VII: mythologies
Routine was his only bulwark against insanity. Researching old newspaper archives, needling beat cops for tips and leads. But even that was difficult to manage, and the biographer slept for longer and longer, shrinking his waking life to a sliver. He stuffed himself full of pills. His existence had become such a cosmic meaningless joke that the murder of Tetch didn't bother him much at all. A second life whose veracity was merely rumor. Sure he'd killed a man, but the man had been trash. The fact that he'd shared a brief camaraderie with The Mad Hatter flitted in and then out of his mind. It was hard to hold constant any thoughts these days. He went bowling, which he used to do years before, when life was good. Routine imported from a past existence to fill the yawning void of his current days. A strike, a spare, and not a care for those few, lucky hours. And then back out into the biting cold, the reality of his missing family. His own twisted life spent hunched over rap sheets and notes of his interviews. He'd stopped answering, so friends had stopped calling. He took long walks in the evening, like he used to when he was trying to shepherd his stray thoughts into a cohesive closing argument. These days, every turned corner was like a fool's delight, as though maybe he'd stumble right into Kati, into his little boy and his little girl. In truth, he knew from the letters that they were being kept somewhere, perhaps a cellar, suffering unimaginable tortures.
Lately, he'd been filled with righteous anger. Why him? What had he done? If anything, he'd been a friend to criminals, had helped get them off. Who could he have angered? He also began wondering why Batman had not come to his aid. The masked crusader with his thousand ears, with a vast network of spies and informants. Was it possible he had not heard?
The Biographer knew that there must be a gulf between the street legends of Batman and the real-time reality. They said he was a shadow. A modern haunting. That he lurked outside of every alley, every bank. That he had even the lowliest of crooks bugged. An army of dark agents supporting his clandestine biddings to thwart crime. So much as raise a fist and you'd be dragged backward by your hair. Just a small sin and you'd be dangled from the Gotham State Building, your collar pierced by the spire to wait for the lightning, only to be saved at a last moment in an eye-watering mock execution. But the truth had to be something else entirely — each night in the city filled with silent and myriad crimes, most never to be known. So was it then all a performance? Batman tackling these same few costumed clowns over and over in a right wing ballet of the city, reminding common thugs to look over their collective shoulders?
He had been focusing so intently on deciphering the identity of the Bat that he never truly considered the possibility that the so-called hero could help him, perhaps on the sly. The hero could take the case and bring him sweet relief. But the sky was empty and black, and the only person around was a homeless man. He clutched a ratty cardboard sign that read Once had a house and home. Lost everything. Any help appreciated + God bless. The Biographer tossed the man a few quarters. He had started seeing shreds of himself in the most marginal of others — the Hatter, now this homeless man. He felt as though his brain was covered in boils. He'd even felt lately that someone had been following him, an eye in the window, a stray footstep on a sidewalk. It pinched at his mind, and he simply assumed it had withered and became internally misshapen, and all the pills too. It lent itself to crude distortion.
Who was next on his list? It was what kept him going. Poison Ivy? He read over the files night after night and probed for weak points. Ways in. Deals to be made. Something to trade. Clues to where they were, for not all were in Arkham. He left Lockbox Lanes, the bowling establishment nearest his house, and named so because it was in the basement of a former bank. Each time a new round was to be rolled, mock-safe doors would open. Bank robbery was so common in Arkham that vault doors were a booming business. He left the Lockbox, veered into the night and felt a terrifying force, some stone through his abdomen, his frail body pummeled into a rancid pile of garbage bags.
The Batman was nothing like he imagined. Before the Biographer could even register any kind of visual, he felt the bruise sprawling through his body. It seemed unfair and unnecessary. What had he done? Perhaps that was just his way. Force first as a precaution. The Batman had heard after all and was here to help. Strange entrance and all.
"Get up, you slime," the Caped Crusader said.
And as the Biographer tried to lumber off of the bags, Batman grabbed him by his collar.
"Think I don't know what you did to Jervis Tetch?"
Before he could explain, the next punch smashed against his cheekbone and he was back on the bags, one split open, nesting him in sludge. The soiled trash almost felt like a friend, a bed, and he tried to sink into it, to sleep. He could hardly see, and what was in front of him seemed more like a creature than a person. Through the haze it was difficult to find where the costume ended and the person began. But what kind of person would do this? What judge would deliver such an erroneous verdict?
"I'll be having a little chat with Gordon about you. All those years defending criminals and now you've become one? Tetch deserved prison but not death. No one has that right."
The Biographer, in something of a frenzied dream state, thought this laughable, the Batman's supposed one rule, to never kill. Foolhardy and full of nothing but privilege and stupidity. How many lives could he save by eradicating Gotham's menaces? And why did he do it — to hold himself to some arbitrary standard as a pseudo "code"?
It didn't make sense. How could Batman be so misinformed? The Biographer was clearly a victim. There must be some competence within this shadow. All the stories — there must be a glimmer of truth. Where was the great Batman of legend? Where was justice?
The Biographer spat out a broken tooth.
"My wife…" he managed to utter, a last prayer.
It was as though he had said the punchline to the world's funniest joke. The Batman shrieked in laughter in a way that the Biographer never would have guessed he was capable of, the joy bouncing around inside him, the caped man nearly doubled over. And with that he was gone. The Biographer could have sworn he somehow passed through the grates of the sewer, glided through the street, like a demon, but then he collapsed, and his brain was gone anyway. All that would remain just another dubious legend of the Batman.
GOTHAM HERALD: City Divided Over Leaked Footage of Urban Scuffle
"Alleycam footage leaked to the Herald seems to show the vigilante known as Batman beating up an unidentified victim. James Bronco, a homeless individual who happened to be on the scene, said the man had ostensibly done nothing wrong — he had even given him some change. But department sources linked to Commissioner Gordon characterized the loitering man as a probable "thug." The officers, who asked not to be named, highlighted three nearby robberies the anonymous man may have been involved with. The only thing agreed upon is that it is highly unusual for the Batman to be caught on film of any kind. "The Batman is a ghost. We usually don't even officially acknowledge his existence and usually we don't have to," one officer remarked. "Maybe he's finally lost a step."