Arkham Institution. No
asylum anymore. The sign blares brown and dull, emanating the cool
light of professional apathy, no dramatics. The place seemed
determined to combat its gothic-horror exterior and colorful
inhabitants by being as boring as possible inside. 11:00 in the
morning. Not the most interesting time to enter any sort of
confinement, walking in quietly in the middle of the morning. Better
to be dragged through darkness, eerily glowing lamps casting green
light on the sharp angles of your face, grimacing or grinning,
doesnt matter which, as long as the eyes are right – pupils
darting like a caught insect, listening to your own sounds and
basking in the barely masked fright-mist in the voices of the guards.
That was how it should
be. That was how the Joker always came inno, he wasnt the one.
The Joker entered proudly, madly, shoulders square even in his
straitjacket, lending the piece of rough cloth the vibrant feel of
his own outlandish attire. Wing-green hair plastered in a single
shaft, mouth stretched in the permanent upside-down triangle.
Interesting how the Jokers main instrument of terror was not his
hands, not even his eyes or voice but his smile.