Gotham City simmered in unrest.
The Joker's televised stunts had turned a curious public into a worried one. The masked maniac's escape, live broadcasts, and a series of mocking crimes had painted the Caped Crusaders as outmatched, their every move countered by the clown's sinister ingenuity—and his own infernal utility belt.
Bruce Wayne switched off the television in his study. The broadcast had shown Commissioner Gordon, expression grim, offering hollow reassurances while the news anchor quoted children praying for Batman to save them. The weight of expectation pressed heavy.
"Turn it off, Alfred," Bruce said.
Alfred obliged but hesitated. "If I may, sir… young Master Harold's prayer may not be misplaced. But public morale is dwindling. The Joker has struck a nerve."
Bruce stood, hands clenched. "And he won't stop. Not until we catch him in the act. Again."
Just then, the television flickered back to life—unprompted.
Static gave way to the garish grin of the Joker, beaming from a mock game show set. The title card behind him read: What's My Crime?
"Good evening, Gotham!" the Joker chimed. "Having trouble, Batman? So lost, so confused? Allow me to help! Let's play a game…"
Robin, seated beside Bruce, leaned forward, jaw tightening. "He's taunting us again."
The Joker continued, addressing an imaginary panel of blindfolded contestants: "Does this crime involve… a belt?" He chuckled, eyes glinting. "Right again! But there's a switch coming… Oh, but it's not electric."
As the Joker cackled, a henchman darted on-screen and whispered frantically in his ear. "Joker—cop cars! They're in the street!"
"Oh dear!" the Joker cried in faux alarm. "Time to cheese it!"
The screen went black.
Robin jumped to his feet. "He was giving away clues!"
Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Not for our benefit. For the thrill of it. Still… 'a switch,' 'blindfolds,' and 'laughs good.' Clumsy grammar—"
"Should be 'laughs well,'" Alfred chimed in. "Which reminds me, sir… Professor James J. Lafwell recently returned from Africa. He's donating a collection of tribal masks and rare artifacts to Gotham's Last Longer Warehouse for temporary storage."
Bruce's eyes lit up. "Of course. 'Blindfolds,' masks… and Lafwell. Joker's crimes are riddles dressed as jokes."
Robin was already striding toward the study doors. "To the Batcave?"
"To the Batcave."
The Batmobile roared through Gotham's steel arteries, tearing through dusk's shadows until it reached the Last Longer Warehouse. Batman and Robin rappelled silently from the rooftop, capes fluttering behind them like night's own wings.
They breached the upper floor and dropped down among tall crates, their boots whispering against the dust.
"Stay sharp," Batman murmured.
A sudden rustle.
Then—explosions of confetti.
The Joker erupted from behind a stack of tribal shields, his face manic with delight. "Welcome to the party, bats! What's a bash without a few fireworks?"
Fist-sized flashbangs burst around them. Robin stumbled, disoriented. Batman hurled a smoke pellet, but before they could regain control, mechanical arms sprang from behind the Joker's crate, binding them with titanium coils.
"Tied up with other things, I see!" Joker crowed. "Now, now, don't get all choked up!"
Batman strained against the binds. "This isn't over."
"Oh, but it is—for you! Next time I show up, I'll be launching my most explosive performance yet!" The Joker blew them a mocking kiss and vanished into the shadows with his henchmen.
The next morning
Newspapers across Gotham screamed the headlines:
"JOKER OUTSMARTS BATMAN AGAIN!"
"WHERE IS OUR DARK KNIGHT?"
In Commissioner Gordon's office, Batman stood stiffly as the Commissioner slammed down the latest paper.
"This has gone far enough," Gordon growled. "The city's faith in you—"
"I know," Batman interrupted. "And I won't let Gotham down."
Robin, beside him, looked stricken. "We're trying our best, Commissioner."
Gordon softened. "And we know that, son. But the Joker is using your image as a weapon."
They turned as a TV flickered on nearby. Joker's manic face filled the screen once more.
"Hello again, Gotham! Did you miss me? I'll give your dim detectives a final hint. Something big is coming… a show-stopper, if you will!"
Robin frowned. "'Show-stopper.' A show?"
Batman shook his head. "Too obvious. He's toying with us. He wants us to think theater. But the real clue is in his pride. He wants an audience."
"But what audience?" Robin asked.
Batman turned to Gordon. "What public event is scheduled today?"
"The launch of the S.S. Gotham City," Gordon replied slowly. "You're expected to christen it."
"Then we have our stage," Batman said grimly. "And Joker his audience."
Later that day, Gotham Harbor
A thousand spectators filled the dockyard as the sleek new liner loomed like a floating palace. Cameras flashed. Reporters whispered.
And in front of the ceremonial podium stood Batman and Robin.
Robin leaned close. "You sure this is wise? He might try something big."
"He will. That's why we're here."
Commissioner Gordon approached. "Champagne's ready. Just waiting on your signal."
An attendant handed Batman the chilled bottle, its label reading: 1949 — A Very Good Year.
Batman's eyes narrowed.
"Something wrong?" Gordon asked.
"Just a headache," Batman replied, plucking two small tablets from his utility belt. He handed one to Robin. "Take this."
"Huh? But I don't have—"
"Doctor's orders."
With the crowd cheering, Batman raised the bottle. "I hereby christen thee, S.S. Gotham City!"
As the bottle cracked against the hull, a strange vapor hissed out from the cork—thick, chemical, laced with paralyzing gas.
The crowd gasped as Batman and Robin collapsed.
Laughter echoed from above.
On a scaffold, the Joker and his crew appeared, Queenie beside him flipping a large red switch labeled: AIRWAVE TRANSMISSION.
"Good evening, Gotham!" Joker howled. "This scene will be reenacted with a twist! Batman and Robin—frozen in time! Unless I'm given the deed to this lovely liner by midnight!"
His laughter crackled over the speakers.
But suddenly, Batman stirred.
Then Robin.
They stood slowly, calmly.
Joker's grin faltered.
"What?! Impossible! That cork was loaded with gas!"
Batman tapped his utility belt. "We analyzed your replica belt and prepared. Universal antidote tablets, taken just in time."
Robin smirked. "You really thought a vintage champagne from '49 would still have a perfect cork seal?"
The Joker's face twisted. "You… you tricked me!"
Batman hurled a Batarang. It sliced through the scaffold's support. Joker's henchmen stumbled.
Robin leapt, tackling one. Batman landed a punch to another's jaw.
The crowd roared as Joker attempted to flee—only to be clotheslined by a stray rope.
Gordon's officers flooded in.
"It's over, Joker," Batman said. "You've lost."
Still grinning, the Joker muttered, "Lost? I made Gotham laugh again."
"Yes," Batman replied. "But no one's laughing now."
That evening
Back at Wayne Manor, Bruce sipped tea while Dick tapped listlessly at the piano.
"Can I skip the lesson tonight?" he asked Aunt Harriet.
"Absolutely not, young man. No more tales of masked maniacs and sordid stunts."
Bruce gave Alfred a knowing smile.
Alfred bowed slightly. "I'll bring cookies."
As Dick sulked, Bruce turned to the window, Gotham's skyline in shadow.
Outside, peace had returned… for now.
But in the silence, Bruce heard only the Joker's final words:
"Next time, you'll get the real show-stopper."
To Be Continued....