[Fic] Funny Business (4/7)
Title: Funny Business, Part 4 (of 7)
Series: TDS, TCR, Batman
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, clowns. Includes some comic book logic.
Summary: They say dying is easy and comedy is hard, and for writerless Jon and Stephen, it's never been more true-- until they're paid a visit by Gotham City's most notorious comedian.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
(Jump to Part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7)
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We interrupt your regularly scheduled reruns of befuddled doctors and nurses to bring you something far more entertaining: me!" Joker adjusted his bowtie and ran a gloved hand through his hair. "Your eyes do not deceive you, folks. That was a line delivered not by your beloved 'well-intentioned high status idiot'-- or his character-- but by your favorite homicidal harborer of humor!"
The mimes not working the cameras turned their guns on the audience, and the terrified men and women quickly broke into applause. Harley hooted and hollered, waving her gun in the air, her other hand gripping the back of Stephen's jacket. His hands had been untied and he nervously clapped as well.
"Too kind," Joker said with a smirk. "We have a very special episode for you tonight. Stevie here was going to struggle through some improvised news commentary for ages before talking to some opportunistic dingbat about my poor addled mind!" Joker frowned deeply, eyes softening for a moment, looking purposely pathetic. Then his grin broke out. "But instead of boring you to death, now you get to watch the man really sweat! Steve, get on over here!"
Old fifties game show music blared over the speakers. Harley shoved Stephen forward and he nearly fell flat on his face. He gingerly made his way to the chair beside his desk and she followed, gun ever at the ready. He avoided the Joker's gaze until he sat down and the music cut off, but when he looked up the clown was gazing around the set.
"I like the overall concept, but something's not really working for me..." Joker smiled sweetly at the woman with a gun to Stephen's head. "Harley, surely you can make some improvements?"
Harley saluted him. "I'm on it, Mistah J!"
Stephen blinked in surprise when she slipped the gun into the holster on her hip, hopped onto his desk, and flipped up into the rigging overhead with ease. His attention was brought back down when the Joker coughed pointedly, and Stephen suddenly found their eyes locked.
"Just so the feds watching at home get the situation," the clown said, never breaking his gaze and clearly enjoying how Stephen dare not look away, "if there's any hint of someone trying to ruin our fun, there'll be no problem ruining one of these innocent folk's face. It'd be a shame too. You've got such a nice smile, Steve." The red, malicious smirk deepened, and Joker's fingers brushed the petals of the flower pinned to his lapel.
All at once, Stephen thought of all those articles, all those news broadcasts, all those pictures of acid-scarred faces and frozen, lifeless, garish smiles and so, so much worse. Lord, protect me...
Abruptly, Joker's grin lost its viciousness, and when he spoke his voice was unnervingly conversational. "So! What's it like being back on the air without your writers?"
Stephen swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably. "It's, ah... not going quite the way I expected."
"Really?" the Joker said, seeming quite interested. "How's that?"
Stephen paused. He wanted to think carefully about everything he said. "Well... I wasn't expecting you to... make an appearance." Clanging noises came from overhead. He didn't look up.
The clown smiled dangerously. "Well, isn't this much better than interviewing that hack, Donovan? About how he knows me inside and out? Now's your opportunity to get down to the nitty gritty with the actual subject."
"... I didn't know you were available."
Something silver fell from the ceiling and clanked into the floor, bouncing once, leaving a dent. It was the T at the end of his name, from the letters suspended over the desk by two curved metal strips. Stephen finally looked up and saw Harley standing on the top strip, her hands gripping the rigging overhead. She kicked at the L in his name next.
"I don't... I don't think that's safe," he said.
"Always a gentleman?" Joker said.
Stephen's eyes kept flickering upwards. He wasn't keen on the idea of being crushed to death by his own set. "It's not meant to hold a lot of weight," he said.
Harley froze mid-kick and squawked, enraged, over Joker's giggles. The L smashed into the ground at Stephen's feet, and the acrobatic harlequin followed after, looming over him. "Whaddaya mean 'a lot of weight?!'" she snapped.
"Nothing!" Stephen squeaked, leaning backwards and shielding his face.
"Ain't you supposed to be one of them nice Southern boys?" She planted a hand on her hip, but it was far too close to her gun holster for Stephen's liking.
"Now, now, Harley," Joker said smoothly, then added with an edge, "you're interrupting."
She responded immediately with a bashful glance at the cameras. "Sorry, Puddin'!" Shooting Stephen a haughty glare, she flipped back up to the rigging.
"She's a pistol, ain't she?" the clown said. "So the strike is rough already, hm? I would have thought with your stellar reputation in the comic community, it would be a piece of cake."
Stephen was glad Harley's outburst had at least directed the conversation away from Donovan, but he wasn't sure the new topic was much better. "Coming up with fresh material every day isn't really a one-man job."
"I suppose if you're not capable."
"It's harder than it looks."
"So it's easy."
"My writers work very hard."
"Well, not to get frostbite in this weather, sure." Joker put on a look of concern. "How cold is it out there?"
"I didn't get a chance to check the weather."
"I'm not talking about science." The clown grabbed Stephen's wrist and waved his hand around. "You seem to still have all your fingers-- can't be that bad."
Stephen wanted very badly to jerk his hand back, but resisted the impulse. "I don't know. I haven't been out there."
"Really?" And the shark grin that spread over Joker's face showed he'd been fishing for that answer all the long. "How come?"
Stephen gritted his teeth. "Let go of my hand, please."
Joker did so. "Oh, I apologize! I thought perhaps you'd be too tired to move it yourself, holding a sign all day. But I guess you've had a fine time of it during this whole thing. My mistake."
The clown was just baiting him. Stephen knew it. But he couldn't help responding. "Jon and I have been working to make sure our production staffs still get a pay--"
"A great show of support to your scribes, I'm sure."
"You're simplifying it."
Joker clutched his chest as if wounded. "Oh, my! To suggest I don't enjoy the subtle nuances of controversy! I happen to think the dynamics of this strike are invigorating," Joker said. "I mean, after tonight is over, I'm sure the Writers Guild and the studios will find some way of blaming each other for it."
"I don't think so."
"Ooh, an optimist."
Harley hopped down then, landing on the far side of the desk. "Ta da!" she chimed proudly, one hand resting on her hip and the other gesturing toward the ceiling.
Stephen looked up. The C in his name had been pulled off the mount and then reattached with rope, only backwards and lopsided. The B had been mangled, pulled open at the top and bottom to make a K. Without the L and T, the words above read: The Joker Report.
"A real improvement, Harl!" Joker commended. "I wish we could do more, but the clock is ticking! Time for the second act. Why don't you go get the big red button?"
In Stephen's head, "big red button" immediately conjured the image of a bomb going off. He couldn't have been the only one. He heard people in the audience crying.
Harley was gone for a few moments, during which the Joker cheerfully whistled an excerpt of "Yankee Doodle." When she reentered she carried the big gray box with the red button for the Report's "Bears and Balls" segment. With poise and a smile, she presented the box to the audience as if it was the next big thing in an infomercial and elegantly placed it on the desk between Stephen and her boss. She retook her place behind Stephen's chair.
"I've got a little surprise for tonight's lucky studio audience, and you, my dear fellow, get to unveil it." Joker gestured to the box with an air of graciousness.
Stephen eyed the red button warily. "But it's just a box. It doesn't actually do anything. The noise comes from the control booth, from a recording."
Joker's eyes sparkled. "I've made some changes! Go ahead, give it a go!"
Stephen's chest felt very tight. The red button seemed larger than usual, almost pulsing.
"I said, give it a go," the Joker said lowly.
Stephen didn't challenge him. He hit the button. His heart stopped for the explosion, for the burst of deadly gas, for whatever horrific surprise it would release.
"A BRAND NEW CAR!" the Joker's voice chirped from the box.
Stephen blinked at it, then looked up at the Joker. The clown shook his head.
"Nope, nope, that's not it," Joker said. "Try again."
Stephen hesitated, but gave the button another whack.
"A TRIP TO MONTE CARLO!"
"I think once more should do it."
Another hit.
"A MASSIVE EXPLOSION!!" the Joker's voice said cheerfully.
"Explosion?!" Stephen repeated over the audience's strangled cries.
"That's right!" Joker said. "I've left a little present somewhere on the premises, set to go off at precisely eight thirty! And that's not even the fun part!" He turned his shark-like grin to the camera, fingers steepled. "Now Batman-- who's surely flapping about here by now-- can go looking for it and perhaps disable it in just the nick of time, or..." He humbly gestured to himself. "I will willingly abort the countdown if someone solves a little puzzle."
"A puzzle?" Stephen squeaked, still trying to process the fact that somewhere in the building, a bomb was counting down.
Joker nodded, still smiling at the audience at home. "As we speak, a package is being delivered to The Daily Show studio. I suggest our pal Jonny Stew opens it with haste for further instructions." He wagged his finger back and forth like a metronome. "Tick, tock, tick, tock..."
~ | ~
Jon wished very, very badly that Batman had never left.
The captain barked orders at his men. A delivery boy had been spotted approaching the building on foot. Officers were intercepting him. The captain argued with his lieutenant about what to do with the package, breaking off frequently to speak to the chief on his walkie-talkie.
"We need a bomb squad in here!" the captain said.
"Time is already running out!" the lieutenant argued.
Jon agreed with the lieutenant. He needed this puzzle. "I can do it," he said, heart pounding, eyes wide open. "I'll solve it, just give it to me."
"You're not getting anything until it's thoroughly inspected!" the captain snapped.
"There's no time!" Jon shouted, pointing at the clock on his wall. "We have less than an hour!"
"Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock..." Joker sang from the TV.
"It's a game to him," Jon pleaded. "A bomb would ruin it. He wants the drama. That's what makes it funny." The captain shot him a look. "For him!" Jon amended irritably. "Funny for him!"
An officer appeared at the door. "We have the delivery guy isolated outside, sir. Waiting on your orders."
"... far too late to see the cat in wait..." Joker continued to croon. Jon stared at Stephen, sitting stiffly at the clown's side.
The captain let out a quiet breath. "Keep the delivery boy in custody. Clear the package through the dogs and bring it up if it checks out."
"He's gonna know when we open it," the lieutenant muttered. "How's he gonna know?"
"... Hickory dickory dock..." Joker rocked his head from side-to-side. Stephen didn't take his eyes off him. Jon couldn't keep his eyes off the clock. A minute passed. Two. Three.
"Coming through!" boomed a voice. A bulky officer entered the room, carrying a package. He set it on Jon's desk.
The package was rectangular and sizeable. It wasn't huge, but big enough to fit a couple toaster ovens inside. It was wrapped in brown paper, and at the captain's nod the officer carefully unwrapped it, revealing a wood box, painted purple. Painted on one end in green paint was "OpeN ME!" in child's scrawl.
The men in the room exchanged glances. Jon suddenly wasn't so confident about doing this. But he had to. He breathed deeply and pulled up the latch at the top.
The panel fell open and the first thing Jon saw was a red light. Never before had he felt the blood leave his face so quickly. But nothing happened, and he realized the red light was from a camera sitting inside the box. A piece of paper was stuck to the other side of the front panel.
"Ah, there we are!" Joker chirped. Jon turned back to the TV, to see his own backside in a small box in the lower right corner of the screen. "We got a great view of the moon, it seems!" Joker said with a grin.
Redfaced, Jon sat in his chair and turned the box around so he could examine the paper. He glanced up at the TV; now it was his own worn face in the corner.
"I hear you enjoy crosswords, Jonny-boy," Joker said. "So although you're not supposed to be writing, this should be easy for you. Solve the puzzle by eight-thirty, and you don't need to spend the rest of your life wallowing in a what-if wonderland. But." He held up a finger in pause. "No cheating! Keep your eyes on your own work, and I don't want to hear any whispering to your neighbors or see you leave your desk! This is a single-player game."
Jon fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his inhaler. He shook it, though it was strangely difficult to do so since his hands were already shaking. He wrapped his lips around the nozzle, pushed the button, and breathed deeply, reminding himself to do so slowly. He held his breath and closed his eyes, even though the Joker's ticking finger was all he could see in his mind. He heard the clown make a crack about asthmatics and school bullies.
When Jon opened his eyes, he could breathe again. He grabbed a pencil from the holder on his desk and began.
~ | ~
Joker looked up at the control booth and made a slicing motion across this throat. Jon disappeared from the corner of the camera monitor. "I'll leave my stooges to keep an eye on him." He turned to Stephen. "How do you think he'll do?"
Stephen could not for the life of him think of an answer. He could only hope that Jon's years of crossword experience would not fail, and that the clown's puzzle was not impossibly difficult. It was hard to tell which joke would suit the criminal more-- a puzzle that was impossible to complete in the allotted time, or the cruel pleasure of watching Jon, all on his own, almost make it...
Joker made a big show of looking at his wrist, even though there wasn't a watch to be seen. "Look at the time! I think we oughta get to our guest for the night, don't you?"
Stephen had not thought of Kirk Donovan's whereabouts since the Q&A gone wrong, but in that instant he finally realized that Donovan had never been missing at all. "You grabbed him!" he exclaimed.
"You're not as quick-witted as your reputation," Joker muttered. "But you are correct, sir. Kirk didn't run from the picket line so much as he, ah, got a little tied up."
~ | ~
A man in a mime get-up stood outside the door, gun at the ready. In the room beyond, two other goons stood in front of a TV and held plastic guitars with multi-colored buttons. On the screen two strips of multi-colored bullets rolled towards them, the bullets making clanking noises as they passed the bottom of the screen. At the far end of the room sat a crowd of people, the show's staff. One young man, probably a college intern, gazed forlornly into the room across the hallway, and suddenly caught the eye of the figure lurking in the dark.
"Hey!" the young man exclaimed reflexively, then slapped his hands over his mouth. Batman gritted his teeth. The older, dark-haired woman sitting next to the young man seemed to feel the same way and elbowed him in the ribs.
"What's your problem?!" snapped the mime at the TV's left, turning around.
"I, uh, I..." The young man swallowed hard. "You should use the whammy bar, man!" he said, waving his hand toward the screen. The thug outside the door turned his head to peek into the room.
"You should shut up!" snarled the guitar-playing goon. "Or else Joker's smiley spray'll do it for you."
The man in the hallway hit the ground right after his head hit the wall.
"Knock off that noise out there, Charlie! I think I'm getting the hang of this!" said the goon on the right, staring intently at the screen until his head collided with his opponent's. They slumped to the floor.
None of the staff got up. They stared up at the Batman as he stood over them, his shadowed eyes flicking from person to person.
"Anyone hurt?" he asked.
"No," said the dark-haired woman. "We're all okay." She slowly got to her feet, prompting the others to do the same. "Wh-what about the studio? What's happening?"
"I'm making my way there," Batman replied. He spotted the security guards, in their khakis and blue jackets, two with what looked like broken noses. "Get these people out of here now. There's a bomb in the building. The way to the front door is clear. The police are out front. Hurry." And with that, he slipped out of the room.
"Wait!" The woman ran after him, but when she reached the doorway she found an empty hallway.
"Allison!" someone hissed. Allison turned around. It was Emily. "We gotta get out of here!" she said, voice cracking. The other staff members quickly filed past Allison and out the door, urged on by the security guards.
"But Stephen!" she protested.
"Please get moving, Allison," a guard said. "There's nothing we can do in the studio. We have to let the police handle it."
"Or caped crusaders," another guard muttered, hurrying Emily on her way.
Allison knew they were right, but it just felt wrong to leave. "But what about..."
The guard firmly grabbed her by the arm and led her out of the room. They were the last to leave. "I know it's hard, but you can't expect to go barging into the studio, right?" he said calmly as they followed the others.
"Right," Allison said quietly, feeling defeated, though she could not stop herself from looking back.
~ | ~
Getting into the studio took longer than Batman would have preferred, but he had learned when he first donned his cape and cowl that patience was an asset. With the criminals he dealt with, caution was of the utmost importance, and that was likely more true when dealing with the Joker than with anyone else. After so many years, it was still difficult to figure out what went on in the clown's head.
He'd decided-- after scouting the outside of the building for traps-- that slipping in through a window on the third floor and working his way down worked best. He wanted to clear the building of whatever help Joker had that wasn't in the studio, and the goons patrolling the halls were as easy to dispatch as any other minion who'd put himself in to the clown's employ. The last of them guarded a room of the show's crew, and with those hostages on their way out the door, it was time to head to the main threat zone.
He peeked into the backstage area, just behind the path leading to the stage. There were two mimes there too, but, as unreliable as ever, they were getting their kicks watching Joker interview Colbert. Behind them, off to the side on the floor near a stack of boxes, sat a large metal box with a handle on either side. Two red lights set into the side blinked over a grin-shaped vent. No doubt it waited to dispense the Joker's token gas, which sent its victims to their graves with uncontrollable laughter and an irreversible smile.
Through an audio feed of Comedy Central running in his cowl, he'd heard Joker announce the bomb in the building, not a gas trap. This development was unsettling, though not surprising; the Joker liked to keep a few cards hidden up his sleeve. Soundlessly, Batman slipped into the backstage area, watching the distracted mime men. They didn't even glance back. Batman crouched behind the boxes and grabbed one of the handles on the gas box. He tugged it experimentally. It was lighter than it looked, and he pulled it across the floor silently until it was behind the boxes with him. One more look at the goons proved they were still preoccupied, but he knew he had to work fast.
Removing some tools from his belt, he set to getting the casing open. Out in the studio, the Joker announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, for what could be the final interview of his literary career, please give a warm, happy welcome to Kirk Donovan!"
Series: TDS, TCR, Batman
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, clowns. Includes some comic book logic.
Summary: They say dying is easy and comedy is hard, and for writerless Jon and Stephen, it's never been more true-- until they're paid a visit by Gotham City's most notorious comedian.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
(Jump to Part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7)
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We interrupt your regularly scheduled reruns of befuddled doctors and nurses to bring you something far more entertaining: me!" Joker adjusted his bowtie and ran a gloved hand through his hair. "Your eyes do not deceive you, folks. That was a line delivered not by your beloved 'well-intentioned high status idiot'-- or his character-- but by your favorite homicidal harborer of humor!"
The mimes not working the cameras turned their guns on the audience, and the terrified men and women quickly broke into applause. Harley hooted and hollered, waving her gun in the air, her other hand gripping the back of Stephen's jacket. His hands had been untied and he nervously clapped as well.
"Too kind," Joker said with a smirk. "We have a very special episode for you tonight. Stevie here was going to struggle through some improvised news commentary for ages before talking to some opportunistic dingbat about my poor addled mind!" Joker frowned deeply, eyes softening for a moment, looking purposely pathetic. Then his grin broke out. "But instead of boring you to death, now you get to watch the man really sweat! Steve, get on over here!"
Old fifties game show music blared over the speakers. Harley shoved Stephen forward and he nearly fell flat on his face. He gingerly made his way to the chair beside his desk and she followed, gun ever at the ready. He avoided the Joker's gaze until he sat down and the music cut off, but when he looked up the clown was gazing around the set.
"I like the overall concept, but something's not really working for me..." Joker smiled sweetly at the woman with a gun to Stephen's head. "Harley, surely you can make some improvements?"
Harley saluted him. "I'm on it, Mistah J!"
Stephen blinked in surprise when she slipped the gun into the holster on her hip, hopped onto his desk, and flipped up into the rigging overhead with ease. His attention was brought back down when the Joker coughed pointedly, and Stephen suddenly found their eyes locked.
"Just so the feds watching at home get the situation," the clown said, never breaking his gaze and clearly enjoying how Stephen dare not look away, "if there's any hint of someone trying to ruin our fun, there'll be no problem ruining one of these innocent folk's face. It'd be a shame too. You've got such a nice smile, Steve." The red, malicious smirk deepened, and Joker's fingers brushed the petals of the flower pinned to his lapel.
All at once, Stephen thought of all those articles, all those news broadcasts, all those pictures of acid-scarred faces and frozen, lifeless, garish smiles and so, so much worse. Lord, protect me...
Abruptly, Joker's grin lost its viciousness, and when he spoke his voice was unnervingly conversational. "So! What's it like being back on the air without your writers?"
Stephen swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably. "It's, ah... not going quite the way I expected."
"Really?" the Joker said, seeming quite interested. "How's that?"
Stephen paused. He wanted to think carefully about everything he said. "Well... I wasn't expecting you to... make an appearance." Clanging noises came from overhead. He didn't look up.
The clown smiled dangerously. "Well, isn't this much better than interviewing that hack, Donovan? About how he knows me inside and out? Now's your opportunity to get down to the nitty gritty with the actual subject."
"... I didn't know you were available."
Something silver fell from the ceiling and clanked into the floor, bouncing once, leaving a dent. It was the T at the end of his name, from the letters suspended over the desk by two curved metal strips. Stephen finally looked up and saw Harley standing on the top strip, her hands gripping the rigging overhead. She kicked at the L in his name next.
"I don't... I don't think that's safe," he said.
"Always a gentleman?" Joker said.
Stephen's eyes kept flickering upwards. He wasn't keen on the idea of being crushed to death by his own set. "It's not meant to hold a lot of weight," he said.
Harley froze mid-kick and squawked, enraged, over Joker's giggles. The L smashed into the ground at Stephen's feet, and the acrobatic harlequin followed after, looming over him. "Whaddaya mean 'a lot of weight?!'" she snapped.
"Nothing!" Stephen squeaked, leaning backwards and shielding his face.
"Ain't you supposed to be one of them nice Southern boys?" She planted a hand on her hip, but it was far too close to her gun holster for Stephen's liking.
"Now, now, Harley," Joker said smoothly, then added with an edge, "you're interrupting."
She responded immediately with a bashful glance at the cameras. "Sorry, Puddin'!" Shooting Stephen a haughty glare, she flipped back up to the rigging.
"She's a pistol, ain't she?" the clown said. "So the strike is rough already, hm? I would have thought with your stellar reputation in the comic community, it would be a piece of cake."
Stephen was glad Harley's outburst had at least directed the conversation away from Donovan, but he wasn't sure the new topic was much better. "Coming up with fresh material every day isn't really a one-man job."
"I suppose if you're not capable."
"It's harder than it looks."
"So it's easy."
"My writers work very hard."
"Well, not to get frostbite in this weather, sure." Joker put on a look of concern. "How cold is it out there?"
"I didn't get a chance to check the weather."
"I'm not talking about science." The clown grabbed Stephen's wrist and waved his hand around. "You seem to still have all your fingers-- can't be that bad."
Stephen wanted very badly to jerk his hand back, but resisted the impulse. "I don't know. I haven't been out there."
"Really?" And the shark grin that spread over Joker's face showed he'd been fishing for that answer all the long. "How come?"
Stephen gritted his teeth. "Let go of my hand, please."
Joker did so. "Oh, I apologize! I thought perhaps you'd be too tired to move it yourself, holding a sign all day. But I guess you've had a fine time of it during this whole thing. My mistake."
The clown was just baiting him. Stephen knew it. But he couldn't help responding. "Jon and I have been working to make sure our production staffs still get a pay--"
"A great show of support to your scribes, I'm sure."
"You're simplifying it."
Joker clutched his chest as if wounded. "Oh, my! To suggest I don't enjoy the subtle nuances of controversy! I happen to think the dynamics of this strike are invigorating," Joker said. "I mean, after tonight is over, I'm sure the Writers Guild and the studios will find some way of blaming each other for it."
"I don't think so."
"Ooh, an optimist."
Harley hopped down then, landing on the far side of the desk. "Ta da!" she chimed proudly, one hand resting on her hip and the other gesturing toward the ceiling.
Stephen looked up. The C in his name had been pulled off the mount and then reattached with rope, only backwards and lopsided. The B had been mangled, pulled open at the top and bottom to make a K. Without the L and T, the words above read: The Joker Report.
"A real improvement, Harl!" Joker commended. "I wish we could do more, but the clock is ticking! Time for the second act. Why don't you go get the big red button?"
In Stephen's head, "big red button" immediately conjured the image of a bomb going off. He couldn't have been the only one. He heard people in the audience crying.
Harley was gone for a few moments, during which the Joker cheerfully whistled an excerpt of "Yankee Doodle." When she reentered she carried the big gray box with the red button for the Report's "Bears and Balls" segment. With poise and a smile, she presented the box to the audience as if it was the next big thing in an infomercial and elegantly placed it on the desk between Stephen and her boss. She retook her place behind Stephen's chair.
"I've got a little surprise for tonight's lucky studio audience, and you, my dear fellow, get to unveil it." Joker gestured to the box with an air of graciousness.
Stephen eyed the red button warily. "But it's just a box. It doesn't actually do anything. The noise comes from the control booth, from a recording."
Joker's eyes sparkled. "I've made some changes! Go ahead, give it a go!"
Stephen's chest felt very tight. The red button seemed larger than usual, almost pulsing.
"I said, give it a go," the Joker said lowly.
Stephen didn't challenge him. He hit the button. His heart stopped for the explosion, for the burst of deadly gas, for whatever horrific surprise it would release.
"A BRAND NEW CAR!" the Joker's voice chirped from the box.
Stephen blinked at it, then looked up at the Joker. The clown shook his head.
"Nope, nope, that's not it," Joker said. "Try again."
Stephen hesitated, but gave the button another whack.
"A TRIP TO MONTE CARLO!"
"I think once more should do it."
Another hit.
"A MASSIVE EXPLOSION!!" the Joker's voice said cheerfully.
"Explosion?!" Stephen repeated over the audience's strangled cries.
"That's right!" Joker said. "I've left a little present somewhere on the premises, set to go off at precisely eight thirty! And that's not even the fun part!" He turned his shark-like grin to the camera, fingers steepled. "Now Batman-- who's surely flapping about here by now-- can go looking for it and perhaps disable it in just the nick of time, or..." He humbly gestured to himself. "I will willingly abort the countdown if someone solves a little puzzle."
"A puzzle?" Stephen squeaked, still trying to process the fact that somewhere in the building, a bomb was counting down.
Joker nodded, still smiling at the audience at home. "As we speak, a package is being delivered to The Daily Show studio. I suggest our pal Jonny Stew opens it with haste for further instructions." He wagged his finger back and forth like a metronome. "Tick, tock, tick, tock..."
~ | ~
Jon wished very, very badly that Batman had never left.
The captain barked orders at his men. A delivery boy had been spotted approaching the building on foot. Officers were intercepting him. The captain argued with his lieutenant about what to do with the package, breaking off frequently to speak to the chief on his walkie-talkie.
"We need a bomb squad in here!" the captain said.
"Time is already running out!" the lieutenant argued.
Jon agreed with the lieutenant. He needed this puzzle. "I can do it," he said, heart pounding, eyes wide open. "I'll solve it, just give it to me."
"You're not getting anything until it's thoroughly inspected!" the captain snapped.
"There's no time!" Jon shouted, pointing at the clock on his wall. "We have less than an hour!"
"Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock..." Joker sang from the TV.
"It's a game to him," Jon pleaded. "A bomb would ruin it. He wants the drama. That's what makes it funny." The captain shot him a look. "For him!" Jon amended irritably. "Funny for him!"
An officer appeared at the door. "We have the delivery guy isolated outside, sir. Waiting on your orders."
"... far too late to see the cat in wait..." Joker continued to croon. Jon stared at Stephen, sitting stiffly at the clown's side.
The captain let out a quiet breath. "Keep the delivery boy in custody. Clear the package through the dogs and bring it up if it checks out."
"He's gonna know when we open it," the lieutenant muttered. "How's he gonna know?"
"... Hickory dickory dock..." Joker rocked his head from side-to-side. Stephen didn't take his eyes off him. Jon couldn't keep his eyes off the clock. A minute passed. Two. Three.
"Coming through!" boomed a voice. A bulky officer entered the room, carrying a package. He set it on Jon's desk.
The package was rectangular and sizeable. It wasn't huge, but big enough to fit a couple toaster ovens inside. It was wrapped in brown paper, and at the captain's nod the officer carefully unwrapped it, revealing a wood box, painted purple. Painted on one end in green paint was "OpeN ME!" in child's scrawl.
The men in the room exchanged glances. Jon suddenly wasn't so confident about doing this. But he had to. He breathed deeply and pulled up the latch at the top.
The panel fell open and the first thing Jon saw was a red light. Never before had he felt the blood leave his face so quickly. But nothing happened, and he realized the red light was from a camera sitting inside the box. A piece of paper was stuck to the other side of the front panel.
"Ah, there we are!" Joker chirped. Jon turned back to the TV, to see his own backside in a small box in the lower right corner of the screen. "We got a great view of the moon, it seems!" Joker said with a grin.
Redfaced, Jon sat in his chair and turned the box around so he could examine the paper. He glanced up at the TV; now it was his own worn face in the corner.
"I hear you enjoy crosswords, Jonny-boy," Joker said. "So although you're not supposed to be writing, this should be easy for you. Solve the puzzle by eight-thirty, and you don't need to spend the rest of your life wallowing in a what-if wonderland. But." He held up a finger in pause. "No cheating! Keep your eyes on your own work, and I don't want to hear any whispering to your neighbors or see you leave your desk! This is a single-player game."
Jon fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his inhaler. He shook it, though it was strangely difficult to do so since his hands were already shaking. He wrapped his lips around the nozzle, pushed the button, and breathed deeply, reminding himself to do so slowly. He held his breath and closed his eyes, even though the Joker's ticking finger was all he could see in his mind. He heard the clown make a crack about asthmatics and school bullies.
When Jon opened his eyes, he could breathe again. He grabbed a pencil from the holder on his desk and began.
~ | ~
Joker looked up at the control booth and made a slicing motion across this throat. Jon disappeared from the corner of the camera monitor. "I'll leave my stooges to keep an eye on him." He turned to Stephen. "How do you think he'll do?"
Stephen could not for the life of him think of an answer. He could only hope that Jon's years of crossword experience would not fail, and that the clown's puzzle was not impossibly difficult. It was hard to tell which joke would suit the criminal more-- a puzzle that was impossible to complete in the allotted time, or the cruel pleasure of watching Jon, all on his own, almost make it...
Joker made a big show of looking at his wrist, even though there wasn't a watch to be seen. "Look at the time! I think we oughta get to our guest for the night, don't you?"
Stephen had not thought of Kirk Donovan's whereabouts since the Q&A gone wrong, but in that instant he finally realized that Donovan had never been missing at all. "You grabbed him!" he exclaimed.
"You're not as quick-witted as your reputation," Joker muttered. "But you are correct, sir. Kirk didn't run from the picket line so much as he, ah, got a little tied up."
~ | ~
A man in a mime get-up stood outside the door, gun at the ready. In the room beyond, two other goons stood in front of a TV and held plastic guitars with multi-colored buttons. On the screen two strips of multi-colored bullets rolled towards them, the bullets making clanking noises as they passed the bottom of the screen. At the far end of the room sat a crowd of people, the show's staff. One young man, probably a college intern, gazed forlornly into the room across the hallway, and suddenly caught the eye of the figure lurking in the dark.
"Hey!" the young man exclaimed reflexively, then slapped his hands over his mouth. Batman gritted his teeth. The older, dark-haired woman sitting next to the young man seemed to feel the same way and elbowed him in the ribs.
"What's your problem?!" snapped the mime at the TV's left, turning around.
"I, uh, I..." The young man swallowed hard. "You should use the whammy bar, man!" he said, waving his hand toward the screen. The thug outside the door turned his head to peek into the room.
"You should shut up!" snarled the guitar-playing goon. "Or else Joker's smiley spray'll do it for you."
The man in the hallway hit the ground right after his head hit the wall.
"Knock off that noise out there, Charlie! I think I'm getting the hang of this!" said the goon on the right, staring intently at the screen until his head collided with his opponent's. They slumped to the floor.
None of the staff got up. They stared up at the Batman as he stood over them, his shadowed eyes flicking from person to person.
"Anyone hurt?" he asked.
"No," said the dark-haired woman. "We're all okay." She slowly got to her feet, prompting the others to do the same. "Wh-what about the studio? What's happening?"
"I'm making my way there," Batman replied. He spotted the security guards, in their khakis and blue jackets, two with what looked like broken noses. "Get these people out of here now. There's a bomb in the building. The way to the front door is clear. The police are out front. Hurry." And with that, he slipped out of the room.
"Wait!" The woman ran after him, but when she reached the doorway she found an empty hallway.
"Allison!" someone hissed. Allison turned around. It was Emily. "We gotta get out of here!" she said, voice cracking. The other staff members quickly filed past Allison and out the door, urged on by the security guards.
"But Stephen!" she protested.
"Please get moving, Allison," a guard said. "There's nothing we can do in the studio. We have to let the police handle it."
"Or caped crusaders," another guard muttered, hurrying Emily on her way.
Allison knew they were right, but it just felt wrong to leave. "But what about..."
The guard firmly grabbed her by the arm and led her out of the room. They were the last to leave. "I know it's hard, but you can't expect to go barging into the studio, right?" he said calmly as they followed the others.
"Right," Allison said quietly, feeling defeated, though she could not stop herself from looking back.
~ | ~
Getting into the studio took longer than Batman would have preferred, but he had learned when he first donned his cape and cowl that patience was an asset. With the criminals he dealt with, caution was of the utmost importance, and that was likely more true when dealing with the Joker than with anyone else. After so many years, it was still difficult to figure out what went on in the clown's head.
He'd decided-- after scouting the outside of the building for traps-- that slipping in through a window on the third floor and working his way down worked best. He wanted to clear the building of whatever help Joker had that wasn't in the studio, and the goons patrolling the halls were as easy to dispatch as any other minion who'd put himself in to the clown's employ. The last of them guarded a room of the show's crew, and with those hostages on their way out the door, it was time to head to the main threat zone.
He peeked into the backstage area, just behind the path leading to the stage. There were two mimes there too, but, as unreliable as ever, they were getting their kicks watching Joker interview Colbert. Behind them, off to the side on the floor near a stack of boxes, sat a large metal box with a handle on either side. Two red lights set into the side blinked over a grin-shaped vent. No doubt it waited to dispense the Joker's token gas, which sent its victims to their graves with uncontrollable laughter and an irreversible smile.
Through an audio feed of Comedy Central running in his cowl, he'd heard Joker announce the bomb in the building, not a gas trap. This development was unsettling, though not surprising; the Joker liked to keep a few cards hidden up his sleeve. Soundlessly, Batman slipped into the backstage area, watching the distracted mime men. They didn't even glance back. Batman crouched behind the boxes and grabbed one of the handles on the gas box. He tugged it experimentally. It was lighter than it looked, and he pulled it across the floor silently until it was behind the boxes with him. One more look at the goons proved they were still preoccupied, but he knew he had to work fast.
Removing some tools from his belt, he set to getting the casing open. Out in the studio, the Joker announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, for what could be the final interview of his literary career, please give a warm, happy welcome to Kirk Donovan!"