Chapter 187: Arkham Daily Life (Part 2)

When Gotham first entered summer, the few green plants began to flourish, and Arkham Asylum remained serene as ever.

"Jack, I'm warning you! If you sneak into my office again at night and paint the walls with your nonsense, I'm canceling your outdoor time for this week—do you hear me?!"

Jack crouched in the corner, scratched his ear, pretending to be deaf. Schiller crossed his arms and said to Jack: "I know Batman's back at school, busy with homework, so he's not patrolling the streets much anymore. That means you're bored too—but that's no excuse for your daily, annoying pranks around the hospital!"

Jack muttered under his breath: "A bat doing homework? What the hell are you people on? Am I supposed to praise him as a good little kid who goes back to his cave on time to sleep?"

Schiller crouched down to look Jack in the eye. "Alright, Mr. Jack, I admit you're a genius—you're born knowing everything. But that doesn't mean everyone is like you. Batman has to attend classes, do homework, take exams, earn a college degree, manage a company, and participate in Gotham's urban development…"

"Boring! Boring! Boring!" Jack shouted. "You're going to kill him! You're going to kill Batman—I'm here to save him!"

Schiller tried reasoning with him, but Jack clapped his hands over his ears, shook his head violently, and sang a nonsensical tune—basically, the classic "I won't listen, the turtle's chanting sutras" attitude.

They were more like two ancient foxes, neither playing tricks on the other. Schiller knew he could never cure the Joker, yet he still faithfully played the role of a doctor. The Joker knew Schiller wasn't a doctor—he was a patient too—so he had no intention of convincing Schiller.

In essence, they were like mirrors facing each other—no one needed to convince the other. Their stalemate was merely a pastime to kill boredom.

But all of this ended one night, when Brand called and woke Schiller from a sound sleep at home.

"Get over here fast—the clown-faced lunatic has taken a hostage. He says he wants Officer Schiller to come negotiate with him…"

Schiller lay on his soft, warm bed in his estate, took a deep breath, and said into the phone: "No need. He's beyond saving. Just kill him."

He slammed the receiver down, pulled his arms back under the warm covers, and went back to sleep.

Less than two minutes later, the phone rang again. Schiller rolled over, picked up the receiver, and before the other side could speak, he said: "Listen, Brand—next time anyone says any of these lines to you, turn around and walk away. Don't even glance at them."

"Like 'Let's play a game,' 'Want to guess a riddle?' 'Want to truly live?'… If you hear anything like that, don't ask, don't answer—just punch them in the face and walk off…"

Schiller was half-asleep, mumbling. Brand sighed on the other end: "Just let me finish—do you know who he kidnapped?"

"Probably not you—if it were you, you'd already be screaming like a banshee…"

"He kidnapped the most expensive, most advanced EEG machine we got last week—the one worth nearly two hundred thousand dollars! Right now, his hammer is less than ten centimeters from it…"

"Shit, I'm on my way!"

Two minutes later, Schiller stood bleary-eyed outside the machine room. He lowered his head, closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath.

Xiaoshuting

Jack sat in the room, trying to put the EEG helmet on his head. He didn't know how to use it—the adhesive pad kept catching his hair, and he was grimacing as he yanked at his own strands.

Seeing Schiller arrive, he snatched up the hammer beside him and shouted: "Police! I've got a hostage!"

Schiller pulled out a medical chart from nowhere and began scribbling on it. As he wrote, he said: "You're done, Jack…"

Jack rocked back and forth on the table, muttering: "There's nothing more boring than playing the world's most boring game with the world's most boring person…"

*Rip. Schiller tore a page from the chart, handed it to Brand, and said: "He's cured. Discharge him tomorrow morning."

Brand glanced at the paper and sucked in a sharp breath.

Early the next morning, Jack strutted into Cobblepot and Evans's rooms to say goodbye. He mocked Cobblepot's Iceberg Lounge idea mercilessly, then sang opera for two straight hours in Evans's ear. Just as both men were about to beat him senseless, he pulled out his discharge slip with a smug grin.

Then, under the murderous stares of the two men, he strolled out the main gate of Arkham Asylum, waving and whistling at the windows in the sunlight.

But before he even reached the street outside the gate, a dozen luxury cars surrounded him. A group of suited mob bosses warmly welcomed Jack.

Jack looked around, realized the situation was bad, and tried to bolt—but they grabbed him, dragged him into a car.

At the window of Schiller's office, Brand watched and said: "You gave him a free medical bill? Now every mob boss in Gotham will be calling him nonstop, begging for connections."

Brand sized up Schiller. "Everyone knows the chief physician of Arkham Asylum is a vampire who plucks every feather that flies by. Yet you deliberately let him go free—they'll assume he's your relative. He'll be treated like royalty by those mob bosses…"

Three days later, Gordon knocked on Schiller's office door. He walked in to find Schiller writing at his desk. Gordon stepped over, tapped the desk, and said: "Professor, can you please just get rid of that lunatic already?"

"In three days, he's hijacked the TV station five times—he…"

Before Schiller could reply, the TV news anchor screamed and fled. The Joker's face appeared on screen—he looked even crazier, more haggard. He cried: "Someone help me! Save me, this poor mentally ill man!"

"That kind-hearted psychiatrist—are you there? Look at me! I'm insane. I need to be hospitalized…"

Then he rummaged through his clothes, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, and held it up to the camera. "See this? My insurance payment receipt—I pay so much every year!"

"But now… now… waaah, I've developed a serious mental illness, yet Gotham's only psychiatric hospital refuses to admit me, waaah…" He began fake-sobbing in front of the lens.

Suddenly, he grew furious. "Schiler Rodriguez! You most hated man on Earth! You've made those mobsters swarm me like flies! You know I think they're the most boring people in the world…"

"This life has no hope!" The Joker flung his arms wide. "The world's turned black… Despair! Despair! Only despair!"

He hugged the camera lens. "Can you imagine? They come every day asking how to make money! It's torture!"

The Joker gritted his teeth. "They torture and abuse me with their utterly dull, unimaginative minds—identical thoughts, day after day!"

"I burned their money and safes—and they clapped for me! This isn't a joke!"

"They…" The Joker's voice suddenly cracked with deep exhaustion. "They're so ordinary… it terrifies me…"

His voice trembled with tears. "Luxury cars, fine wine, women, money! That damn money! I'm surrounded by madmen!"

"I ran away—but they always find me…" The Joker wept bitterly. "They all talk about it—they say Gotham's improving, they're making more money…"

He sobbed harder. "Everyone talks about this. I can't believe it—the world must be insane…"

"Come and take me away! Put me back in the asylum! I'd rather argue with that stupid Penguin or some tasteless opera singer than hear another word of this crap!!"

The Joker began gagging into the camera—as if he truly felt sick. But before he could vomit, a bodyguard-type man rushed forward and handed him a glass of water.

The Joker gave a look that said, "You saw that, right?" Then he leapt up, pointing at the glass. "This is how they torture me! Every day! They feed me gourmet meals, fine wine, money—bury me in it all… waaah…"

He screamed at the TV: "Schiler Rodriguez! You damned, heartless quack! A mental patient stands right before you—can't you see?!"

"Just let me go! Anywhere! Take me back to the asylum! Do you hear me?!"

Schiller didn't look up. Gordon looked like he'd swallowed a fly. "I told you before—even if everyone in Gotham's a little crazy, this guy's crazy in a whole new way. Who ever begs to get locked up in a psychiatric hospital?"

He slapped his forehead. "Oh, right—I forgot. Now every mob boss in Gotham wants to get in here."

"Alright, Professor Schiller, listen—I don't care if you turn this place into a private prison for mobsters, especially if it helps public order. But that doesn't mean you let this lunatic roam free in the city."

He pleaded with Schiller: "This is still a psychiatric hospital. Shouldn't you treat at least one or two real patients?"

Schiller kept writing. After a moment, he looked up, stretched his neck, and said: "Fine. I'll reluctantly reserve him a bed."

"But I don't accept insurance." He stood up, handed Gordon the paper he'd just written, and said: "This is the bill for all the damage he caused. Sign this, and I'll admit him."

Gordon glanced at the final amount and sucked in a sharp breath. Still, he said: "I'll pass this along… but I doubt a truck driver would sign a bill this huge."

"Tell him if he doesn't sign, I'll mail this bill to Batman. Tell him his friend Joker Jack owes me a fortune—and refuses to pay. A deadbeat. A total scumbag."

Gordon sighed. "I don't get the point of your role-playing games, but whatever. How many weird things don't happen in Gotham?"

"Don't you dare say that in front of that lunatic. If he finds out you think his games are normal here, he'll give you a massive surprise."