36 Clowning Around #36
Facing the wide-open door of what was supposed to be Arnold Wesker's cell, a frown involuntarily etched itself across my face.
"Well, this looks like a party Wesker didn't consent to," I quipped, glancing at the disarray within – shattered mirrors, a bed doing acrobatics – the whole shebang of general chaos.
Dr. Joan, equally perturbed, bit her lip in frustration and asked, "Are we too late?"
"Maybe," I replied, my sigh mirroring the uncertainty in the air. "Let's play detective and see what clues this messy crime scene has to offer. Just don't go expecting Sherlock Holmes-level revelations," I added, stepping into the chaos, Dr. Joan trailing behind.
While she sifted through the mess, I played my amateur detective role, noting the small pipe in the corner, now part of the crime decor, with its bloody credentials covering its edge.
Following a not-so-subtle trail of blood toward the cell's door, I deduced that Wesker probably didn't exit in a limo. The blood wasn't Niagara Falls-level, thankfully. However, the trail pulled a Houdini act at the door, leaving me without a map.
Amid my investigative musings, Dr. Joan's voice interrupted, "I found something. Take a peek," as she presented a greeting card with a flourish, like she was dealing a winning hand in a poker game.
Glancing at the greeting card, its vivid green question mark practically screaming "Riddler," I had a sinking feeling that our friend Edward Nygma played puppeteer in Wesker's sudden vanishing act.
Cracking the card open, I discovered yet another riddle nestled inside:
"Ascending floors, a building to explore,
Combine the digits, and unlock the door.
The first is one, the second two,
Then comes the second letter, a clue for you."
A furrow crept onto my forehead. Great, now I had to play locksmith with some cryptic hint?
Nonchalantly glancing at the riddle, I shrugged off the annoyance. Figuring out the code was a breeze: the first is one, the second is two, and the second letter – 'B.'
1-2-B. Simple enough. Now, armed with the metaphorical key, I faced a more challenging task: locating the mysterious door.
Leaning on the expertise of our asylum-savvy companion, I turned to Dr. Joan. "1-2-B. Ring any bells?" I inquired, and she shot me a puzzled look.
"That should be the address to the operation room," she elucidated. "First floor, second room, building B – the west wing," she added, and I couldn't help but stifle a facepalm.
Classic Riddler with his brain-teasers. Thank heavens for Joan; I'd be stuck contemplating where I'd use this so-called password for god knows how long before I figured out it was an address.
"Well then, that's our destination. Riddler's breadcrumbs," I declared, making my way toward the cell exit.
Dr. Joan, however, expressed her reservations as she trailed behind. "Would that be wise...? We might be walking into a trap," she voiced her concern.
I responded with a nonchalant shrug, "Very likely. If you'd rather head to the reception area, it's not too late. The police should be there by now."
But her response was swift and resolute. "No. Let's press on."
...
Dr. Joan and I made our way through the labyrinthine halls of the asylum, following Riddler's cryptic trail. The scent of disinfectant mixed with the faint echoes of chaos from the ongoing mayhem lingered in the air.
Eventually, we arrived at the operation room on the first floor of Building B in the west wing. The door was already open, revealing an unsettling scene. There, Arnold Wesker was bound to the operation bed, awkwardly tilted into an almost standing position.
A comically oversized syringe was wielded by none other than Harley Quinn, standing beside him. She wore her usual makeup and clown hat, but instead of her red and black tights, she had a nurse outfit covering her body.
It looked like a twisted rendition of a doctor's office, and I couldn't help but appreciate the dark humor, even in such a dire situation.
"Well, well, well! Look who decided to drop by the doctor's office!" Harley exclaimed with a maniacal grin, her Brooklyn accent adding an extra layer of insanity to her words. She spun the giant syringe between her fingers as if it were a showpiece.
Arnold, on the other hand, was visibly distressed, struggling against his restraints. The scarred ventriloquist seemed caught between fear and frustration.
"I heard from a little birdy that you wanna ditch the Scarface act, go all normal Joe, start a new chapter," Harley quipped, leaning in to examine Wesker's face. "But come on, that's just too dull. I can't let you go all vanilla on me."
With a theatrical gesture, she pointed the syringe at Wesker. "So, I brought you here to give you a little nudge back to your good ol' self. You know, the crazy, chaotic, crime'-lovin' self!" she declared with infectious enthusiasm.
'I couldn't help but sigh at the absurdity of the situation. "Looks like we stumbled into a madhouse within a madhouse...' I mused, my thoughts abruptly interrupted as I watched Dr. Joan step toward the door, prepared to make a grand entrance.
Reacting on instinct, I covered her mouth and pulled her back.
"Whoa there, Doc! Let's not alert the circus just yet," I whispered, my hand still clasped over her mouth. Dr. Joan shot me a puzzled look, and I quickly explained, "Harley's unpredictable. We need a plan, not a spotlight."
She nodded in reluctant agreement, and I released my hold, gesturing for her to stay low. We crouched near the doorway, eavesdropping on the peculiar doctor-patient reunion.
Harley continued her theatrics, pacing around Wesker like a ringmaster with a captive lion. "You can't let go of Scarface, Arnold. It's what makes you special, unique! Normal is for boring folks. We don't do boring, do we?"
Wesker, still struggling against his restraints, managed to mutter a response. "I... I need to change, Harley. Scarface is holding me back, dragging me into darkness."
Harley's laughter echoed through the room, a mix of amusement and disbelief. "Oh, honey, you're adorable. Darkness is our playground! Why settle for a dull, sunny afternoon when you can have a chaotic storm?"
She approached Wesker, the giant syringe gleaming ominously in her hand. "I brought a little something to help you see the light, sweetie. A cure for the boring bug."
As she neared, I glanced at Dr. Joan, silently conveying that we needed to act. "Keep her distracted... I'll try to sneak in and knock her out..." I said, activating my shadow control powers to meld into the shade and enter the room.
Slipping away from Dr. Joan, I melted into the shadows, my form blending seamlessly with the dark corners of the hallway. I maneuvered silently, inching closer to the twisted doctor-patient drama unfolding in the operation room.
Meanwhile, Dr. Joan played her part, engaging Harley in conversation. "Harleen? What are you doing to my patient? What's the big plan with that syringe?" she asked, feigning curiosity while maintaining a cautious distance.
Harley, never one to miss an opportunity to monologue, grinned as she recognized her old colleague from the asylum. "Oh, hey Joan! It's just a little pick-me-up for our dear Arnold. He's been thinking about ditching his puppet routine, and I thought, 'Nuh-uh, not on my watch.'"
As she rambled on, I silently navigated between covers, avoiding creaky floorboards and discarded medical supplies. My eyes darted between Harley and Wesker, calculating the best moment to intervene.
Harley continued her rant, oblivious to my stealthy approach. "You see, Joan, Mr. Wesker here wants to switch to the plain ol' ventriloquist gig because you're too damn good at your job! So, I brought him to the operation theater to give him a taste of his old self."
Wesker's expression remained a mix of fear and frustration, his struggle against the restraints intensifying. I took a deep breath, positioning myself behind Harley, ready to strike.
As she raised the syringe dramatically, I seized the moment. Emerging from the shadows, I delivered a swift, controlled blow to the back of Harley's head. The oversized syringe clattered to the floor as she crumpled forward, temporarily incapacitated.
"Good job, doc," I quipped, turning to Dr. Joan, who wore a mix of relief and surprise. "Let's get Wesker out of here and--" I said, pausing halfway through my sentence as I felt a hand resting on my shoulder.
Confused, I turned around to see Harley, who was lying on the floor a second ago and should have been unconscious by all intents and purposes, looking at me with an annoyed expression.
"What's the big idea, pal?!" She angrily said. "This is a private reunion party, and you're not invited!" She added, swinging a large wooden mallet, which she seemed to have produced from thin air, at my head without hesitation.
...
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