A breed apart



Riddler was shocked in both amaze and horror when the entire conversation between Mrs. Laneford and him was starting to appear – or more exactly, being drawn – all over the transparent walls. “A trick…this gotta be a trick”, he murmured to calm himself. “What is it, Mr Riddler?” asked Eileen in an innocent tone; “Looks like you’ve seen a monster.”  

The man in the green suit laughed at the apparent sarcasm of his prisoner: “And I thought I saw everything there is in this sick and sad world…and suddenly, a so called fabulous invention with a tricky inventor land in my little corner. Bravo, Mrs Laneford!” he mockingly clapped, “You could be a marvellous actress! First faking that you didn’t know anything about your husband’s ink, and now, now you give me this exhibition to intimidate me.  It’s a pity however, that it’ll be the last you’ll ever do, when I make a deal with your spouse and he’ll properly lock you at some nuthouse until you die”.

-  I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Riddler - calmly replied Eileen as she sat on a chair nearby – I don’t have any ink here with me. Your men took my samples away, and I can’t use them at whichever distance they are from here, unless of course, they’re magical, but none of us believe in magic, are we? -

Riddler gave Eileen a sombre smirk before continuing:

-. If it wasn’t work from the Ink, then how were you able to write in the walls? - He asked while making a circular movement with his staff.

-. I told you, Mr Riddler: It’s a skill I possess. – Eileen answered while examining her fingernails – .One that comes from a long time ago, but I won’t bore you with details. -

- You’re damn right about that, woman –.Riddler shouted while raising his voice tone in fury. – you’re going to stop this cheap show and you’re going to erase the stupid idea of me letting you stay here, BECAUSE I WILL NOT ALLOW SOME TWISTED WHORE TO PLAY WITH ME!

“You’re talking nonsense Mr Riddler, please let’s talk like adults”, a worried Eileen said while raising of her chair, but at that moment the Riddler had already left the room and was walking to the cell’s exit.


He was about to reach the final threshold when the words on the walls shifted to a solid door and blocked his way. Frozen by the surprise, the Riddler’s mind started to put back together the pieces of Eileen’s jigsaw: The newspaper of her kidnapping, pictures of her as a little girl surrounded by clouds in the ceilings, an article called “Thoughtography or when the psyche paints the world” with her picture, everything formed the entire answer he was previously looking for and abandoned: The woman did have the power – or “skill” as she called it – of drawing with her mind.

The man’s thoughts were interrupted with the sound of a female voice saying “…let’s talk”, yet not his feelings of the whole mess being a cruel joke from fate. Biting the scab of his bottom lip and feeling the metallic taste of blood in his tongue, he heard himself calling Mrs Laneford a monster, a succubus and a witch; and asking her for a reason for him to not kill her then and there.  

Eileen returned to her cool headed stance and reminded her captor that once her corpse would appear, not only his head would be wanted as a trophy by the PD, but also once they captured him, they’d put him to sleep like a stray dog. Defeated by that last reply, Riddler was rebelling intimately against that sick game of Fortune when a final idea came at his head; he turned his eyesight to Eileen in a manner that made her bones to tremble once again, and told her the words she was expecting to hear:

“You win, Mrs Laneford”, at which she asked him to cut the formalities and to merely address her with her name. “As you wish so…Eileen. Here’s a little task for you: Use your ability to distract the PD and anyone else that’s after me while I plan what to do next; keep them busy in whatever way you want, just make sure to take them off the map… and I might let you stay around for a while”

- And if I fail? - She questioned with some lingering doubt about what she was doing, and staring at her interlocutor’s bloodied mouth.

- If you do so – replied the Riddler with an expression of pity – then I’ll be playing “lost and found” with your body parts around the city. Don’t deceive me.

After those lasts words, the master of puzzles left the cell and disappeared in the dark, surprised of his own virulence and rubbing his wounded lip.

Meanwhile, Eileen returned to the chair, feeling relieved and scared at the same time. She had free herself from Joachim and from giving him a final chance to “lock her up ‘til she went mad and die at some nuthouse”, a fear she was incubating during those last months; but she also put the sword of Damocles upon her head by accepting a task in which she had no idea from where to start.  

- Is he angry? – asked a voice familiar to her, interrupting her thoughts.

- I don’t think so; he may just be frightened – answered Eileen to the voice who seemed to came from her head. – I must admit I feel the same way.

- Why is that? - said the voice.

- Because I don’t even know how to lead this entire mess I put myself in.

- Went to his place last night, remember? – Replied the voice – and found clues. We can use those for what he wants.

- Of course, of course. But how would we work outside from here?

- There is the ink spot, the one that fell at the clown girl’s clothing. We can begin from there. - said the voice in a cheerful manner. – From that point, we can make him happy…we can make him trust us, and we can feel happy.

At that moment, the symbols and images over the walls melted into a pool and transformed into a doppelganger of Eileen, who returned a smile to her “double” as she changed her own appearance: Her hair flowing wild, her skin covered in multicoloured shifting lines and her eyes glowing like those of a serpent.

-  Yes…happy – she finally replied.



********************?**********************

The open wound and the blood running made Riddler to evoke Cleo and the desire of her agile hands full of cheap rings being the ones healing his aching lip, instead of his own saturnine hands of cold fingers.

The small scars on his left hand’s back reminded him of the ridiculous yet painful accident he had at Arkham, when he broke a window and some glass shards fell over his hand and wrist; the pain at that moment only left two clear memories in his mind: the sound of his own screams and the negative space left on the broken window. Everything else – the rush to the infirmary, the X – rays, the painkillers - became blurry. The doctors made a great job curing the hideous cuts, changing his bandages and leaving only little scars upon once there were big wounds, but none of their work seemed as perfect and as nurturing as the one beautiful, hidden Cleo did on his face – and temporarily, on his soul.

“Ah, Cleo, painted angel! How much would your presence help me right now! “, dared to think Riddler in a small moment of delirium, for in delirium was how he met her and in delirium his psyche made a saint of the harlot; otherwise, he would’ve remembered her more like an ungraceful woman with an irritating voice tone and an unbearable smoky odour.

Twenty three minutes later, he managed to stop the bleeding and to put on a bandage that wouldn’t cause him a speech impediment, though the white square on his black painted lips seemed rare and a bit foolish.

“Sir, Mister Dent is here”, a voice called from the door. The appointment with Dent! How could he forget it? “Alright, tell him I’m on my way”, he replied in a clearer manner than he expected.

                    

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In a shady room with old fashioned furniture and dim lighted lamps, there was the man Riddler was expecting. Although he couldn’t see him in the darkness, he recognized the sound of his coin being flipped over and over. He briefly stood beside the light switch when the hoarse, lisped voice of Dent greeted him with a “Hello Ed”. Always the informal guy, Dent preferred to address people – i.e. his friends and intimates – by their names instead of their aliases; in return he preferred to be addressed by his other name – Two Face – whenever he was in presence of scum – i.e. his enemies and other persons he detested.

“Hello there, Harv”, replied Riddler as he turned on the light. The man in front of him was a sight to remember: One side of his face was clean and perfectly sculpted with brown hair and cobalt eyes; the other side however, was horribly burned and mauled with missing chunks of flesh around the ear and the mouth. He wore a dark grey suit from some expensive fashion designer that was slightly covered with soot and was flipping an old coin with one side scratched.

- Now don’t stay there, come sit by me – said Dent to a distracted Riddler – and we already talked about what happens when you stare at my face.

- Sorry Harv, I still can’t control it – said the Riddler while he sat on a couch, facing his guest.

Without answering, Dent flipped the coin again and the scratched side landed over his also damaged hand: “Sooo how’s everyone at the Big House?”

- Oh well, where do I start?: Joker’s crazier every freaking day, but that ain’t newsflash; Strange got replaced by a dandy queer called Jasper Beardsley, specialist in “innovation therapies” and paraphilias; Ozzy started to drink like a fish and to smoke like a chimney; Arnold doesn’t stop talking about death – I think he’s becoming suicidal…and the rest, same old.-, answered Riddler.

- Heard on the news that you tried to blow some fat cat named Gorman and also tried to kill a dame you knew. Can’t remember her name right now…Jennifer, June ---

- Julie, Julie Fincher. My former co-worker - finished Riddler with a knot in his throat.

- What did that jezebel do to you, my friend? You’re not the homicidal kind.

- Let’s say that, a few years ago, she stabbed me in the back but denial was too strong, and by the time I came to realize the truth, my heart was broken as well.

- If it makes you happy, the city’s college put a millionaire fine over her head when they found out about a sabotage affair involving you. Shortly after that, she left the city disgraced and penniless.

“And she put a restriction order against me, just to be sure. I readied that new too, Harvey, but thanks for cheering me up”, mused Riddler while making an effort to not cry. That story concluded with the so-desired revenge he searched for since the beginning, though it left him emptier than before.

- I suppose you’d go after her again, sending an assassin or something, are you?

- No Harvey, in the end we all received what we deserved. All are punish’d. – finished Riddler with an unknown ache coming from his entrails.

- I’m glad to hear that from you, Eddy. But I won’t bother you with sordid memories anymore. By the way, how’s my favourite flying rodent?

- He must be somewhere playing to world saviour with his new play pals: William Tell, the Green man from Mars, What’s his name in the red suit, the guy with the fancy ring and Super Wuss.

Dent laughed before flipping his coin again, this time landing on the clean side. “Well, now let’s talk about business. Who was that lady you were talking about at the phone?”

- I’m sure you’ve heard of her before – said Riddler while he showed Harvey some photos – Eileen Laneford, maiden name: Murdoch. Born around the early 70’s, when being a spy was cool and the drugs were candies for grownups. Kidnapped at five years old by a lunatic called Graham McQueen, think that guy will ring your bell as well.

- McQueen, huh? Wasn’t he the “Priest of the Zenith”? Some weirdo who claimed that there was going to be a new order on mankind and a formerly outcast group would become the new - -

- …rulers of the world? Yep, that same guy. Also he was the responsible of the apparent murder of twenty five persons and the kidnapping of thirty one, including the woman in front of you.

- You mean the toddler – replied Dent while looking at a picture showing a child Eileen with a cloud of hair surrounding her head, wrapped in a plaid coat and waving to the camera.

- The man’s motivations were never clear, and the sole survivor of his murder/vanishing frenzy wasn’t able to give a testimony strong enough to catch him. A few months after Murdoch’s rescue, the clues her kidnapper used to leave to the authorities stopped appearing and the case was unable to be continued. Until date, the whereabouts of McQueen and those of the other victims are unknown.

- And what’s their connection to Eileen Murdoch?

- Y’see, my friend: Our prophet searched for people with “special abilities”, the kind that was capable of things only believable on comics and science fiction movies, and Eileen wasn’t the exception. I can’t say what exactly McQueen did to her, but it’s clear it affected her during the rest of her childhood.

- I can see that – continued Dent as he compared two pictures of the girl, one appearing smiling and cheerful; and the other with a frightened, brooding expression while sucking her thumb.

- Although she never spoke of her experience, Eileen’s parents tried everything in their reach to help their daughter: therapists, medication, hospitals, even exorcism; nothing seemed to work…until they were approached by employees of some organization called “The Submit” , very famous for their studies about parapsychology.

- Weren’t they the ones who made those articles about reincarnation, telepathy, other dimensions and stuff like that? I think I know a couple of persons working there…

- They told the Murdoch marriage that their child belonged to “a breed apart” and as such, she required specific treatment for her trauma. Whatever panacea they treated Eileen with was never revealed, but in short time she became the joyous and strong willed girl her family birthed and raised.  

The later years are a bit blurry, but it seems our gal wanted to be a spy and have adventures; however she needed to pass through the army to achieve her dream…and her vision of the world wasn’t the same as their teachers, so you may imagine the consequences…


- Brilliant where tactics and theory concern, but a terrible fighter, incapable of following orders and bearing pressure from their superiors. Aggressive reactions when grounded or teased… - readied Dent out loud a paper handed by Riddler to him – Drugged an officer and locked him up inside a closet, blunted another one with a jar after he made commentaries about her development on field. Boy, she was quite unruly! , nothing like the mousy broad I met on the Corelli trial…

- Now we’re going to that part, Harvey:  After dropping out military for good, our dame went from college to college, ‘til she finally graduated with honours in linguistics and received a scholarship to study in the USA. It was in the evergreen state that she met her charming husband-to be. The rest of the story is known to you.

- Of course! And the saddest part of the whole mess is that, it started with an act of good will, and it ended with a man making thick sight at his wife’s disgrace: She saved Marciano “Mad Marc” Corelli from a passing car and from that moment forward, they became friends. Eventually she gained the sympathy from the rest of the family, in a very innocent way. However, their friendship was put on test when Eileen was called to testify on a case involving both Marciano and his rowdy son, Lucius. To not bugger you with too many details, she was forced to step aside her loyalty to Corelli and demonstrate the responsibility of both men, but the evidence found was tainted by an unknown source and, as if it wasn’t enough to send her friend to prison, a jackass of the local PD made public their relationship. It doesn’t take a genius to understand the results of that mess.

- Seen as a possible ally to one of the most dangerous families in O.C., disgraced by her co-workers, fell into depression and alcoholism. Had to go sober after a quasi-accident involving her falling asleep on the side of the freeway and a failed highjack. And Mr. Eileen did nothing.  

- And now, she’s in your dungeons. What you’re gonna do with her, Ed?

- At first, I wanted you to help me in returning her to her husband but then she made an exhibition of her talents beyond cryptography and playing the tragic figure in her life’s play.

- You mean, she…?

- Yes, and it’s far worse than the rumours say.

- But  if she has that, then Laneford also - -

- I can’t say. His background is murky: All that I could know is that he went from the bottom to the top of the food chain around his early teens, and the bastard raised hell ever since with whoever pissed him off.

- So either if you return the wife or not, you’re a dead man.

- A dead man, indeed. But if I fall to the so-called justice of this dump of a city because of a dysfunctional marriage with a power struggle, I won’t do it without a fight, and here’s where you enter at last, my dear friend.

- I’m listening, Eddie – replied Harvey Dent with a wide smile. His lips stretched like two pieces of silk sewn with a pair of pieces of burned leather.


                           ********************?********************

Of all cases involving the Riddler Gotham PD had investigated to date, the one involving the M.I. invention resulted to be the hardest not only to solve, but even to work in, essentially due to the unusual lack of evidence, and the many other crimes happening around the city that distracted the Police Department’s attention from the main case.

The next four days following Mrs. Laneford’s abduction, no sign of the kidnapper appeared, no clue was sent, and not a single notion of the victim’s status was established. Everybody - from the cops who feared the end of their career because of a madman and some rich broad vanished, to the rest of the criminal population who feared the end of their empires because of a possible rival evolving to a demigod – like level squashing them like bugs – was awaiting the wave of chaos after that uncomfortable silence.

And suddenly, a sign of sorts came to the Department, and to the Batman: The former psychiatrist and Arkham’s escapee, Ms. Harleen Quinzel – known in the criminal underworld and Arkham staff as Harley Quinn – was found in Bermejo Avenue (the entrance of Gotham’s industrial zone) , almost catatonic and surrounded by a shadow – like matter.  

Exactly two days before her discovery by the Batman, and later by the authorities, Quinn was leaving from her “night appointment” with the Riddler towards her friend’s place: An abandoned warehouse the young woman shared with an acquaintance of her – Miss Pam Isley a.k.a Poison Ivy- as both a private hideout and a “girl only” shelter.

Still upset by the rude behaviour of her “host”, she walked the dark and deserted streets cursing him and mocking out loud his ridiculous plan of using “some goo-ish toy “ for dominating the city, or whatever would be passing through his mind. Harley was so concentrated on her rant that she didn’t realize of the invisible man following her, nor the dark spot that crawled from its place on her sleeve to the skin like a sentient tattoo.

During the next hours until dawn, Harley wasn’t aware of her uninvited guest sleeping in a corner of her room, and waiting for an order to smother her with a pillow or just to scare her and leave. Smithers didn’t need to stay awake to feel any change on the jester girl’s condition, for his keen sense of smell would advice him of the perfect time to act. As for the ink, it kept crawling and extending over Harley’s clothes and skin as an insect, yet she only scratched those zones where it passed: “Darn bedbugs, at least in Arkham they gave us clean beds. Gosh! I ought to tell Pam to fumigate here from time on time, a bit of insecticide wouldn’t harm her plants.” she thought while trying in vain to relief the sensation of being bitten, or more correctly of being licked.

As the sun finally rose, Miss Quinn was lying in her bed exhausted from the lack of sleep. It didn’t take her more than two minutes to realize that something wasn’t alright, starting with the odd drawings all over the bedroom to the dark shroud –like thing covering her from the waist down. Unable to struggle or even to scream, Harley felt like being swallowed by a giant monster as the “shroud” blocked the light around her. Still fighting with the unknown force, Quinn saw a pair of eyes in the darkness with the same expression of a mother waiting for her child to stop a tantrum; and such eyes frightened her. Before she could react, something like a pair of hands grabbed her and she heard two voices: A feminine one telling her to “forget to tell about last night “and a masculine one from afar. The rest was too blurry for her to remember.

As for her encounter with Riddler, something kept Harley of talking about it, even remembering it. However, the Batman was able to take a clue from her, before her silent became unbreakable: “64, enter the red”

                   

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While Batman was making his own investigation of the Laneford marriage and The Submit, a little problem appeared when deciphering the Riddler’s whereabouts: While the hint given by Quinn (the 64 shop at the red district) was easy to guess, the difficulty resided in how he could get inside there without risking his clean citizen image nor revealing his crime fighter face.

The controversy about the city’s “neutral zones”, such as the red district, began in 1976, with the McPhiebbes scandal and the beginning of Gotham PD’s age of shame: The department’s by then Chief Roger McPhiebbes was found at the Velvet Cavern - one of Gotham’s most infamous spots - with four prostitutes, about $ 4.400 in cash, and two bags of what seemed to be cocaine. As the case was being resolved – the media dared to say “muddled”- , the investigations led to many other public figures being regulars of the swingers’ club zone (by then the underground district), causing the majority to push the system and create a special law that would leave the cradle of their naughty antics free of the cop’s nag. Eventually, one last place (downtown) would be added to the “McPhiebbes’ law” and the city’s crime would feast on its newfound freedom, while the habitants suffered the martyrdom of such hells.

However, the 90’s brought a new hope upon the now slum – like districts when Health Department created an AIDS – prevention program, which eventually developed into an entire recovery plan for the city’s most needed zones. Such initiative not only helped to keep the bad stuff – drugs, gangs and so on - out of the neutral zones, specially the prostitution quarter., but it also helped Gotham to avert (or at least to decrease) one of the greatest venereal epidemics during that decade, yet it didn’t resulted enough where crime involving rape, murder, and hidden wrong-doers concerned.

Present days resulted slightly brighter when the “McPhiebbes’ law” was modified once again, this time adding a clause that said that “Every criminal, outlaw, escapee, vandal or wrong – doer who seeks shelter at any of the city’s neutral zones shall not be chased, arrested and/or prosecuted unless s/he commits any form of theft, murder, sexual offense, vandalism and any other form of crime registered …”   Although it cooled the quarrels between the PD and the Neutral Districts, the change resulted to be a switchblade weapon, for a criminal could be smart enough to lay low and stay snug as bug on a rug while the cops wouldn’t be welcome at no time (Gotham’s prostitutes were known for being quite rogue whenever the law tried to intervene on their businesses). Nevertheless, there was a little “emergency case” clause on the hooker’s tacit laws: A cop or vigilante would be able to chase, judge and/or bring down a criminal if s/he was invited to enter – or the “Dracula pass”.

At first, neither Wayne nor Batman had any notion of how to earn such little privilege, until a reckless idea appeared on scene: It’d take a man who knew Riddler so well, that he would allow this “friend” to sneak on his hideout, even he was unaware of all it.

However, the mere thought of using a fake ID to enter some kinky shop, where there could not be a real clue of the criminal’s whereabouts felt more like a foreplay game from a BDSM story, rather than a serious crime investigation; but there weren’t much more choices to continue and it’d take weeks or months before such a fresh clue would appear, so…it had to be done.

And at the moment that little plot made its entrance, was when M.M. would do the job for both Wayne and Batman.

That Sunday morning, Candy Land (the Prostitutes’ Quarter) would welcome one of the calmest days from that month; usually, Sundays were slow days where customers concerned: The regular clientele would be at home with their families, or at church, or sleeping the hung-over; while almost all the clubs and stores would be closed. Almost all of them, safe for one particular place in front of the only café at the brick-walled and perpetual musk scented street.

As two fellow prostitutes were reading the newspaper and a transsexual was drinking her morning coffee at the café, a peculiar man stopped in front of the “64”.  A freckled prostitute raised her eyes from the gossip page as she gave a detailed look to the stranger: Tall and muscular – nothing like the out of shape men she used to attend – sporting a flat cap, a trench coat and sunglasses, the outsider stood briefly at the 64’s showcase like waiting for an order and two minutes later, the young woman saw him disappearing through the door.  

“Possibly he’s one of those creeps coming to buy Mr Bishop’s weird stuff”, the woman whispered to her shaved headed friend, at which the latter giggled and replied that “such a hot guy wouldn’t go and buy that crap, even if Bishop begged him for it”.

                     *************************?***************************

The shop’s environment could be resumed in the next elements: a velvety red covering the ceiling and the walls, neon lights here and there announcing the already explicit merchandise, a heavy incense smell absorbing the air, and a 90’s pop song on the background; an atmosphere bearable for connoisseurs of erotic spots, but for someone like the newcomer it resulted nauseous. He was about to forget his entire plan and leave that kitschy place, when from nowhere appeared who seemed to be the store’s owner. The man, probably a Jamaican, wore a dark pink shirt with hibiscus prints and beige pants, his hair was shaved save for a pair of dreads tied in a curious ponytail and his smile revealed a pair of teeth decorated in expensive jewellery: such appearance would suit more to a bad comedian than a pornography salesman; but his small, reptilian eyes made the entire combination to fit on his supposed role.

“Good morning mister and welcome to the 64. Here, you shall find the best and newest merchandise of erotica: artefacts, literature, lingerie and filming. Our products are 100 % legal and safe with the sole purpose of granting our clients the ultimate satisfaction. The name is Rowan Bishop, and I’m the owner. What can I do for you?” said the obsequious individual, finishing his introduction with a small reverence.

- Hello, Mr Bishop. I’ve been told that you sell the rarest of objects in Gotham and casually I’m looking for something nowhere else would I find. - , said the man in the trenchcoat, somewhat bothered at the servile attitude of the salesman.

- Oh yes! Aside of erotic products, the store prides itself in selling odd articles pointed to collectors: Limited editions books, vintage fashion articles, whatever you wish for, here you might find it and purchase it! - Bishop replied with a serpentine voice.

- As a matter of fact, I’d like a certain object for a certain person. – continued Bishop’s possible costumer, already heating the dealer.

- I see then…what would it be: a “lost edition” novel or perhaps a Victorian necklace for a beautiful lady? – asked Bishop rubbing his hands.

- A key - replied the stranger.

Bishop’s smile erased from his face and was replaced with an expression of shock, feeling that either that gentleman had to be an oddball searching for very strange objects, or a rookie cop playing vigilante by asking for one of the codes to enter the red district. However, to clear any doubt he repeated the sentence at which his client confirmed. Realizing by his voice tone that he wanted a pass, Bishop revived his smile, this time with indulgence:

-  I gotta say mister: Certainly you’re new at town. My eyes are the best at these streets and once I see a face, I never forget it. And by the looks of you, I think that you didn’t come for the sequel of “Asian cowgirls: gone raunchy”, am I right?

- Indeed, Mr. Bishop: I was paying a visit to this friend of mine, but I’ve heard he had to go into hiding. Also, I was told he’s a regular of yours, the kind who seeks peculiar products; you’ve may recognize him by this. - answered the stranger as he showed a tiny card with a question mark.

Bishop sighed in resignation at the knowledge of being a part in another wild goose chase; yet, to clear himself of any possible charge involving the Riddler he inquired if the so-called pal was or was not some nosy cop. The outsider merely opened his coat and said: “Y’see a badge?” Tranquilized at this, Bishop took the card and made a gesture for the man to follow him.

- He’s not much of a regular, but he comes by whenever his businesses grant him some free time. His usual shopping consists of a pair of puzzles, one or two rare books and a collar. – Bishop chatted while he and the man passed behind a purple curtain and went down a stair. – The first time he asked me for them (the puzzles, I mean) I was about to tell him that he could find one of those at Chinatown, but he complied of their simplicity and low quality, claiming that even a child could solve them.

- Oh well, he’s been always interested in the matters of the mind, and for a man like my friend, the hardest challenge is the one he hasn’t been through yet; though it surprises me that he had a taste for… what did you say at the last, sir?

- Collars, yes. Mr. E [Riddler preferred to use aliases at the time of making businesses with anybody] seems to obtain pleasure by seeing the neck of a beautiful woman ornamented, judging the types of collars he buys.

- He never told me that. Last time I talked to him he was passing through – how can I say it? – Sentimental problems, but anything like paraphilias.

- Well, I can tell you Sir, that your friend is not alone where secret pleasures concern. He is the member of a place where all lovers of veiled desire might share and nurture each other in a manner usual people wouldn’t understand. Don’t worry, it’s not one of those clubs where people wear leather and flagellate themselves with whips and introduce bizarre objects inside their cavities. This site is more…refined.

- Excuse me if I sound somewhat…prudish, but what could there be of refined in a fetish club?

By listening to those words, evidently laced with unconformity, Bishop resurrected his sharp smile before answering the question: “Why don’t you ask him yourself, Sir?”, then giving the stranger a tiny black card with a golden logo. “The place where you may find your friend is called ‘The Mangler Queen’. There, people not only indulge on their secret pleasures but also enjoy several spectacles during the evening, so it’s possible Mr. E would be there sipping a drink while watching a memorable show. “

- It’s hard for me to imagine him like that, but I guess all my doubts shall be dissipated once I join my dear friend at the Queen’s lair, but how do I - -

- As for the address, the card will guide you, all by itself. There are no details to worry about. – replied Bishop while escorting his visitor out of the room and to the shop’s door.  

The man was about to cross the threshold, when Bishop asked his name:”Malone”, was the answer, “Matches Malone”.

                   *****************************?*******************************

The rest of the week resulted tedious to Riddler, his only worries being the whereabouts of Smithers and if Harley Quinn hadn’t spill out any information about their encounter.

As for Eileen, he didn’t check her since their conversation, trusting that she’d give up trying to divert the city without leaving her cell and tried to kill herself instead, or any stupid thing. The idea of her using the ink to stun the jester girl was quickly dismissed, feeling that the M.I. resulted anything but useful and the prisoner lacked the sang froid and the power to scare the bejesus out of the usually brave Harley. After seeing the news of Quinn’s capture, however, Riddler started to wonder whether he not only awoke a monster by giving such order to Eileen, but also if at some point he would lost the control over her.

Other than that, there weren’t any concerns: the Batman hadn’t shown his face the last days, and PD concentrated on the Industrial Zone, so during that time he worked on businesses left uncompleted during his imprisonment: Updating the machinery and weaponry system; cleaning his desk of old, failed ideas and replacing them with new, ingenious ones; and refilling the cupboard.

As Riddler pondered which food should he kept and which one should he threw after almost four months of languishing at the fridge, another being already made the decision of disposing from both, in the kitchen. Obeying to the order of getting rid of every edible thing while his master was absent, Smithers was sitting at the table quietly as he ate what seemed to be rests of crème brûlée without removing entirely his mask.

The hound didn’t even turn his head or opened his mouth to greet his boss when he smelled him at the door of the kitchen. “How did you manage to escape?” the Riddler said after staring at Smithers during some seconds, “She wasn’t coming for me, Sir, but for the clown girl. And then…she just…vanished”, answered Smithers before returning the spoon to his mouth.

- She? – continued Riddler rising one brow, at which the spy nodded.

- The woman in the cell; somehow she entered through the stain on Quinn and attacked her, but I felt her aroma only at the beginning of morning, as if the ink was merely a door for the prisoner.

- So she’s been doing her homework after all; let’s hope that this doesn’t slip off our hands, Smithers.

- Would she require a date with the white hole, Sir? To keep her in control.

- That won’t be necessary; there’s still a trick or two to keep Eileen Laneford quite controlled. I, on the other hand, have a date with a muse. – concluded the master of the hound as he retired to his quarters.

Several miles away from there, graffiti appeared at the very same warehouse where Eileen tasted power for the first time in years. The words drawing themselves from nothing were:

“I am he, as you are she, as you are me and we are all together. I am the brain, you are the stain, I am the Inkwitch”.