Batman: Revenge Chapters 16 - 18

                 

Chapter 16

       
Propped up on one elbow at five-thirty in the morning, Bruce lay in bed watching Vicki sleep. He had so much to do today, he needed to get up, but it wasn’t easy. Reminded of the Billy Joel song, “She’s Such a Temptation,” he gently moved several strands of her golden hair away from her face and marveled at the way she made him feel. He didn’t want to lose this wonderful, soul satisfying experience of waking up with her each morning. Fourteen years ago she had been 28 years old. Now, at the age of 42, time's effects were just beginning to show. Yet, to him she remained as beautiful as ever; perhaps even more so.
    Once again, the biggest reason they had not stayed together years ago loomed as a real concern. She would be in constant danger if criminals were to find out she and Bruce Wayne or, God forbid, Batman were romantically involved. Ransom demands would be exorbitant for the lover of one of the ten richest men in America. More convinced than ever that the Joker would use Vicki, somehow, in order to exact revenge on him, Bruce wracked his brain for some way to protect her. Previously, he sent her away. That would not be an option this time around. As Alfred had frequently pointed out, that decision had been so wrong.
      Overpowering emotions welled up within him as his hand slid over her shoulder, down past her waist to her hip. Resting his palm on the soft curve of her smooth, perfectly rounded behind, he vowed that this time he would not under any circumstances, give her up. To throw away this relationship a second time over what might or might not happen would be a tragedy. He kissed her on the cheek and, exhibiting the cursed self discipline that defined him, forced himself out of the warm bed as Vicki sleepily pulled the covers up over her bare shoulder.
    Always busy, today Bruce faced a heavier than normal schedule. He needed to delve further into the potential Axis Chemicals, investor fraud scandal. Richards might need to pick up Dick Grayson, who would be arriving this morning from Chicago. He would have to call Chase, to inquire about Edward Nygma's progress concerning his analysis of The Joker's tissue samples and the chemicals that kept them from decomposing. He also needed to finish his own analysis on the DNA samples taken from the glasses at the Commissioner’s home and he had to run the check on the fingerprints from Kolasinski’s house.
      The Mayor had asked him to speak during the City Council meeting this morning at ten, concerning his thoughts on possible candidates to fill the vacant position of Police Commissioner. Then, at one, he was scheduled to meet with representatives of the American Diabetes Association who were preparing a DVD presentation for the benefit.
      As if that weren’t enough, time was going to have to be set aside for Commissioner Gordon’s daughter. She was flying in for the funeral from Houston, and to top it all off, Barbara was coming in on a plane from Metropolis. He hadn’t seen her since just two months before little Alfred had been born.
      Downstairs, in the kitchen, he sat down long enough for a fresh cup of coffee, a couple of pieces of buttered toast with jelly, and a quick glance at the newspaper. The internet will never replace the paper, he thought as he scanned the headlines. There was something comforting about the newspaper and the fact you could carry it around with you anywhere, as he did now, to the bathroom. Sure, you could get the news on small, wireless, hand-held computers or on a Sony Watchman TV, but it wasn’t the same.
      Today’s headlines were about Commissioner Gordon’s murder and the new reign of terror that had seized the city. Two more street robberies had occurred involving thieves dressed as if they were part of The Joker's gang and speculation was still running wild concerning who may have been responsible for the hijacking attempt on the F-27. There had been some interesting stories in the sports section, such as the big game coming up between the Giants and the Steelers, but Bruce didn’t have time for the trivial stories this morning.   
      He began to shave his stubbly face and looked closely at the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, which seemed to be more prominent than ever. I’m just not getting enough sleep, he thought. I’m not used to being in… what was he in, anyway? He was in love. Had he told Vicki that? Had he actually come right out and said it, or had he just skirted around it by saying things like, “I’m glad you’re here.” He finished shaving quickly and went back upstairs to the bedroom where he found her still curled up in bed, asleep. Bruce leaned over and kissed her cheek, while at the same time placing a hand on her hip.
      As she felt herself being gently shaken, she turned her head and squinted through barely opened eyes. “What is it?” she asked. “Is everything okay?” She rose up suddenly, her forehead wrinkling with worry.
    “I just needed to tell you something.”
    She relaxed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. As she did, the covers fell away, exposing her breasts, momentarily diverting Bruce’s gaze. As the cobwebs of sleep faded away she noticed and appreciated the way he stared. She read the lust in his eyes, but just as evident was an equal measure of sincere affection. Convinced nothing could be terribly wrong, she smiled and encircled him with her arms as he sat down on the bed.
    His words and emotions tumbled forth, unrestrained, “Vicki, I love you. I love you so much, and I need you so badly. I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost you again. I should never have let you go before. There’s so much we could have enjoyed together. I’ve been so lonely and so stupid. We could have been…”
    Evidently wanting to see his face, Vicki pushed away from Bruce’s strong arms for a moment. Happy tears streamed from her eyes as she gazed into his.
      The sight of her, valiantly trying to keep smiling while her chin trembled was more than Bruce could bear. After so many years of being alone and believing he might remain so forever, tears welled up in his eyes, as well.
    Vicki felt herself pulled back, hard, against him. His tears ran down her neck and chest. She clung to him as tightly as she could, feeling happier than she could ever remember being. Vicki didn’t think this or any moment, for the rest of her life, could ever be any more perfect.
      Then, Bruce regained enough control to say, “Vicki, will you marry me?”
                                         

~      ~      ~

      At the City of Tomorrow amusement park, others were waking up to a torrent of words, but most decidedly not words of love. “Get your ass out of bed, Segelski, you pathetic excuse for a man. You told me you were supposed to be at work early this morning! Don’t forget that cab company you work for, Happy Cab, is a company that I own, although it’s registered to Harley. It brings in a lot of dough for us, and has a good reputation in this city. I don’t want people standing around wondering why we aren’t showing up, just because you don’t have the discipline to get your ass up on time! What if a golden opportunity presented itself and I were to decide the time was right to grab Ms. Vale, but you weren’t there to pick her up for us?”
    “But Boss,” Bruce complained, “We all know you’re gonna grab her at the benefit!”
      Awakened by the shouting, Lawrence and Sammy, who slept in the same room that used to be a part of the mirrored funhouse, looked around, blinking and rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, seeing multiple distorted images of The Joker.
      “Have I not made myself clear to you boys? We may not get a chance to do things the way I want them done. We may have to improvise a bit. We have to be on our toes! There isn’t any room for error. I’ve waited a long time to see this plan put into action. The day of retribution draws nigh and let me tell you something boys, I’m not about to let you screw it up!”
      Still pained by a sore ribcage, a reward for botching the F-27 heist, Sammy didn’t appreciate this kind of early morning tirade. He had done more than his share of preparation for the big event. He reconstructed the cross, once displayed in the immense, old, Gotham City Cathedral. He built the base that held it securely upright and allowed it to be tilted backwards or forwards by a hydraulic motor. He felt like saying more than a few words to this ungrateful, lazy blowhard, who claimed to be immortal.
      Sick of being treated this way, Sammy didn’t think the old man was everything he claimed. As he looked around at the mirrored images, he said, “Let’s have a little appreciation here, Joker. We’ve been doing all the work. You’ve been doing nothing except sitting around bitching at us like an old, fat wife, screaming at her piece of shit, spineless husband. Truth be told, about all you’ve managed to do so far is kill an old man who posed less of a threat than my aunt Sally.”
      Sammy heard something behind him and turned to see The Joker, not in a mirror, but in person. With daggers in his eyes and hands on his hips he replied, “Well, Sammy Evans, I thought I saw signs of a man in you . . . someone with initiative and guts. I remember,” he chuckled, “when you first joined me fresh out of the Army, all full of yes sir and no sir. You respected authority back then. Seems as if you've forgotten some of the fine military training you received here in the land of the free. I have a hunch you want to be the new cock of the walk. Well, Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
    The Joker walked once around the perimeter of the room, bobbing his head while crowing like a rooster, his hands tucked under his armpits, elbows flapping up and down as if they were wings. When he got back to his starting point he stopped crowing and said, “I believe Sammy wants to be the king of the hill, boys! Is that it Sammy?” The Joker spread his arms out wide and admonished the pissed off, but by now, very intimidated thug, “Tell me what’s on your mind, son,” he nodded, taking on the demeanor of a kind, caring parent, “I’m here for you, I’m listening.”
    Unsure of how to respond, Sammy said what he felt. “Ever since we dug you up you’ve been nothing but ungrateful. Not one kind word to any of us. All you do is constantly remind us that you’re immortal and we’re nothing but pieces of shit to you. I just think—”
    “You? Think?” No longer portraying the caring parent, The Joker launched into one of his theatrical tirades. “Pieces of shit don’t think, do they? They just float around until they get flushed. Well,” he motioned to Lawrence and Bruce, “All you turds gather round. We have some malodorous issues to settle here before we go any further. Let’s light a match and see if we can’t get rid of the stink.”
      Wearing just their jockey briefs, Lawrence and Bruce shuffled forward and stood about three feet from where Sammy sat on the side of his bed in his boxers and a T-shirt. The three men looked at each other not knowing what might happen, but figuring with The Joker in his present mood, it was bound to be bad.
    The Joker pulled a gun from the inside of his long, purple, Edwardian jacket and handed it to Sammy. Amazingly, the barrel of the gun measured over a foot long. Next, he pulled his small, silver derringer from his pants pocket and showed it to the boys. “I believe in being fair," he asserted. "Even if I end up being shown just how wrong I am. I admit I’ve made some pretty bold claims concerning my immortality and I may have been pushing you fellows a little harder than OSHA regulations allow. Sammy, why don’t you just do yourself and the other boys a big favor right now and put me out of your misery? Here’s your chance to show some of that leadership ability that’s just welling up inside of you. Or, are you just going to be the first turd down the bowl?”
      Standing directly in front of Sammy, The Joker pulled his plum colored jacket open, followed by the unbuttoning of his brilliantly orange silk shirt. Pulling the shirt open exposed the pale, bleached skin of his chest, liberally dotted with curly, thin green hairs.
      His eyes wide in anticipation, he gushed, “Ahhh, there’s nothing like a duel. The drama, the honor, the finality! I’ll let you shoot first, Sammy! Go ahead!” The Joker grabbed the barrel of the gun, which quivered due to Sammy’s trembling hands at the other end. Placing the end of the barrel directly in the middle of his chest, the boss's permanently disfigured face twisted into a sneer as he issued his challenge, “Do it, boy. You know you'll never get another chance!”
      Sammy pulled the trigger, half expecting a flag to pop out with the word, “BANG,” on it. But instead, it fired, blasting a huge, gaping hole in the Joker’s chest, spraying the walls and mirrors, as well as the nearby spectators with blood. The bullet that passed through the Joker shattered the full-length mirror he had stood in front of. The force of the blast threw him backwards, where he collapsed in a heap, supported partially by it's wooden frame. Jagged shards of glass reflecting odd angles and fragmented segments of the gruesome scene lay everywhere.
      For a brief moment Sammy stared, thunderstruck, at the immense hole in the chest of The Joker and then turned to his companions, saying, “I guess he didn’t think I'd do it. I told you he couldn't really be immortal.” Silently, they all stared at The Joker and then at each other, horrified, yet somehow relieved. And then, coming from where The Joker lay, they heard a sound. It began as a barely audible whistling noise as air seeped into and out of the mess that had been The Joker's lungs. Slowly, the whistling noise subsided, replaced by what resembled a weak chuckle. While the now terrified thugs watched in horror and amazement, the oozing cavity in The Joker's chest closed and the head which hung down loosely, bobbed once and then rose. Slowly the eyelids opened, revealing bloodshot, yellowish-green eyes which fixed their sights on Sammy.
    The most evil criminal in U. S. history coughed, spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor and then grinned, exposing a wide row of blood-smeared teeth. He placed a hand on the floor for leverage and pushed, rising to one knee. Speaking in a hoarse voice, he said, “That was pretty good, Sammy.” He coughed, cleared his throat and spat blood again before continuing, “I didn’t think you had the guts to do it, and to prove that you did you blew mine out!”
      He laughed out loud, a strange, sickly demented laugh that failed to convey even a hint of the light-hearted feelings that a laugh usually conveys. Rather than light-hearted, the laughter and tone in his voice were profoundly sinister as he continued, “I’m proud of you, son! Boys, let’s give Sammy a big round of applause!” While the stunned onlookers clapped halfheartedly, The Joker rose to a standing position. He wavered unsteadily for a moment and stared down at his midsection, which had ceased to ooze. The charred, blackened skin had returned to its unnatural, bleached pallor, with only a small entry wound remaining visible.
      Horrified and disgusted, Lawrence and Bruce watched as splotches of blood and clumps of tissue began to flow and drag themselves across the floor, climbing up, onto The Joker's expensive Italian loafers. He bent down, lifted the pieces of tissue and held them against his wound, where they inched and squirmed their way back into the body from whence they came. Removing his jacket, The Joker held it up and placed a pasty colored fist through the gaping hole in the back. “Looks like I’m going to need some new threads, Lawrence. Would you be so kind as to call a tailor and make an appointment for me?”
    Sammy spoke up, unable to stand the pressure of the situation. “Boss, are we good, now? I mean you aren’t going to hold a grudge or punish me, or anything, are you? I mean I only did what you told me to do. I didn’t even know the gun was loaded.”
    “Well of course it was loaded Sammy. It wouldn’t be much of a fair duel if it wasn’t, now would it? But to answer your question, I hold no grudges.” The Joker paused and started to turn away, eliciting a sigh of relief from Sammy, but then stopped and raised his right hand. “However, a duel is a duel and must be finished.” The Joker turned back around, took three steps forward and pointed his derringer directly at Sammy’s forehead. Sammy squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could to block out the vision of the small gun’s barrel.
    Lawrence and Bruce cried out, “Don’t do it, boss!” But the Joker just smiled and pulled the trigger. A small yellow flag with bright red letters that spelled out, “BANG,” popped out of the short barrel. Lawrence and Bruce couldn’t believe what they saw. They stood like statues, too shocked to react, until Sammy opened his eyes, stared cross-eyed at the barrel of the gun and then looked at Bruce and Lawrence, obviously wondering why he was still alive. Suddenly the three of them erupted into laughter. They hooted and hollered and slapped each other on the back. They laughed and hugged and staggered about the mirrored room until they were exhausted, then one of them pointed a finger at another, said “BANG,” and they all started laughing again. All, that is, except the Joker.
    Still snickering, Sammy walked up to his employer and put out a hand to shake. He said, “Boss, you really taught me a lesson. You're everything you ever claimed to be. I’ll never question your orders again.”
    The Joker glared coldly at the outstretched hand, said, “You’re right about that,” and again pointed the trigger at Sammy’s head. Sammy grinned and looked around for approval. All three of The Joker's gang began laughing again. That’s when the gun fired. Sammy's expression was one of total surprise as he fell backwards across the bed and then tumbled off, onto the floor. Like evil spirits released by the discharge, tendrils of gunsmoke curled and floated in the air.
    The killer shook his head, slipped the derringer back in his pants pocket and began to walk away, his ruined jacket draped over his arm, his wound miraculously healed. He paused and turned back around, pointing down at Sammy’s inert body and the big gun that lay on the floor next to him. “See boys, we just solved an age old question.” He pulled his derringer back out of his pocket and waved it in the air for emphasis. “Size doesn’t matter after all. Now that’s funny.” The Joker began to laugh heartily as he left the room and headed down the hallway to his office. It was the bone-chilling laugh of an unbalanced, malevolent mind; a twisted cackle that made Bruce’s and Lawrence’s blood run cold.
    Bruce stared at Lawrence as the laughter, which escalated into uncontrollable, insane howling, trailed off into the distance. He lowered his voice and looked around,  fearful someone might hear him, and said, “He’s the devil you know. Sammy didn’t believe it, but I do. We dug up Satan, himself. There’s no other explanation.”

 

BATMAN: REVENGE

   
                                       

Chapter 17

Vicki Vale and Richards were on the web, sifting through earnings reports, loan transactions and any other public information they could find on Axis Chemicals. They had found the latest published government reports on the progress that had been made testing product number 14,516,642,666, known as Axis Long Life. There had not been any progress; none. In fact, the testing had been delayed and would not resume for at least another six months. No reason, official or otherwise, was given for the delay.
    They found two published reports of research scientists who claimed to have performed a spectral analysis and various other tests on the product and had found it to be completely safe, as well as biodegradable. However, when attempts were made to reach the people responsible for the reports, they could not be found and their existence could not be confirmed. The only conclusion that seemed plausible, was that the reports were fabricated to engender favorable public opinion for the Axis Chemicals products.
        The most alarming fact uncovered that day by Vicki and Richards was the accounting firm doing the audits of Axis Chemicals was owned by Shrek Industries and run by Charles, “Chip” Shrek, son of the late Max Shrek. As a young boy his own father loathed rather than loved Chip, due to his slow cognitive abilities. Befriended by Carl Grissom, Jr. not long after Max’s death, Chip gladly did everything Carl asked of him without question, including the occasional shredding of documents or changing of results in sensitive reports that might be considered damaging to the image of a company that Carl favored.
    At nine o’clock, Richards asked Vicki if she might like to accompany him to the airport to pick up Dick Grayson. It was a cool, cloudy morning with temperatures in the upper fifties, looking as if it might rain later in the day. Vicki was dressed in red tennis shoes, jeans, a red long sleeved blouse, and a blue jean jacket. Richards gave the house staff strict instructions that they were not to allow anyone into the house while he was gone without calling him and explaining the situation. After receiving assurances from the staff that they would follow that advice, Vicki and Richards walked out to the garage, passing through the sports emporium as they went.
      Vicki pointed to one of the signed baseballs and said, “I know who Joe Dimaggio was. He was the Mr. Coffee guy, that married Marilyn Monroe.” Richards congratulated her on her knowledge of sports icons, saying he would be sure to call her, if he was on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire,” and needed a life line. Vicki liked that, and she liked Richards. The entire Wayne Manor staff had welcomed her with open arms, going out of their way to make her feel right at home. She thanked Richards as he opened the back door to the 1952 Bentley and waited for her to be seated comfortably before closing it.
    Once seated in the driver’s seat he buckled his seat belt and looked into the rear view mirror to be sure his passenger was buckled in properly. The '52 Bentley had not originally come with seat belts for rear seat passengers, but Bruce had insisted that they be added and had put in modern shoulder restraint systems for the front passengers as well. Richards started the Bentley and placed the car’s transmission in drive. He had begun to pull out of the garage when Vicki said, “Bruce asked me to marry him, this morning.” Richards stepped on the brake, bringing the classic car to an abrupt halt. He put the transmission back in park and turned around to face his passenger.
    “Pardon me, Ms. Vale,” Richards said, “but I thought I heard you say Master Wayne proposed to you this morning?”
    Vicki nodded happily, clasping her hands and leaning forward, “That’s right. He told me he loves me and wants me to marry him.”
    “And, may I ask, did you agree to his proposal?” Richards asked. 
    “I’ve loved him since the first time I met him, fourteen years ago, Richards. Of course I said yes. We're going to have a great wedding. He wants it to be on Thanksgiving Day. I was thinking we might wait until spring, but he really wants to do this, so we have some fast planning to do. I know everybody’s going to assume I’m pregnant or something, but I don’t care. In fact, I wish I were pregnant. Maybe I will be by then. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”
    “Neither is he,” Richards added dryly. “He’s now 46 and would be at least 65 by the time your firstborn could be graduating from high school. How do you feel about that?”
    Vicki cocked her head to the left and considered the question briefly before answering, “Well, he is in pretty good shape and so am I, so I think it will be okay. Besides, we can always have you play the rough sports with him,” she giggled.
    “Oh, I see you’ve already decided it is to be a boy,” Richards commented, “I shall have to brush up on my basketball and soccer skills.”
    “A girl would be fine. I could teach her how to take pictures and how to shop. But you could play basketball or soccer with her, too, and Andre could teach her how to cook.”
    “And how about Master Wayne, what could he teach her to do?” Richards wondered. He turned back around, put the car back in drive and began to pull away from the garage, heading towards the entry gates.
    “That’s a good question,” Vicki said, “But he’s a pretty resourceful guy. If nothing else he would probably be good at teaching money management, how to make wise investments and of course, self defense.” Richards nodded, in agreement, as the gates closed behind them.
      The Mayor and City Council were having their regularly scheduled Thursday, ten o’clock meeting, however,  the subject matter of the day was anything but commonplace. Representatives from the Air Force, Gotham Fire department, Gotham Police Department, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Federal Aviation Agency, Tourism and Economic Development Department, and the Citizens Coalition for a Crime Free Environment were all pointing fingers at the Mayor for failing to ask for the necessary funds to adequately fight crime. According to the majority of those present, the appalling lack of control was a direct result of having too few officers on patrol.
      In the back of the council chambers all six local TV station crews had crowded in to shoot film of the heated discussion. One of the representatives from the Tourism and Economic Development Department was standing and shouting, “How can we expect people from around the nation to put us in their travel plans if we can’t provide a safe environment? We can’t build a campaign with slogans like, ‘Bored with safety and peace? Come to America’s war zone!’ Or, maybe, ‘How about a high risk vacation, this year?’”
    The Mayor, Winston Langley, shouted back, “That’s enough already! Do you honestly think anyone could have foreseen the events that have taken place this week? You were the same people begging for tax cuts this past year, and now that you have them you want to say I was irresponsible in not asking for more money to put more policemen on the streets?”
    The doors to the council chambers swung open and BATMAN appeared at the rear of the room. The arguments abated, as everyone wanted to hear what he had to say about any new developments regarding the recent outbreak of criminal activity, or his recommendation on filling the now vacant Police Commissioner’s position. Mayor Langley spread his arms wide and said, “Welcome Batman, do you have anything new to report?”
    Batman strode to the front of the room and began by defending the Mayor to the press and the various representatives that were attacking him. “Nobody could have predicted the things that have happened this week,” he contended. “There are Mayors who might have sought a cancellation of this meeting because they might fear their image being tarnished, but your Mayor is looking for solutions and is doing his best to keep the lines of communication open. He is the one who invited me to be here today. I do have a new development this morning, to announce to you. The County Coroner’s office has posted a report indicating the death of Vladimir Kolasinski was not a suicide. He was the man who did the embalming of the Joker fourteen years ago. I have an audio cassette, which I am turning over to the police that would indicate Mr. Kolasinski might have been murdered in order to keep certain issues from becoming common knowledge. That’s all I can say about the tape at this time. I will let the police department determine what specific details they might wish to release once they have had a chance to analyze it.”
    Mayor Langley stepped back up to the podium, thanked Batman for showing up, and asked him if he might have a recommendation for the vacant Police Commissioner’s position. Batman surveyed the crowd of spectators and saw Captain Benjamin Archer, beaming expectantly, looking forward, no doubt, to hearing his name mentioned.
      Stepping back up to the microphone the Dark Knight cleared his throat and said, “There are several highly qualified men and women that have served our community faithfully for a number of years who deserve careful consideration for the position of Police Commissioner. Whoever fills the vacant position must be skilled in the ability to balance the budget of a large department and must be well trained in public speaking and handling the media as well as interdepartmental communications, both verbal and written. The late Commissioner Gordon was a friend of mine and left some very big shoes to fill. It would not be proper for me to attempt to sway the opinions of those who will make this important choice. I would hope, for the sake of all those who reside here and work here, for those growing up here and those retiring here, that the choice will be a person of high energy and integrity, who will be able to resist the temptations of favoritism and partisanship. The new Commissioner must be able to plan for the safety of our citizens now, and in the future. In planning for the future the new Commissioner must take into account that certain favorable circumstances, such as the relationship between Gotham City and me, will not continue forever. Time marches on, and as it does there are those of us who will no longer be able to keep up with it’s pace. Rather than hanging on to what was, this city must look forward to what will be. Hopefully, the new leader will learn from the past and respect previous achievements, but will also endeavor to avoid the mistakes of the past. Your decision on who our new commissioner will be is going to be a huge step in building a safe and solid foundation for the emergence of a new Gotham City. So, please, I admonish you to take your time and be sure that you select a leader we will all be proud of, someone worthy of the legacy left by my friend and your longtime public servant, James Worthington Gordon.”
    The council members erupted into applause. Batman's entire speech appeared on newscasts from virtually every radio and TV station across the nation, including CNN. Only one individual at the meeting seemed absolutely disconsolate at the conclusion of the speech; Captain Benjamin Archer. Even though he had feared it might happen, he didn't understand why Batman had failed to mention him as the most suitable candidate.
    At one o’clock Bruce welcomed fifteen representatives of the American Diabetes Association to Wayne Manor. They were there to familiarize themselves with the facilities and to take care of the usual contractual paperwork that accompanied benefit events of this type. They asked to be escorted to the ballroom and began to inspect and test the amplifiers, sound mixers, speakers and microphones to be used in conjunction with the media presentation that would be given during the benefit. The room was already being filled with roadies and sound technicians associated with the Brian Setzer Orchestra.
      Dan Paxton, the head of the local A. D. A. chapter, was in charge of seeing that this fund raiser was conducted in a first class manner. In the casino area, members of Prince’s road crew hurried about erecting a speaker array. Paxton appreciated the fact that the roulette, poker and craps tables were already in place. It made his job of selecting areas for donation and information tables much easier. Banners had been prepared for the event and were given to the Wayne Manor staff with instructions as to where and how they were to be hung. The 30 foot wide screen, available for the ballroom media presentations, thrilled Paxton and his entourage, but they were even more delighted when Richards showed him the state of the art Runco projection unit with Faroudja horizontal line quadruplers that would be used to show the prepared DVD, which included statements from research scientists and doctors around the world, working towards the common goal of finding a cure for diabetes.
    At three o’clock Bruce excused himself to go pick up Commissioner Gordon’s daughter, 33 year old Elizabeth Hurly, (not the actress) and her husband, Jim, whose plane was scheduled for arrival at 3:45 P. M. He knew Richards would be busy with Dick and Barbara, and besides, he wanted to be there to greet them, as they had all become good friends, sharing Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners with the Commissioner. On the way back to Wayne Manor Elizabeth remarked to her husband, “Isn’t it wonderful that Dad’s old friends are so kind to us? It’s so nice of former Mayor Borg to take us out tonight to Morton’s Steak House for dinner, as soon as we’re through taking care of business at the funeral home.”
    Bruce knew what she meant when she had said “old friends,” but that word, “old,” was one to which he was becoming more and more sensitive these days. On the way back, slowed by the rush hour traffic, they all recalled and shared humorous incidents related to the Commissioner. Bruce realized he had known the man for over thirty four years. Where had the time gone? He was getting old, wasn’t he?
    As he watched the news on Channel 6 that evening with Harley and Carl, the Joker was appalled at the accolades the press heaped upon the caped crusader. “This show is canceled,” he shouted, as he fired his derringer into Batman’s image on the screen. The gun’s discharge caused Cody Turner and his girlfriend, Tina, to peek in, wondering if someone else had upset the boss enough for him to kill them. Harley shook her head in disapproval as the smoke and sparks began to dissipate, “That was a fifteen thousand dollar plasma TV. If you didn’t like what you were watching, you could have just changed the channel, you know!”
    The Joker defended his actions, saying, “With the poor quality of programming these days, all remotes should come standard with a built in derringer!”   
      The results confirmed what Bruce had suspected. The Joker was back. The prints on the garage door handle at Kolasinski’s residence were those of Jack Napier, and the prints on the glass that had been on the opposite side of  the coffee table from the Commissioner had matched Napier’s prints. The glass from which the Joker drank had produced unusual DNA swab results. No cellular residue appeared in the remaining liquid or on the rim of the glass. That seemed impossible, because all living things are constantly shedding cells. Saliva should have shown up on the glass rim or in the glass with the remaining cognac, but there was nothing. It was as if a ghost had sat there drinking with the commissioner, but this ghost had fingerprints.
      Bruce got up and paced back and forth in the Batcave, in front of the computer console. The benefit was coming up tomorrow and he wanted to go over the guest list. He pushed the button to summon Richards and then remembered that he and Vicki had gone to pick up Dick at the airport and after that they were all going shopping to get Dick and Vicki costumes for the benefit. It would be early evening before they were back. Bruce wondered what kind of costume Dick would wear. As for himself, he had considered wearing a costume for the first time ever this year, but decided against it, because as host for the event he needed to be easily recognizable to his guests. He would just wear one of his tuxedos and would enjoy seeing what the others wore. This year the winner of the best costume award would receive a Lexus SC 430, convertible, donated by the local dealership.
      The winner would have the option to keep the car and pay the taxes on it, or donate it to an auction, benefiting this year’s charity. Everything had gone smoothly in planning this year’s event, with a record 2,358 RSVP’s being received. The original intention of sending out 3,000 invitations had been upgraded considerably, once the word got around in Hollywood that many of the stars were being invited. If you were going to invite this person, you had to invite that person, or it was considered a terrible snub!
      The local hotel, car, and limo rental industries were thrilled with the influx of wealthy patrons reserving rooms and cars for the weekend event. Several exclusive exhibits designed to lure the rich visitors were planned for Saturday and Sunday at the Gotham Museum of Fine Art. The Gotham Globe headlines today had read, “Bruce’s Ball Benefits Business.” All of this simply made Bruce more nervous than ever. 5,000 invitations had seemed like a great idea, but now he was worried about the safety of the 2,358 and their guests that had said they would be there. He was glad Dick and Barbara would be there with him, but how effective Barbara could be after years of inactivity remained to be seen. Bruce hoped he would not have to find out.


                                       

BATMAN: REVENGE

                                                 

  Chapter 18

    Dick Grayson looked in the mirror and liked what he saw. He was a dashing figure in forest green. Errol Flynn and Kevin Costner had nothing on him. He turned, removed his feathered cap and swept it low to the ground as he bowed to Vicki and Richards, “Robin Hood, at your service. You must be Maid Marion and Friar Tuck,” he said as he straightened up. Vicki snickered, extended her hand, and he kissed it as he had seen it done in the movies. Richards complained, “Am I getting so fat and bald that I am now to be typecast as Friar Tuck?”
    “What?” Dick asked, “Are you hurt because I didn’t kiss your hand, Richards? “Nobody said you were getting fat, but you might want to visit the exercise room occasionally, just for cardio health benefits and to keep Bruce from having to get Ringling Brothers to make your next pair of pants.”
      Vicki slapped at his arm as she laughed and told him to behave. Then they both looked at Richards, who was admiring his profile in the mirror and sucking in his stomach. They all started laughing again, together.
      The store clerk, a young girl with long, dark hair and Buddy Holly glasses, named Melissa, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, walked up as they were beginning to quiet down and said, “Ms. Vale, your Cinderella costume is
ready. Would you like to try it on to see if we need to make any last minute alterations?”
    “Sure,” Vicki replied and followed Melissa back to the dressing rooms.
    When they were out of sight, Dick turned again to Richards and said, “Hey, I hope you don’t mind me  kidding with you. It’s just who I am. I’m still young and wild. I used to kid with Alfred all the time.”
    Richards smiled and replied, “Let me assure you, sir, that I enjoy a good laugh as much as the next fellow even when I am the butt of the joke. I do feel compelled to inform you, however,  that my wit is razor sharp and as dry as day old toast , and it is only my professional training, good manners and appreciation for your association with my employer that keeps me from slashing you to ribbons.”
    “Don’t hold back,” Dick said, doubtful of Richard’s ability to dish it out. “Let me have it when you feel the urge. It’s no fun beating up a man that can’t hit back. By the way, can I drive the Bentley back to Wayne Manor?”
    “If I can find a booster seat for you, sir, and if you can produce your learner’s permit.”
    Dick doubled over and laughed out loud, as the unexpected, humorous attack took him completely by surprise. When he recovered, he slapped Richards on the back and said, “Now you’re talking! That‘s what I‘m talking about! You‘re alright!” For the next thirty minutes Richards and Dick sat and talked about the upcoming benefit and how life was in Chicago. Dick confided that he had been having a few problems with Chicago’s Chief of Police, he just couldn’t get him to loosen up. Richards advised Dick that he could possibly be offending the long time Chief with his frequently brash way of going about things.
    “Let’s put it this way,” Richards said, “You repeatedly resisted the constrictions and rules that were placed upon you when you resided at Wayne Manor. You wanted to do as you pleased. You felt that you knew what you were doing and didn’t need someone else to tell you how or when to do things. Perhaps the Chicago Police Chief feels that you are forgetting that they got along without you for many years. Chicago has seen many criminals come and go, even Al Capone. Maybe you project the idea to them that you think they couldn’t fight crime without you. If they perceive you in that way, if they see you as being too, shall we say cocky, is it any wonder that they aren’t overly friendly?”
    “So then, you think I should kiss some ass?” Dick asked.
    “No,” Richards replied, “I believe that would offend the Chief just as much as your present course of action. I would suggest that you simply show a little more respect and appreciation to all those you work with. The day could come when you might need their help more than they need yours.”
    Vicki came out of the dressing room now, looking like something right out of a Disney movie. Her golden hair was put up in a bun with a beautiful tiara, her dress was a beautiful sky blue with white trim and on her feet were the famous glass slippers, which of course were made of a clear, flexible plastic. She stood there waiting for a reaction.
    “Wow!” was all that Dick could say, which for him was rare. Richards was absolutely struck speechless, but he smiled and nodded his approval.
      Dick and Vicki got back to Wayne Manor around six-thirty and had just hung up their costumes when Bruce said it was time to go pick up Barbara. On the way to the airport, Bruce let everyone know that the Joker was definitely back and he began to divulge his own security plans for the Benefit.
    Andre, who was riding in the front seat with Richards, was excited to be in on the plan. “If anybody looks suspicious, I weell skewer zem, like a sheesh-ka-bob,” he said, in his thick, French accent.

~      ~      ~

     
      Harley Quinn admired herself in the privacy of her executive office at Axis Chemicals. Her skin tight, red and black costume had been tailored to her specifications, and had arrived yesterday. She was the Court Jester, a perfect compliment to the Joker, complete with the floppy Jester‘s hat. She knew the costume was unlikely to win any awards, even though it was truly magnificent, since it didn’t really conform to the theme of “Heroes and Villains,” but she loved it anyway. She particularly appreciated the steel toes on the tips of her boots. There was a chance she might be doing some fighting and she wanted every possible advantage. She practiced a spinning kick in front of the mirror and pronounced herself ready for the show.  She had seen Carl’s Attila the Hun costume. It was wonderful, complete with a wolf’s head helmet and a very authentic and lethal looking curved sword. Carl was already looking forward to driving that Lexus being given away for best costume. He was also looking forward to the possibility of having a chance to use the sword.
    The Joker didn't seem worried about winning any awards, unless they were going to give one for best dressed God. He had considered going as Zeus, or perhaps Jesus, with a real crown of thorns and spikes in his hands, or maybe he would go as Satan, but after much deliberation he had decided to go as Bozo the  clown. He figured people would consider his benevolent Bozo to be rather unoriginal and inconsistent with the benefit’s theme, but what the hell. Harley had talked him out of portraying himself, wearing a cheap Joker’s mask. He had argued that if you couldn’t ruffle a few socialites’ feathers now and then, where was the fun in being the most hated criminal in history? After all, the theme of the costume party was Heroes and Villains and who had been more vilified than he? He sat now at his desk, which had at one time served as the desk of the City of Tomorrow’s manager, with the front page of the Gotham Globe lying in front of him.
      A cheap, white, plastic Bozo the clown mask lay face up, to the right of the paper, smiling broadly, its empty eyes stared up, towards the ceiling. Tonight, as he glared at the lead story, “Bruce’s Ball Benefits Business,” the Joker had an unusually wicked look on his face. He chuckled, saying, “After we’re through, Saturday’s headlines will be, Batman’s Balls Busted!” In the corner of the room a television was on, which was showing the movie, “Titanic.” The Joker was enjoying the part that depicted hundreds of passengers falling and leaping to their doom. He picked the mask up and spoke to it.
    “Ship ahoy matey, the last time, fourteen years ago, was just the tip of the iceberg. That house is going down with the Captain and all the well-known passengers just like the Titanic! Then I will be… King of the world!” He stood up, extending his arms out and back, and leaned far forward as if he were on the bow of the great ocean liner, cutting through the sea with the wind in his face. “King of the world! Hooowheeee!”
                                       

  ~    ~    ~

    Barbara Lewis stepped out of the plane with her purse and carry-on and walked with the rest of the passengers through the tunnel that led to the American Airlines gate, where she hoped Bruce would be waiting. As she exited through the tunnel doors and stepped out onto the concourse she looked around and located Bruce, who was smiling and waving, but to her surprise Dick was also there along with Richards and Andre. She also noticed a slim, attractive blonde standing next to Bruce that she thought she recognized but wasn’t sure. After she had hugged Bruce, Andre and Dick, she asked Bruce, “Who might this be?” as she reached out to shake Vicki’s hand.
    Bruce beamed as he introduced his fiancee, “This is Vicki Vale, the well known photographer and soon to be Mrs. Bruce Wayne, and Vicki, this is Barbara Lewis, the former Barbara Wilson, Alfred’s niece and a former colleague of mine, who worked with us a few years ago, until love and motherhood got in the way.  Barbara was ecstatic to hear the news that Bruce was finally going to tie the knot. Rather than shaking her hand, Barbara hugged Vicki and said, “I’m so happy for both of you! Have you set a date yet?”
    Bruce answered as they walked towards the baggage claim area, “We’re going to have the ceremony on November 28th, Thanksgiving Day. It’s always been my favorite holiday and I wanted it to become even more special for us. Obviously, we have a lot of planning still to do. I hope your family will be able to join us.” Bruce looked around and said, “Let’s get moving, Barbara, how many bags do you have to pick up?”
    “Just two,” she said, “I have everything else I need right here except for a few items I hope you still have in storage for me. She stopped, and the entire entourage stopped with her as she looked at Bruce with a concerned expression and asked, You did save those special items for me, didn‘t you? The special things we used to use on the job?”
    Bruce shrugged his shoulders and said, “Frankly Barbara, I’m not sure. We had a big garage sale last year and got rid of most of the toys you and Dick used to play with.” Bruce turned to Richards and asked, “Did we save any of the old stuff Dick and Barbara would be interested in?”
    Richards winked at Bruce and answered, “I fear that the majority is gone, sir, but I believe Andre turned some of the items into cooking utensils,” he turned to Andre, winked and asked, “Isn’t that right, Andre?”
    Barbara had heard enough. She rolled her eyes and began walking again, dragging her Rolling, carry-on luggage behind her. She shook her head from side to side as she said, “You guys are so full of bologna you could open a deli. Let’s get back to the house, I want to see for myself what’s there and what isn’t.”
    Once they were on the road back to Wayne Manor, Barbara leaned over towards Bruce and asked, “You do still have a tailor at Wayne Manor, don’t you? My outfit could use a few minor alterations.”
    That was all Dick needed to hear. He said, “Such a shame, From Batgirl to Fatgirl in less than two years. Quick, get the Batgirdle! Bruce, you better just lock her in the gym and throw in a sack of feed and a salt-lick block!”
    THUD-WHACK, came the sound of Barbara’s fist connecting with Dick’s jaw, and his head connecting with the window. Bruce began to laugh. So did Andre and Richards in the front seat. Andre was laughing so hard he turned red and looked like he was going to pop a vein in his forehead. Vicki didn’t know what to think. She just sat there nervously, next to Bruce, not knowing what to do or what to expect.
    “Hey!” Dick yelled, as he rubbed his jaw with one hand while he massaged the top of his head, where it had smacked the window, with the other.
    Bruce stopped laughing and said, “You had that coming Dick and you know it. Now, give it a rest and tell her you’re sorry.” Then he asked, “Did it hurt?”
    Andre burst out laughing again as Dick confirmed, “You’re darn right it hurt!
Porklady packs a punch!”
    THUD-WHACK. “OW!” Once Dick recovered again, he raised his hand for
attention, and using his best announcer’s voice, he exclaimed, “Porklady strikes again!”
    THUD. He winced in pain and shouted, “Okay, okay, that’s it, I‘m sorry, I won’t do it again. Now stop it!” He looked at Bruce and Andre who were laughing so hard they were literally in tears. “Hey, at least I didn‘t hit my head on the window that time,” he boasted. Even Vicki uttered a squeaky little laugh now and began to relax, as it seemed that the fighting was over and nobody had been seriously hurt.
    Bruce saw that Vicki didn’t understand what was going on, and explained, “Everyone’s feeling a little tense, honey. We haven’t been together for quite a while and there’s a pretty good chance we may be fighting for our lives, and to protect the lives of others, soon, maybe tomorrow night. Dick and Barbara are just letting off some steam, right?” He looked at them for confirmation of what he had just said.
      Dick nodded in agreement, but Barbara glared at Bruce and said, “I’ll knock the crap out of him if he bugs me about my weight one more time.” She turned to Dick and said, “I’ll have you know I only weigh five pounds more than I did three years ago!”
    Dick said, “Hey, I was just being me. You know I love you, Barbara. Forgive me?”
    Barbara had to think about it for a minute as she eyed him suspiciously, and then said, “Oh, all right.”
    Dick put out his arms to give her a hug and she slugged him in the stomach one time for good measure, but not as hard as she could have. Then she hugged him, a good tight hug. When she let go, she asked, “Have you seen the latest pictures of little Alfred?” She picked her purse up off the floorboard and produced two, four by six pictures taken recently that showed the little guy dressed up like a Sailor in one and a baseball player in the other. 
    “Now that’s a good looking youngster,” Dick commented, as he handed the pictures over to Bruce and Vicki, who were seated across from them in the Bentley limo. Vicki just ooohed and awwwed and mentioned how much little Alfred looked like Barbara. Dick thought about asking if he had a curly tail, but then put his hand up to his jaw and thought better of it. Next, Vicki said she couldn’t wait to have one of her own, which prompted Dick to look closely at the reaction on Bruce’s face. Bruce nodded, squeezed Vicki’s hand and smiled, indicating that the idea was okay with him. The rest of the ride home was filled with stories about little Alfred. When he got his first tooth, the first time he stood up by himself, when he said Momma for the first time. Everyone was enthralled with each story, except Dick. He tried in vain to change the subject several times, but then Vicki would ask another question about little Alfred and Barbara would launch into another motherly story. Dick was bored stiff.
      Once they reached Wayne Manor, as they were all getting out of the Bentley, Dick pointed up at the sky and asked, “Hey Barbara, in Metropolis, when they needed to get in touch with you, did they have a pig signal?” He didn’t wait for her answer, he took off running across the lawn with Barbara in hot pursuit, not far behind.

                        ~    ~    ~

    Captain Archer smiled at Warden Borg who was on the phone to Dr. Meridian. The Warden was not going to allow Archer to see Edward Nygma without first getting clearance from his psychiatrist. Dr. Meridian’s cell phone was ringing, but she didn’t answer, and the call was channeled over to voice mail.
    “Hello Dr. Meridian, this is Warden Borg. I have a gentleman here from the Police department, a Captain Benjamin Archer, who wants to see Edward Nygma. He says it is imperative that Edward’s research notes and recommendations be given to the police so that they can implement the plan to stop the JOKER. Please call me back as soon as possible so I can tell Captain Archer whether or not he can visit Edward. The Warden hung up and offered a cup of coffee to Archer, who said yes, he would like a cup.
    “Why don’t we both walk down to the snack bar?” Warden Borg suggested, “It’s usually empty by this time of day, but when the urge for a little caffeine hits we always have our handy Mr. Coffee waiting for us.” The Warden got up from behind his desk and led Archer down the hall to an area with four tables, a refrigerator, a microwave, two soft drink machines and a vending machine filled with chips and candy bars. The Warden opened a cabinet, reached in and got a filter for the coffee. He said, “The ladies that work in our cafeteria keep us stocked with several types of coffee. We have Maxwell House French roast, vanilla hazelnut and cinnamon praline. Which would you like?” 
    “Why don’t we take some up to Edward? What does he like?” Archer asked. Archer didn’t care, he just wanted to get in to see Edward. As he had prepared to leave the JOKER’s fun house last night he had been given a small vial and had been told to empty the contents into something Edward would drink or onto something he would eat. That was all he had to do to earn the full $40,000.00 and the Commissioner’s position.
    “Edward likes the cinnamon praline and so do I, so if you don’t mind, that’s what I’ll make. The Warden lifted a plastic top off of a canister, labeled “Cinnamon,” opened a drawer, got a measuring spoon and scooped out the proper amount. He asked the Captain, as he hit the start button on the coffee maker, “So who do you think is going to be taking over as Commissioner? I thought BATMAN’s speech was just excellent, didn’t you?”
        Naturally, Archer didn’t agree, but he didn’t tell the Warden that.     
        “I think we are so lucky to have BATMAN in Gotham City,” Archer lied, “he could have been located anywhere, but we have him. It’s such a shame about Gordon, I knew him for almost 40 years, you know. I know if he hadn’t died, he would be here tonight, instead of me, asking to see Edward. We really need...”
    The sound of Warden Borg’s ringing cell phone interrupted Archer. The Warden reached into his coat pocket and pulled it out. Looking at the number flashing on the digital readout he saw that it was Dr. Meridian returning his call. “Hello Dr. Meridian, thanks for calling back so promptly. Yes, he’s right here, would you like to speak with him?” He turned and handed the phone to Archer saying, “She wants to talk to you.”
    Archer took the phone and said, “Hello Dr. Meridian, Captain Archer here. Yes, indeed. Of course I told him, that’s why I’m here. We need to get started right away. I was hoping you would say yes, so that I could begin to implement the plan. I don’t think waiting is very wise considering what is at stake here, do you Doctor? No, all we need to do is get the notes and any last minute ideas he may have. No, no, I promise not to pressure him. No, for goodness sakes, I promise not to mention anything about BATMAN or the RIDDLER. I see, yes, well, I understand, that could be a problem. I’ll be careful not to say anything. You have my word.”
      He handed the phone back to the Warden, who by now was watching the coffee pouring into the glass pot. He took the phone and said, “Hello Doctor? Doctor?” Then he heard the dial tone. “Hmm, either she hung up, or this darn cell phone dropped the call. What did she say?”
    “She said for me to hurry right up to see Edward. The last thing she said was for me to be careful not to say anything about BATMAN or the RIDDLER. I told her I wouldn’t, so what do you say Warden, the coffee looks to be ready. Let’s pour some for Edward and ourselves and let’s go see him, shall we?”
    Borg reached for the coffee pot and grabbed three cups and a small tray from a stack on top of the microwave. After he poured the coffee, Warden Borg used his cell phone to call security on the fourth floor and asked them to escort Edward to the laboratory which had been set up for his research project. While the Warden was looking the other way, Archer twisted off the top and poured the contents of the vial given to him by the JOKER into one of the cups. He held the emptied bottle and its top in the palm of his hand for a brief moment while he turned to see if the Warden was still ensconced in conversation before tossing them into the trash. There couldn’t have been more than a teaspoon of the clear liquid and Archer wondered if it would be enough to do the job. Great care would have to be taken not to lose track of which cup contained the JOKER’s potion because the three cups were identical, plain white Styrofoam.
      While continuing his conversation on the phone, Borg grabbed a handful of pink, Sweet and Low packets and red, plastic swizzle stirring sticks and placed them on the tray along with a plastic spoon and a jar of non dairy creamer. As an afterthought, he also grabbed a handful of blue, Equal packets, remembering that Edward preferred that as a sweetener for his coffee.
    “How about a sweet roll?” Archer asked. “I noticed the vending machine has several. I’m Buying,” he said with a warm smile. “I’ll get one for Edward, too.”
    Borg shook his head and said “No, no, you’re a guest here; I’ll get the sweet rolls.”
    Archer wondered if the Warden could tell how nervous he was. Small beads of sweat had begun to trickle down from his temples and his palms were almost as wet as if he had just washed his hands. He couldn’t remember ever having been more nervous. This was as bad as when he was a rookie cop and was surrounded by “the Dogs,” a group of thugs that used attack dogs to intimidate their victims into giving them their possessions. Cornered at the end of an alley he had only three bullets left in his gun to try to fight off eight growling canines and four hardened criminals. Then Captain, James Worthington Gordon had saved the day and probably his life, sneaking up behind the hooligans with another rookie cop named Eckhardt. It was the same Eckhardt who was later to become a “cop on the take,” looking the other way and accepting bribes from Carl Grissom, Sr. Eckhardt died after being shot at the old Axis chemicals building, fourteen years ago, as he led a rogue police sting operation designed to arrest  Jack Napier without the approval of Commissioner Gordon.
    “Another cop on the take,” Archer thought. “Is that the way I’ll end up being remembered by fellow officers someday?” Archer shook off the past, and emerged back in the present as the Warden, who had finished his call to security, closed his cell phone. Borg reached into his pocket for the appropriate amount of money and came up with three dollars. The vending machine accepted dollar bills as well as change, and the cost for the sweet rolls was seventy five cents each. Borg slid the first of his dollars into the slot designed for bills. It disappeared and then suddenly reappeared, having been rejected by the machine’s sensors.
      Archer cursed under his breath at the amount of time this was taking and reminded the Warden to make sure he slid the bill in properly and that none of the corners were dog eared in a way that might cause the bill to be rejected. The Warden reinserted the bill and it disappeared again, but this time to Archer’s relief the digital readout indicated a one dollar credit. Borg pushed the letter “F,” followed by the number “6,” which corresponded with the position of the sweet rolls.
      The Hostess snack marched forward in its row towards the precipice, teetered momentarily, and then fell a short way to the bottom of the machine, where it could be retrieved by reaching through the black, moveable plastic flap with the word, “push,” on it. The flop of the sweet roll was followed closely by the clinking of two dimes and a nickel in the change receptacle. He bent down and reached through the black flap as Archer questioned the wisdom of ever bringing up the idea of the sweet rolls.
      After watching the Warden go through the painfully slow process twice more, which included more trouble with getting the machine to accept one of the bills, Archer was sweating profusely and becoming short of breath.  He knew his job, it was unpleasant, he didn’t like it and he didn’t like who he was doing it for, but he had no idea why it was affecting him in this way. He felt terribly impatient, even slightly nauseated and he began grinding his teeth. He hadn’t done this since he tried losing weight by using those little white pills. He tried to will himself to relax as he and the Warden walked down the corridor towards the elevators, but the restlessness grew within him until he was afraid he would burst.
      On the way up to the fourth floor he had to force himself to remain still and complained about the slowness of the elevator, saying, “You‘d think these things could go a little faster. I think we could walk up the stairs faster than this.” His voice was audibly strained, its pitch much higher than normal and sweat was now streaming down the sides of his face.
    The Warden asked Archer if he felt okay and although he claimed to be okay, Archer most certainly did not feel okay. His legs were beginning to feel unsteady and he began to tremble all over. He had forgotten to concentrate his attention on the tray Borg carried, and now had no way to know which cup held the surprise. He looked at the cups, desperately trying to remember somehow, but he had no idea. As the doors of the elevator opened he was feeling even worse. His heart raced and he was fighting to retain both his balance and a semblance of sanity. “Well,” a fleeting thought crossed his mind, “if I have to go insane, I guess I picked the right place to do it.”
    Borg set the tray down on a long hallway table and suggested to Archer that he have a seat on one of the benches along the wall. It was beginning to look like the Captain was about to collapse. Archer was actually beginning to drool. He seemed pale, gray as a ghost and drenched with sweat. Borg guessed that he might be having a heart attack and called for emergency medical assistance and a stretcher. The trembling had escalated to severe shaking. Archer weakly reached up to the Warden, and asked in a barely understandable mumble, “What’s… happening… to me?” 
    Warden Borg said, “Just relax, you’ll be fine,” but he was not in any way sure that Archer would be fine. By the time the medical emergency team arrived, and it wasn’t more than two or three minutes from the time Borg had summoned them, Archer was gasping for breath and turning cyanotic. His eyes bulged and he had become completely incoherent. As he was taken away, the Warden thought he was able to make out one last word, spoken in between ragged gasps through clinched teeth, “poison.”
    Borg picked up the tray and carried it with him down the hall towards the lab where Edward Nygma sat, impatiently drumming the solo to the old surfing tune, Wipeout, on the table.  As the Warden pushed his way through the door, Edward looked up and stopped pounding. He could see by the Warden’s expression that something was definitely wrong. He asked, “What took you so long, Warden?”
    The Warden sat the tray down on the table and said, “A Police Captain by the name of Benjamin Archer was here to see you, Edward. He was going to look over your research notes and get your recommendations on what we should do regarding a strange situation that we have to deal with. The Captain collapsed on his way up here and looked as if he was in critical condition. He may have been having a heart attack.”
    While the Warden spoke, Edward reached for a cup of coffee, picked it up, and brought it towards him. He sniffed it, recognizing the aroma of his favorite flavor, cinnamon praline, and then put the cup back down. He interrupted the Warden, “A heart attack? Are you sure?”
    “No, Edward,” the Warden replied, “I’m no doctor, so I can’t be sure. But he was gasping for breath and his face was turning an ashen gray. He was shaking all over and grinding and clinching his teeth so hard, he could barely talk.”
    Edward picked up his coffee again and sniffed, he loved the aroma of the cinnamon praline, but wait, he sensed something unusual about this cup. Was it the way it smelled?
      He asked the Warden to take a sniff, to see if he noticed anything unusual. He handed the cup to Warden Borg, who inhaled deeply as he raised the cup to just below his nose and said, “I don’t notice anything different about it.” He handed the cup back to Edward, who set the cup aside and chose a different cup. He sniffed experimentally at it, trying to determine if this cup smelled the same as the last one. He handed this cup to the Warden as well and again asked him to see if he noticed any difference. The Warden, again, took a good sniff and shook his head indicating he noticed no difference between the two. He handed this cup back to Edward, who took it and again sniffed at it suspiciously. He set the cup down and reached for the last remaining cup. After sniffing it, he felt that it was different, somehow, from the first two. The Warden was becoming a little impatient with Edward and asked him, “Edward, which cup do you want?”
    Edward said, “I’ll wait and let you make your selection first, Warden Borg.” Borg tore open a Sweet and Low packet and poured the contents into the cup nearest to him. He twisted off the creamer jar’s top and scooped out a couple of heaping plastic teaspoons, dumping them into the cup, and used one of the red swizzle sticks to stir the powder in until it dissolved. Now the Warden lifted the cup to a position just under his nose, his eyebrows raised and eyes closed in anticipation of the heavenly aroma. He inhaled deeply, held the breath in for what seemed like forever and then let it out, sighing with pleasure.
    “Ahhhh, I just love the way this coffee smells,” the Warden said, opening his eyes and lowering the coffee cup to his lips. Overcome by curiosity to see if his hunch was correct about whether the coffee was okay to drink, Edward’s eyes grew large in anticipation, his head tilting in unison with the increasing angle of the coffee cup.
    Tim Bagwell, the attendant with the crush on Dr. Meridian, pushed the door to the laboratory open at that moment and said, “Warden, you have a call. It’s about Captain Archer. It sounds important.”
    Borg sighed, returned the upraised cup to a level position and set it down without having had so much as a sip. He walked over to the phone in the lab and answered, “Warden Borg, here. May I help you?” The caller, a Doctor Patel, working in the emergency room at Gotham Memorial, informed the Warden that Captain Archer was pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital. He asked the Warden to describe the symptoms he had observed before Archer’s collapse. Borg left the room without taking his cup of coffee and headed back down to his office. He needed to fill out an incident report, which was required any time a visitor or employee was injured or became ill on the premises.
    Bagwell spied the sweet rolls on the tray and picked one up. He bit into the corner of the plastic wrapper and pulled, tearing the bag open. He took a bite of the roll and asked Edward, “What’s with the three cups of coffee?”
    Edward told Tim that Warden Borg had to leave before he could drink his, and he assumed that one of the other cups was intended for the guy that got sick and had to be taken to the hospital. Tim picked up one of the cups and sniffed the cinnamon fragrance.
“Oooh, this is the good stuff,” he said. “Can I have one?”
    “Knock yourself out,” came the reply from Edward. “I doubt that the guy they took to the hospital will mind and I think the Warden has other things to worry about.”
    Tim tore open a couple of blue, Equal sweetener packets and emptied them into one of the two cups of dark liquid that had obviously not had the creamer added. He stirred the coffee briskly, releasing the swizzle stick and watching it spin crazily in his manmade whirlpool near the middle of the cup. He took another bite of his sweet roll, removed the stick from the cup, and laid it on the tray.  He picked up the cup and ran it under his nose one more time, enjoying the aroma. Then, for Edwards enjoyment, he did his favorite impression of John Wayne, raising his cup and saying, “To the good life, partner,” before taking a big, satisfying gulp. “Ahhh, he said, as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
      Edward straightened up in his chair as he watched with great interest to see Tim’s reaction to the coffee. Tim swirled the remaining coffee around in the cup and said, “Man, that stuff tastes great! It could be a little hotter, but that‘s okay.” As Edward continued to watch Tim took another very large sip, and was about to make another comment when he began to choke. The look on his face changed from one of pleasure, to one of shocked surprise. He coughed, gasped and coughed again, followed by a number of huge, body shaking coughs. His face was red and his eyes bulged as he began to double over, coughing so hard Edward figured he would tear his throat apart. Tim dropped the cup he had been drinking from, which hit the tile, sending a spray of cinnamon praline across the floor of the lab as Edward stood up and ran to the intercom on the wall. He mashed the button marked “talk,” and yelled, “Medical emergency in the research lab on the fourth floor! This is Edward Nygma, I repeat, we have a Medical emergency, in progress! Fourth floor research lab, hurry please! Attention! This is… this is…” his voice changed dramatically and he blurted out, “The RIDDLER! We have a medical emergency; send help to the research lab...” Edward felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned around to see Tim, rubbing tears from his eyes caused by coughing so hard, but other than that the redness was fading from his face and he seemed to be returning to normal.
    “What are you doing?” Tim asked with a raspy voice and coughed again, but not nearly as hard as he had been coughing.
    “I was calling for medical help. I thought you were dying,” Edward answered.
    Bagwell coughed again and cleared his throat, “Yeah, well, I thought I was dying for a minute! I sucked some coffee down my windpipe! Damn, I hate it when that happens!” He coughed again, clearing his throat loudly. “Hey, I’ll never forget the time at my tenth birthday party, I choked on some milk and chocolate cake. I had milk squirting out my nose! I coughed so hard I gagged and puked right on this one girl‘s dress. Then she was so grossed out she puked on me. The sight of it all made several other kids throw up. Man, there was puked up chocolate cake everywhere. I almost passed out from not being able to breath!” Bagwell grabbed some paper towels from a roll next to the sink and wiped his face and mouth.
    Edward picked up the two remaining cups of coffee and stood up, looking at them uncertainly. He walked over to the lab sink, turned on the faucet and poured the contents of both cups into it. He began to relax again as he watched the coffee mixing with the water as it spiraled in the metallic basin before disappearing down the drain. Edward walked back to the desk where he had been sitting, sighed a sigh of relief and slumped down into his chair, picking up one of the two unopened sweet roll packages and tearing into it. He smiled weakly at Bagwell and said, “Actually, I like milk with sweet rolls.”
    Bagwell finished wiping his face and turned back around to look at Edward as he tossed the paper towels into a trash can on the left side of the table. “Hey, Edward,” Bagwell asked, “Did you notice what you called yourself on the intercom when you thought I was dying?”
    Edward looked confused, and repeated what Bagwell had just said, looking for clarification, “What I called Myself? I called myself Edward Nygma. At least, I think I did. I did, didn‘t I?”
    Bagwell eyed Edward carefully for a moment and resolved to report this to Dr. Meridian. “I better get a mop,” Tim said as he opened the door. “I’ll be right back.”

~    ~    ~

                                                                                 
      Late that night, below Wayne Manor, the polished aluminum doors of the elevator slid open and Vicki Vale stepped out into the damp, cool air of the Batcave. She wrapped her robe tightly around herself and looked around in wonder, awed by the sheer majestic beauty of the stalactites and stalagmites, which were made to look even more impressive by strategically placed spot lighting. The Batmobile silently crouched in its designated place, a glistening black panther waiting for a reason to pounce into action. Vicki knew that Bruce frequently awakened in the middle of the night and came down here to work, or went to his gymnasium to keep the body that he asked so much of in peak condition. He had not been in the gym, which was why she had returned to the elevator and had descended to this level. She assumed he would be working on last minute security details concerning the benefit. The overwhelming quiet of the cave was occasionally broken by the sound of dripping water, or a bat flapping it’s way into the night, searching for mosquitoes or other insects. Far below, the faint lapping sounds of the water from the lake added to the tranquil, almost hypnotic, effect the cave had on solitary visitors. Vicki became aware of another sound, now, as she scanned the scenery in search of her husband to be. It was the clicking of a computer keyboard. So that’s where he was, working at the media computer console in the big, black leather, high backed chair.
      As she neared the work area, she recognized her face displayed on the six monitors that hung from metal supports above the console. She was flattered, almost to the point of embarrassment and called out to Bruce so as not to startle him, but he showed no sign of having heard her. He could get pretty wrapped up in his work and probably wouldn’t be expecting anyone at this time of night. It was almost three in the morning. She reached out to gently spin the chair around so that they could talk, but the chair didn’t budge an inch. She tried again and this time the chair turned ever so slowly. Vicki was prepared to give him a big hug and a kiss, but as the chair began to turn,  a bat screamed out in the air above her, briefly attracting her attention. She looked up for an instant, watched the winged rodent swoop off into the distance, and turned back to see that it was not Bruce that had been working at the console. Her eyes grew wide in horror and disbelief. She stumbled backward and fell against the front of the Batmobile, terrified and unable to move as the chair’s occupant rose and walked slowly, confidently, towards her. He stood over her now, looking down at her the way a cat looks at a helpless, cornered mouse.
    “Surprised to see me, Honey Pie?” the JOKER asked. “I apologize for not corresponding with you over the past fourteen years, but as you may know, when it comes to my work I’ve just been absolutely buried. Please, get up, you have no reason to be afraid of me, I would never harm you. However, I’m afraid your boy toy, Bruce, will not be so fortunate.”
    The JOKER extended a hand to Vicki, offering to help her to her feet, but she recoiled from the hand in fear and revulsion. The sound of the elevator doors opening, attracted the attention of both Vicki and the JOKER. Bruce had evidently been outside on the Wayne Manor grounds, running, which was why Vicki couldn‘t find him. He was dressed in his workout clothes, shorts, a T-shirt, knee brace and tennis shoes. Oddly, he wore his mask and cape, perhaps because some motion sensor had alerted him to an unauthorized presence in the cave and he wanted to protect his identity just in case it was an uninvited guest.
    He called out, “Vicki are you down here?”
      She screamed in terror, “Batman, help me, please!”
    Bruce saw the JOKER standing over Vicki and shouted, “Leave her alone! You’re here for me! She doesn‘t have anything to do with us!”   
    “Au contraire, mon ami,” the JOKER answered, “She is how I get to you. She is a big part of this. I’m taking her with me. Now, Bruce, if you want to try to do something about that, I suggest you get started.” The pale villain turned back towards Vicki, who was stunned to hear that he knew BATMAN’s real identity, and in a condescending tone said, “Yes I know who he is too, Ms. Vale, and I didn’t even have to sleep with him to find out!” He reached down, grabbed Vicki by the hair and roughly yanked her to her feet. She screamed in terror and pain.
    Bruce rushed forward and leaped into the air, aiming to knock the JOKER away from Vicki. The JOKER stood there calmly, watching Bruce come at him. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his favorite derringer, aimed, and fired once at the now airborne crime fighter. The bullet struck Bruce in the lower right abdomen and he crashed to the ground, grimacing. He fought through the pain and rose to continue the attack. As he did so, the toe of the JOKER’s shoe caught him under the chin. He fell back, next to the Batmobile, less than two feet from the edge of the cliff and a potential 200-foot drop to the shallow waters below. Again Bruce struggled to his feet and prepared to charge, but he never got the chance. The JOKER used the second of his two shots in the derringer, the bullet burrowing deeply into Bruce’s chest. Bruce staggered, gasped for breath, reached up and pulled his mask off. On his face there was an expression of shocked disbelief. Blood bubbled from his mouth and the darkening stains on his T-shirt grew from the bleeding wounds in his abdomen and chest. The JOKER swaggered over to where Bruce stood unsteadily, swaying, perilously near the cliff’s edge. With his last ounce of strength Bruce swung at the JOKER and connected solidly to his jaw, twisting the gruesome, white face to the left. The JOKER slowly turned his face back towards Bruce, rubbed his chin, smiled, and with an evil gleam emanating from demonic green eyes roofed by thick, highly arched, green eyebrows he asked, “Did you ever dance with the devil by the pale moonlight? You’ve heard me ask you that question twice before Bruce. The first time, I killed your parents and should’ve shot you. The second time I did shoot you, and you know what they say, the third time’s a charm.” He reached out, and almost gently pushed Bruce backward. For a brief moment, he tried to catch his balance, but weakened from the loss of blood, he failed to maintain his equilibrium and simply toppled backward, over the edge, still clutching his mask and cape, which fluttered as he fell down, down, to the water far below. With tears streaming down her face, Vicki screamed as if her very soul was being torn out, as she watched the man she loved and her prospects for a lifetime of happiness disappear into the darkness far below. Not wanting to see any more, she fell to the ground, closed her eyes and curled up in a fetal position. She clasped her hands over her ears in an attempt to block out the sound, as the triumphant JOKER danced around her, his gleeful cries echoing off the walls of the cave, “Revenge! Revenge! Revenge!”
    “Vicki, wake up, wake up, you’re having a bad dream honey, everything’s okay! It was Bruce’s voice and his hands that shook her now as she emerged from the nightmare, groggy, cheeks wet with tears. She looked into his face, wrapped her arms tightly around him, and just broke down crying. She sobbed pitifully for several minutes until he began to persuade her that it was only a meaningless dream. She explained that he had been shot while trying to save her and fell to his death. He said, “Dreams don’t predict the future honey, they just take events from our past and fashion stories from them. Sometimes the stories are good, and sometimes they’re like this.” Bruce held her tightly, and added, “You’re my dream come true.”
    She sniffed, and looking for reassurance said, “No, I’m a nightmare.” Vicki got all the reassurance she had ever dreamed of during the remainder of that night. She had never been held more tightly and had never felt more secure and loved.