The Further Adventures of The Joker (27 page)

He stalked away, spun on his heel, walked back. “I have an idea. It had occurred to me that if the least funny of you
weren’t
the Batman, what I might do is to follow the maxim of my old mercenary friends and simply kill you all and let God sort you out.” I knew I was looking death in the distorted, grinning face.

“No,” said the Joker. “One more chance. I must be mellowing.” He chuckled, a horrible sound like a gerbil being pulled under the water and gargling as it drowned. “Yes, a chance. I’m going to extinguish the lights. When I bring them up again, I expect to see a clear sign that one of you is the Batman. I realize there is no phone booth—” He smirked. “Oh, yes, that’s our
other
good friend. But you get the point.” The Joker raised his hand. “All right, are you ready?” All of us sort of looked at each other. “If anyone tries anything funny, so to speak, my men will rake both the stage and the theater auditorium with automatic fire.” I wondered if we’d all remembered our twine-bound, butcher paper-wrapped parcels.

“Now,” said the Joker.

The lights went out.

Did you ever see
Spartacus?
There’s that great scene where the Romans order the rebellious slave army to give up their leader and then first one, then another, and eventually every slave there proclaims,
“I
am Spartacus.”

I thought of that when the lights came up.

You see, we were all—all eighteen of us—the Batman.

I’d worn the costume from the package Bruce had given us under my clothing, as I guessed the rest had, too. In the sudden darkness, I’d struggled out of my street clothes, unfurled the thin cape from under my collar, and pulled the cowl over my head. I had donned the rest of the gear.

So here we were in the glare of the house lights. Eighteen Batpersons: white, black, brown, yellow, male, female, fit, paunchy, young, middle-aged. We were a sight.

The Joker stared at us. With some satisfaction, I saw there was genuine surprise on his face. Then he began to laugh.

I don’t think it was wholly because we were all dressed in Bat-attire. It may have had something to do with the fact that all of us wore Groucho glasses, the heavy black-rimmed kind with the attached big rubber noses and bushy moustaches.

While we stood there waiting for summary execution, the Joker giggled, then chortled, finally whooped with merriment. Tears, or at least something viscous, dripped from his eyes. I thought the ends of his grin would meet around the back of his head.

When he finally could speak, he said, “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Better than I’d ever hoped.” He burst into laughter again.

And then he let us go.

It was that abrupt. The Joker made some hand motions. Smoke rolled across the stage. Blinding lights flashed. Choking, we fell to our knees. But then the fumes cleared. They weren’t toxic.

The Joker was gone, along with his men.

I felt a strong arm help me to my feet. Bruce. He set his hand on my shoulder and steadied me.

It had been one hell of a show. You might say we’d knocked the audience dead.

Just kidding.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about that night. I’m in law school now—no more Burger Biggie, and no more suggestions of seminary from Uncle Louis.

I still do some stand-up comedy, but there isn’t a hell of a lot of time. In such clubs as I still play, I’ve never again seen Bruce.

About that night . . . I remember how I always used to think I only came truly alive at night, when I could change into somebody different from who I was in the sunlight, somebody more powerful, someone who could move people to react.

I mean, I’m no dummy. I can put two and two together. After what I’ve been through, there ain’t nothing that seems unlikely now.

The newspapers really did a number on what happened at the Aladdin Theater and the joke-off. The writers speculated about why the Joker hadn’t simply triggered a massacre. The consensus seemed to be that the big
J
must be entering some new phase of his “humor,” something seriously weird, maybe absurdist or the surreal.

Me, I’ve got a different idea. Maybe somebody just got a little bored. No, check that.
Seriously
bored. And maybe somebody decided that the lack in his life was his opponent.

He decided his antagonist had one crucial shortcoming—no sense of humor. Or at least one so rudimentary it needed a little jarring loose to set it in gear.

A worthy villain
needs
an equally worthy antagonist.

Just speculation, folks.

I keep my theories to myself. See, I figure that one day I’ll return to the night—and when I do, I might just need a friend.

Double Dribble

George Alec Effinger

P
olice Commissioner Gordon and wealthy philanthropist Bruce Wayne certainly had better things to do on that drizzly afternoon in March. The former was absent from a luncheon with Gotham City’s mayor and several influential civic leaders, and the latter had postponed an important consultation with the Wayne Foundation’s legal advisors. Instead, the two men had gathered with members of the news media in a small, overheated meeting room in Gotham Garden, the historic sports and concert arena. They’d all been invited to attend an important press conference called by Joculator, Inc.

“Were you able to learn anything about this corporation?” asked Wayne.

Commissioner Gordon shook his head. “Nothing at all. Joculator, Inc. seems to consist of just five names, none of them listed in the police records.”

Wayne, in his alter ego as the Batman, had made his own investigation, using the extensive crime files stored in the Bat-Computer. He had turned up much the same results—which is to say, none at all. “I would have ignored the invitation completely,” he said, frowning, “except it reminded me too much of certain other invitations I’ve seen in the past.” He didn’t feel it necessary to point out to his old friend that
joculator
was the Latin word for “joker.”

“I had the same reaction,” said Gordon grimly.

Before they could compare notes any further, a short, heavyset man with a perspiring red face appeared from behind the velvet curtains that draped the front of the meeting room. He glanced nervously at the assembled newspaper, radio, and television crews, then went to a wooden podium decorated with the emblem of the Gotham City Knights, the city’s National Basketball Association franchise that played its home games in the Garden.

The man took out a large pocket handkerchief and mopped his face. “My name is Robert Branford,” he said in a soft, hoarse voice. “I’m the president and CEO of Joculator, Inc. I’d like to thank you all for coming here today. We have an exciting announcement to make, and rather than draw it out any longer, I’d like to get right to it. As of today, Joculator, Inc. is the new corporate owner of the Gotham City Knights.”

A loud murmur rose up among the newspeople. Camera shutters began to click all over the room, and video equipment captured Branford’s every word and nervous gesture. Gordon leaned over and spoke softly into Wayne’s ear. “I’m surprised that old Bob Jennings sold the club. I didn’t think he needed the money and I know that owning the basketball team was his favorite hobby.”

“Maybe Joculator, Inc. made Jennings an offer he couldn’t refuse,” whispered Wayne.

Branford passed the handkerchief across his forehead again. “I’m sorry that Robert L. Jennings, the longtime owner of the Gotham City Knights, couldn’t be with us today, but I’d like to introduce my silent partner, who will show you the team’s newly redesigned uniform. He’ll also tell you about a promising new addition to the Knights’ roster.”

Branford stepped away from the podium and held out his hand toward the velvet drapes. There was a hushed moment of anticipation, and then a sudden collective exclamation as out stepped—the Joker himself! Someone in the audience shrieked, and two people got up and fled the room through a side exit. The photographers all rushed forward to get better positions. The Joker stood at the podium, displaying his maniac grin and enjoying immensely the confusion and consternation he’d caused.

Commissioner Gordon leaped to his feet. “Arrest that man!” he cried to the Gotham Garden security officers on duty.

Bruce Wayne put a hand on Gordon’s arm and pulled him back down. “He hasn’t done anything to be arrested for, Commissioner,” he said. “Let’s find out what this is all about. After all, there isn’t anything valuable enough here for the Joker to risk his own safety.”

Gordon resumed his seat grumpily. “I guess you’re right, Wayne,” he said. “It just makes my blood boil to see that lunatic gloating up there like that, with who-knows-what insane plot up his sleeve.”

The Joker waited until the uproar had settled down. Then he swept his gaze from one side of the room to the other. He seemed satisfied that he had everyone’s full attention. “You know, my friends,” he said in a loud voice that was pitched near hysteria, “I sometimes get the urge to try to fit into your decent, honest society.”

Gordon grunted disgustedly. “I don’t believe that for a second,” he muttered.

“Let him have his say,” said Wayne.

“Really, I do,” the Joker continued. “A few weeks ago, I thought, Wouldn’t it be fun to be the owner of an athletic team? How I envied George Steinbrenner and the other team owners I saw on the news. Sports sums up the essential human drama, don’t you agree? The joy of victory and the agony of defeat!” He spread his hands and let loose with the mad laughter that was his trademark.

“Somebody must have written this speech for him,” said Gordon.

“I’m sure he’s fooling no one, Commissioner,” said Wayne.

The Joker’s laughter ended, and his expression became mournful. “Over the years, I’ve put together a modest nest egg through my ventures, and I definitely had the purchase price of the team of my dreams—our very own Gotham City Knights. Imagine my disappointment when the lords of the NBA told me that I couldn’t buy a team, merely because I’m as crazy as a squid on skis! A thin technicality! When has lunacy ever stopped anyone from owning a basketball team, or a baseball, football, or hockey team for that matter?” Again the meeting room was filled with the Joker’s echoing cackles.

“That’s when I had the wonderful idea of urging Mr. Robert Branford and some of his associates to form Joculator, Inc., a corporation duly registered with our state government. I have no official connection with Joculator, Inc., but I do have a certain amount of influence with Mr. Branford and the four other board members. Don’t I, Bob?” He flashed his blood-chilling grin at Branford, who gasped and fell back a step.

“Don’t worry, Bob,” said the Joker, returning his attention to the cameras and tape recorders, “you’ve done a splendid job. There’ll be a couple of free passes to the next Knights’ home game for you at the box office.”

“That explains it!” cried Gordon. “The company is just a cheap front for the Joker’s nefarious schemes!”

Wayne regarded the Joker thoughtfully. “Yes, of course, but what does he hope to achieve by buying the Gotham City Knights?”

The Joker went on smoothly. “Let me say that my first suggestion to the new owners was to redesign the team’s horrid old uniforms. Remember those depressing, dark, Batmanish tunics and trunks? Remember the awful yellow oval and the sword symbol? Well, we’ve gotten rid of all that!”

He held up the Knights’ new uniform shirt. “We favor purple and green and gold now. A green tunic—green, like my hair, you know—with gold lettering, and purple trunks.” The oval was gold instead of yellow, and it now enclosed a grinning playing-card joker in cap and bells.

“Why,” exclaimed the Joker, “I’ve just noticed how much this uniform resembles my own favorite outfit! What a coincidence!” He stood at the podium for a moment, then began to glare at his audience. “That’s, I say, that’s a
joke
, friends. You may all giggle merrily now.” A few strained, frightened laughs came from the crowd.

“That’s better,” said the Joker, putting the basketball uniform down. “Oh, as Bob hinted, I do have one final announcement concerning the team roster. At our next home game, which will be on Friday night against the Boston Celtics, this particular jersey will be worn by the Gotham City Knights’ new starting point guard—none other than I, myself!”

The reaction to the Joker’s bombshell was instantaneous, dwarfing any of the crowd’s previous outbursts. The Joker stood at the podium, enjoying his moment of glory to the fullest. “Yes, yes,” he shouted happily over the clamor, “you heard me correctly! This is my number, fifty-three, because the Joker is the fifty-third card in the deck. I’ll answer no questions now, but I invite you all to come back on Friday, to cheer us on against our worthy opponents from Boston!”

He began to laugh hysterically, until no one in the meeting room could doubt the full extent of the Joker’s dementia. Finally, ignoring the shouted questions from the reporters, he hurried from the stage, disappearing with Robert Branford through the part in the velvet curtains. His psychotic shrieks of joy faded away, and the Joker did not reappear.

Commissioner Gordon and Bruce Wayne stared at each other in amazement. “Can he do it?” said Gordon at last.