's sandy blond hair partially obscured an old, nasty scar across his forehead. Weevil eagerly put his hands on the bolted-down stainless steel table while nervously fidgeting with his fingers. Crane took a seat opposite him, opening the patient file and removing his gold pen.
"No, you can't be the Crane. They promise me the Crane. They say the Crane pecks your eyes out if you don't answers his questions right. You can't be the Crane."
Weevil squirmed in his restraining chair, licking his lips, his bright gray eyes hungry. Dr. Crane narrowed his cool, blue eyes.
"I see you suffered abuse as a child. Tell me a little about that."
"Abuse? What abuse? Oh, this kind?" Weevil brushed back his hair, proudly showing off the scar. At that moment, with the hair out of his face, Crane noticed the Weevil was quite a young man, not much older than himself.
"Scars are fun, eh," cried Weevil. "People can see them. They point. Eyes looking, always looking. Oh, look at the pretty scar! Hands touching all over! Scar, scar, scar! We love scars, don't we? The Crane pecks fresh scars. Does the Crane drink blood?"
Dr. Crane suddenly looked up from his notepad, which was quickly filling up with notes.
"I think the Crane drinks blood because the Crane scars and the Crane hunts, don't we Crane? The Crane has monsters he needs to feed."
His pen stopped dead on the pad of paper.
"Oh, yes, yes, yes. The Weevil listens for the flapping of Crane's wings. I hear where the Crane nests. Poor filthy early nest for the Crane, not bird but rat nest, filthy gutter Narrows rat!"
Crane's eyes grew intense, his eyes ablaze with both fire and ice.
"I see the abuse came from your father," said Crane. "That must have been especially traumatic. Was he the one who gave you that wound?"
"The Crane is a filthy Narrows rat. I had a father, but Crane rat probably didn't even have a father. Filthy bastard son of a whore –"
"You!"
Crane was gripping the gold pen tightly as though it was a dagger he was about to jam deep into Weevil's heart. Weevil gazed at Crane, his eyes bright with sadistic pleasure, a malicious grin spreading over his lips.
"Poor bastard Crane nothing," Weevil laughed. "Nothing but bones and rags. Wears fancy suit, but still filthy gutter rat, still whore-son from the Narrows."
Crane slowly removed his glasses and gazed with chilling precision at Weevil.
"Tell me, Mr. Amsters, when you were being abused, that must have been so traumatic for you, especially coming from someone so trusted and admired as a father. You must have felt such pain and shame wondering 'What, what did I do? Why doesn't he love me?'"
"Shut up, whore-son!"
"And you must have been so afraid, constantly wondering when he'd do it again, never knowing when or where, always listening for his footsteps on the stairs, his hand at the doorknob."
"Shut up, filthy gutter-rat!"
"Minutes, hours, days creep by never knowing when you will feel that hand, that knife, the pain when you should have felt nothing but love from your father."
Weevil screamed. In an instant he violently lunged across the stainless steel table, clawing for Crane's throat. He didn't strive to fend off the attack or protect his neck in the least as Weevil's steely grip clamped down upon him. Suddenly Weevil felt the telltale pinprick of a needle sliding into a vein, pumping him full of some unknown drug, which he knew within seconds would reach his brain.
"Crane has killed me," screamed Weevil. "The Crane has killed the Weevil!"
"No," said Crane, a slow, malicious smile spreading across his lips. "Now you will tell me of your father, the abuse, your darkest fears – everything."
A heart wrenching shriek followed by a wail pierced the thick metal door. The orderlies soon heard frantic sobbing and pleading that grew more pathetic until it degenerated into inane babbling.
"That's it, Crane's done for," said Joe smugly.
"Pay up, old man," said Mike.
Slam! Click!
Young Dr. Jonathan Crane stood outside in the hallway, furiously taking down notes. From the amount of pages he'd already written, it looked like he was planning to write a book.
"Mr. Peterson, I recommend you give Mr. Amsters a strong sedative. I fear the session proved to be a bit too stressful for him today."
"I – uh – yes, Dr. Crane."
Without further word Crane turned his eyes back to his notepad and swiftly continued writing as he walked down the hallway. Mike and Joe gazed in shock at the young doctor.
"Pay up, boys," mumbled Schuster, smiling.
Grudgingly they crushed the bills into his calloused hand.