THE TERROR THAT CAME TO GOTHAM

Act IV – "Stagefright"

"I didn't kill anyone! I'm not Clayface!" Matt Hagen, sat across from Lt. Bullock in the dingy police interrogation room, protested.

Bullock leaned back in his chair, his arms folded and his hat pushed back on his head. The very picture of scepticism. "I saw that flick you were in a coupla years back, Hagen. What was it…? The Short Christmas."

Hagen, who had been claiming innocence with passionate hysteria since being brought in an hour ago, shook his head in confusion. "What does that have to do with anything!?"

"You played a cop in it."

"So!?"

"So, you must be familiar with such terms as 'eyewitnesses' and 'caught red-handed'."

"I didn't–! Look, I was outside, having a smoke, when suddenly that psycho Batman jumps on me and everyone's screaming at me… Jesus, I thought he was gonna kill me… The Bat, I mean."

Bullock sharply banged his hand into the rough metal table, jolting Hagen back into alertness. "We got four witnesses who put you at the scene of the crime! Kneeling over the victim! Cutting her up like some sick freak!"

"I… That wasn't–"

"Sondra Fuller's been taken to hospital; they reckon she may pull through. You better hope she does, 'cause three murders; that's lethal injection for sure, Hagen. Curtains. Fade to black. Your final performance."

Hagen rubbed his forehead. He was sweating, panicked.

Bullock leaned forward and spoke softer. "You cooperate with us – confess – tell us where you got this pseudoderm, maybe things'll go easier for you. Can't hurt to try."

"Pseudo-what? I don't know what you're talking about, Lieutenant."

Bullock banged his fist down again. "D'you see anybody selling tickets at the door when you came in, Hagen? Stop this bullshit act with me before I give you my five-finger review!" He brandished his fist threateningly.

"I… I want to talk to my lawyer…"

Bullock leaned back in his chair once more and nodded. "Oh yeah… Just like in the movies…"

Behind two-way glass, Commissioner Gordon watched with Batman in the shadows.

Batman had been returning to the mansion when he had received a signal from Alfred, alerting him that Hagen was the killer. He had made straight for the front door, only to find Hagen standing outside, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. He had expected Hagen to gloat, like most sadistic murderers, but he was surprisingly intent on maintaining his innocence.

"I heard about Crane, Jim," said Batman. "I'm sorry I wasn't there–"

Gordon waved his hand dismissively. "It's okay. You can't be everywhere." He looked through a folder in his hand, trying to make it seem casual.

Previously, Batman might have left the matter there, but now he felt a need to reach out to Gordon, who had already given him so much.

"How are your family?" he asked.

Gordon sighed. Without looking at Batman he said, "Bad. Things were bad before Crane, even before Dent, but now… Barbara's taking the kids to Delaware. To her mother's…"

"I'm…sorry, Jim."

"Not your fault… It's this city… Barbara's always understood why I do what I do, but there's only so much she can take in all this madness…"

This brought to Batman's mind Alfred's words about his mother and father. "So long as she understands who you are and why you are, there's still hope," he said.

At that, Gordon turned and smiled at the Batman, oddly calmed by this unique show of near-emotion from Gotham's protector. He went back to the file.

Bruce thought about how this wisdom applied to his own relationship with Julie. He knew he would have to tell her about Batman at some point. He could not maintain a dishonest relationship with her, and now that Hagen was in police custody, she was safe again. The dilemma no longer presented itself; she meant too much to him for her not to know. As soon as this Clayface matter was put to rest, he would tell her. He would tell her everything.

"Just when I thought I'd seen it all," said Gordon, reading the file. "Freeze guns, fear gas, mind control…now these disguises. All seems unreal."

"Hagen's acting talent is clearly far more superior than he led us to believe," said Batman. "He successfully impersonated Payne and Fuller and was planning on Bruce Wayne next."

"I just wonder why he tried to kill Fuller without a disguise," said Gordon. "Seems sloppy. But maybe he was just getting overconfident."

Batman watched as Hagen sank his head into his hands at another one of Bullock's tirades. Gordon lit up a cigarette. Something about it, and Gordon's words, attracted Batman's attention; tugging at the corners of his mind.

"Barbara would kill me for this," Gordon said ashamedly, "but I suppose with her gone for the time being, I'm allowed just one guilty pleasure…"

Suddenly various stray thoughts of Batman's were alarmingly focused: Hagen's lack of disguise when he attacked Fuller; his easy takedown outside the mansion; Gordon's cigarette; the pseudoderm…

"Jim!" shouted Batman. "The file!"

Gordon, somewhat taken aback, handed over the documents. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Batman frantically leafed through the papers, looking for something in particular. "Pseudoderm was researched by the CIA for use in undercover missions," he stated, reading through the papers. "But they abandoned it when they found that too many things caused the adhesive to wear off…"

"Yeah," said Gordon, "I read that too. So?"

Batman found the document he wanted and held it before Gordon. It was a chemical report on the pseudoderm adhesive.

"Nicotine causes an imbalance in the epidermis that interferes with the adhesive! Hagen is a smoker; he can't be the killer!"

Gordon stared at the report in disbelief. "But, the witnesses–"

"Classic misdirection," said Batman. "The man they seen attacking Fuller wasn't Hagen, but was disguised as him. He led them downstairs, where the real Hagen was already outside, and hid while everyone's attention was focused elsewhere!"

"Then, that means the killer's still at Wayne Manor!" said Gordon.

"Get your men over there, now!" shouted Batman, preparing to leave via ventilation duct.

"But wait!" said Gordon. "Who is the killer?"

"There is only one person it could be…"

In Wayne Manor's study, Alfred, Preston, Julie and Basil sat around the fireplace, still shaken by recent events.

"I… I still can't believe it was Matt," said Preston. "I mean, he was never a nice guy, but still…"

"He killed Mr. Daggett and Ethan…" said Julie, huddled up on the sofa. "Tried to kill Sondra and me and Bruce… Where is Bruce anyway, Alfred?"

Alfred draped a comforting arm around her. "I'm sure he'll be back soon, Miss Madison. And as for Mr. Hagen, let us just be glad he is finally caught. Eh, Basil?" He looked to his friend, standing at the fireplace, for words of comfort.

Basil slowly turned to face the others. "I wouldn't start taking your final bows just yet, Alfred." He held a gun in his hand, trained on the three unsuspecting people on the couch.

"Basil? What is this?" asked Alfred.

He chuckled. "Oh, I'm not Basil." He reached up to his face and tugged at the artificial skin, pulling off a pseudoderm mask and grey-haired wig. Underneath was a young man in his late twenties with long dark hair tied back.

"My God…" gasped Alfred.

"You're the killer?" said Preston. "You're Clayface?"

"But… Who are you?" asked Julie.

Their captor seemed aggravated at this. "Who am I?!" he shouted in outrage. "I'm the one who made sure you were on set on time! The one who brought you your drinks! Your props! The one who took care of your every, insignificant, little errand that you couldn't be bothered to do yourselves!"

Preston had to think for a moment. "Burt? Burt Weston?"

"Yes!" he shouted.

"You're Clayface?" asked Preston in even more disbelief.

"Of course not!" shouted another voice at the door. All heads turned to see the real Basil Karlo, dressed in a sharp tuxedo that Alfred recognised as one of Bruce's. He strolled easily across the room without the aid of his familiar cane.

"I am Clayface!" Karlo proclaimed, taking the gun from Weston.

Weston started applauding. "And wasn't he great? His best performance yet!"

"Oh shut up, you fool," said Karlo, shooting Weston in the gut. He crumpled to the floor as the others jumped in fright. "Your use is at an end…"

"Basil…?" said Alfred.

Karlo grinned, his former charm and frailty gone, there was only malice and arrogance now. "Well, Preston my boy, you did say this room would be perfect for the 'big reveal'…

"Yes, I am Clayface. The original and the one and only! That role made me who I am, without it I would be nothing.

"So when I heard of a remake, I was devastated." Karlo, gun in hand, began pacing before his audience. "Already living in seclusion, I was convinced I would fade away, remembered only for Clayface. And I was happy with that, for I loved the role so dearly. But a remake! It would shatter everything. To quote the Bard: I have lost my reputation. I have lost the immortal part of myself and what remains... is bestial...

"Knowing my resentment would not deter its production, I played along, acting the frail and feeble old fool in your shameless game!" He waved the gun at the others.

Karlo leered at Weston's bleeding body. "Young Burt had already corresponded with me some months before; another fan of mine. His loyalty to me and to the original film was so much that together we hatched a plan to destroy this inconceivable mockery!

"Weston, an aspiring special effects artist, had acquired a substance called pseudoderm via underground connections. It could be used to craft realistic disguises which, when combined with my superior acting talent, could fool anybody!

"First I visited that corpulent oaf Daggett whilst disguised as you, Preston, knowing that since you were on live television at the time, it would suitably confused the police.

"I had thought I might dissuade Daggett from ruining my legacy, but when it became clear he was just as corrupt as the rest of you, he had to go.

"Then there was Bennett. I snuck away during our first meeting here and once again used your visage, Preston, to simulate an argument while you took a walk outdoors. Given you and Ethan's disagreements, it once again implicated you, while casting enigma over the entire situation.

"I then attempted to do you in, Julie, whilst disguised as Sondra, but that idiot Wayne got in the way. When I saw the closeness between you two though, I could not resist using his image to get closer to you…"

Julie winced at the thought.

"While I was procuring some of Wayne's clothing to aid my disguise, I chanced upon Sondra herself. Quickly applying a spare mask of Hagen, I decided to take her into the bargain." He grinned cruelly again. "It has been a long time… But I misread her feelings for Hagen. I had to kill her before she sounded alarm, but little I knew how well it would work out. Weston was already disguised as me for cover, and when I was discovered by the rest of you I fled downstairs and hid in a cloakroom, knowing Hagen was outside and a prime target for his confused captors.

"With Hagen implicated as Clayface, I can kill the rest of you – ensuring that I will never be replaced or forgotten – and make it look like it was Hagen's 'accomplice', Weston. Of course, the poor, feeble old man somehow managed to turn the killer's weapon against him in a struggle. Then I will be the only Clayface. The best stories end in tragedy, don't they, Alfred?"

Alfred stared at his friend's face, searching for a remnant of the man he knew and found none. "Good Lord," he gasped. "You're insane."

Karlo sneered. "Genius is often unrecognised in its time. But I expected you, of all people, Alfred, to understand."

"I cannot understand murder, sir," said Alfred. "Not for any reason!"

"But I can," said yet another voice.

Turning towards its source, Alfred gasped in horror. It was the Scarecrow.

Karlo seemed alarmed by this intrusion. "What…? Who are you?" he demanded with his pistol.

The Scarecrow eerily slinked into the room, his hands spread wide in a mockery of innocence. "Doctor Jonathan Crane, Mr. Karlo, and I am Providence. You may be unfamiliar with my exploits, but I am more than aware of yours."

"Basil, this man is a criminal!" said Alfred, hoping enough sense was left in Karlo. "A sadistic murderer! You can't trust him!"

"He cannot understand your greatness, nor mine," said Crane. "Men like us will never be understood in our time."

Karlo seemed seduced by Crane's words. "You…know of my greatness?"

Crane held his hand outstretched, his fingers twitching. "Your performance, your ability, is pure fear, pure terror! You make it dance before the screen like no other. It is your craft!"

"Yes…" said Karlo. "Yes! Finally someone who understands!"

"I've always admired your skill, Mr. Karlo," said Crane. "And when I heard about these murders I knew it had to be you. Only you would have the skill, the understanding of fear; making everyone terrified by their own lack of understanding – pure genius!

"I had been refining a little trick of my own before I came here with the intention of proposing a partnership."

"Partnership?" said Karlo, clearly intrigued.

"Don't, Basil!" Alfred tried once again.

"Silence!" boomed Karlo. To Crane he urged, "Go on."

"I need an ally. Someone as intelligent and skilled as myself, unburdened by the fear of morality like so many pathetic fools. With your talent and my hallucinogen, plus our combined knowledge and understanding of terror, we could destroy every last ignorant cretin in this diseased city! Let their own fears – their own ignorance – tear them apart!"

Karlo seemed uneasy. "The whole city… I… I just wanted them to recognise me…"

"And they shall!" Knowing he had Karlo in his grasp, the Scarecrow stepped to his side, no longer wary of the gun. "The whole city has been ignorant of your genius – and mine – for too long! We could do so much together. On its own, my compound is deadly enough, but in your hands it could be a masterpiece! Gotham will lie desolate and they will never forget us!"

Karlo looked up with menace in his eyes and Alfred knew he was gone now.

"Yes…" Karlo hissed.

Crane's rag-covered head turned to face the others on the couch. "But first they will have to be dealt with."

Karlo seemed flustered. "Oh… Of course, yes… It's just a pity that it will be so… unromantic. Unlike the others."

"Desperate times, Basil," said Crane, with no emotion whatsoever.

Crane grabbed Julie from the couch and dragged her onto her feet.

"No!" she screamed. "Let me go!"

"You can't!" shouted Alfred. "She's all he's got!"

Alfred leapt to his feet and attempted to intercede, but Karlo struck him unconscious with the butt of the gun.

"I am sorry, Alfred," said Karlo, with genuine woe. "But I cannot be forgotten…"

"Yes!" said Crane. He passed Julie's struggling form into Karlo's hands. "Here," he said, producing a scalpel. "You should use this. Much more fitting."

Karlo traded weapons with Crane, who kept the gun trained on Preston.

Tears now streamed down Julie's cheeks. "Basil, please, don't do this... I don't want to die..."

Karlo pressed the scalpel to Julie's throat, his arm snaked around her midsection, and whispered into her ear, "Shhhh..."

"Basil, no!" Preston yelled.

"Shut up!" shouted Crane.

"This isn't you," Julie said through the tears. "Basil Karlo isn't a murderer."

"Basil Karlo was a lie!" shouted Karlo. His eyes were wild and manic now, staring without pity or remorse into Julie's innocent and pleading gaze. "I am Clayface!"

"You don't need to do this, Basil," said Julie. "You don't need to become a monster to be remembered."

"Don't listen to her!" shouted Crane. "She fears you because she does not – cannot – understand you! The oldest and strongest fear is fear of the unknown! Use that fear against her! Against them all!"

"She's right!" said Preston, despite the continued threat of the gun. "The man that inspired me to get into movies; that's who Basil Karlo is! That's how he should be remembered! As an actor; an artist; a creator; an inspiration! Not this!"

"We... We were never trying to replace you, Basil," said Julie, trying to keep her voice steady. "We were trying to honour you. We want you to be remembered too..."

Crane held the gun menacingly closer to Preston. "But one day you'll still be forgotten," said Crane. "If you join me, you will be remembered forever!"

Karlo's eyes flashed desperately from Julie to Crane to Preston. Back and forth, between all three, back and forth, all his options dancing widly in his head, all struggling for dominance, before finally he settled on the one person who was telling him what he wanted to hear. Crane.

"I… I cannot be forgotten…"

"Yes!" shouted Crane. "Become fear! Become terror! Become CLAYFACE!"

Preston and Julie both screamed as Karlo plunged the blade into her throat, ending her life in a single line of crimson blood.

Preston held his head in his hands, tears running between his fingers, as Julie's body fell to the floor at Karlo's feet, next to Alfred's unconscious form.

"You cannot hide and cower from your fears, Basil," said Crane, almost as consolation. "You must meet them head on. Master them so that they do not master you."

Crane pulled Preston to his feet. "This one next; he talks too much."

Karlo was still staring down at Julie's body. "I… I must… I…"

"Basil!" Crane attempted to shock him back to reality.

"I… am… Clayface…" said Karlo in a monotone. He knelt by Julie's body. "I must take her face…"

"There's no time, Basil!" said Crane. "I took care of the police outside, but there's no telling how long we've got!"

Karlo rose and took Preston from Crane. "Yes…" he said. "Must finish…"

Preston remained tearfully silent as Karlo restrained him with surprising force; the blade pressed against his neck. He knew Karlo was too far gone for sense now.

Suddenly the lights in the room went out and they were plunged into darkness, save for the flickering fireplace.

"What is this!?" said Karlo. "Police?"

"No," said Crane, looking up. "Him."

A black shape descended from the darkness and kicked the gun out from Crane's nimble fingers. It was the Batman.

In the ensuing confusion, Karlo pulled Preston through the glass doors leading to outside the mansion.

Batman meanwhile faced Crane. "Come for another dose?" said Crane. He had been saving his compound due to its scarcity, but he unleashed a blast of the gas from his wrist-mounted aerosol.

Batman inhaled the cloud deeply. Then he punched Crane straight in the ribs.

Doubled over, Crane wheezed, "But how?"

Batman struck Crane in the side of his head, sending him to the ground. Standing over the fallen Scarecrow he said, "Your compound focuses on fear, Crane. I have none! Not anymore!"

Broken and injured, Crane managed to chuckle. "Oh, but you will. I know all your secrets, 'Batman'. I'll figure out who you are, then you won't be able to cower in the shadows anymore…"

Batman grabbed Crane's collar and hauled him to his feet and face-to-face. "I know your secrets too, Crane! Your fears! You're afraid that without these tricks," he ripped off Crane's wrist-aerosol, "and gimmicks," he pulled off Crane's mask, "people will see you for what you really are – a skinny little boy, so afraid of being bullied and picked-on that he got smart…"

Batman dropped Crane and he fell onto his knees. He had lost his smug grin. Batman kicked him in the stomach, hard.

"But that wasn't enough, was it, Crane!? You had to prove to everyone how smart you are, didn't you? You had to make them suffer! You are so pathetic and petty that you can't stand anyone who is actually content or happy!"

Crane, doubled over in pain, started to crawl towards the main door. "No! No, I made them see their fears…" he protested weakly.

"Your fears have defined your whole life, Crane!" shouted Batman. "You've build up this… persona," he waved the Scarecrow mask, "so much that without it you are nothing! That's what you're really afraid of."

Crane, gasping and grunting pitifully, was nearing the door and Batman was about to secure him, when he heard Alfred.

"Leave him!" His butler had regained consciousness and was clutching his head with one hand and pointing towards the exterior doors with the other. "Karlo took Payne outside! You have to stop him!"

Batman turned back to the main door, but Crane had already gone. Alfred was right – he could wait. But in making for the other exit, he was stopped dead in his tracks by a devastating sight.

Julie's body.

The Dark Knight knelt by her lifeless form, his cape pooling around him like a shadow.

Alfred put an hand on his master's shoulder. There was too much to say. This was not the time.

"Sir," he said simply, "you are needed."

Batman stood, his face a mask of anger and fury. Alfred had never before seen it. He feared it.

Just before Batman left the study, Alfred called to him. "Sir… Do not forget who you are and why you are."

Batman stopped at the door a moment before looking back at Alfred, once again himself. Then he gave chase.

"As black as hell, as dark as night!"

Karlo dragged Preston down the dark hillside, confused and aimlessly rambling. They came to a steep drop onto a river below.

Batman glided through the air towards them, his cape returning to a flexible state after he landed. He knew the cliff overlooked the river that led to the Batcave's concealed waterfall entrance. He also knew it was a lethal height.

"Karlo!" he shouted to get the murderer's attention. He was too close to the edge, both physically and mentally. Batman could not allow another to die – not even Julie's killer.

Julie…

He put his emotions aside. This was no time was grief or guilt, nor rage or hate. This was a time for justice to be done.

"Let Payne go, Karlo!" Batman shouted.

"There is no Karlo! There is only Clayface now!" Karlo proclaimed as he stepped perilously close to the cliff edge.

Then Batman noticed Karlo's attire – he was wearing one of his own tuxedos, but that wasn't what alerted him. It was the cufflinks. Karlo was wearing the cufflinks that Lucius had designed, with the miniature flash-grenades in them. He was too far away to activate their audio sensor, but maybe Preston…

"Payne," said Batman, his voice firm and even, conveying great importance. "Listen to me. If you want to survive this, close your eyes and click your fingers."

Preston gave him an understandably confused and panicked look.

"What is this trickery!?" cried Karlo.

Batman had no time to convince Preston. "Now, Payne!"

"Enough!" shouted Karlo. "I will not be forgotten!"

As his scalpel dug into Preston's neck, the young film director took his chances and clicked.

Batman also closed his eyes as a blinding flash illuminated the night-time hillside for a second. Karlo, in his blind alarm, released Preston and staggered backwards.

"NO!" shouted Batman as Karlo lost his footing and tumbled over the edge. Batman threw himself forward but could not catch him in time. He only just managed to see ripples in the black water below before even they dispersed into calm nothing.

At the other side of Wayne Manor, Jonathan Crane was running for his freedom, muttering and mumbling to himself, lost in the darkness.

"Bat… Man… Batman! Secrets… Fears… Batman! Scarecrow… Batman!"

He ran straight into the fist of Commissioner James W. Gordon.

"Nice hit, Commish," said Bullock, aiming his pistol at Crane's dazed form. Four other uniformed officers also covered him, having arrived in the Batman's wake. "Talk about a chance encounter."

"Jonathan Crane," said Gordon, pulling out his handcuffs. "You are under arrest." He restrained Crane's bony wrists behind his back. Then, whispering in his ear, "And it's gonna stick this time, you son of a bitch."

He handed the delirious Scarecrow over to Bullock. "Lieutenant, take care of him. The rest of you, come with me." Gordon and the other officers headed for the mansion.

"Right this way, Doctor," said Bullock, roughly collaring Crane. "Follow the Yellow Brick Road."

The great stone memorial rose out of the twisted brown grass and stood, grim and silent in the cemetery, marking the resting place of his parents with solemnity and solitude.

Bruce stood over it, his eyes concealed behind designer sunglasses, and felt guilt bite through him like the chilling wind. Although he rarely visited this place, the grave seemed always to be following him.

"I failed again," he said aloud to the monument. "Another person I care for… Julie… is lying in a grave like this one, far too early…

"It wasn't my fault this time… But that's no consolation." He choked back tears on his next words. "Is everyone I feel for doomed to die? Because of some… maniac I couldn't stop in time?"

He took a deep breath. "I know I don't come out here a lot… Maybe I should. But I've been wondering lately…" He paused and briefly considered not asking. "Would you be proud of me?"

"I think they would have, Master Wayne." Alfred, who had been waiting with the car, now stood alongside Bruce. "But what you must ask yourself is this: Would it matter if they weren't?"

His only answer was the wind.

"You are your own man, Master Wayne. You cannot let your fear control you."

Bruce nodded sombrely. But there was more.

"He tricked us all," said Alfred. "With those… blasted disguises and his theatrics… If I hadn't been so bloody star-struck, like a child, I might have…" His anger diffused and the words trailed off.

"It was the smoking that gave him away," said Bruce plainly. "I remembered you said that he mentioned having recently quit smoking. I should have realised there and then. We were both... distracted." He let the wind speak again. "The police never found a body. He might still be out there, somewhere."

"Let us hope we never see him again." Alfred frowned. "He was a great man once..."

"Even the greatest can fall from great heights," said Bruce.

"Does that include you, sir? Doctor Crane may be able to deduce your true identity with what he knows."

"No... He thinks he knows me, but he only knows what I... what I used to fear. And, unlike him, I am not my fears."

They both stood in silence a moment, reflecting. "I feel like… there should be more," said Bruce. "That Julie's death should be… bigger… Should have more of an impact… It still hurts, but all I want to do is get back out there."

Alfred smiled thinly. "When I was an actor myself, we always used to say that the best parts were the tragic ones. Not because of the tragedy itself, but rather how the character overcame it.

"It is not the tragedy in our lives that defines us, Master Wayne. It's what we do next."

Bruce returned his old friend's smile. The two men stood by the graveside, paying respect to those who would never be forgotten, and let the wind blow through them.

Epilogue

He remembered falling through the darkness and into the cold water. He remembered a great black bat. He remembered the freezing water enveloping him, carrying his elderly body like driftwood through turmoil until the blackness surrounding him seeped into his mind.

But now Basil Karlo awoke into a bright haze.

Lying down. He was lying down. There were machines beeping next to him and dull metal everywhere. A hospital room, perhaps?

Memories started to creep back: the Batman, the Scarecrow, Wayne Manor, the cliff. But where was he now? He struggled to raise himself.

"Careful, Mr. Karlo," said a voice in the haze. "We wouldn't want you to… 'break a leg', as you actors say."

Karlo squinted, his vision still blurry, and he made out an obscure figure in the shadows.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Where am I?"

"You are quite safe in this facility. Recuperating," the figure spoke in a hushed tone. "You were in quite a terrible condition when we pulled you out of the water, but you shall pull through. I'll make certain of that."

"What do you want with me?" gasped Karlo, his voice fading.

"We share a common enemy," said the figure. "Batman. He was the only thing that stopped you achieving your goal."

The blurry figure moved closer to Karlo's bed, but he was starting to lose his grip on consciousness.

"Join with me, Mr. Karlo, and I can help you. I'm putting together a little… 'club' for people like us… Together we can take down the Batman and ensure that you are never forgotten…"

The figure leaned over him. "What do you say to a sequel, Basil?"

Before blacking out again, Karlo grinned. "This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship…"

FINIS…?

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They each have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts…"

–William Shakespeare, "As You Like It", Act II Scene 7