Chapter 182: The Phantom of the Opera (Part 2)

When you feel something is abnormal, but everyone says it's normal, do you wonder if you're the one who's insane?

Batman is currently in this state—freshly emerged, his opponents were merely gang thugs or robbers, the most formidable among them being Catwoman, a gifted thief, or Maroni, a powerful crime boss.

Gotham has not yet reached its later stage as a grand stage, so this Batman is still a vigilante with relatively sane thinking.

But suddenly, one night, he realized he seemed surrounded by madmen.

A madman shot a TV host on air, then ranted that he would host a performance at the Gotham Grand Theatre, and everyone around him thought this was perfectly normal—they even bought tickets according to procedure, including his ordinary psychology professor, the Godfather of Gotham, the priest, Gordon…

No one questioned this absurdity, making Batman wonder: could he be the one who's insane?

Humans are prone to herd mentality; when your attitude opposes everyone else's, very few choose to stand firm. Batman hasn't wavered, but that strange feeling inside him is gradually fading.

Actually, upon reflection, this isn't absurd at all—because this is Gotham, and Gotham has long been insane; it's just a little more insane now.

After ticket checks and popcorn pickup, the three headed to the auditorium. The Gotham Grand Theatre had only one main hall; when Schiller and the others entered, everyone else was already seated. Besides his acquaintances, there were also many onlookers.

Below the stage were a group of TV cameramen. Schiller lit a cigarette and went to chat with their leader.

"What? Why am I here? Of course because someone hired me. Even if he didn't pay me, I'd gladly come help—he killed that most annoying host."

The cameramen's boss was a big-bearded man. He took the cigarette Schiller offered and said: "You have no idea how annoying he was. He was always causing trouble, making us unable to clock out on time."

"That green-haired guy's crazy, sure, but he doesn't seem interested in money. Many people who bought tickets put cash into the TV station's mailbox—it's hundreds of dollars, enough for us to go on an out-of-town job."

Schiller thought: it seems this Joker isn't entirely without reason—or rather, he understands human nature best.

The cameraman pointed to the backstage and said: "It's not just us—he somehow got an entire theater crew's support staff. Word is they're from this old theater. He told them the Gotham Grand Theatre was about to be revived, that tonight countless people would be watching, so they helped him prepare the show. Look over there—there's even an orchestra…"

Schiller followed his finger and saw people actually rehearsing.

Schiller wasn't surprised—he knew the Joker well—but Batman was different. He was now genuinely beginning to doubt whether he himself was insane.

Why, in this absurd scene, was everyone acting methodically, perfectly normal, with not a single person raising an objection?

Schiller returned to his seat and found Batman lost in thought. He said: "I already told you, Gotham is a book you can never finish—there's always something new to discover. Gotham changes every day."

"Lately, disasters keep happening—roads cracking, buildings collapsing. Many people have nothing to do. When the logistics renovation happened, almost everyone made money. What else would you do with it but spend it?"

"I think hosting a show isn't bad—it's better than a striptease bar party, right, Evans?"

Evans sat stiffly in his seat and said: "Professor! Why didn't you tell me my father would come? If I'd known he'd be here, I wouldn't have come! If he sees me holding a popcorn bucket, I'm dead!"

"Relax. Your father will probably forgive this small mistake. After all, you're still alive—that's already good enough."

Even as he spoke, Falcone glanced back at his son. Evans frantically shoved the popcorn bucket into Batman's arms.

Suddenly, a loud noise came from the stage. A man in a purple tailcoat limped onto the stage, holding a loudspeaker, shouting: "Ladies and gentlemen! Look at me! Look at my new suit!"

He wriggled his shoulders as if infested with lice, twisted his waist left and right, and said: "Damn, this collar's too tight. I shouldn't have listened to that clerk—I should've bought a larger size…"

"Enough, it doesn't matter. I'm just the host—you can call me Mr. Jack!"

"Let me see… Good heavens! So many people! You've all come to support me—I'm so moved! Wait! Who's that? Batman!! The Gotham superstar Batman!! Let's cheer for him!!!"

As he wildly waved his arms, the orchestra struck up a noise, and the audience below was swept into cheering. Batman remained silent in his seat.

"You should stand up, bow left and right, nod in greeting," Schiller told him. "It's a necessary part of interaction between host and special audience."

Tomato Free Reading

Batman turned his head left and right and realized everyone seemed to be waiting for him. But as he hesitated, the Joker shouted: "Alright, who else? Good heavens! The Godfather of Gotham is here too!"

The Godfather didn't stand, but he raised one hand and waved it left and right.

"And…"

The Joker suddenly choked, saying: "What's that word again? Wait, uh…"

He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a small slip of paper, and read: "Luo De… Rodriguez Professor!"

Schiller stood up, nodded left and right, then waved.

"I hate this name—it's such a mouthful," the Joker muttered under his breath.

Then he regained his enthusiasm and said: "Welcome to the grand opening performance of the great comedian Jack!"

"What did I say earlier? What was the name of this plan again? 'Owl's Bad Luck'? No no no! I changed my mind—that name's too cliché, unworthy of me!"

"Now I'm calling it—The Death of the Owl!"

With his high-pitched tone, the orchestra launched into an overture. Instantly, the curtain behind him "whooshed" open, and several spotlights focused on the center of the stage.

There hung several ropes from the ceiling, each ending in a person bound from head to toe—men and women, old and young—all sharing one trait: they wore white bird-shaped masks.

The Joker took a strip of cloth, tied the loudspeaker to his body, making his suit wrinkle grotesquely—he didn't care at all.

He cheerfully dashed to the orchestra, grabbed a triangle, and banged it hard, then shouted: "Ding-ding-ding-ding! The actors are here! Our star has arrived!!!"

"Hey, you cameramen over there—ready? Make sure every viewer in Gotham can see clearly!"

The big-bearded man gave an OK sign.

The Joker spun around, facing the victims bound and hanging in midair, and said: "I bet you're wondering how I found you."

"Remember that charity banquet you held on Elizabeth Street a few days ago? I was the one who drove the ingredients there…"

"And what day? Oh… must've been over ten days ago—I don't remember. Which restaurant? That was me too. I'm a diligent driver—I frequent all the places you frequent!"

"You thought you hid well—'Featherless owls showing their ugly faces'—but you can't hide anymore. HAHAHAHA! Your feathers have all been plucked—you look as ugly as newborn ducklings! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

One of the bound men, whose mouth wasn't taped, shouted: "Impossible—we disguised ourselves perfectly…"

"You're in pain!" the Joker interrupted. "You pretend indifference, think you're no different from before—but your hearts are bleeding. I smelled the blood."

"What did you lose? What made you panic, made your hearts ache? Could it be…" the Joker chuckled, "Could it be money? HAHAHAHA!!!"

"HAHAHAHAHA! Sorry, I shouldn't laugh—but I can't help it! You actually… you actually!!! HAHAHAHAHA! For money!!!"

The Joker laughed until he was gasping, bent over clutching his stomach, as if he might laugh himself to death.

Laughter rose from the audience. Batman looked at Schiller. Schiller suddenly snapped out of it, covered his mouth, and said: "Oh, nothing—I just couldn't hold back. It's really funny, especially…"

Schiller glanced left and right, then whispered to Batman: "…especially when I think about how that money is now in my pocket."

The Joker gradually recovered from his fit of laughter. He noticed the Owl Court members bound before him remained silent. His smile hadn't faded. He asked: "Why are you so serious?"

"Isn't this funny?"

He turned to the audience: "An organization that calls itself the controller of Gotham! It's fallen apart because it lost money! HAHAHAHA! A secret society claiming to be the great darkness, exposed over money! Isn't that… HAHAHAHAHA!!!"

Many in the audience laughed, then the laughter swelled into uproarious mirth.

The only ones silent were Batman and the Owl Court members on stage.

Now, the Owl Court members felt exactly as Batman did: who was insane—their group, or the world?

"Why can't we… you filthy pauper peasants! Do you know how much money that was? It was a trap—we were extorted—we…"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" The Joker rushed forward and smashed the triangle rod against the member's head furiously. "The person who explains a joke ruins the perfect joke! Shut up!"

After a while, the Joker, panting, stepped forward again and said: "Alright, the opening is over—we're officially starting now!"

He walked among the hanging victims, tore off the tape from their mouths, and said: "You've seen it—you're suspended at different heights…"

"And now…" the Joker stomped his foot, "beneath the floor is a big surprise—just like the one I gave you before."

"From now on, the ropes binding you will slowly lower. If anyone touches the ground—Boom! HAHAHAHA!"

"Of course, you have a way to save yourselves. When one person dies, their rope stops descending."

"You've already felt it—your hands, bound behind your backs, are clutching a button. When you press it, someone among you will die at random."

"And my audience!" the Joker turned, raised both hands, "Take out your tickets—they hold clues!"

He turned to the bound: "Each of you may ask one audience member a question—to guess whose button corresponds to you, or whose button you hold."

"Then!" the Joker raised his voice, "decide whether to press the button in your hand…"

He bowed, stood center stage, the spotlight casting his tousled hair into dark shadows. His smile turned terrifying. His voice echoed through the empty theater, rising and falling:

"When I heard Gotham had a savior called Batman, I nearly thought I'd gone mad."

"But I didn't go mad—so he certainly isn't a savior."

"Yet this damned fool who pretends to be a bat rejected me, ignored me, even mocked me as someone else's mass-produced killer…"

"Now I've proven I'm not. It's your turn… Batman."

————Extra Notes————

Writing the Joker requires a drink. Good night, everyone.