CHAPTER 7 – A SECOND OPINION

Dr. Tom Barker was a respected psychiatrist in Gotham City. Something of a paradox, some would say. Gotham had gained a reputation as a haven for psychopaths, and the city's most "famous" shrink was Jeremiah Arkham, a man psychiatrists like Dr. Barker viewed as a no-talent hack, and a disgrace to the profession. But while Dr. Arkham regularly let killers and hardened criminals walk free out of his asylum, Dr. Barker tried to set a better example, one of a psychiatrist who could do his job, and offer a service to the city instead of endangering it. Tonight, he was holding his weekly group therapy session for people suffering from clinical depression.

"And...and I just feel so...insignificant," cried Terry, a long-time patient of Dr. Barker, "Sometimes I feel like I just have...nothing to live for."

"Now, Terry, don't feel like that," said Dr. Barker, "You have to be thankful for the life you have. You have to try and just be happy from time to time. A smile will do you a whole lot of good."

Terry started laughing.

"That's more like it, Terry," said Dr. Barker, "Be positive!"

Then Barker realised that everyone in the group therapy session had begun to laugh. Big, booming, chest-bursting laughter, rolling out in heaving whoops. All his patients, they were all doing it, like some kind of….spread of mass hysteria. This realisation somehow started Barker laughing too. This wasn't funny. This wasn't a joke. But somehow, he just…he just had to laugh.

And he kept on laughing, unable to even stop to catch his breath. What was so funny! They were all the same, laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and the tears were streaming from his face now. It was all around him, a deafening symphony of HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Maybe that's what was making them all laugh – a dynamic example of shared experience, the group connecting on a whole new emotional level. Maybe he could write some kind of thesis on that…

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…"

Still laughing, Dr. Barker collapsed forward off of his chair, slumping down onto his hands and knees. This was starting to hurt now. He didn't like this anymore. His mouth was cramping up, the sides of his mouth curled up so far he felt like they were going to rip. But as hard as he tried, as desperate as he was, he couldn't wipe that smile off his face, his mouth just kept on stretching further and further, the pain intensifying. He was afraid now. He wanted to scream, cry, call for help. But he couldn't do any of that. All he could do was laugh…

CRACK

With one violent spasm, he felt two ribs crack. The laughter was getting more powerful, like a machine gun firing inside his body, ripping everything apart in the process. In between peals of laughter, he coughed up a thick wad of blood onto the floor. There was more, but it was catching in his throat because he couldn't stop laughing long enough to spit it out. He was choking on his own blood!

Driven by wild panic, and the all-of-a-sudden very real thought that he could end up dying laughing, Dr. Barker frantically looked around at his patients. Some were on their knees like him, coughing up crimson mists of blood into the air. Others were lying face down, their whole body convulsing as their agonising laughter poured out of their corrupted mouths into the carpet.

And then it happened. His back was thrust backwards by a particularly violent HA! He heard the low, wet crunch. And he continued to hear it as his uncontrollable laughter pushed him further and further back, snapping his upper spine more and more. Ripped in half by his own laughter! What a horrifying way for his life to end…

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…"

Collapsing back into a mangled heap on the carpet, blood clogging his lungs and running in pools out of his grinning mouth, Dr. Barker's laugh turned into a bestial gurgle. It turned out to be his hopeless death-cry.

He was the last one. The whole room, they had all laughed themselves to death. And every corpse lying there had the same nightmarish face: wide, terrified eyes bulging out of their sockets, and the flesh around their mouths pulled back into a monstrous, inhuman grin.

"Aaaah, the healing power of laughter!"

The door swung open, and The Joker stepped in, flamboyantly dressed in a purple suit, complete with hat and coat. He switched off the device he'd placed in the ventilation system that had pumped his laughing gas, a form of his Joker Venom, into the seminar room.

"Ha ha, that's better. Smiles all round! Nothing is duller than depression. What you all needed was a good laugh. Then you were able to die happy! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!"

This would surely attract Batman's attention. He certainly wanted to keep his old pal busy. And this, this was just the first. The first move of a pawn, the first piece of the puzzle, the first gag in the routine. He was going to take Batman on a one-way slayride to Hell, and this was the first stop. Oh, The Joker had grand plans, alright. When he was done, Bruce Wayne would never be the same.

The Joker entertained himself with this thought throughout his journey back to his hideout. When he got there, he found waiting for him some very important information. Once he'd escaped from Arkham, he'd got in touch with an old underworld contact. This guy had been able to track down Brian's phone records, to find out just who he'd been talking to for the last month. One of those people would be the person who'd hired him to bust The Joker out of Arkham.

The Joker opened the envelope, and took out sheets of paper full of names. He scanned down the list, looking for anyone who stood out. He didn't recognise most of the names. But then one name caught his attention, made his leering grin widen once more.

"Harvey Dent..."

…

Harvey Dent was in the District Attorney's office. It had been a long time since he'd last worked here, and he felt incredibly lucky that Gotham had placed their trust in him to be DA once again, in spite of all he had done.

Harvey walked over to the mirror in his office. It felt great being able to look in the mirror again. He still couldn't believe that the surgery had been a success. He was Harvey Dent again. Two-Face was gone, once and for all...

"You'll never get rid of me, Dent!"

Harvey's blood ran cold. He was here!

"Shut up! You're dead - DEAD!"

"No, I'm very much alive. Just because you changed your face, doesn't mean I'm not still alive - inside..."

"Go away..." Harvey sobbed, "Why won't you leave me alone."

"Look at you, cryin' like a baby! This is why I'm not going anywhere. You need me, you snivelin' little wimp!"

"No, I don't need you, not anymore. I'm the District Attorney now, I can finally help Gotham City."

"Help Gotham City? Don't make me laugh. We're gonna use the resources we now have to arrest your underworld rivals, leavin' us free to rule over all organised crime in the city!"

"We're doing it for the greater good! If I run all crime in Gotham - there will be no more gang wars causing innocent bloodshed. Gotham will be a safer place."

"Don't give me that crap, Dent! You're doing this for power, for greed, for US! If you wanted to make Gotham City safer, would you have had The Joker broken out of Arkham Asylum?"

"That was your idea, not mine! I was against it from the start. The Joker is...a monster! You said releasing him would keep Batman busy, off our trail..."

"Trust me, it will. Soon, all those other crimelords will be behind bars, and we will have all their power."

"And Gotham will be safer. A means to an end, it's all a means to an end..."

"Mr Dent?" shouted his secretary, Betty, "Is someone in there with you?"

"No, Betty, it's fine," called Dent, "I'm just...erm...practising my opening statement for tomorrow."

Harvey Dent sat down at his desk, placing his head in his hands. For years now, Two-Face had been the dominant personality. Harvey Dent had just been a voice trapped within. But now, it was Harvey who had control. But Two-Face was still there, gnawing away inside.

This was all wrong. He wasn't ready for the responsibility of being the DA. It was too much, too soon. Maybe it would be better if he resigned, for now at least. It wasn't too late to just walk away from this plan. But did he really want to give everything up, after he'd come so far?

He couldn't decide. He was going to need help. Slowly, Dent reached into his pocket. It was still there. After all the surgery, all the therapy, he still didn't have the strength to get rid of it. He shivered with fear and self-loathing as he took out his coin. His father's coin. Normal on one side, scarred on the other. Just like he used to be.

He flipped it. It landed scarred side up.

"I win, Dent. I always win in the end..."