"Clues"
by Ted Brengle

            The Joker walked into the warehouse, laughing and coughing. He started waving the bright white smoke away with a colorful paper fan. The fan was decorated with unbearably cute cartoon caricatures of him and his wife, both grinning and flashing victory signs, standing before a background festooned with hearts and the words “HAPPY!!”, “FUN FUN!!” and GO!”

             It was a gift from the Gecko. The Joker was very big is Japan.

             “Whew!” The Joker called into the warehouse. “It smells like the cafeteria at Belle-Reve on meatloaf day broke wind in here. Speaking of breaking…”

             The Joker surveyed the carnage as the smoke cleared. The center of the warehouse was strewn with broken crates filed with automatic weapons and burly, scruffy-looking men, all dressed in tuxedos with bright red and purple flowers in their lapels. Some were unconscious, others were curled in fetal possessions, moaning and begging forgiveness in hoarse voices.

             The Joker made the comically-exaggerated sound of a cat clearing a hairball. “I tell you, this remorse gas of yours… You really need to put some potpourri or something in there. I mean Scarecrow’s stuff doesn’t smell this bad, and it’s basically the same thing, chemically—it tickles the back of my throat just like yours does. You know, he could you sue you over this. And if he does, where-oh-where will you ever find a lawyer?” The Joker said slyly to the only other man standing in the warehouse; a man dressed in black robes, powdered wig and golden mask.

             “Good to see you Joker,” The Judge said, tensing in preparation for Harley to pop up behind him and yell “BOO!” like she usually did. It didn’t happen this time. “Is Harley’s not with you?”

             “”Nope. I’m stag tonight. It’s parents weekend at Professor Cueball’s School for the Fundamentally Weird. I was asked by them not to return until they had a chance to repair the damages from the last time I visited. Who knew that meringue could be *so* unstable?” The Joker cackled and when noticed that he was the only one, stopped and peered at The Judge. “Not going to get a laugh for that one, am I?”

             There was the small, sharp sound of metal clanging against a gloved thumbnail. The coin flashed briefly in the warehouse lights before the Judge grabbed it out of the air. The Judge looked at it. “No.”

             “Tough room.”

             “I assume you heard about this from Ghost Fighter,” The Judge asked as he started to examine the automatic weapons spilling out on the floor.

             “Correctomundo!” The Joker said, thinking back to his meeting with AGF earlier that week. AGF had put his Vision Quest on hold during his struggle with The Patchwork Man, with the sincere intention to return to it the moment that war was over. Unfortunately, in Gotham there were always new crises to deal with. After weeks of being delayed and detained and caught in new investigations, AGF realized that if he waited for Gotham to ever calm down enough for him to “safely” leave, he never would. He told the Joker this and was now in the process of getting ready to leave.

 “Spooky’s sorry he couldn’t be here,” The Joker told The Judge. “He’s got something to take care of out of town and asked me to fill in,” “What’s up?”

             “I’ve been trying to crack down on corruption in Gotham City’s docks, while Ghost Fighter has been investigating jazz clubs being used as fronts by The Penguin. We’ve recently realized that the two cases are starting to connect. For example, these are clearly some of The Penguin’s men.”

             The Joker nonchalantly looked over the heap of henchmen. “Not just Pengy’s.”

             “What do you mean?”

 “I assume these goons weren’t exactly push-overs during the BIFF! and POW! portion of the evening?”

 The Judge massaged his bruised knuckles and nodded.

             The Joker smiled indulgently and pulled a magnifying glass and purple deerstalker cap from his jacket. He put the cap on and knelt by one of the unconscious, tuxedoed men.

             “Please take notice of the flowers in their lapels,” The Joker said in a lousy English accent. He examined the flower with the magnifying glass. “They resemble types of exceptionally rare African lilies. Lilies whose pollen is especially nifty and can do all sort of cool things to the human brain, depending on the variety. Some of the pollens are psychoactive and sap the will; others are stimulants and accelerate the production of adrenalin; others increase absorption of endorphins and deaden all feelings of pain. I bet these suckers do all of the above: The perfect accessory for the fashion-conscious hired goon.”

             The Joker plucked the flower from the lapel. “But considering that this species of lily can’t even survive in this hemisphere, it would take a horticultural genius just to keep them alive in Gotham, much less hybridize them.” The Joker stood up and looked at The Judge. “Gee. I wonder who that could possibly be.”

 The Judge sighed. “Damn. If she and Penguin are working together…”

 “…we can expect something that is simultaneously pretty, deadly and hilariously incompetent,” The Joker finished. “This is going to be GREAT!” He laughed with giddy enthusiasm.

 Fifteen minutes later, GCPD started to arrive. By then, The Joker and The Judge had gotten everything they could from both the scene and the captured criminals.  Side effects of the pollen, however, included hallucinations and short-term memory loss, so the henchmen had very little in the way of useful information. Just dreamy recollections of a beautiful forest nymphs and Penguins ranting about how they would bring Gotham City to its knees.

 “Yeah, yeah; we already figured that one out. Thanks,” The Joker said.

 The Joker took one of the flowers, which he wanted to analyze at The Funehouse, and threw an arm over the shoulder of The Judge. “Want to come over? I’ve got a run of the place. It will be just you and me. We can jump on the furniture, make ‘smores and do each other’s hair.”

 The Judge shook his head. “Sorry, Joker. I want to check out that warehouse on Sprang.” He paused. “On the other hand, this is the third night I’ve left Grace alone with the baby…” He flipped his coin. “I should go home.”

 They parted and The Joker walked past the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars to the Jokermobile, which he had parked in the alley. As he walked toward it, however, all mirth drained from his smile and it became grim.

 The Jokermobile’s door was standing open.

 The Joker approached his car warily. As he did, the fact of the situation only became more clear: All of the Jokermobile’s many (and eccentric) security systems had been expertly circumvented, and sitting on the driver’s seat was a large envelope. Written on it were two words:

  “For ‘Spooky’”

             The Joker instantly recognized the handwriting. He’s seen it before on the note that had been left on Harvey Bullock’s body.

             Dark, jagged laughter echoed through the alley, sending shivers down the back of several of the nearby cops. The Joker laughing like that was always a very, very bad sign.

             The Joker took the envelop back to The Funhouse and checked it for traps before he opened it. There was none. It didn’t need them. Its contents were disturbing enough: A small, plastic chess piece--a white bishop—streaked with blood; a photograph of John Constantine, badly beaten, his expression defiant, tied to a chair in front of a chessboard in the middle of a game, with the index finger of his right hand broken and forced to point toward the empty home square of the white king’s bishop; and four more photographs, all clearly taken from close proximity, but without the subject’s knowledge: Mary McAllister, Helena Bertinelli, Selina Kyle and Harley Quinn...