CHAPTER XI

In the old halls of Arkham Asylum, thousands of criminals and basket cases lurked in cells and out in the halls. None of them escaped the notice of the Joker. And he didn't escape the notice of anyone else. As he walked through the halls or across the yard or through the cafeteria, at least one person would stare long and hard at his eternal grin, and still others would quickly look away, seeing something far more disturbing in his widened eyes. He didn't mind. It meant no one would bother him, not even Croc. In fact, Killer Croc was a model prisoner after the day the Joker severely injured him. He spoke softer, didn't get into any fights, and was even considering giving roses to Ivy Pepper. No one could say whether or not Killer Croc had suffered brain damage, but nobody was complaining.

Meanwhile the Joker's brain still surged with his trapped and unexpressed emotions. He looked like he was enveloped in pure ecstasy all hours of the day, but really the choice was not his own. He couldn't cry if he wanted to, he couldn't furrow his brow, he couldn't even frown. While many say that the Joker is full of himself, in reality he knows what kind of abomination he was transformed into, and he hates himself and his creator as much as anyone else. His rapid-fire quips and joking manner are just a chemically-induced mask that he can't remove.

His psychiatric sessions weren't any better to him. Harley tried to convince him that it was all in his head, but while that might be the case, he'll never be able to take it out. Even worse for the Joker, he really liked, maybe even loved Harley. He wanted more than anything else in the world to say, "You're beautiful," but it if he ever tried, all that would come forth was some inappropriate comment that he had to stop himself in the middle from saying. And still he smiled. His agony was multiplied when, one day, he saw a spark in Harley's eyes that told him that she loved him. It seemed illogical and a little condescending to him, illogical because of what he was, and condescending because she loved him in the way you would love a desolate puppy.

Although, he could understand why Harley felt this way. Simply from talking to her during their sessions, he gleaned that her home life wasn't all that much to speak about, with likely divorced parents and negligence. Whenever she was agitated, she slipped into a thick New Jersey accent, meaning she was likely from somewhere in the inner parts of the state. She must have lived with her mother and didn't see much of her father after her parents' divorce, because she was seeking after the nearest male to get attention from, and considering she chose the Joker, she probably didn't have great social skills either. From all of this, the Joker promptly drew the conclusion that she was having an inner battle not unlike his own, and she might have been at war with insanity as well.

All these things the Joker didn't tell Smiley, Kami, and Chester. If they knew about the swirling mass of compressed thoughts in his head, they would give him pity he didn't need. So he didn't tell them. And all day, every day, they talked to him and acted like he was fine, that the grin he wore was on purpose. They thought this meant they could behave sophomorically, but while he was insane, the Joker also had a degree of class, and he didn't appreciate this said behavior whatsoever. Still, they helped him out. They were loyal, he gave them that. They were some manner of friends, at least. But the fact still remained that he was a jumble of madness and sorrow, one which couldn't be untangled.

He was given one small comfort, however. When he got out of Arkham, and he knew he would get out, he had a mission laid out before him, one which he could carry out with the greatest pleasure. He may be a criminal, but those he sought to destroy were also criminals in their own right. He always pulled any political news out from the paper and cut out their faces, pinning them to his cell wall, as a macabre method to remind him of his goals. On some days, he simply sat in the middle of his cell, legs crossed, staring at his eventual victims. Whomever walked by during this ritual of his was overtaken by an unnatural feeling that something was going to happen, and he, the Joker, would be at the center.

Then there was the almost insurmountable question of Batman. He was an interesting man, one with an admittedly stylish look. Their talk was a kind of release for the Joker. He was able to lay out his intentions in front of the man who at least heard the Joker come into being, and have a reserve of confidence that bordered on the foolish that he couldn't stop it. His smile grew slightly at the thought. Another interesting point of the man was his identity. It's…no, not funny. It's intriguing. When a criminal's name is known, and he's taken in, the public's hate is there, but under the surface. But when a hero such as Batman's name is known, the public doesn't care that he's trying to help, they only care it's not the police. Their hate flares, and the hero is persecuted more than the villain. It's idiotic.

The Joker at first had wanted to figure out who he was, but throughout the weeks that passed, it became obvious to the Joker: what reason did he have to find out? He was this close to uncovering it when he realized that there wouldn't be any fun in that. If he knew his identity, the Joker could take him down easily in his own home. But once again, that wouldn't be any good. Every hero needs a villain, and one shouldn't defeat the other earlier than need be.

All in all, the Joker's life was a mess, mostly contained in his detrimental mind. He couldn't think like a regular human being anymore, and that made him as dangerous as any monster from your nightmares. His genius combined with such twisted thinking afforded him the ability to devise cruel methods of harmful acts, from minor injury to death. What a puzzle he was, and still is.

Meanwhile at Wayne Manor, I was peacefully contemplating all recent events in my life, swinging gently in a hammock. My eyes were closed, and the breeze delivered a feeling of bliss…which, as per the usual, was interrupted by a certain maverick teen. Dick flipped me out of the hammock, and I landed hard on my side. I got up slowly and painfully, saying, "What in the heck was that for?" Dick interlocked his fingers in front of his face and said, "I have something to show you." "And you expect me to do that after you've bruised the entirety of my left side?" I asked angrily. "Okay," said Dick, shrugging, "I guess I'll just go into the Batcave and admire the work of my hands by myself, then."

I froze and said, "Wait…what did you do?" "Quit worrying," he said, "I didn't blow up anything, if that's what you're thinking." "Well, I'm not sure I trust your word, so I guess I'll have to go with you whether I like it or not," I said. Dick turned on his heel and walked towards the Batcave. I followed, wondering exactly what he had done. I expected to see some kind of garish bat-themed addition to the place, but it was not so. I entered the cavern to see a row of eight foot tall glass cases with racks exactly like that I used for my suit. "When did you make this?" I asked. "Whenever I couldn't sleep," he said, "I've already beaten Halo 3 plenty of times, so I tried something new." I nodded.

I ran my hand over the glass and said, "Where did you get all the stuff to make this?" "Well, actually," said Dick, "you wouldn't believe how much building material and power tools are in your basement. By the way, do you or Alfred happen to know what the warranty on your table saw was?" "What do you mean, was?" I asked. "Nothing at all," said Dick. I sighed, but in spite of myself, I smiled. This was actually pretty cool, considering it's likely that Dick destroyed a table saw. "You know," I said, "it's seems you were hard at work. So why don't we go get something to eat?" "Seriously?" said Dick. "Yeah, sure," I said, "I mean, Alfred's cooking is good, but sometimes you just can't beat a good burger."

Dick and I headed to Danny's Burgers, a burger joint just a few miles down the road from Wayne Manor. As we walked inside, I said, "This was my favorite restaurant as a kid. The guys here know how to make the perfect burger, I'm telling you." "Well, in that case, what are we waiting for?" said Dick, "Let's get some cow!" We got in line, and when we reached the counter, the girl at the register let her jaw drop, saying, "You're…you're…" "Bruce Wayne, yes, he knows," said Dick, "He's a normal guy, though, don't be intimidated." The girl closed her mouth and said, "Okay." "By the way," said Dick, "has anybody told you that you've got some of the cutest freckles I've ever seen?" The girl turned red and asked, "Um, so what would you like?"

We ordered, and as we walked away from the counter, I said, "Why'd you do that?" "I had to," said Dick, "otherwise she wouldn't have stopped. Besides, she really was cute." "Down, boy," I said. We walked to a corner booth and sat down. Dick quickly unwrapped his burger and took a long look at it. "This…" he said, "this is the most glorious burger I've ever laid eyes on." "And that's not all," I said, downing a French fry, "Take a bite." Dick took a bite and chewed slowly, and then he said, "Deliciousness like this shouldn't be possible." "I thought the same thing when I had my first burger here," I said. I took a bite out of mine, and a whole ton of memories filled my mind. I remembered coming here with my parents and Alfred, enjoying a good meal with good people. In fact, I ordered a strawberry milkshake for Alfred. He always loved those.

We quickly devoured our meals and went back to the car. On the way back, Dick unleashed a considerably loud belch. "Oh-ho!" I said, "Loose cannon, here!" "Well," said Dick, "I always say that the bigger the volume, the better the food." "True," I said, "but I think I can one-up you." "You want to bet?" said Dick. "No," I said, "But I would like to show you how it's done." As we went down the road, we continually made our burps louder, eventually breaking down in laughter for the rest of the drive. We were still laughing when we reached Wayne Manor. Alfred looked at us and said, "I assume you had a good time?" "Oh, yes," I said, "Here's your milkshake, by the way." "Thank you," said Alfred, taking the shake.

Dick turned at the stairs and faced us, saying, "Well, I'm going to go to my room and start reading Animal Farm. Adieu!" He turned around and walked up the stairs. I smiled and said, "You know, Alfred, Lucius says that Dick is just like I was at his age." Alfred seemed deep in thought for a second, drinking contentedly. Eventually, he said, "Perhaps, Master Wayne, perhaps. He's certainly as mischievous as you were." I laughed and said, "He is not!" "On the contrary," said Alfred, "You gave me more grey hairs than you did your parents." "All right, fine," I said, "I was a little bit like him." "More than a little bit," said Alfred, walking away. I stood where I was, still smiling, still wondering.