Back in the day, the room would be filled with smoke. No one smokes anymore—the wealthy don't at least, and that is who is here. Nothing but blue bloods majestically moving around the room in their tailored black tuxes, ladies in their pencil thin black dresses, and me in a stuffy rented tux, feeling like a fish that's been dropped into the Sierra Desert.

The paper sent me to report on the city's fundraiser to build a new youth and community center in the Bowery, but no one really cares. I spent my first ten years at the Gazette in the Bowery, reporting on murder, prostitution, and street gangs. Then, the Batman showed up. He beat the shit out of the people who fed off of the kids, who gave them drugs, brought them into the gangs, and turned them into murderers. He beat the shit out of their parents, who were strung out, abusive, and impoverished. He would show grace to the fifteen-year-old, knowing that the kid was a product of his environment, but he never seemed to consider that he also kicked the shit out of that kid's older brother, uncle, or father. He never considered how many of those kids' families he sent to jail, and when that kid turned eighteen and became one of the leeches that fed off of the younger ones in the community, he would send that kid to jail too.

Of course, the blue bloods and politicians of Gotham have the answer. They will donate their money to a building that will offer a free clinic, recreation for the youth, educational and mentoring programs, and a possible path into the norms of the neo-liberal system of capitalism. The blue bloods will donate their money and forget about the Bowery, assuming that they have done their job. They've helped the poor, and now they can write it off on their taxes. Meanwhile, they will help a few families, but the structural damage is done. What created the Bowery in the first place? The families that are building this community center. Their families were the first to build the tenements for the poor immigrants and farmers to live who moved to Gotham to work in their factories. When it became cheaper to outsource the plants, their families were the ones who took away a stable source of income and moved their jobs overseas, leaving them in crumbling apartment buildings and government projects.

Both the blue bloods and Batman share the same problem. They can attempt to remove the negatives that have been done over the century, but how can they fix the generations of people who have already been broken?

—John Whitman, Notes

I thought that after tonight my re-election next year would be a cinch. Bruce Wayne has already offered to donate one million to the project, and he promised further donations to support the programs at the youth center. We haven't even collected any of the bids from the blind auction, and we are on our way to starting construction within the month without debt to the city. As I maneuvered through the room, smiling, shaking hands, and making contacts, I saw old John Whitman from The Gotham Gazette leaning against a wall in the corner scribbling in his notepad. He wore his usual scowl. I approached him and said, "I didn't know the paper paid you to be a wallflower, old friend."

He looked up and smirked: "It doesn't pay me to provide you with free publicity for your campaign either, Mayor."

—Mayor Hull

After I got a few quotes from the mayor, I decided I should probably leave my perch and go talk to the blue bloods about all of the good that they were doing. The mayor talked about how the center would completely rejuvenate the Bowery and help cut down on crime. I asked why he didn't assist the Bowery by bringing good paying jobs to the community. He danced around the question with some bullshit about the complexity of attracting businesses to the area in its current condition, but the youth center would help. I countered by asking wouldn't reinvestment in the schools and community colleges in the area also improve conditions and attract businesses. He talked about what the city was doing in those areas, but I will go there a year from now, after that windbag is re-elected, and see the same crumbling schools without a technical college in sight.

I talked to a few more people about the party and local events, and then went to the buffet and enjoyed the shrimp cocktail and free booze.

—John Whitman, Notes

Whitman was an old-school reporter, and he hit hard, but he wasn't the worst punch that night. I saw him over by the buffet, stuffing his face, before I approached the podium to make a speech and announce the winners of the blind auction when a man punched me in the face as I approached the stage and said, "We'll take it from here, mayor."

I tumbled to the ground. I've never been hit so hard in my life. As my vision cleared, I looked up to see a gunman on stage. He had long greasy brown hair down to his shoulders. His face was painted white with the familiar joker grin, yet he did not grin. His deep-set gray eyes were made more distinct by the black eyeshadow. He scanned the room and he smirked. He carried an AR-15 that he pointed toward the ceiling. I looked around and noticed that several men in clown masks had entered the building with guns and had corralled the audience into the center of the ballroom in front of the stage.

"No applause," he laughed. "Or maybe you can only applaud yourselves for all of your good deeds. All of the order that you have given us, but it is only an order that enriches you. It is only an order that protects you and your families and enriches them for generations, but I am here to bring a message of deliverance."

—Mayor Hull

I looked up from my plate of shrimp to see a kid approach the stage with Joker makeup smeared across his face. The gunmen surrounded the attendees and made them raise their hands and kneel. One of the clowns pulled me from the table and shoved me to the ground.

"Watch it, bub," I said to the guy and he pressed a 12 gage against my skull.

The guy on stage, after rambling about order and chaos and the rich and the poor, jumped off stage with the mic demanded one of the females in the audience to stand. She was in her early thirties, wearing a stunning black dress. She had been born into wealth, married into wealth, and she shook like a feather in the wind.

"You think Batman's gonna save you," he laughed and pressed a black kabar against her throat. He leaned in close and licked her cheek. She shrieked. "If Batman appears, we will not focus on him. We will unload our weapons until he stops us. You can't stomach that, can you Batsy?"

—John Whitman, Notes

I felt the steel edge of the blade against my throat. My eyes burned, but I could not give him the pleasure of crying. I was a Gothamite. As he threatened the Batman, the lights cut off, but not just the lights in the building. The surrounding four blocks went dark. The room was pitch black, and as soon as the room went dark, the knife was pulled from my throat, and I hear a series of grunts and groans. Within a minute, the lights returned and all of the clowns were tied up or had been incapacitated.

—Monica Silvers

When the room went dark, I grabbed the barrel of the shotgun, pushed it down, and shove the butt of the gun into the chin of the clown. His jaw cracked and he screamed as he fell to the floor. I heard the sound of the other men being taken down in then the light came on. I was the only one left standing with a shotgun. The rich broad that was held at gunpoint looked down at the lead clown, whose arm was bent the wrong way and had a shattered knee, and stood up and planted her heel into the torn joint of his elbow. He screamed and writhed.

"Take that, bastard," she said as she turned and walked away. I smiled. We could all use a woman like that.

Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne's ward, was kneeling on the ground next to me. He stood up. He brow covered in sweat from nerves.

"I didn't know the Gazette taught you boys to fight," he said with a smirk.

"The Gazette didn't, but the Marines did, son," I returned. "I looked around. "Where's Mr. Wayne? I know I saw him earlier."

"He had an emergency to attend to, Mr. Whitman," Drake said. "Think I can leave? I know Bruce is going to be worried when this makes the news.

"I'm sure the police have enough witnesses, kid," I said and then asked, "What kind of emergency?"

"Who knows," Drake replied. "I just a kid. He doesn't tell me everything."

The kid walked away as the police entered the room. The Wayne servant met him with the police and escorted him from the room. What a strange family.

—John Whitman, Notes

If felt like the bitch stabbed me in the arm when she pressed her heel into my torn joint. When the paramedics picked me up, they gave me a light painkiller, but refused to give me anything heavy. They said the cops had some questions for me, and that came before my comfort. They loaded me into the bright fluorescent ambulance and started to drive. After a few blocks they stopped, and the two paramedics exited without me.

"Are we at the hospital," I screamed. I was dying. I felt a cold sweat on my brow as the lights flicked off and on.

"You're down an arm and a leg," a voice growled from behind me. "Do you want to be down two more."

It was him. I laughed: "It's already too late, Batsy. Our plan is going as scheduled. Chaos will reign soon.

I felt a gloved hand grab my arm, bend it back and press against the elbow. "What is going as planned."

My laugh broke as I felt my other arm pressed close to breaking. "He's coming," I screamed. "There's nothing you can do!"

As he added more pressure on my arm to go for the break," he paused and then snapped the arm.

I screamed in pain, and he injected morphine into my IV. The pain resided in waves. He came around as my vision blurred. His demonhead stared down at me with glowing eyes. "If he kills one person, I'll return for the other leg."

The light flashed off and on. He disappeared. I smiled, knowing that the Joker was finally free.

—Jason Devos, Lead Clown