I've been mad for fucking years,
absolutely years,
Been over the edge for yonks.
Been working me buns off for bands.
I've always been mad,
I know I've been mad,
like most of us have.
Like you have to explain why you're mad,
even if you're not mad.
Hmmmm-hnnnh-hnnnnh-hnnn
Hnnh-hehh-hehh-hehh-hehhh
Hehh-heaa-haaa-haaaHAAA-HAAAA-HAAAAA-HAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!
"Dr. Jeremiah Arkham recording, session 29," The thin man with sunken cheeks, thick coke-bottle glasses, and a supremely unattractive bowl cut stated into his tape recorder over the sound of muffled screams from down the hall.
"Patient #42540 has been properly restrained, and after last session's incident, I have recommended he be under mild sedation for the duration of this session."The old analog device was a relic, much like many of the implements of psychiatric care that Dr. Arkham used. Every year, millions of dollars were funded into his family namesake's hospital, with the latest and most advanced medicine and therapy available to the troubled citizens of Gotham City. Combined with generous donations from the Wayne Foundation, the Elizabeth Arkham Home for the Emotionally Troubled had made great efforts to shed the place's ghoulish reputation.
Efforts that were, sadly, futile in the eyes of many. For some, Jeremiah included, it would always be "Arkham Asylum." It would always be a home of monsters, a place of madness, a place where men like him did battle with the most vicious demons the human mind could conjure.
And when fighting demons, sometimes one had to rely on the Old Testament.
"How are we feeling today?" Dr. Arkham asked as he paced back and forth in front of the gaunt, pale figure strapped and chained to the chair in the center of the small, brightly-lit room.
The thin man in restraints lolled his head to one side, his eyes glazed over and distant-looking. They had been careful about administering the right amount of sedative, not so much that he would lose consciousness, but enough to prevent him from making any sudden moves, and hopefully enough that his faculties would be dimmed enough to be pliable.
"Can you understand me, Patient #42540?" the doctor asked.
"If you do not have it in you to speak, a gesture of some kind would work."Slowly, shakily, the gaunt man's lips peeled back into a grin.
"I'd...give yyyyyou...a gesture..." he slurred in his drugged stupor,
"b-but....m'hands...aren't frrrrree."He began to shudder in a fit of laughter, but this was quickly silenced when a heavily-armed security guard struck him hard in the side of the head.
"That was unnecessary," Dr. Arkham said, his disapproving glare focused first on the guard, and then to the restrained man,
"Both of you."Many people would find this sort of treatment of a patient unethical, inhumane, even torturous. And for an average patient, Dr. Arkham would agree. But Patient #42540 was far from an average patient. This was a man whose actions over the years were so vile that the hospital offered post-traumatic counseling just for those who read his file. After what had become of Doctor Quinzell some years ago, it was hospital policy that no doctor should tend to him without extensive peer review and strict time limits, and no one at all be allowed in the same room with him without at least one armed guard with a weapon trained on him at all times.
Patient #42540 had a name once, but whoever that person was, he was long gone. In his place was an alias, a persona that many refused to even name, as if it were speaking the name of the Devil himself.
Jeremiah Arkham, however, refused to name the alias for different reasons. He refused to be mystified by the notoriety and monstrous glamour that surrounded his patient.
In Dr. Arkham's care, he would not be "The Joker." He was, for all the danger and all the precautions, a sick man who needed healing.
"When we last left off," Jeremiah began,
"you mentioned 'getting some new material.' Might I assume this means you are attempting a new approach to your....performative activities?"Under the alias of the Joker, Patient #42540 had committed crimes on both personal and colossal scales, sometimes turning half of Gotham into a war zone, sometimes taking great care and effort to ruin the life of a single person. However, apart from his fixation on the Batman and his cadre of vigilantes, there never seemed to be an underlying motivation behind the Joker's actions, beyond attention and spectacle. Crime was a performance to him, and the Batman was his target audience.
"He asked you a question, freak," the guard who had struck him snarled.
"Please," Dr. Arkham chided the guard,
"Insulting him won't do any good. Besides, I believe he enjoys getting a rise out of security personnel. Treating him with hostility is what he wants."At that, the man in straps and chains let out a snort.
"Oh yeah," he sneered, his head rolling dizzily as he spoke,
"I just llllllove getting beaten up and insulted by...by wwwweekend warriors like Gregory here, wh-who don't even have the ssssstones to be a rrreal cop. Can't get enough of it."At the mention of his name, the guard brought his weapon to bear, a compact H&K MP-5 submachine gun, the red dot of its laser sight dancing across the patient's forehead.
"Stand down," Dr. Arkham ordered sharply,
"though make no mistake, Patient #42540, we will be discussing how you came to know that particular piece of information."The patient gave Gregory a pair of big watery puppy-dog eyes and as innocent of a smile as he could manage, and the guard lowered his gun.
"Much better. Now, as to the matter of g--""Getting some new material, yes," the patient answered, still hazy from the cocktail of drugs.
"It's.....'s all a matter of...keeping the act frrrresh, y'know? Only ssso many times you can...can tell th' same jokes...'fore they get worn out. Sometimes you'vvvve gotta....gotta retire the old gags."Dr. Arkham raised an eyebrow.
"This would be why you've been killing your old gang?"A long pause hung in the air between them, as the patient's head hung down.
"HEY! He asked you--""I heard him, I heard him," the patient spat, an edge of annoyance in his voice.
"Tell me, Doc...you're thhh' exp'rt....wwwwhadda you think about 'em? Always....always good to have notes afffft'r a show."Dr. Arkham considered the question, then decided to humor him.
"The first was, I think, an obvious choice," Dr. Arkham remarked.
"Gerald 'Gaggy' Gagsworthy, one of your first associates. Found dead in his trailer, having laughed himself to death thanks to your signature laughing venom.""Oh, haha, well, you know," he gave as much of a shrug as his restraints would allow,
"what better place to begin than the beginning? Using my first gag...on my first stooge...was an appropriate touch.""And then Moses and Samuel Horwitz, and Lawrence Fine," the doctor continued,
"all three killed in rapid succession. The first via eye-gouging, the second with his forehead caved in by a swinging wooden plank, the third with his own fist smashed up through his nose. These three...I'm afraid I don't understand the methods here."The patient looked up, gaping with disbelief.
"Really? I mean.....isss so obvious!" he said.
"I mean, they're......ahhh, nevermind. Fffolks these days have....nnnooo appreciation f'r the classssics.""I see," Dr. Arkham said curtly.
"Three more after that, though if I may say so, they began to feel a bit routine. Mr. Henshaw, his throat sliced by a razor playing card. Mr. Rocco, burned with acid, no doubt from a squirting flower. Mr. Murphy, electrocuted, burns on his palm suggesting an electric joy-buzzer.""Ahhhh," the patient sighed,
"The old reliables.""The one that confuses me is Mr. Wallace," said the doctor,
"an insurance salesman in Springdale, Ohio. Killed by an explosive whoopie cushion hidden under the driver's seat of his car. Seems like a rather large departure, given he was never a member of your gang."The patient raised an eyebrow.
"Wallace? Who's--oh! You mean Charlie!" he laughed, then smiled as his eyes lit up with fond recollection.
"Charlie Collins, good 'ol Chucko! He, ah, cursed me out....on the freeway once, and to make up for it...I had him do the occassssional favor for me. Oh, he tried to rrrun....even joined Witnesssss Protection...changed his name, but--well, a guy's gotta have a hobby. Fun guy, ol' Charlie. Even....got one over on me once, ha!"His warm smile started to fade to sadness.
"Shame about him," he sighed,
"But, like I said....gotta let the old stuff go. Even....the ones that were m' fav'rites.""So that's why you've been killing them," Dr. Arkham concluded,
"to erase your past, so to speak. Sever ties with the old Joker act in order to create something new. I suppose the next question is: how?"The light of Gregory's laser sight briefly caught the patient in the eye, causing him to flinch and squint, as Dr. Arkham paced.
"I know you have a history of slipping about when no one's looking," he said, his composure giving way to frustration.
"You have a knack for escape artistry that would make Houdini blush. But we've had you under constant surveillance. Our guards inspect every millimeter of your cell on a daily basis. How on Earth did you manage to pull off these killings from here?"The patient's head hung low, and Dr. Arkham glared at him in exasperation for a moment.
Then he began to laugh.
"Hnnnnh-hnnnn-hnnnn-hnnnnh," he chortled,
Hnnnhnhnhnhnhaaaa ha ha ha ha ha.....mmmmmayyyybe.....maybe I should answer your questionnnnn....with another question, doc."The patient raised his head, and with a piercing glare, stared Dr. Arkham in the eye.
"Whyyyyyy.......did the chicken.....cross the road?"".....why did th--""TOGETTOTHEOTHERSIDE!!! COME ON, DOC!!!" He blurted in sudden anger, straining against his restraints.
"That's the oldest one in the book! Everyone knows that one! And nobody thinks it's funny!"Sucking in deep breaths to calm himself the patient continued.
"And that's because...." he explained,
"It's not really a joke. It's an anti-joke. It's only funny because it's not meant to be funny. You give the setup, but instead of delivering a clever or interesting punchline, you just give a disappointing logical conclusion.""So....these killings...." Dr. Arkham attempted to piece together what he was saying,
"they're...they're your attempt at anti-jokes?""Ohhhh, no, no, nononononono," he shook his head.
"But this one is. *Ahem.* How....am I going to get out of these restraints, and take Gregory's gun?"Dr. Arkham stared for a moment, before Gregory suddenly turned, slamming the butt of his submachine gun into the doctor's nose. With a wet crunch and a spray of blood, Dr. Arkham collapsed in a heap.
"Simple: he's going to undo my restraints and then give the gun to me," the Joker said with a sudden bright, satisfied smile as Gregory began calmly undoing the straps that held him down.
"NNnnnnnffffgggghhh!!!" Jeremiah sputtered as blood from his crushed nose drained into his mouth.
"Y----you chh--can't do this! How--""How am I suddenly shaking off the effects of the sedative so easily?" the Joker interrupted him, holding up his now freed arms so Gregory could unlock his handcuffs.
"Another disappointingly logical anti-joke: I've been faking it. The orderly who administered the shot injected me with harmless saline fluid.""B-b-but--""B-b-b-but what, Doc?" he mocked the bleeding doctor.
"You hand-picked your security detail to watch me, so they can't possibly be corrupted, right? That's what you were about to say, wasn't it?"Jeremiah was too stunned to answer.
"Well, again, prepare to be disappointed," he said, stretching his arms as Gregory now worked on the straps on his legs.
"Some of them I had to blackmail, sure. Some are under the impression that I've got their loved ones held hostage-- joke's on them, haha, everyone knows I don't take hostages. And some, like good old Gregory here, are just believers in the cause. Down with the system, we live in a society, and all that jazz.""It's all a big joke, sir," Gregory stated with the conviction of a true believer.
"Shut up, Gregory," the Joker chided.
"Most of them, though, have a big and obvious lever to pull. When you've lived a life of crime as long as I have, doc, you wouldn't believe the amount of money I have to burn. All I had to do to get more than half the people here to look the other way as I walked out, was to name the right price.""You....you don't--""I do," the pale man nodded as he stood from the chair, giving a long stretch before holding out his hand to Gregory, who in turn placed the submachine gun in his outstretched fingers just as the Joker had said he would.
"Now then...""Wait, wait, please Joker NO--"Gregory crumpled to the ground, a hole drilled through his forehead.
"That was for shining the laser in my eye, Gregory," he scolded the corpse on the floor.
"Seriously, you can blind someone with one of those if you're not careful. Now then, Doc..."With alarming speed and a surprisingly strong grip, the thin pale man grabbed Dr. Arkham by the arm and threw him down hard into the restraint chair.
"I'm not gonna kill you," he reassured the terrified doctor as he strapped Jeremiah down.
"In fact, I'm gonna answer your big question. And I hate to tell ya, it's gonna be another disappointingly logical anti-joke."As Arkham trembled and squirmed, the Joker leaned close.
"How did I kill half of my old gang from inside my cell here?"The Joker's ghastly smile dropped. For the first time he could recall, he was truly, genuinely angry. The kind of seething, indignant moral outrage that fueled men to do crazy things like dress up as bats.
"I didn't."
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