Chapter 790: The Deadly Joke (14)

To defeat a madman, you must be madder than he is—Bruce is now madder than the Joker.

Cobblepot was never truly mad; his condition was physiological, placing him at the bottom of the villain hierarchy. Facing a Batman who had gone utterly insane, he had to admit: he had lost.

"Wayne, our game ends here. I admit you've won. I don't care what happens to those children you took—only your current state matters. You've truly won."

Cobblepot raised his hands and stepped back several paces. "If you're trying to pressure me this way, you really don't need to. We're all businessmen—don't make this so undignified…"

Bruce only stared at him with piercing eyes. "Why can't you understand me? I came here to do business with you. I told you—I remember every piece of intelligence near Hellfire. I have everything you want. All you need to do is pay."

Cobblepot gave a helpless expression, stood still, took a deep breath, then walked to the telephone desk behind him and called the Gotham Police Department.

Cobblepot wasn't calling to have Bruce Wayne taken away—he was calling to have himself taken away.

I can't fight him, but I can run. I'll just spend a few months in prison—maybe even reconnect with some old mob bosses while I'm at it.

Thus, Cobblepot was led away by Gordon. Bruce's side hustle plan collapsed, and his extraordinary memory became useless.

Watching Cobblepot's retreating back, Bruce felt no triumph—only bitter regret. He thought Cobblepot had gone mad.

Cobblepot wanted to rebuild the rules around Hellfire, and Bruce had come with a solution and sincerity. Yet he chose to call the police and turn himself in—what else could this be but madness?

Standing before the Iceberg Lounge, Bruce sighed and looked up at Gotham's still gloomy sky. He knew he had to find another path.

It wasn't that he grew tired of being a truck driver—it was that the truck he'd acquired had reached the end of its life, and he simply couldn't afford to pour money into its bottomless repair pit.

Fortunately, the place he'd moved to, though constantly leaking and noisy, had one major advantage: its location was excellent.

It was much closer to the docks than Selina's place, meaning Bruce could now work as a dockhand.

Once he realized this, Bruce felt a surge of excitement and joy he hadn't known in a month—dockhand work had even lower barriers than truck driving, didn't require background checks, and was open to anyone who could walk.

On a morning when temperatures had risen, Bruce arrived at the docks to apply. The hiring man glanced at his frame and shook his head. "You're too thin. No muscle on your arms. You won't fetch a good price."

"But I'm strong," Bruce said.

The hiring man impatiently flipped through his notebook. "Everyone who comes here says that—even the ones as skinny as bamboo poles. Fine. If I weren't short-staffed, I wouldn't waste time on you."

"First—do you smoke? Where do you live? Know any mobsters?" The hiring man fired off a string of questions. Bruce answered honestly. When he heard Bruce didn't smoke or drink, the man raised an eyebrow. "Out-of-towner, huh?"

Bruce could only nod. "But I've been a truck driver for a while. I know the roads well."

"That's an advantage," the hiring man replied. "But you can't handle unloading ships—that'll have you coughing up blood in a week. You'll work in the indoor warehouse. Oh, by the way—how's your nerve?"

"Nerve?" Bruce asked. "Do dockhands need courage?"

"Don't ask so many questions," the hiring man snapped again, rolling his eyes. "Indoor inventory pay's low, but there's a special job now. Your partner's… unusual. If you've got guts, your pay goes up thirty percent."

"I've got plenty of guts," Bruce answered immediately.

He didn't think anything in this world could scare him. Well, there had been that one paper—but nothing like that would happen again.

Only when he reached the warehouse did Bruce realize his partner was a crocodile.

Saying "a crocodile" wasn't accurate—it was a crocodile man. He had a crocodile's head, towering height, and massively muscular limbs. Bruce stared at him for a full minute and realized this crocodile man could do the work of three men.

So Bruce's first emotion wasn't fear, disgust, or confusion—it was envy. He thought: if I looked like this, the agency would never try to cheat me.

Bruce actually recognized him. In the dream world, there had been a crocodile man in Cat City Gotham. Back then, he'd been a crocodile cat. Bruce had suspected a counterpart might appear in real Gotham—but never like this.

Yet Bruce wasn't nervous. He knew crocodile cats were easy to get along with. He stepped forward and greeted the crocodile man. "Hello. I'm your new coworker. I'll be working here too."

The crocodile turned his eyes toward him and rumbled, "Aren't you afraid of me?"

Bruce looked up at his gaping jaws, then his gaze fell to the crate in the crocodile's hands—filled with heavy metal parts. He glanced beside him, walked over, and tried to lift an identical crate. He immediately realized he couldn't budge it.

"Don't move," the crocodile man suddenly said. "You'll strain your back. And if you break it, you'll pay for it."

The crocodile man's voice was hoarse, his accent strange—as if his vocal cords were different. But Bruce thought he was already excellent. After all, you couldn't expect more from a crocodile.

The two fell into silence as they began working. Bruce asked casual questions about the crocodile man's life, and learned the crocodile man was even worse off than he was.

The crocodile man wasn't from Gotham—he came from nearby. He'd once been human, but suffered a reverse evolution disease that made him grow more crocodile-like over time.

His small town couldn't tolerate such a creature. They came with guns and cannons and drove him out.

With nowhere to go, the crocodile man came to Gotham hoping for luck. At first, he lived in the sewers. After that—everyone knows what happened.

To fight the Court of Owls, Schiller froze Gotham's entire sewer system. Though the Court of Owls no longer existed, the frozen sewers remained.

The crocodile man was horrifically trapped in a small room, starved for a full month, until the mob dug him out during a cold storage renovation.

But Gotham had one advantage: its people had seen too much to be easily shocked. They didn't stare at his monstrous head—they saw his powerful arms. So the crocodile man joined Gotham's great development.

He'd been caught before killing anyone and sent to forced labor, so he never earned the title "Killer Croc." Now he was just a strong, capable crocodile man—earning one man's wage, doing three men's work. Even the mob wanted to give him a "Labor Model" award.

"You mean they provide food and lodging?" Bruce asked the crocodile man. The crocodile glanced at him again, shook his massive head. "Don't even think about it. They give me food and lodging because I look terrifying—no one will rent to me. If I leave Gotham, no one will do this much work for them."

Bruce felt a pang of regret but said nothing. In the following days, he realized this was indeed an ideal job. The crocodile man was so capable that Bruce barely needed to lift heavy objects—he only had to organize shelf placement and label items.

The pay was decent, too. Unlike truck driving, which depended on the weather, cargo volume here was enormous—there was work every day. Bruce's life in the slums finally stabilized again.

But Gotham never had a day without disaster. Its weather forecasts couldn't predict the capriciousness of fate. On a day with 87% humidity, a warehouse near the docks caught fire.

The exact cause was unknown. When Bruce heard the news, the gatekeeper said it was likely improper storage of a chemical agent, which leaked. Then, one of the warehouse workers smoked—a spark landed on the chemicals, triggering an explosion and fire.

Hearing the word "chemicals," Bruce knew it was probably his warehouse. The day before, he'd double-checked his labels—each read: "Chemical Agent, Shipped to ACE Chemicals."

Rushing into the warehouse complex, Bruce saw the flames were fierce. But he knew he had to go in—because the crocodile man lived and slept inside. He hadn't had time to escape.

Bruce didn't know if the crocodile man had crocodile instincts, but regardless of whether he liked water, he'd hate fire.

Bruce sprinted inside as fast as he could. He found his workroom easily—the fire wasn't the worst there, but the smoke was thick. He remembered: a shipment of wood had arrived just yesterday, still unshipped, now the perfect fuel.

Flames danced on Bruce's face. When the fire burned in his blue eyes, it looked like sunset glow beneath a clear sky—but the beauty didn't last. He heard a loud "crack"—a ceiling beam collapsed. This meant the building wouldn't hold much longer.

Bruce grabbed his coat, pressed it over his nose and mouth, and charged through the choking smoke. He believed he could save the crocodile man—but he overestimated his strength and underestimated the danger.

As soon as he entered, he saw the crocodile man pinned under fallen timber. Many of yesterday's beams had collapsed. The crocodile man must have been running out and hadn't noticed—he was crushed beneath a beam across his waist, unable to move.

Bruce tried to lift the beam, but his reduced muscle mass meant he no longer had the strength. Even at his peak, Batman might not have lifted it quickly—and Bruce already felt himself suffocating.

The only option now was to drag the crocodile man out. Bruce knelt beside him. "Hold on. It'll hurt—but it'll be over soon…"

He grabbed the crocodile man's powerful arm and pulled with all his might. The crocodile man screamed in agony—but couldn't move.

Bruce, coat over his mouth and nose, staggered to his feet.

Loud noises filled his ears—he couldn't make out words. But he smelled an acrid chemical odor. He understood: this substance, when burned, was toxic.

It seemed all paths had ended. Bruce thought: he'd finally gotten what he wanted. He'd finally touched the bottom of this terrible abyss.

What was at the bottom? Only death.

No, no, no—Bruce thought—not only death. Not only death… there must be something else here.

Suddenly, the noise became clear. Bruce heard it—a laugh. A joyful, genuine laugh.

It was so sincere that it sounded like the final cries of countless spirits who had died on snow-covered nights.

With his strength spent, his mind blurred. In the flickering firelight, Bruce slowly collapsed.

He lay on his back, firelight caressing his face, smoke choking his throat, flames searing his eyes.

Like all Gothamites, in the fires of worldly karma, sin and punishment burned to ash—eighteen layers of hell couldn't produce a single tear.

The fire collapsed the shelves. The nearest one crashed down, spilling countless chemical agents onto Bruce like rain.

Amid the roaring flames, Bruce was drenched in a Gotham night rain—icy, unbearable, chilling to the bone.

Slowly, his lips curled upward. He saw the truth of this fire. He faced directly the most insane thing in the world—reality.

Countless ordinary people trudge through mundane daily lives—no grand wars, no glorious tales.

Exhaustion, hunger, insomnia, day after day. Drug use, gambling, prostitution, damned forever. Job hunting, housing hunting, partner hunting, running endlessly. No money, no love, no hope—alone.

At this moment, Batman finally understood why the Joker wanted to laugh.

Because the Joker saw a god standing on a cloud, swearing to save it all—ten years of promises.

Batman spent ten years becoming a joke.

It was truly hilarious. So Bruce laughed too.