Batman 1 - Batman (16 page)

L
ife was full of its little ups and downs.

The press did have this thing about the Batman. And Batman had stolen Vicki Vale from right under the Joker’s pale white nose. But now he had Vicki back again, just the way he wanted. And he had managed to bump off one of her suitors in the bargain, although that Bruce Wayne was an awfully easy kill. Didn’t the man have any fight in him? Still, it was reasonably satisfying, the way the force of the bullet threw Wayne against the wall. The Joker had to admit it. He so enjoyed a violent death.

He left the apartment, careful to close the door behind him, and hurried down the stairs. The boys had already gotten Vicki into the van. The Joker leapt in after them.

“Gotham Square!” he cheered. “Lickety-split!”

It was amazing how good a killing could make you feel. The Joker guffawed. From now on, there would be no more downs. Only ups—for all of Gotham City.

Bruce blinked. He had passed out there for a minute. The force of the bullet must have knocked him cold.

He sat up and examined his side. There was no blood, and no bullet hole. He picked up his shoulder bag. There it was—a new hole, two inches from the zipper. The bullet must have gone through here.

He opened his bag.

The bullet had hit the utility belt, embedding itself into the ultrasound scanner. The scanner was ruined, but he had a couple of replacements back at the Batcave. It had done more than its intended job. Thanks to the scanner, he was still alive.

He was still alive. The Joker’s bullet hitting the utility belt—more than that, the exact right spot on the utility belt—some people would think that was incredible luck. But he liked to think of it as justice.

His hands moved along the utility belt until he reached the digital pad. His fingers quickly punched the number. Red lights flashed, followed by a beep. The connection was made. But he couldn’t wait, even for that.

He got to his feet. He couldn’t start after the Joker like this. But where would Vicki keep something he could use? He ran into the bedroom and riffled quickly through the closet shelves. Nothing was opaque enough, until he found the black ski mask. It would have to do.

He left Vicki’s apartment and headed for the roof.

The van was going too fast, even for him. How could you be suave and sophisticated around a beautiful woman when you kept bouncing out of your seat?

He reached forward and grabbed Bob’s shoulder—good old Bob—and yelled in his ear.

“Slow down, you maniac!”

Good old Bob seemed to be losing it. The Joker could feel it too. It was getting weird here in the metropolis. Heck, the last time he looked out the back window, he could have sworn he saw a guy in a suit and black ski mask swooping over the intersection on a rope. Was Gotham City going crazy?

The Joker certainly hoped so.

Bob slowed the van to a respectable forty or fifty miles an hour—good old Bob—a quite reasonable rate to traverse Gotham traffic. It finally gave the Joker a chance to place one of his very refined hands on one of Miss Vale’s delicate kneecaps. She tried to move away, but the van was too cramped for her to go much of anywhere. Another of the Joker’s keys to successful romance, he thought pleasantly: Always corner your romantic interest.

“I’m a little high-strung,” he said mournfully—pitifully, really—exactly the sort of tone to appeal to the sympathies of a young woman. “Y’know, I’ve recently had tragedy in my life. Day before yesterday, Alicia . . .” His voice cracked emotionally. The Joker had to admit—it was a very nice effect. “. . . Alicia hurled herself out the window. She couldn’t adjust to my new aesthetic.”

He handed Vicki Alicia’s porcelain mask, now defaced with an ugly crack.

The Joker shrugged. “But you can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs!”

Vicki looked horrified. Maybe, the Joker reflected, after they left the van, he should trap her in an even smaller space.

He grinned at her anyway. Just call him a romantic fool!

The Joker’s van was down below. It had sped from traffic jam to traffic jam. So far, with the aid of his utility belt and some quick runs across rooftops, he had managed to keep the van in sight. Sometimes you could keep up with the scum if gridlock was on your side.

The van swerved around a mounted policeman. The horse turned around; the cop riding it seemed to have no control over his mount. He swayed back and forth in the saddle and looked around as if he was having trouble keeping the world in focus.

Batman had seen other cops like this since he started to chase the Joker, and still other policemen who were out cold. It was the Joker’s doing, of course. But what would the Joker do when he had immobilized all of Gotham’s finest?

Batman would have to worry about that when he discovered the Joker’s plans. But the villain’s van had hit a relatively uncongested stretch of road and was increasing the distance between them. And there was a cop here, about to fall off his horse and possibly hurt himself.

There was only one thing to do.

Batman landed on the back of the horse. The cop turned to look at him, slowly and without surprise, as if having somebody land on the back of your horse was an everyday occurrence. He smiled sadly and shook his head as he massaged his throat. His eyes slid closed.

The cop passed out, the smile still on his face. He started to fall. Batman caught him and eased him from his horse, making sure the cop landed on the sidewalk. It wouldn’t do any good to have people sleeping in the street.

Batman glanced at the utility belt, which he had tightened around his suit at the waist. The red light was blinking. Good. Maybe things would be in order again very shortly.

He urged the horse forward. He had a van to catch.

He finally saw the van ahead. He had had to ride almost all the way to Gotham Square to catch up. The Joker’s van screeched to a halt a block and a half away, almost colliding with the barricades.

Barricades? He had forgotten. Today was the day of the mayor’s big parade—the two hundredth anniversary of Gotham City. Could that have something to do with the Joker’s plans?

His horse reared as more brakes screamed behind him. He looked around and saw the yellow Volkswagen. Good. Alfred’s timing, as usual, was impeccable.

He dismounted and quickly climbed into the passenger seat. Alfred handed him one of the spare costumes. He immediately started to change. It was a little cramped in here, but he had practiced this maneuver dozens of times for this eventuality.

“Alfred,” he said after he had taken off the ski mask, “find the records on my family. I want to check something.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred replied. “Be careful.”

He nodded as he climbed back out of the Volkswagen, once again clothed as he should be—as the Batman.

He jumped on his horse and rode to Gotham Square.

The junior high school band was playing “Happy Birthday.” They weren’t playing it very well, of course, which made it even better, what with those red, white, and blue birthday banners flapping overhead. And then the mayor, standing pompously up there on his pompous reviewing stand, along with those other pillars of the community, Dent and Gordon—the mayor started to speak, in that way only the mayor could.

“Happy birthday, Gotham City! You know every city has a father, and no one could have been a better father than John T. Gotham!”

This was just too good! It was time to get out of the van and join the festivities. The mayor went on, in that way the mayor did, about all the wonderful attributes he imagined Gotham City had. The Joker made sure that Bob—good old Bob—brought Vicki along. After all the inconvenience they’d put her through, he didn’t want her to miss all the fun.

The Joker and his boys pushed their way through the crowd. The mayor waved his flabby hands at the canvas-covered statue at the platform’s side.

“I dedicate this statue,” the mayor continued in that continuing way of his, “of a man who embodies the past, present, and future of our great city.”

Could this be any more perfect? The Joker almost wished he could make some noise, but he wouldn’t want to distract anyone from the ceremonies.

The mayor pulled the cord. The canvas dropped away.

What? Imagine the Joker’s surprise. It wasn’t a statue of John T. Gotham after all. No, this statue’s subject was much more handsome—well, actually, the Joker had no idea at all what John T. Gotham looked like, and, what’s more, he really didn’t care—not when you had a magnificent statue like that to look at! There it was, in the finest Gothic postmodern neorealistic expressionistic style—the Joker!—waving a lovely pair of Uzis just like they were six-shooters. What a sense of style! What finesse! Here was a piece of art that really spoke to you!

The Joker couldn’t have been prouder if he’d sculpted the thing himself. Which, after all, he had.

He turned to Vicki. Bob—good old Bob—had made sure she was holding her camera.

“Start shootin’, my sweet,” the Joker yelled as he took the stage. “I’m makin’ history!”

“Sorry!” He waved apologetically to the crowd as he stepped up next to the mayor. “No autographs!”

The mayor appeared less than pleased to see him. Maybe it was because the Joker had switched the statues. Or maybe it was because the Joker was holding a real Uzi pointed at the mayor’s belly. Whatever his problem was, the mayor just didn’t want to give the Joker the microphone. The Joker had to take the mike for himself.

“C-call the police!” The normally verbose mayor seemed to have lost his way with words. Perhaps the Joker could help him along.

“What police?” he asked sweetly. He waved at the policemen, unconscious on the sidewalk, and more policemen, equally unconscious on the grass, and even more policemen, completely out cold at the base of the statue. The mayor stared, goggle-eyed, at his entire police force, lying down on the job! Poor Borg. That sort of thing seemed to take away his voice entirely.

Well, someone had to pick up the slack here. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of city dwellers had shown up for this little celebration, and the Joker wouldn’t want any of them to get bored. Heavens forfend! If they left now, they would miss the parade!

The Joker smiled out over the crowd—his crowd. As their beloved mayor had said as he unveiled his handsome statue, he was the past, present and—most certainly—the future of Gotham City, whether they wanted him or not! This was his moment of triumph!

Ah, but triumph was no good unless you shared it with someone. He spoke into the mike:

“Hi, there, fellow Gothamites! As the
next
founding father of this fair city, I declare these celebrations well and truly open!”

He raised his Uzi into the air and fired a quick burst of bullets in celebration. Overhead, half the banner shook loose, riddled by bullet fire. Oh, dear. Clumsy, clumsy Joker. Give him a gun, and see what he does?

The Joker laughed, loud and long. This was the best time ever!

But something else was going on, down in the crowd. People were screaming—Come on now! Don’t be impatient! That isn’t supposed to happen until later!—and pointing up toward the roof on the far side of the square. Roof? Who did the Joker know in high places?

That’s when something came hissing through the air to wrap itself around the head of the statue—the Joker’s statue! It looked like one of those things they used in South America—bounce, bilbo, it was on the tip of the Joker’s tongue—bolo, that’s what they called them, made of two balls attached by a rope. Except, in this case, the hissing noise was coming from the balls! That meant it had to be a bolo bomb!

The crowd was screaming and running away. Just when the Joker was warming up, too! And the Joker knew the creep responsible for this, even before he saw him on the rooftop.

It was the Batman.

Now?

Boy, that guy sure knew how to spoil a party!

That’s when the bombs went off. Nice explosion. And when the smoke cleared . . .

The Joker head was gone.

“My very face,” the Joker whispered. “Destroyed.” He had to admit it. Batman’s toys had come through again. He was impressed.

His boys opened fire on the Batman. The bullets didn’t seem to do any good. Batman shot out a couple of those ropes he was so fond of using, and swung down to the ground between them. The Joker’s boys attacked Batman with their fists. He kicked them aside and headed for their boss.

Oops! The Joker decided it was time for Plan B. When the fancy stuff didn’t work, you went back to the bad-guy basics—threats, violence, murder. You know, the traditional values.

The Joker grabbed the mayor.