Machiano's eyes fluttered open, his vision blurry. He sucked in a breath, trying to clear his mind as he raised his head. His head and neck were aching quite a bit and he couldn't remember what had just happened.

Must have been some night, he thought groggily.

He tried to move his hand to reach for his gun; he always checked on his gun first thing in the morning, but then realized something strong and resilient was holding his wrists and ankles tightly. He also could feel he was sitting upright on a hard chair instead of lying on a bed. Machiano strained his eyes, willing them to see clearly through the fog of whatever drug he was on. Gradually they began to focus and saw he was in a dingy, run down room in some forgotten part of the city. Yellowed blinds covered the windows, a few cockroaches nibbled at some crumbs in a corner and a lamp with no shade sat in the corner on a cheap plastic table.

A place this ugly has to be in the Narrows, thought Machiano. And someone like him probably was born here.

Machiano turned his cold gray eyes to Crane, who sat opposite him in front on a folding chair. Crane was gazing at him with those cold analytic eyes, a creepy tightly controlled grin upon his lips.

"I'm glad you had a good sleep, Mr. Machiano. I trust you find this setting acceptable for our first session?"

"You sick, twisted, little f-ck," cried Machiano, pulling against the leather restraints. "If you let me go right now, maybe I won't blow your head off!"

"Animosity, not the best way to start off a doctor-patient relationship, but regrettably it happens from time to time. I hope you will be able to work past it and learn to trust me. I assure you you will not regret it."

"Are you f-cking insane? I'm not your f-cking patient! Now get me out of this f-cking chair right NOW!"

Dr. Crane turned his eyes to his notepad and wrote something on it with his gold pen.

"Mr. Machiano, I always find when I first take on a new patient, it may be an awkward, even an aggressive situation. Some patients come to me against their will, but I assure you these patients soon learn to appreciate what I can do for them."

"I am not your patient!"

"Now in our first session, I do hope to learn a little bit more about you, Mr. Machiano. I have your file here."

Dr. Crane slipped out a folder from beneath his notepad and opened it up. There seemed to be at least 10 sheets of typed pages stuffed inside and although Machiano suspected it was all nonsense, he wondered if this lunatic truly had something he could use against him.

Either way I will have to kill him, Machiano thought.

"I always find it best when I start a new patient to ask him is there something he wishes to share with me," said Crane, keeping the pages balanced on his bony knees. "Is there anything you wish to share with me, Mr. Machiano?"

"F-ck you!"

Dr. Crane stopped looking amused; his eyes turned cold.

"Is there a reason, Mr. Machiano, that you first began preying on women three years ago, beginning with Jessica Tannen?"

Machiano spat in the direction of Crane.

"I will take that as a 'No.' How about Veronica Kestrel? From the looks of it that was assault and murder." Crane looked up, his eyes blue ice. "That was unusually brutal, even for you."

"I won't blow your head off once I'm out of here," spat Machiano. "I'll shoot you in the gut so you can slowly bleed to death for wasting my time!"

"And what makes you think you'll get out of here so quickly, Mr. Machiano?"

Up until that point Machiano thought he was in a fairly easy device to escape from. Quite simply he was in a wooden chair with leather straps that fastened around his wrists and ankles, finally locking in buckles. Machiano had seen many restraining devices in his day from his early days in "coercion" for Falcone. Machiano eventually decided his heart was more for killing, but he was confident that the device he was in right now he could break out of in five minutes or less.

"You think you can escape from that chair," said Crane coolly. "Go ahead and try it while I'll tell you a little bit more about it."

This moron is giving me permission to escape? What a f-cking amateur, thought Machiano. Maybe I'll just shoot him in the head after all.

Crane got up from his own chair and began to walk around Machiano much like a salesman about to talk about a prized car on a show floor. Meanwhile Machiano started to yank at the restraints with his full strength without much progress. The chair never moved in all his exertions; it was bolted down to the floor.

"The chair you are sitting in is no ordinary chair, Mr. Machiano. For a man who only wants the best, I have given you the best. This is no standard issue restraint chair. This is the latest model, built of solid maple – the strongest wood for restraint chairs, with reinforced stainless steel double-lock buckles. The leather restraints also are made with exacting thickness, twice the thickness of regular restraint strap leather. Quite simply, Mr. Machiano, this chair was built for exceptionally violent patients. I guess that fits your description well."

"Listen to me you –"

"Do you wish to tell me anything more about yourself? Your fears, perhaps?"

Crane leaned close, a hungry gleam in his eyes. For a brief moment Machiano was afraid of the look – the look of a madman he almost thought – but then he spat full into Crane's glasses. He grimaced, slowly slipping the glasses off his nose and using the sleeve of his suit jacket to clean them.

"I hope you are enjoying this," said Machiano. "Because Falcone will be looking for me and then you'll be wishing you were dead you loser sh-t!"

He looked at Machiano, his gaze unyielding ice.

"What makes you so sure Falcone will be looking for you so quickly?"

"I finished my hit."

"And after all hits your rape a girl, is that not so, Snake?"

Machiano gazed at Crane. His tone suddenly changed; it was no longer cold and analytical. At the name "Snake," he slammed his file on the table by the lamp with such vigor it nearly startled the almost unshakable Machiano. The young man before him suddenly seemed angry, vengeful and hungry.

"Oh, no, Falcone will not be looking for you for awhile. You go off to 'celebrate,' don't you, Snake? You rape poor girls and leave them in the gutter and think it's fun, don't you?"

Machiano opened his mouth to spew some curse words, but Scarecrow crushed his mouth closed with his hand.

"Veronica Kestrel – the one you murdered," whispered Scarecrow harshly. "You had a lot of fun with her, eh? She was after one of your big court cases. You held her captive for a week having fun with her before you killed her. Falcone didn't question your whereabouts then, did he?"

Scarecrow relished seeing some of the hope fade from Machiano's eyes. Slowly he took his hand away from the hitman's mouth and stepped back.

"I have you at least for a week," gloated Scarecrow. "Are you afraid now, Snake? Are you afraid of all the things I might do to you in that week?"

Machiano suddenly gazed up at Scarecrow, a defiant fire in his eyes.

"F-ck you! I'm afraid of no one."

"That's the wrong answer," whispered Scarecrow, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "Because you will fear me once I'm through."

"Fear you? Are you trying to make me laugh again," cried Machiano.

Machiano nervous laugh turned into a genuine laugh as Scarecrow slipped on his burlap mask.

"Oh, that's really funny! That's not scary at all," howled Machiano. "At this rate I'm afraid I'll die of laughter!"

Scarecrow raised his arm and suddenly a white, choking gas shot from his coat sleeve. Machiano, completely unaware it was coming, took in a lungful of the deadly toxin. He gasped and choked, unable even to grasp at his throat while his hands and feet trembled in the leather restraints. Machiano felt his heart beating faster, his mind growing frantic, his senses overloading, searching for some nameless enemy. His eyes widened, searching and through the white fog a vague form emerged.

A hideous black claw shot through the mist and seized his arm. Red eyes glared at him from the mass of swarming maggots that crawled on its face.

"Do you fear me now," growled the monster.

Machiano screamed while the demon loomed close, savoring his fear.

(Oh, he was a delicious one, more Fear than I could have imagined, sweeter than I have tasted in a long time, Scarecrow whispered in Crane's mind.)

Crane had long gotten used to the running dialogue that was Scarecrow's. Most of the time it was an annoyance, usually petty wants, bullying and demands on Scarecrow's part, but at the moment he was completely sated, glutted on the fear of his recent victim. Crane himself had to admit the victim was especially delicious. Beyond the tough veneer, Machiano proved to fear much just in his first taste of the Fear Toxin and that was at the lowest dosage. What would happen to him when Crane continued to up the dosage? Crane wondered and anticipated it with much delight

So did Scarecrow.

(When can I hear his screams again? He owes us his screams for all the pain he has inflicted on us and your mother!)

When he regains his strength, thought Crane. He is not ready yet, but when he is ready, he will make an apt patient and test subject, that is for sure.

(Always concerned about research, screamed Scarecrow. What about REVENGE!)

Crane was busy jotting down notes; Scarecrow busy with a litany of curses when Machiano slightly moaned. Crane's cold blue eyes quickly shot up from the paper toward the restraint chair and slipped from his breast pocket a miniature flashlight.

That a boy, thought Crane. He's even quick in the recovery too. Excellent! I couldn't ask for a better test subject indeed!

Crane leaned close to Machiano, who still was half unconscious.

"Lift up your head, that's it," Crane ordered.

"Where – where am I," Machiano asked, the words slurring. "What happened? Was I in an – an accident? I feel terrible!"

"Just relax. I'm a doctor. I'm here to help you."

Disorientation and temporary memory loss. Interesting side effects, but obviously no permanent damage to the brain and no impairment of judgement, thought Crane. If insanity is to be the goal of the Fear Toxin, this lower dosage is a failure.

Machiano still didn't have his eyes opened, at least not fully; he just was barely holding his head up.

"Now hold you head still, just going to check on pupil dilation and your reflexes," said Crane.

"Pupi- wha-?"

Maybe the toxin did damage the brain to some degree. No matter, thought Crane in delight.

Before Machiano knew what Crane was doing, he seized Machiano's left eyelids, pried them open and was shining a blinding light from his flashlight into his eye.

"What are you –?"

"Pupil dilation is returning to normal. You are coming out of the effects of the drug nicely, Mr. Machiano. I am quite impressed."

Machiano blinked, his groggy, stupid features slowly turning to realization and hatred.

"Wait, you're – you're that insane sh-t who – AHH!"

Crane hit Machiano's knee hard with a reflex tool to see what his response was, just to make sure he still had use of his extremities after the effect of the drug. His kick was a good indication not only everything was in good working order, he could feel pain very well. Crane smirked in great satisfaction.

"You sadistic bastard," screamed Machiano.

"Sadistic? Would you like a taste of some of my other toxins? I have many, I assure you."

Machiano's angry, red face suddenly blanched.

"You – you have more than one?"

"Several really," said Crane. "And you will have the great honor of trying them all if you continue acting in this antagonistic fashion."

Machiano's hands balled into fists, his gray eyes glaring piercingly in the sickening yellow light of the shadeless lamp.

"I can give you what you want – whatever you want," said Machiano. "Money, power, women, anything! You know I'm connected with Falcone. I can give it to you."

"That is not what I want, Mr. Machiano."

"Then what do you want!"

(I want your Fear, Scarecrow hissed in Crane's mind.)

"Mr. Machiano, you're my patient, so therefore I care about your well-being –"

"Then you'll get me out of this chair!"

"I can't do that. A patient as violent as you is a danger to himself and others. I cannot release you until I cure you."

Crane allowed his words to sink into Machiano's mind. He gazed at Crane as though he truly believed he was in the room with a madman and Crane to some degree relished it.

(Yes, let him Fear us, whispered Scarecrow. Let him Fear all the things we may do to him – all the horrors he imagines we may inflict upon him.)

"Cure? I don't need a cure – especially not from the likes of someone as f-cking insane as you," spat Machiano.

"You may think that, but I believe your victims would strongly disagree with your opinion on that matter. And be that as it may, I am determined that before you leave you pose no threat to anyone, one way or another."

"So you're going to kill me, is that it," said Machiano, his eyes steely cold.

"I never said that and that would be my last intention."

"And what if I refuse? What if I fight you in my 'cure'?"

A sly, cold smile crept across Crane's lips.

"I would not suggest that, Mr. Machiano. You have seen what my toxin can do – what it does to the mind. I must warn you that was the lowest dose. I would hate for your mind to be damaged. But if that is your choice –"

"No! Please, I – I'll cooperate in this 'cure' of yours. Just no more of this poison of yours."

"That will depend entirely on you," said Crane. "If you make any attempt at resistance, escape or violence, you know what I will resort to. But unlike you, Mr. Machiano, I am not entirely heartless, I do offer some warning."

Crane slipped from his jacket the burlap mask and slowly unfolded it. Machiano vaguely remembered it and his laughter before the nightmare unfolded.

"If I am growing displeased with your behavior, I will remove this mask. As long as it remains out, Mr. Machiano, I would recommend that you prove yourself to be an exemplary patient … Once I put on this mask, Mr. Machiano, anything can happen, anything. All your worst fears, nameless terrors will be realized in an instant with one false step on your part. The toxin is near."

Machiano broke into a cold sweat. He didn't move a muscle in the restraint chair, though he was bound fast.

Ah, good, thought Crane. My little Pavlov Fear dog is buying it completely. As soon as he sees the Mask he will associate it with Fear and the terror of the toxin. The Mask will be a perfect intimidation tool. This will work out perfectly.

Crane smiled as he slipped the mask back into his jacket and folded his hands together. He was so eager to start on his little lab rat, picking apart his brain piece by piece until it completely lay bare before him.

"Now do you have any questions for me, Mr. Machiano?"

"Yes. When can I go to the bathroom?"

Damn! First question from the test subject has to be on such base matters as relieving himself! No matter.

"Very well, this will be a good demonstration on the new rule I have just set," said Crane icily.

Crane plucked from his jacket the mask and removing his glasses, slipped it over his head. Almost instantly Scarecrow emerged from the shadows of his mind, ever growing in his consciousness until he was peering from his startling blue eyes from the ragged holes of the mask at his bound prey.

"Your worst fears will be realized under me if you try anything," Scarecrow hissed.

Scarecrow snapped up a cold syringe from the table and roughly jabbed it into Machiano's arm, injecting the clear fluid into him.

"What! What are you doing," cried Machiano indignantly.

"Just a precaution," whispered Scarecrow. "Now go and return quickly. I want to play – and soon."

Scarecrow yanked the buckles loose and aimed his arm in Machiano's face as he slowly moved out of the restraint chair. Machiano turned away from him, tentatively walking to the washroom and closing the door. When the washroom door opened again, Scarecrow gazed at Machiano, a hungry, predatory gleam in his icy blue eyes.

"Now back in the chair," Scarecrow hissed. "We shall continue your 'cure,' shall we, as the good doctor said?"

Machiano stopped, his eyes briefly locking with Scarecrow's before making a mad dash for the door.

"So predictable," Scarecrow growled.

Scarecrow didn't chase Machiano or spray the Fear Toxin at his fleeing victim. At the three minute mark from the time he was injected with the serum, Machiano's eyes rolled back into his head just as his fingers were about to touch the door knob.

Machiano vaguely felt pain as he fell roughly to the floor. He heard the harsh laughter of Scarecrow and then a burning sensation in his lungs. His heart raced and his eyes fluttered opened to see his vision distorted. The walls seemed to breathe in and out, and as the hideous monster once again loomed close, the disgusting maggots that crawled all over his face dropped upon him and crawled on his skin.

What is rotten inside stays rotten.

Machiano's eyes shot open. He desperately tried brushing away the writhing maggots, which seemed intent on crawling under his clothes, burrowing into his skin.

They always seek what is rotten on the inside.

The filthy maggots grew sharp teeth and latched fast to his skin, and slid like so many tunneling worms inside him. Machiano screamed, clawing the filthy, dusty floor. The pain was terrible, feeling their tiny teeth tearing through muscle, burrowing deep, deep through every nerve and tissue.

"Make them stop! Please make them stop," Machiano begged the gloating monster.

They go to the rotten core.

Machiano fell on his back, feverish, staring glaze-eyed at the ceiling. The monster seemed to be gone and he no longer could feel the pain and the presence of the worming maggots.

Thank God they're gone, thought Machiano. Thank God.

"Please! For the love of God, let me go!"

Suddenly Machiano saw the face of Veronica Kestrel. Her face was wet with tears mingled with her blood, the blood after he beat her. She was pleading for him to finally release her after they were nearing the end of her week in hell … his week of pleasure. Machiano smiled at the memory.

"No, my dear, you might tell the police all the wonderful things I did to you. I can't have you doing that, now can I," Machiano said.

He shot her while she lay bound in the bed, once, twice, three times. A pool of blood soaked the white sheets red.

Too bad, she was a fun one, Machiano thought.

Suddenly the vision faded and he was back in the filthy room and the monster was looming over him.

"What did you see, tell me," demanded the monster, grabbing Machiano by the neck, his claws fiercely digging into his flesh.

"Ver- Veronica," Machiano gasped, before he realized what he was saying.

"Good," hissed the monster. "Now reveal your fears to me – your darkest fears."

Machiano stared in blank horror at the monster covered in those hideous carnivorous maggots, looming so close to his face.

Oh, God, please don't let them eat my face, Machiano thought.

"What did you see," demanded the monster.

"Death – blood. I – I killed."

"With these hands – yes?"

The monster grabbed Machiano's hands fiercely with its black claws and pried them open. To Machiano's horror he saw a pool of blood steadily forming in them and spreading, moving up his arm, soaking his clothing wet with its putrid stickiness.

"You killed that innocent woman. You have hurt so many," growled the monster.

"She – she would have told the police – I had to."

"LIAR! If you do not tell me the truth, I will rip it from you," the monster screamed. "Now I wonder which method would work best."

The monster was just inches from him and the maggots continued to drop on his clothing wet with blood, which itched and burned against his skin like fire. In his peripheral vision he could see ghostly faces gazing at him, past victims, some dead, some of them women he had raped, gazing at him with their eyes full of hatred. Machiano dared look at them for an instant and saw they were steadily creeping toward him, step by step, their hands gripping some ghastly instrument of torture. Veronica in particular was in the forefront, a cruel smile on her lips, a butcher's hook gripped firmly in her hand.

"No! No, please make them stop," Machiano begged. "I – I'll do anything you want."

"We're already beyond that point," hissed the monster. "Now it's your screams I want and you owe me your pain!"

"No! No! Please no! Mercy!"

At the word "mercy" the monster laughed such a cruel and amused laugh it made Machiano shudder in that twisting, unraveling nightmare.

"Your deepest fear must be in here somewhere, let's open up your mind at find out," the monster laughed.

"No!"

The monster grabbed hold of Machiano's head and dug into his skull, cracking it viciously open like a walnut. Machiano screamed, streams of blood dripping into his line of vision as he felt the monster tear into his naked mind.

"That's interesting, Mr. Machiano. Why don't you tell me a little bit more about your childhood."

Machiano gasped, all his muscles twitching, his skin damp and pale. Wildly he looked around room, which was still depressing even in the early morning sunlight. The lunatic who sat opposite him was busy writing notes. Crane no longer wore the burlap mask and wasn't speaking in that wild, demanding voice he adopted when his madness took over. Machiano looked down and saw he was bound once again in the restraint chair. He also saw whatever drug or poison that madman had given him must have made him hallucinate; he was not covered in blood. He felt a warm wetness on his cheeks.

Oh, God, have I been crying and that pathetic, sadistic sh-t saw me. Oh, he must have loved that!

"How – how long was I out," Machiano gasped.

Crane looked up from his notes.

"You were unconscious for scarcely an hour, but you have been talking with me for three hours. Our therapy session has been a great success. This new medication I have put you on seems to have benefited you considerably."

Medication! What drugs did you give me!

"What did I tell you," Machiano asked.

"I've been getting some of the basics I ask all my new patients," said Crane. "Mostly I've been gathering some of your background and family history. Yours is quite fascinating and I must say your pursuit in crime is unusual given your loving family life and the high socio-economic income of your parents."

"I told you that? Well, I was just bullsh-tting you, affects of the drug, y'know."

"Actually, you were quite truthful under the medication … What you just told me is a lie," Crane said coldly. "You see, Mr. Machiano, I do some background research on all my patients before I take them on. Maybe it's time to give you your next dosage if this is how you will respond to my questions."

Machiano, you idiot! He's a sly one and if you don't play it right you'll end up dead! Give him some truth just to tie him over, buy you some time, make him let down his guard enough so you can escape!

"No. I'll tell you anything you want," Machiano said. "After all, you are my doctor."

"Good, I'm glad you realize I'm just trying to help you," Crane said, with a slight smile.

Machiano ground his teeth, every fiber of his being revolted at submitting to this lunatic he easily could crush beneath his boot if he was freed of the restraint chair. A hundred different ways flashed through his mind, many different slow, torturous methods of death he could inflict on this self-pretentious weakling who hid behind that poison and the strength of this infernal chair.

He's a coward. Nothing but a f-cking coward, Machiano thought.

"So tell me, Mr. Machiano, before these attacks began you were in normal romantic and sexual relationships, isn't that correct?"

"Weren't we talking about my childhood," Machiano grumbled.

"Just as background; I have enough of that," Crane said. "Now I'm moving on to your adult psyche. Jennifer Falcone, is she a relation to Carmine Falcone by any chance?"

"Yeah, she's his niece."

"And yet you dated her – even were in a lengthy relationship with her." Crane gazed at him with great interest. "Tell me a bit more about her."

"There is nothing to tell. We hit it off. End of story."

"Oh, I think there is more to it than that."

Crane's piercing blue eyes burrowed into him, but Machiano turned his gaze away, stubbornly grinding his fingernails into the wooden armrests of the chair.

"Well, if you don't want to talk . . . Would you like to see my mask?"

"No!"

Machiano was startled by the suddenness even of his own response. He hated how desperate he sounded.

"I mean – I'll talk," Machiano said grudgingly. "Jennifer Falcone, yeah, we dated. Originally I hated it."

"Hated it? And why is that?"

"Jennifer Falcone recently broke up and Carmine, he wanted her to attend his latest function with the rich and powerful. None of his common thugs would do so – so he ordered me to keep her entertained."

Dammit! Are you an idiot! Why are you telling him everything? Just give him a crumb of truth, not the whole damn cake! SHUT UP!

Crane seemed even more fascinated with this new piece of information. He made a special note of it on his pad with his gold pen, then gazed at him, his face a mask, unreadable and unsettling.

"Tell me, Mr. Machiano, how did this initial 'arrangement' make you feel?"

"I don't know. I didn't feel anything. I had a job to do."

"No, you're not being truthful again. How did she treat you? Was she happy with what her uncle did, arranging this date?"

"She was f-cking pissed."

"And I'm sure she took that aggression out on you."

Machiano was quiet a moment, not know what to say or even what this lunatic was expecting.

"She was angry at first, but she warmed up to me, like all the ladies do," Machiano finally said slyly.

"She may have 'warmed to you,' as you say," said Crane. "But she didn't remain that way, did she, Mr. Machiano? She eventually left you for another man."

Machiano bit down on his tongue to keep from hissing.

"Tell me then, Mr. Machiano, what happened next? As niece of Falcone you couldn't beat her or harm her in any way when your attempts at getting her back proved futile."

SHUT UP YOU PATHETIC LITTLE SH-T!

Machiano dug his nails deep into the wood, scratching, scratching, wishing it was that maniac's throat he was tearing to bloody shreds.

"Soon after she broke up with you," continued Crane. "Records show your first attack on a woman occurred. Her looks are surprisingly like Jennifer Falcone. Do you wish to comment on this?"

"Since when did this 'therapy session' turn into an interrogation, doc," Machiano spat.

Crane pursed his lips and slipped his hand into his suit jacket. For a tense moment Machiano thought he would remove the mask to warn him, but obviously Crane thought of taking a different approach. He didn't remove the mask, but instead put away the pen and notepad.

"Therapy session is at an end. Clearly I have exhausted you and doctor as well as patient can benefit from a break here and there. Could I interest you in a refreshment?"

Machiano perked up at this. Maybe he would temporarily release his hands from the restraint chair just to eat and then would be an opportunity. Quickly he nodded at the doctor and Crane faintly smiled as he left and returned with a bottle of water, a carton of milk, a bowl, spoon and a box of Cheerios on a tray.

"I hope you like cereal for breakfast. Unfortunately this apartment is not as well stocked as I would like," Crane said.

As he shook the cereal into the bowl and poured the milk, Machiano began to eagerly twist at the wrist restraints. When the tension and silence between them became too much Machiano finally asked:

"Well?"

Crane looked up with those icy blue eyes.

"'Well' what, Mr. Machiano?"

"Aren't you going to undo these damn things so I can eat!"

"Oh, no, Mr. Machiano. That is still too dangerous. We shall do this the Arkham way."

Machiano stopped his struggling at the name "Arkham." Where had he heard that name before? He had heard it recently, but couldn't place where.

"Now, Mr. Machiano, open wide."

Suddenly his attention returned to the lunatic sitting opposite him. That cold, emotionless creature was holding a spoon of dripping cereal up to him like mother trying to feed a toddler.

"You've got to be sh-tting me," Machiano cried. "Let me feed myself!"

"I can't release you from the chair. You are still far too dangerous. However, I am not so cruel to let a patient of mine go thirsty and hungry – unless you choose to do so out of pride."

Machiano gazed at the dripping spoon of cereal. Suddenly he felt very dizzy with hunger.

I swear I'm going to kill the bastard in the worst way possible!

Machiano closed his eyes and felt the cool spoon and mushy cereal enter his mouth.

Machiano felt like he was slowly being driven mad with the endless tedium, the relentless "therapy sessions," and the long, torturous hours of captivity in the chair that felt worse than any prison imaginable. The wood began to bite into his back and buttocks and his muscles grew sore and began to scream from never being allowed to move and stretch. Many times Machiano fought himself from begging and screaming with that sadistic lunatic to just let him out, however briefly, to at least let him stretch his legs. Often times, when his torturer was busy with other tasks and wasn't looking at him with those piercing cold eyes, he'd bang his head against the back of the chair in frustration and anger. He could feel the ends of the arm rests getting rough and raw from his persistent scratching; it was his only outlet from his constant rage against this madman.

At first his thoughts were just a litany of profanity interspersed with bloody visions of murder toward his captor. But as the daylight faded and the restraint chair held fast to his persistent struggling, Machiano knew he had to be much more clever if he was to get out of this place alive, sane … and his captor dead. Machiano always had prided himself on being the predator, slowly stalking, cornering and taking down his prey. Now, as much as he hated to admit, he was the prey and this lunatic reminded him of the spiral web in the garden he remembered as a child.

A hornet once was caught in a web and the spider would every now and then would creep close, just to make it thrash, then back away. It did this to tire out the hornet and each time the spider crept closer and closer to its prey. This lunatic was doing the same, creeping deeper and deeper into his mind, trying to drive him insane, then eventually kill him.

You'll just have to be smarter than him. Quit lashing out with your stinger. Save your strength. You know he lets you out only with that damn shot. You're going to have to time it. See how long you have.

As soon as Machiano felt the jab of the needle and the cool injection of the fluid enter his veins, he began to count from the moment the restraint straps fell loose to the moment he came from the washroom and obediently returned to the chair. There was no escape attempt this time. He was purely timing how long he had before the shot made him dizzy and started to make him black out. His vision began to fade at 3 minutes and 24 seconds and at that point – once Crane had the restraints securely fastened again – he injected a second drug into him and his mind cleared well enough and they continue his "therapy."

So I have 3 minutes at least to try and inject myself with the antidote – or kill that monster, thought Machiano.

Machiano far preferred the latter as he gazed at him, meticulously writing down notes, asking in great detail his sexual history.

Yes, the bastard must die before I leave here.

Machiano gazed at the filthy surroundings, the fly buzzing around the bare bulb of the lamp, the cockroaches every now and then scuttling toward a Cheerio that had fallen on the floor.

"How did you mother feel about you turning to a life of crime, Mr. Machiano?"

"I don't know … How do you think she felt?"

"You are to answer the questions, not me," said Crane, his eyes gazing at him hungrily.

If I'm to answer anymore questions I'm going to scream!

"She never knew, okay? She never knew I worked for the seedy underworld of Falcone. Is that the answer you want?"

"That is sufficient."

"Good! Because I'm sick of this! I'm sick of this place! I'm sick of you!"

"I'm going to give you a mild sedative," Crane said.

SH-T NO!

"Wait! I just need sleep! I've been doing this for eight hours straight. Eight hours! Don't you get tired?"

Crane gave him a blank stare, his lips pursed.

"Not often," he finally said.

"Well, I'm tired," Machiano grumbled.

"Still a mild sedative will do you good," said Crane. "You suddenly seem quite agitated. I can't have a patient of mine become agitated – not good for therapy."

"Ah! Wait!"

Crane stopped, the hypodermic needle poised above Machiano's exposed arm, which recently had become quite bruised from all the injections. As he stared at Machiano, a slow grin spread across his lips.

"Is there something else you wish to tell me before this session is at an end," Crane asked.

"I – um – yes. I'd like to continue one more thing about how my mom felt about me going into – into crime."

Machiano desperately stared into Crane's eyes, praying he was buying it.

"But first, could I have a little break?"

"Washroom I'm assuming," Crane said.

"Yes, I want to be comfortable. I want to tell you everything."

"You're surprisingly talkative all of a sudden."

"I just – I just want to talk to you about this. Something just came into my mind and it's bothering me. I could never tell her about it. I probably never will. As my doctor, you must understand."

"Yes, I think I do," he said.

Crane withdrew the hypodermic needle and slipped from his jacket pocket a much smaller, more slender hypodermic and plunged it into Machiano's arm. Machiano watched as the clear fluid disappeared and he felt it enter his vein. He looked up at Crane who still was intent on removing the needle and sterilizing the area.

Three minutes.

Crane removed from his jacket the burlap mask and slipped it over his head.

"Remember, anything can happen while I wear this!"

Roughly he removed the restraint the straps and Machiano felt his heart pounding wildly. He was free, completely free for the moment. Machiano's eyes turned cold and hard as stone.

Now it's time for you to DIE!

In an instant he lunged at Crane and ripped off the mask.

"I want to see your face as you die you bastard," Machiano spat, clenching fiercely at his throat.

Both his hands dug deep into Crane's throat. As a killer, he could have easily snapped his neck and be done with it, make it clean and quick, but he wanted it to be slow and to let him feel the pain, feel the oxygen leaving his brain, to know he was dying and who his killer would be. Crane's face turned red as blood congested, his piercing blue eyes began to fade. His look wasn't of fear; it was hatred.

Odd thoughts swirled through Machiano's mind, thoughts that usually don't bother him when he was making a kill.

Why isn't he afraid of me? I'm killing him, aren't I? And why isn't he defending himself?

Crane's hands weren't by his throat as he was pressing down choking and Crane frantically was gasping for breath. His hands were searching for something on the floor.

He truly is mad. An object on the floor is worth more than his life! Mad … Arkham … Arkham Asylum.

Suddenly the courtroom scene flashed back in Machiano's mind:

"Sarah Anne Crane has been confined to Arkham Asylum due to psychological and emotional instability following her recent attack by the accused."

"Her initial doctor, Dr. Jonathan Crane, admitted her."

"Any relation to Sarah Crane?"

"Yes, Dr. Crane is her son."

"You're Dr. Crane," Machiano hissed.

Suddenly Machiano felt a sharp painful jab of a hypodermic needle stabbing into his thigh. He screamed, releasing the chokehold on Crane. Crane gasped deeply for breath, then picked up the mask off the floor and slipped it back on.

"Yes, I am Dr. Crane. Sarah Crane was my mother – the one you raped, beat and left in the gutter like so many others. And now I am going to cure you once and for all!"

He raised his arm, about ready to release the deadly toxin for the last time on Machiano, but Machiano tackled him hard to the floor, smashing into the table and scattering Crane's meticulous notes everywhere. The sedation hypodermic spun on the filthy ground and Machiano grasped for it frantically, wrapping his fingers around it and turned toward the stunned Crane.

"Sedation? I'll give you sedation! Sedation right through your heart!"

As Machiano whirled around, ready to plunge the glistening needle into Crane, a white puff of toxin shot full into his face. The toxin burned his nostrils and he could feel it choking his throat, his lungs.

"That's right, breathe deep, that's it. Good," whispered Scarecrow. "Soon you'll be mine. All mine."

Machiano slowly opened his eyes from the blinding powder and saw instead of the crooked stitched mouth, vicious slavering teeth had grown and instead of the piercing blue eyes of Crane, burning demonic eyes glared back it him.

No! It's not real. Not real! Kill him! Kill him before it's too late!

Machiano moved toward the monster, wielding a pathetic little hypodermic that somehow was supposed to slay it. With its black claw, it grabbed his hand and as soon as it touched Machiano, it burned his flesh and continued to burn until all his flesh melted away until there was nothing but bone. He shrieked. The hypodermic dropped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

"Now let's continue where we started, shall we?"

The monster cracked open Machiano's skull, tearing it until the brain was completely exposed to him. Machiano screamed and whimpered from the pain, but he could do nothing, nothing while the room spun and the walls twisted and the cockroaches came to munch at the flesh that continued to slide off his bones.

The monster slid his claw into his brain and Machiano felt the monster ooze into every crevice of his brain, invading, contaminating every portion of it.

"No! No," Machiano screamed, writhing on the floor.

Scarecrow is in your brain now. Scarecrow will always be in your mind!