Thanks for the reviews!
SoSott: Yes, Psycho Path is actually a real street.
Lauralot and J-Horror Girl: Thanks for the sympathies regarding my computer. Starting from scratch does suck.
Sorry this took so long. I got drenched by school-work. It damn near killed me.
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This was worse than hijacking a van, just to find a pair of bright-eyed toddler twins ogling you from their car seats. This was worse than stealing an idling taxi, only to find the back seat occupied by a pissed-off businessman who shouted obscenities in Arabic and threatened to bring the eternal wrath of Allah down on you. This was even worse than finding yourself in the back of a limo with tinted windows, sandwiched between two men who looked suspiciously like Mafia leg-breakers.
"Spooky, do something! Do it now! Do it!"
"He's your bat, you do something!" Crane replied.
"Harley, you do something! Johnny, get this heap parked!"
Crane didn't need to be told twice, or even once. He swerved off the empty road and parallel parked beautifully. Living in Gotham, he had to know how to parallel park a truck in a space drivers from outside the chaotic city would sweat trying to fit their compact sedan in.
Harley dug furiously for anything that could be used as a weapon. She searched under her seat and was rewarded with only a mummified French fry that could have been there for months. Wrenching open the glove compartment, Harley tore through the contents. The only things in there were the rightful owner's insurance and vehicle registration papers and a half-eaten roll of mints.
"Try the bags." Crane advised as he felt around under his own seat.
Forgetting about the empty glove box, Harley grabbed one of the plastic bags and began to shuck things from it. "There's nothin' but candy bars and dirty magazines! Oh, and a coloring book."
"What about the other one?" The Scarecrow knew he was wasting his time. He had robbed a quick mart, not a hardware store. What was he expecting, a hefty wrench, a sledgehammer?
The little box containing his Advil went sailing through the air. Crane made a grab for it; needless to say, he missed. It ricocheted off the window and bounced under his seat. He shouted a word that began with an 'F', ended in 'uck' and wasn't firetruck.
"Tell me about it, Johnny-boy. Harley, why do I not yet have a bludgeon?"
"Mister J, there's nothin' here to use. I guess you roll up Hustler there and beat him with Miss Boobs of the Month, but that's about it."
His fingers skittering around under the seat, trying to locate the Advil, Crane happened upon something else. He touched something that was decidedly not a box or a dried-up French fry. It felt solid, cool, and suspiciously like the weapon Harley couldn't find.
"Clown, will this be of any use?"
The Joker, who was about one second away from using Harley's femur as a weapon, looked over. "Spooky, if not for the fact you are a nerd, I would kiss you. Give me that."
Crane handed over the tire iron. The bludgeon looked right at home in the Joker's hands. Grinning a grin that was even creepier and more off-putting than his usual psycho smile, the clown clambered over Harley. After squashing her against her seat, he was able to escape from the truck. The Scarecrow and harlequin turned to watch events unfold.
Don't panic. They can smell fear. Wait, or is it the Scarecrow who can smell fear? No, he can't smell anything with that mask on. It has to be hyenas.
Bruce tried desperately to remember where he had learned about the keenness of a hyena's olfactory sense. Was it on a nature documentary? Perhaps he had read it in National Geographic. Maybe it had come up in conversation with Alfred.
Why do I care where I learned it? The only thing I have to worry about is them eating me. How do I prevent that? Think, Bruce. You may have suffered a severe concussion but that will be a pat on the head compared to being torn apart like a baby zebra.
It wasn't like someone had written a Surviving Hyena Attacks for Dummies book. Batman wracked his injured brain, trying to recall past encounters with Harley's babies. He could remember outraging PETA, and having his cape eaten. Going back farther, he could recall a few encounters that ended with the hyenas limping and Harley chasing him with a mallet.
Bud growled low in his throat, and snapped his jaws. Batman flinched as far back as he could, his head hitting the side of the truck. He felt pain burst through his skull and wished he could black back out. While unconscious, the mutts obviously hadn't attacked. Now that he was awake, and moving, they wanted several bloody pieces of him.
He couldn't see where the two hyenas were, but could only hear their feet pad against the truck bed's liner. He couldn't even shout at them, try to warn them off, because of the tape over his mouth. His hands and feet were bound and, as much as Batman hated to admit it, there was nothing he could do if a hyena suddenly decided to stop posturing and take a bite out of his nose.
"Hey, Bats, enjoying the company?"
That was just great. If the risk of being mauled wasn't horrific enough, the Joker had decided to show up. It was like catching malaria while you were already sick with the plague.
Batman listened intently as the Joker made his way to the back of the pickup. The clown lowered the tailgate and climbed aboard. Bruce found his heart beating far quicker than he would have liked. Behind the armor and the mask, Batman was human; he had physical reactions to fear just like every other creature. He just prayed the Joker wouldn't notice the upswing in his breathing.
"He's frightened." Crane said.
Harley squashed her face to the glass, trying to get a good look at Batman. "I don't know, Professor. He just seems kinda mad to me."
"He's incredibly good at hiding it. If I didn't know what to look for, I probably wouldn't find it."
"What do you mean? I'm lookin' but I ain't seein'." Harley said.
"There's a slight tremor to his hands and feet. It's difficult to see with the duct tape, but it's certainly there. I must applaud the Bat's bravery. He's blind, unable to defend himself, and a man he knows to be both insane and sadistic is approaching him, but he's stoic. What I wouldn't give for just an hour or two of research." The Scarecrow said.
"Uh, Professor, I don't know if anybody ever told you this, but you get sorta scary when you talk about human experimentation and stuff like that."
"Sorta scary? I suppose I should take the compliments that I can get."
While Crane was left to puzzle over how to move from 'sorta scary' to 'Jesus Christ I'm going to die of fear right here and now', the Joker was forced to deal with Bud and Lou. The two hyenas wanted to eat off at least one or two facial features. The Joker believed he had a right to do any and all maiming. Jimmy Carter was not available for peace negotiations.
"What part of my bat don't you people, uh, mutts, understand? Get out of the way before I have you sold to the French as fine cutlets! They eat dogs in France, and if they don't, they'll make an exception in your cases."
When the two hyenas showed all the movement of a petrified stump, the Joker swung the tire iron over their heads as a warning. Being threatened with solid metal objects was something they understood. Whimpering, Bud and Lou dashed from the truck and came scratching at the passenger door. Before Crane could say anything, two scavengers were eagerly pushing their muzzles into every nook and cranny in the truck.
"They're invading my personal space!" The Scarecrow wailed as Bud's furry butt plopped down in his lap. The hyena, asides from mistaking Crane for a seat, was also under the impression that scarecrows just adored being bathed in germ-infested saliva.
"Quiet in the peanut gallery! That means you, Lord of the Nerds."
"For the love of God, not another nickname. Bud, quick, go for the jugular. Right here, this vein, just one nip, please!"
The hyena slobbered all over the spot on his throat Crane was pointing to. He struggled, but couldn't dislodge well over 100 pounds of laughing meat. Unable to get the hyena to play Dr. Kevorkian or to go away, the Scarecrow was forced to sit there and grumble about it. He was quickly becoming a master in the art of griping, it seemed.
"Sorry, Bats. Johnny's needy. As in, he needs to shut up, or I'll need to break a few of his fingers. Now, where were we? Oh, right. You'd just returned to the world of the awake. Have a nice sleep?" The Joker asked.
Batman muttered something against the duct tape that might have been "it was beautiful and reinvigorating" but probably wasn't. It was quite hard to tell, as everything he said sounded like something that would come out of the mouth of a Neanderthal. The Joker wasn't dissuaded by his good bat buddy's lack of understandable communication, and plowed on merrily.
"You're probably wondering where you are, what I plan to do with you, and why a man of my stature would even associate with a geek of Johnny's caliber. Well, I can answer one of those questions. You're in the back of a truck. It's nice truck, a proud shade of purple, plenty of air in the tires, and nary a ding or scratch to be had, except for the holes in the windshield. The license plate number is, uh, something with a G and a 7 in it. Any other specifics you're dying to know?"
When he finally got out of this, he was going to thrash the Joker so hard the remains Arkham got would be small enough to bury in a matchbox. Bruce was determined to live long enough to knock all the Joker's teeth out so the clown would never be able to smile again. Forget justice, peace, saving Gotham and all that crap. He just wanted violence.
"No? You don't care about Johnny's truck? That's downright rude, Bats."
The clown took a step forward. Batman tensed, wishing he could get a precise idea of exactly where the Joker was. His ears were sharp, but certainly not as sharp as a real bat's would have been. What he wouldn't give right now for a little of his namesake's natural sonar.
"But I can't expect a man dressed as a flying rat to have any manners. You can't exactly write to Dear Abby and ask her how a man who hangs upside down in a cave all day is supposed to interact with people. She'd think you were batty!"
"His puns make me physically ill. Tell me, child, why haven't they killed you yet? You've been exposed to them for years." Scarecrow said.
Harley shrugged. "I think most of 'em are pretty funny. The bat ones are startin' to wear a little thin 'cause of overuse, but I'm sure Mister J will think of some new material."
"You place far too much faith on him, you know. He isn't fit for human cohabitation." Crane said.
"Don't say that so loud! One time, this shrink at Arkham said the same thing, and the next morning they found parts of him in the cafeteria food and the coffee pot in the nurse's lounge." Harley said.
"Ah, yes, I do seem to recall someone pitching a fit over that. Was is the notorious finger in the chili incident? "
"Yep."
"As if the food wasn't bad enough on its own. Speaking of rancid things, Harley, would you mind removing Bud? His weight is displacing my internal organs."
"Come here to Mommy, Bud. Give her some kisses."
The hyena spring-boarded off Crane and began to assail Harley with loving slobber. The Scarecrow wished he had some Purell sanitizer handy. When he finally got away from the Joker, the first thing he was going to do was take a proper bath.
Harley's joyful frolicking ruined the Joker's mood. It was difficult to threaten your adversary when your girlfriend was squealing like Wilbur the pig. The cackling hyenas weren't contributing to an oppressive atmosphere of evil, either.
"One second, Bats. Harley! Shut up before I come in there and stuff that hyena down your throat!"
Harley clapped a hand over her own mouth, and covered Bud's snout with her other. The hyena eagerly licked the hand, and Crane could tell by the way Harley was writhing that it tickled madly. The things people did with their pets; it was truly astounding.
"I work with such incompetence. Let's get back on track. We're taking a road trip, all of us, like one big happy family. Only, I don't like it when the kiddy, that's going to be you, asks if we're there yet. So, here's how it's going to play out. If you do so much as sneeze, I'm going to do a lot worse than turn on music from the 50's and make you listen to it until we get where we're going. Got it, Bats?" The Clown Prince asked.
Bruce gave a definitive answer. He swung his bound legs at the Joker, hoping to knock the clown off balance. Unfortunately, the extra weight of the duct tape made the attack about as effective as flicking balls of paper at a tank. The Joker took a leisurely step backwards and was well out of range of Batman's conjoined legs.
"Okay, Bats. It's one thing to be rude to Johnny. I actually encourage that. It's another thing to try to trip me. For that, I'm going to have to fine you. Let' see, I don't think you carry around Bat-dollars, or Bat-rupees or Bat-drachmas, or whatever currency you use, so I'll have to take something else. I don't want your boots; they seem to be about, oh, six sizes too big. On a normal day I'd take the cape and pretend I was Superman, but it's half-eaten. That leaves the utility belt."
There was no way in Hell the Joker was taking his utility belt! Batman could just imagine the sick things the Joker would do with the various gadgets. The clown would doubtlessly go around the city, nailing people in the head with the batarangs just to see what damage they could do to an unprotected face. God help Gotham if the clown figured out how to use the grappling gun. He'd swing around like some insane version of Tarzan, peeking in on unsuspecting citizens, stealing flowers from window boxes and replacing them with the kind that squirted acid, and harassing entire apartment buildings.
"And now the Joker's attempting to remove Batman's pants. Hmm. I can't say I didn't have my suspicions. Any man that can find a way to force purple and green to coexist must be slightly queer at best." Crane noted.
"Uh, Professor, I think he's just tryin' to get the utility belt. Mister J's always wanted to play with it." Harley said.
"Really? I don't think I want to be around the Joker when he's playing with a new toy. I've bled enough today. Tell him he isn't bringing a weapon he has no idea how to use up here or he can find a new chauffeur." The Scarecrow said.
"I'll bring this belt in there and I'll choke you with it if I want, Spooky! You're going to drive until we either find a hideout or until you drop dead." The Joker said.
"How can his hearing be this sharp? Hasn't he been in the proximity of dozens of explosions? His auditory ability should be on par with someone who followed The Who on a cross-country tour." Crane said.
The Joker wasn't going to divulge his medical records. Nor was he going to be doing any strangling, at least not until he got the belt free. His tugging had proved ineffective, and Batman certainly wasn't going to help his hated foe get the utility belt off.
"Does this thing have some Bat belt buckle I'm not seeing or did you super-glue it to your pants? I wouldn't recommend that, by the way. I've super-glued my hand to places I won't get into detail about. Let's just say I ended up with a bald spot."
Harley giggled, and not just because Bud was tickling her with his tongue. "I remember that. Poor Mister J. It was worse than seein' a guy get his really hairy chest waxed."
"Christ hitchhiking on the highway. I've got images in my mind that would make my ancestors sick." Crane said.
While Harley remembered her Puddin' and his many accidents with adhesives, the Joker finally got the belt off. Batman swore at him, but the duct tape proved a fine censor. Holding the belt above his head like some pro wrestler who'd just won an obviously staged championship match, the Joker did a little celebratory gig.
"My Puddin's so cute when he dances. He could be on America's Got Talent." Harley gushed.
"And when he lost to some frumpy female singer, he could just blow up everyone. Then he could be on America's Most Wanted. It would be his what, twentieth appearance?"
"Eighteenth, actually." Harley corrected.
"I cry your pardon."
The Joker eventually got tired of dancing and lowered the belt. He couldn't wait to start experimenting with the various doodads, pouches, and gizmos. It was like Christmas had come early, and Santa had been too drunk on spiked eggnog to realize he had delivered a WMD into the hands of a lunatic.
"One more thing, Bats."
Batman growled, and that came out clear enough despite the duct tape. He didn't care what the Joker wanted. The bastard had stolen his belt!
The tire iron, neglected while the Joker had battled the belt, was back in the clown's hands. Harley sensed impending brain splatter, and moved to cover Bud and Lou's eyes. Crane opened his mouth to point out how utterly savage hyenas were, how sometimes in the wild they started eating their prey before it stopped breathing, and then decided against it. Telling Harley things was like trying to change the ways of a 75 year old Republican Senator from the Deep South. It was never going to do anything of significant value.
Luckily, the Joker didn't bash Batman's brains in. That would ruin the fun before it started, of course. Taking the mask off a broken corpse wouldn't even come near the excitement of taking it off a man who could suffer implications. There were things the Joker could do, or threaten to do, to a living Bat that he couldn't with a dead one.
Instead of swinging at Bruce's head, the Joker jabbed him in the chest with the tire iron. Through the armor, Batman couldn't quite tell what he was being poked with. It certainly felt heavy, perhaps a crowbar or other prying instrument. Whatever it was, it was the epitome of lethal in the clown's hands.
"Do you have some secret love-nest where you shack up with Catwoman?"
That's what the clown wanted to know?! Batman shook his head. He tried not to wonder if rumors involving his sex life floated around Arkham, but the thoughts came unbidden. Dirty, unpleasant thoughts, Batman had learned, had a way of pushing their way into your head, and the harder you tried to keep them out, the harder they banged on the door. Bad thoughts were like incredibly annoying door-to-door salesmen or Jehovah's Witnesses. They weren't going to leave your front porch until you opened the door and acknowledged them.
"No? Well that's a shame. I would have liked a tour of your den of debauchery. I bet it would be a lot more fun than Johnny's house." The Joker laughed.
"If he hated it so much, he should have just left!" Crane grumbled.
"But that's all right. We'll get somewhere soon enough. Just sit back and relax, Batty. Because if you decide to start thumping around, I'll have to do this." The tire iron connected with Batman's head hard enough to bring exploding stars to his eyes. "Only much harder."
Satisfied, the Joker hopped merrily from the truck, stolen belt in one hand, tire iron in the other. He walked back to the cab, threw a fit when he noticed Bud and Lou had taken over his spot, and banished both hyenas to the back of the truck. After the mutts were secured and growling at Batman, the Joker took his seat.
"That was all very productive, but did you happen to finally have a destination in mind?" Crane asked.
"I wonder what this button does. Whoa, it makes this thing light up. What does that light do?"
The Joker was lost in the magical mystery of Batman's utility belt. He would be, as always, useless to Crane. With no other option, the Scarecrow put the truck in drive and turned it back onto the road. They'd have to find something, an abandoned crack house, another foreclosure, an unlocked shed in a backyard.
He'd even take, the Scarecrow had to concede, that refrigerator box in the alley, smelly dog and all.
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Author's Notes:
Jimmy Carter won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2002.
As far as I know, they do not eat dogs in France.
Dr. Kevorkian is famous (or infamous) for aiding in physician-assisted suicides.
Wilbur is the pig from Charlotte's Web.
Rupees are the currency of India, drachmas of Greece.
The Who held the world record for Loudest Concert for 10 years.