#{ ASYLUM SCRAWLINGS }

[fear-is-truth]

my cousin wanted me to draw kit walker for her.. who am i to deny her demand request

[peterstrahmspen]

it’s not supposed to be about me,

it’s supposed to be about God !

JAY / EDDIE . . . he it riddle ++ 📿

the chapel would like to welcome you to a blog for poetry, therian and gender coining . . . no dni, but blocking is at my discretion

💒 ; batman , horror movies , midnight mass , ethel cain , silent hill , outlast , iasip , sally face , fran bow , faith: the unholy trinity , saw , marble hornets

discord ; rabidmuttgirl

[braindead-virtually-tv]

The Nintendo switch is just a next gen Wii U Gamepad and the gaming world isn't ready to hear that

[warnersister]

Star Cross’d

Jerome Valeska x Gordon’s daughter!Reader

Jerome Valeska x Reader

This couldn’t last forever. Nor could it last the remainder of the night. Your father; Jim Gordon, would find out soon enough and put a stop to all to all this nonsense.

Nonsense: the nights you’d both spent lying awake in eachother’s warm embrace, discussing all inevitable components that make up the matrix melancholy of the cogs of life. Shivering slightly under the thin covers, an early winter’s morn and nearing-replacement window panes sending an extra sharp gasp of cooling freeze, compliments of some state north of here. But the delicate gushing of blood through the fingertips that dance with solider-like coherency remind you of being alive.

Nonsense: the candy floss he had bought you the night you met, unknowing of your disliking to the sickly-sweetness of a fairground staple but you ate it regardless, noticing the dust particles falling from his wallet as he handed you the carnival delicacy: wide grin decorating a pearl-filled grin making your heart remind your head that regardless of your economical struggles recently, you truly were rich. An odd sparkle of a concoction of unintelligible senses that overwhelmed your consciousness with a haze-like hypnosis of enamour for the boy yet to receive a name.

Nonsense: having you sat in the front row; against your father’s wishes at his court hearing, eyes flickering mindlessly between you and the judge - amnesty ignoring his court-presented attorney to delicately study the breathing work of art sat behind him. Allowing his own fate to unfold if it meant he got to look at you that little while longer. His sentence to Arkham emitting a gasp from your lips, yet a sense of comfort knowing this somehow meant he wasn’t a mindless killer; he was ill. He wrestled his restraints to give you a finalising kiss to the back of your hand with a sincere tone, voice barely above a whisper as he made you vow to him to forgive him.

Nonsense: the letters stashed in the small shoe box in the bottom of your wardrobe, beneath a well-word pair of disregarded sneakers that acted as gatekeepers for some abhorrent alternation of Romeo and Juliet if Shakespeare was mentally disproportionate. The daily recorded scrawl of proclamations of love and mourning for the distance between the both of you, a somehow best yet illegible cursive getting progressively more dissipated as the page descended - adapting Lamark’s unacceptable theory as the boy evolved from a maladjustment killer to a love sick poet.

Nonsense: crying when you visited him, breaking down into a pool of tears as he appreciated your presence and worshiped your being to an alternative offspring of the Antichrist’s teaching; praying and begging for your mercy - your living self a shrine for his selfless obsession of palpitating sickness of his desire. Your small, naïve smile as you told him you understood, those countless, sleepless nights you lay away shivering in the cold and you ponder your own sanity.

Nonsense: being the first person whom he adheres to when broken out of the Asylum, climbing up a three-story dtysfunctioning drain pipe in the dead of night in the dismal rain of an autumnal Gotham oldhallow’s eve - thunder cracking as you shared a romantic desperation of the age old locking of lips, holding one another on the floor as though terrified the other would painfully disappear if they disimbedded their claws; leaving crescent shaped moon imprint on the skin.

Nonsense: having dates in the darkest hours to avoid disruption; dominating Gotham at three hands of two desperately pining adolescents; insanity of love a proclamation of their secession from the rest of world and society, a religious-like devotion to the other promised by a kiss at every goodbye and a smile at every hello.

Nonsense. The relationship between you and Jerome Valeska was utter nonsense; but the soft whisper-like kisses he leaves on the parting of your hair and down to the nape of your neck makes you alternately shiver as you allow yourself just that few more minutes of sinful indulgence.

[domini-porter]

FIC: Some Wicked Thing: Chapters 11-14

hooray, it's another omnibus edition of Some Wicked Thing, the third installment in The Age of Wickedness, my Rizzles Gilded Age AU series! this part is set in the world of asylums and railroad intrigue! I've made four new chapters for you!

Individual links and excerpts (no spoilers) below!

Chapter 11: The Question Troubling Her Now

She sighed. Glanced back at her empty glass, considered another slug of the whiskey Penrose had poured her, then rolled her eyes at herself, hoisting out of the chair, depositing the tumbler next to the whiskey bottle with a faint longing. She would need to be clear, sharp, no matter how much she would rather crawl straight inside the bottle, to dull herself to what was coming.

Chapter 12: Picchì ti Dispiaci, Cara Mia?

Picchì ti dispiaci, cara mia? Her mother, standing before her, though no matter how hard Jane tried, she could not see her face. Had forgotten it deliberately, had scratched and scrawled it over in her mind until she was only a shape, a dark-haired shadow hovering over her, the bright summer sun at her back casting her in a holy light. “I . . . I should have—” her shoulders began to shake as sobs swelled from her chest, tears running hot and fast down her cheeks. “I should have gone too, Mamma, why didn’t I go too?”

Chapter 13: Not Every Pain Comes to Harm You

“Àutru,” the shorter one said, Jane not needing to understand her language to understand her counter-offer. Grinned crookedly, shrugged helplessly, pulled another bill and two coins from her purse, the short woman snatching them from her hand before giving her companion a shrug of her own. Gave Jane another long look, shook her head with a sigh. “U Signùri rùna ‘u viscuottù a cu nun’ avi rienti,” she muttered. “Pazienza.” Hooked her arm through the other woman’s, headed on down the street. “Veni, si tu veni,” she called, Jane rushing to catch up.

Chapter 14: So Much Joy for Living

It was poignant, nerve-wracking, what she was asking Maura to do, but it seemed important, essential now. If this dark mission she was about embark on was indeed to be her last, she wanted—needed—for Maura to know her, deeply. All of who she was. So that someone, somewhere, would understand the whole of her.

whew! still going hard, of course; I talked myself through the whole thing sort of unexpectedly today, and it's gonna be a whiz-banger

[kevynthedevylman]

Batman: It's over, Yagami. L may have failed to stop you, but I have gathered enough evidence to send you away for the rest of your natural life. (Holds the Death Note) I'm sure Zatanna and Dr. Fate will know how to deal with your fancy weapon.

Light: (Beat up on the floor) You think you've won? You're not the only one that can find out a secret (beat) Bruce Wayne!

Batman: What?!

Light: Look in the Death Note. The last entry!

Batman: (Opens the Death Note. Sees the words "Bruce Wayne: Heart Attack" scrawled on the page in large, panicked letters).

Light: I deduced your identity a while ago. I wanted to make sure I saw your face when you died, just like L! Any second now, Mr. Wayne, you're going to be writhing on the floor, dying of a heart attack. Your angel of death has finally come to collect!

(Batman and Light wait. And wait. A minute passes. Two minutes.)

Light: What? What's going on? The limit has to have passed. Why aren't you dying?!

Batman: Interesting. I guess your deduction was wrong, Kira. (Pulls out a recorder) I should also thank you. The evidence I had would probably be enough to secure a conviction, but your little confession just now will guarantee it.

Light: No! NO! I KNOW IT'S YOU! I KNOW YOU'RE BRUCE WAYNE! I'M CERTAIN OF... (Stops. Begins seizing. Dying of a heart attack)

Batman: Yagami? Yagami!

(Batman tries to apply first aid. Nothing he does can stop the attack.)

Light (Internal): Why? It was him. I know it. Batman is Bruce Wayne. No. No. It couldn't be that. Could it? (Fading) Batman isn't Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne is...

(Light Yagami dies)

Ryuk: Sorry kid. But watching you rot in an asylum for the next 80 years is about as dull a thing as I can imagine.

(Ryuk sits on a streetlight, across from the room where Batman tries, uselessly, to revive Light.)

Ryuk: (Closes his Death Note, Light's name written on the final page) It's been fun. Got to admit though, I didn't see that last hiccup coming. Whoda thought you'd guess wrong at such a crucial moment?

Death: He didn't.

(Ryuk is shocked to see Death of the Endless sitting beside him on the pole)

Ryuk: M-m-mistress Death, your highness! To what do I, a humble shinigami, owe this visit?

Death: Relax, Ryuk-chan. I'm not here for you. Your actions, while irresponsible, were only the catalyst for that corrupt mortal's atrocities. In the end, you upheld the rules to the letter, so you're not in too much trouble.

Ryuk: (Wincing at the "too much") So, you're here to collect Yagami?

Death: Already have. And boy howdy, did that kid not go quietly. No, I'm hanging about on account of that one (points to Batman).

Ryuk: The weirdo? Why? He's just a mortal.

Death: Hardly. He's a special one. Even Destiny isn't super sure how his story ends. That's why I have to keep an eye on him whenever he comes this close to buying it. Never know when the jig is up.

Ryuk: But, you said Light was right. If he wrote Batman's true name in the Death Note, he should be dead already.

Death: (Shakes her head) No. He wrote down his secret identity's name in the Death Note. But that man stopped being Bruce Wayne a very long time ago.

Ryuk: So, you're saying that his true name is...

Death: Let's return to our realm, Ryuk-chan. There's more work to be done.

(There is a sound of wings, and the two entities are gone)

[imagine--if]

Riddler Year One #1: My Thoughts

I cannot actually say enough how much I loved this comic 😍 because we get to see the full backstory of Edward and what made him the Riddler, and understand him better! Also, it really links in with The Batman film, what with the mentions of Anikka and everything.

Feel free to comment your own thoughts or tag me in posts you make about the comic!! Aight, so here's my essay for you all - these are my thoughts, so they might not be accurate to other opinions and stuff... please don't come at me 😂:

In The Batman, Edward Nashton mentioned feeling "invisible" and being "nobody" to Batman when they talked in the asylum, but reading the comic, you can really see just how low he thinks of himself and his surroundings. I think the darkness that fills his mind and blurs the background perfectly shows what he's seeing and feeling, and how he panics through the day and night. That's how the comic starts; Edward is overwhelmed by his dark thoughts, and it's also how the comic ends. Gotham City "scares" and "disgusts" him, and it's clear that he wants the happiness and attention everyone else seems to get so easily. Being isolated socially, apart from when he does his puzzles online with his "only friends" takes a toll on his view of himself, since his pleas for such attention only leave him feeling "unwanted," "unnoticed" and even "repulsive."

So when Edward is seen by The Batman when Anikka is attacked, he chooses not to tell his followers "how he looked at him." Batman probably didn't even remember or take much notice of Edward's presence, but since Edward was finally seen, even to that extent, by someone else, especially a vigilante who was unafraid to show Gotham's horridness, it was really special to him. Therefore, he keeps that part of the experience to himself.

The only things that calm Nashton's mind are when he's focusing on work - the numbers - or solving riddles. He's shown listening to some kind of podcast that tells him to shift his focus, something he finds extremely difficult. This is shown through the slightly disturbing illustrations of his daydreams, like the one with the train, and seeing people on the train's faces morph into monstrous expressions. He tells himself repeatedly to "breathe," though his thoughts never really stop plaguing him. At one point, the thought of dying as an unwanted and abandoned orphan makes him physically throw up, and the tangled webs of darkness and monsters' eyes in the room disappear afterwards to be replaced with a sad, clear blue tint to the bathroom.

One thing that really stood out to me is Edward's obsessive, repeated rambles through the phrases he writes again and again in his workbook as if he's trying to convince himself, trying to clear his mind a little by letting as much as he can out on paper. This evidently does nothing, since after he fills a page with "I am enough," Edward ends up scrawling "No you are not," in large letters on the bottom. The same repeated writing style is shown in the movie, where The Batman notices the wall and the plans for the traps. The way they work is written, again and again, filling several pages, which displays his obsessive nature and "meticulousness" over his puzzles, as The Joker commented in the deleted scene. His thoughts of Batman ultimately lead him to slightly change his opinion and comfort himself when he writes over the ramble "You matter" as a speech bubble. This is the same quote Edward wrote on a newspaper featuring Thomas Wayne, though the words mean more coming from The Batman than the late Wayne.

At the KTMJ, when Edward sees a chance to prove himself to his boss after uncovering a money laundering scheme, no one there seems to care, and he is even threatened by his boss in terms of losing his job if he didn't let the subject go. This sign of corruption must have been one of many things that got to Edward and inspired him to become The Riddler. This ultimate rejection from his respected peer also leads Edward to harm himself by burning his hand in boiling soup, wishing that he'd just approached the boss in his office instead of following him to the diner and "creeping him out."

... 😅

So, this is my weird analysis of the comic 😂 I hope you liked it and enjoy reading the comic just as much as I am! It's great to uncover more of his character, since it really helps me write more accurately for him, and I like sticking as close to character as possible for my readers to get into it. If I've got anything wrong (I might have lol) feel free to comment with your views and stuff! I'm always interested and open to new perspectives and ideas. I haven't covered absolutely everything, mostly the thing that stood out to me the most and things I think I understand the best, so if there is anything specific in the comic you want me to talk about or anything, let me know in my inbox!! I'm really into Riddler Year One right now and think everything about it is spot on 💚

Hope you enjoyed reading my rambling attempt at a essay review 🥰️

[w1tchybusiness]

Trying to predict/theorize about deltarune’s lore makes me feel like I’m scrawling on the wall of an asylum cell this is impossible

[halloweenvalentine1997]

It was a cold October day and my gun was warm.

I pulled the trigger and dusted off my jacket.

I ran to the coast and tossed the gun in the ocean.

Murder - a sour pill I swallowed, forced to conform and keep quiet,

liquid spilling out my eyes like watercolors over a grave.

A skeleton key locked me up. A scream reduced to murmurs.

Ashes in a hearth. Swept down a tunnel and placed on a shelf.

Single-file lines like sheep following wolves, or butterflies in a box.

What has dissolved cannot be rebuilt. All that is left

is the memory of the gun consumed by sea and

the body I left behind, letting my curse spread like ripples over a pond, like a collision.

Control yourself, they say, while making black marks in their ledgers.

I sleep in restraints and become an island. A black hole waiting for pearly gates, for

asylum clouds to clear away, for pale shapes to vanish.

Everyone lies in wait to bite like chained animals, to chastise.

Every room holds a trauma and delusions in its walls. In my room,

I’m in the shape of a teardrop on a chandelier. An intangible human

replaced by ether. The weapon is growing cold at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean,

sinking like pirate ships and submarines.

I’m on the sea floor daily, where there’s a pencil-drawn calendar on my alabaster wall,

along with scrawled symbols that no one can understand.

I’m muttering incantations to gods hanging on fences, encircling

gardens where flowers die.

- Vivica Salem

[crowley-in-arkham]

A Gift

A little box sat on my desk when I came in this morning. Someone slapped haphazardly a bright orange sticky note on top of the brown shipping box. Chicken scratch letters scrawled in jet black ink: "Oz sent you a package Doc! Be sure to show me! -Rook."

I took my letter opener from my safe, drawing a line down the tape.

I flicked open the box, and a deep royal purple tissue nested a smaller black box inside. On it, a letter sat nestled beneath a silver ribbon. The shiny silver border wrapped ornately around the edges of the card, like a twisting birch canopy against the night sky.

I flicked open the onyx paper, and in more metallic silver ink, was written, "Doctor, I hope you're doing well. I know you're not the drinking sort, but the Iceberg lounge offers all sorts of fine entertainment aside from the bar. You should stop by for a visit and bring Mr. Wayne. We all know he needs to lose some weight in that wallet of his."

I smiled, and read the next passage; "Enough with the banter though, this is a gift after all. A wonderful little doctor once said told me, 'Humans are born as a blank sheet, each experience and event in their lives adding a new fold to the beautiful, complex art that they will inevitably become.' Keep teaching that metaphor, Doctor Crowley."

I pulled open the black box, and nestled into it, wrapped in the same silver ribbon, was a neat stack of fragile origami paper. Black on one side, a bright orange on the other. A folded purple and black penguin stood on the top of the stack, on its purple tummy, the same silver ink: "In your favorite color, of course."

Thank you Ozzy, I'll put it t good use here in the Asylum.

[peterstrahmspen]

Buckshot roulette protagonist OC

Jitterbug!

What a random game to hyper-fixate so badly on and honestly cure my artblock. I don’t what it was about it that inspired me but I hyperfixed on it back January and churned this guy out! An OC for the door-kicking guy we play as in the game. He has a crush on the dealer…

Named jitterbug because of all that shaking!

[lastchancevillagegreen]

Friday, 1 July 2022:

Prisoner In Disguise Linda Ronstadt (Asylum) (released in 1975)

This was Ronstadt’s second album for Asylum but it came out after a contractually obligated Capitol release (the gazillion seller Heart Like A Wheel) even though the album preceding that contractually obligated release was an Asylum album. 

When I decided to buy all of Ronstadt’s Asylum albums in lieu of Greatest Hits and Greatest Hits Volume Two (both on Asylum) I fretted this album because album covers which are black are notoriously difficult to find in good shape.  Black wears terribly over the years and I expected finding nothing but ill treated copies with horrid white ring wear on the album jacket.  Imagine my surprise when I found a copy that was still in the original shrink wrap (this is a gatefold album as you will see in a later photograph). 

Now I don’t necessarily think keeping a gatefold in it’s original plastic, I have several I’ve never completely opened up (and I believe virtually all of them are on the Light In The Attic label--Lizzy Mercier Descloux, Lewis and Goldberg), but none of these albums I still have in the shrink are 47 years old.  Furthermore, I’ve seen the gatefolds of the albums I keep shut up thanks to photos on discogs and I know I’m not missing a whole lot.  But Prisoner In Disguise’s gatefold contains the lyrics and does so in a unique manner.  All of the song lyrics in the gatefold are handwritten by the author.  I remember seeing Neil Young’s unique scrawl (and back then his writing was much clearer, yet still very distinctive) and thinking this was a cool idea.  Note Dolly Parton thanks Linda on her lyric sheet.  I still think this is a cool idea.  See below. 

Anyhow, the shrink wrap shows this album comes from Korvette’s which was a chain discount department store (for us Midwesterners in small towns, think Goldblatts or Shopper’s World).  While the album’s shrink wrap makes the album look in bad shape (photo number one), the photo without the shrink wrap still looks a bit rough but in reality it isn’t at all, it looks nice and glossy and shiny.  Yes you can see the bend in the lower left hand of the cover and some stress wrinkles along the spine.  But that blob above the left hand corner bend is merely sunlight reflecting off the cover.  This is an excellent looking copy. 

I had forgotten that the cover is embossed and die cut.  I’m not necessarily certain it shows up in the photo above or below, but Linda Ronstadt and the album title are both embossed.  The photo (which I’ve always thought made this album look exceptionally classy) has a red border which is raised slightly higher than the white line border.  It makes for a stunning album cover especially seeing it in almost near mint condition and with a shine and gloss to it.  See the photo below. 

As many old albums I have been buying recently that I once owned, I certainly didn’t anticipate this falling back into the collection.  As I see more Ronstadt albums coming into the mail, I’m not certain this was a wise idea for someone who wasn’t always keen on her pop career.  But as I explained in another entry for Linda Ronstadt (Capitol) on 25 June, the payoff here will be better than a greatest hit package could do.  Engaging in her work for Asylum I will have a better understanding of her pop career than I ever did and I had to live with many of her songs playing endlessly on the radio or jukebox or at the homes of friends (male or female, everyone seemed to dig Ronstadt but me).  As I am wont to do, below you will find both sides of the label.

I don’t care what anyone says, this Asylum label is one of my all time favorite looking labels.  (And boy how weird was it to see Bob Dylan’s name splashed across this label?)

[hauntedmoon519]

i write scrawling spiralling

riffs and lines lyrics and

songs that

lie dormant and unmade on

the pages

my hands twitching with

the need to press strings to

slam chords and

i cannot bring myself to it

it hurts too much

my creativity is a box

i remain tucked in shut

inside of the

multi layered maze chipping away

at my thoughts peeling through

my flesh for ideas i

do not know if

it was or will be

does the syrup and honey coating

the matcha green taste good?

i know your thoughts on coffee

are opposed of it's rich bitter punch and

the sweetness is better

does the honey taste better?

i am a tepid

trepid tentative

cat wandering the

empty crowded flooded

hollowed streets and alleys of

my mind with unkempt hair and whisker

s looking for something anything a light a bell

ringing mewing and crying for a box to lie in and pray, cry, weep, beg, plead

for someone to find me and take me home

away from the lukewarm ice

background character

roll the flats of idyllic scenery

and let the audience cheer and clap

for the main characters

i slump backstage the

plot not made not meant for me

why would it be

i will drown in ink and blood before

streaky curtain calls

and scattered smeared applause

painting the asylum walls

hah.

back row

off tempo off beat off time

demoted to

the bottom dropped and

sunken why am i always sunken

i am not enough for the

front stands solos lights shows i

drink in the silence and

taste powdered bleach, metallic salt

waiting for my part to play

hoping praying that i do not

mess up and trip

i have tripped stumbled fallen

down and cracked open my crown i

have plummeted from that which has already

fallen i

icarus

too close and yet

it was all a dream icarus

you never flew in the first place

split focus

did you know the light of

the moon is actually a warped

reflection of the sun as it

tries to cling and hold onto the

warmth so desperately while still

never being enough to

produce it's own light

multi task

i dont mind

however much is enough is

enough for me

[plasma-tree]

now all of my cc is going to look like it was scrawled on the walls of a 1910's asylum

[goobdesk]

Since Tumblr users are all deranged I like to imagine this site as the walls of the asylum where we all scrawl our incoherent ramblings.

[lottiehimee]

GIRL WONDER: Chapter 2 ; Live Stream

Robin taps a few commands into Batman's computer; keys clacking under her gloved fingers.  There are eight large screens towering over Bruce's desk.  Which is positioned on a naturally forming plateau, jutting out into the underground lake that takes up fraction of the Batcave.  The two monitors immediately in front of her scroll through different information from the previous clues she had left open on the screen; shots from the previous crime scenes, a scan of a note with a riddle scrawled in blood.  The Joker's clues were sick, and twisted – and they make her feel queasy looking at them again.  On the left, everything Batman has on the Joker – which she's already read ten times over since he'd been taken.  On the right, a catalog of weapons at her disposal.  From batterangs to bombs.  The rest of the screens stream live video from inside Arkham Asylum.  There is a single blank video feed.  Room 0801.  The camera for the Joker's padded cell was turned off.  Was Batman in there?  “Bruce...”  She exhales his name, her eyes stinging with tears.

She nearly jumps out of her skin as she feels a hand on her shoulder - she spins quickly, crouching into a defensive stance only to drop her fists immediately as her gaze falls upon Alfred.  He doesn't mask the worry on his face like Bruce always does; it's clear as day – written into the wrinkles in his skin.  Her heart twinges in shame, pain radiating through her chest.  “Miss Carrie.”  The tone of his voice rings clear with concern.

“Not now, Alfred,”  She angrily yanks her glasses from her eyes.  Tossing them on the desk as she turns back to the bright monitors.  “I need to find him.”

Alfred sets a tray next to her, heaping with food.  “You need to eat.  You haven't eaten since yesterday, and you haven't slept since he disappeared.”

“He hasn't disappeared, Alfred, the Joker took him.  I don't know how, but he did.”  She jabs her hand behind her without turning her head.  Batman's cape hangs outstretched on the evidence board she set up.  “He's been taunting me with clues for days.”  She sighs, looking up at Alfred with tired eyes.  “He's dangling Bruce in front of me like a piece of cheese, making me run through a crazy, elaborate maze to find him, and at every turn is another trap – another clue.”  Carrie looks away from Alfred's worried face and down to the food.  The idea of eating making her stomach churn.  “I'm not hungry.

“At least drink your tea, Miss Carrie.”  With that, he leaves.

Because she knows that it'll help, she drinks it.  The warmth soothes her stomach and makes her feel better.  It's prepared exactly the way she likes it, which has her heart aching again.  Ever since she came to the sprawling grounds of Wayne Manor, Alfred has shown her kindness she has never experienced before.  He truly, honestly cares for her.  Just like he cares about Bruce.  

With her tea in hand she turns from the monitors to look around the cave.  Her gaze falls upon the glass tubes Bruce uses to display the costumes that had come before her.  The Robins that had come before her.  Dick, Tim, Jason...Damien.  It hurts looking at Damien's costume, knowing what happened to him...is she going to end up a grave in the Wayne cemetery, too?  Who will replace her once she dies? ...As long as there is a Batman, there will always be a Robin.  Right now...without Robin – without her – there would be no more Batman.  

It's time to get to work.  As her eyes are drawn to the monitors once again she notices the black screen had come alive while she wasn't looking.  On the screen is the Joker.  He sits in a high-backed chair with a wine glass in his hand. From what she can see he's alone.

Anger spears through her as she watches him drink from the glass.  He has a deck of cards splayed out on the glass-topped table in front of him.  He arranges them from ace to king: heart, club, spade, diamond.  “What are you up to?”  She asks herself, staring at him through the camera's lens. 

For several moments this is all he does.  Once they are all in order he sits back in his chair and finishes his glass.  He sets it down on the table and stands, staring down at what he had done.  With an abrupt movement, he reaches down and grabs hold of the table – flipping it in one quick motion.  The table top and wine glass shatter as the cards fly in every direction.  When she looks up from the heap of glass on the floor back to his face, he's staring directly into the camera.

“I take it you found my message.”  He giggles and waves at her with a gloved hand.  His smile twists as he steps closer to the camera, still looking directly into it.  “I am surprised!  I expected you to take much longer than this, but you – oh you! - you're so smart.  Look at you.”  He barks with laughter, putting a hand to his stomach and letting his head fall back.  His green hair is slicked back into an elegant pony tail that falls over his shoulder.  He stops laughing and looks back up at the camera.  “Do you want to see Batsy, girl wonder?”  His tone mocks her.  “Do you miss him, so?  Are you terribly afraid of what I have done to your hero?”  He cackles.

He turns away from the camera, stepping over the pile of glass.  He shoves his chair out of the way and it tips to the side, falling over with a clatter.  With long, fluid strides he makes his way to a set of double doors behind where he'd been seated.  He throws them open with a flourish and steps aside, extending an arm of welcome.  A nurse made up with clown make up, grinning widely pushes a blanketed gurney into the room.  Someone is under the blanket struggling.  Batman?  The Joker takes the blanket in his fists and pulls it from the gurney – revealing Bruce Wayne.  He is naked, bloody, and bruised.  But he's alive.  

“You can guess my astonishment when I pulled the mask off Batsy here.”  He pats Bruce's cheek, grinning down at him.  The Joker puts his hands on either side of Bruce's face and points it towards the camera, leaning in and resting his chin down on his forehead.  “Look at the camera, Brucey,”  He says, “Say hi to your little dove.”  When Bruce doesn't speak, the nurse takes a scalpel and stabs down into the back of his hand.  His eyes widen, and he grunts in pain – bearing his teeth.  “Don't be rude now!  She's been searching everywhere for you!  Tell her you're okay, Brucey, come now – she's been trying so hard.”

Carrie's breath hitches as Bruce looks directly into the camera.  He still doesn't speak, which causes the nurse to twist the scalpel in his skin.  He hisses through his teeth.  “Say something!”  The Joker yells, clearly getting impatient.

“Something.”  Bruce grunts.

That brings a small, sad smile to Carrie's lips.  He's okay.

The Joker steps around the gurney, pushing it roughly aside so it spins, and crashes into the wall.  He looks back up at the camera and grins, “You have two hours.”