Gotham State Penitentiary had seen its share of madmen, but few as flamboyantly unpredictable as the Joker. On the surface, the institution ran with rigid schedules, daily roll calls, and barred cells—but within its gray walls, Warden Crichton's unconventional theories of penology had transformed it into something that often resembled a recreation center more than a maximum-security prison.
Beneath the late afternoon sun, a baseball game unfolded on the prison grounds. Inmates cheered, laughed, and shouted with gusto as the Joker, dressed in a striped uniform with his trademark maniacal grin intact, stepped up to bat. His orange curls bounced beneath his cap, and his white-painted face was etched with anticipation.
"Fire it to me, baby!" he cackled. "Let's see what you've got!"
A guard pitched. The Joker swung.
Crack.
The ball soared into the sky—but it wasn't a ball at all. It was a decoy, a trigger. A giant coiled spring, hidden in the field's outfield under a painted tarp, launched the Joker like a jack-in-the-box skyward. He sailed over the penitentiary's walls in a blur of purple and white, laughing all the way down into a safety net hidden behind a grove of trees.
By the time the guards noticed the spring, the Joker was gone—vanished with theatrical flair, and not even a goodbye note.
In the opulent music room of Wayne Manor, Dick Grayson tapped impatiently at the piano keys.
"Chopin again?" he groaned.
"Chopin always," Aunt Harriet replied from her chair, knitting with the calm intensity of someone determined to civilize the young. "Music is the language of the soul, Dick. You'll understand one day."
Bruce Wayne, seated in a high-backed leather chair, nodded as he read from the Gotham Gazette. "She's right, Dick. Cultivation of the mind is as important as strength of the body."
"Yes, Bruce," Dick said with a sigh, striking a sour note.
Before another lecture could begin, Alfred entered quietly with a tray of snacks. He paused only briefly to whisper, "Sir… the Batphone."
Bruce rose, carefully setting down the paper. "Oh, we're going to miss that ballgame if we don't hurry."
"Holy Koufax!" Dick exclaimed.
They exchanged knowing glances. Aunt Harriet blinked. "Ballgame? What ballgame?"
"We'll explain later," Bruce said with a smile as he and Dick exited through the study.
A moment later, the grandfather clock slid aside and they disappeared down the Batpoles.
The Batmobile roared into Gotham Police Headquarters.
"The Joker's escaped," Commissioner Gordon said without preamble.
Chief O'Hara threw his hands up. "Sprung right under our noses, he was. Used a spring the size of a locomotive!"
Batman examined the crude bust the Joker had left behind at the spring's base. It was a caricature—bulging eyes, wild smile, a finger pointed mockingly.
"He left this on purpose," Batman said. "A clue."
"Or a joke," O'Hara muttered.
"Possibly both," Batman said, eyes narrowing. "Where does one often see a bust like this?"
"In a museum," Robin offered. "Or a Hall of Fame."
Batman nodded. "Exactly. And if I recall correctly, the Gotham Museum of Modern Art opened a Comedians Hall of Fame exhibit today. I also read that they chose to exclude the Joker."
Robin's eyes widened. "Holy insult!"
"Enough to provoke him into retaliation," Batman said. "And if I'm right, the museum's jewel collection is also housed there."
Gordon stood, alarmed. "You think he'd steal it?"
"I think we need to get there. Now."
The Gotham Museum buzzed with activity as guests began exiting for the day. The Boy Wonder scanned the marble halls while Batman studied a newly installed bust in the comedian exhibit.
"The Joker's in it," Robin said, stunned. "They changed the display."
"Maybe to avoid provoking him," Batman said. "Or maybe…"
A soft mechanical click caught Batman's attention. He turned sharply toward a statue in the far corner—but it remained still.
"Something wrong?" Robin asked.
Batman hesitated. "I thought I saw it move."
"Spooky," Robin muttered.
A staff member passed by. "You'll find the director in the annex next door."
"Thank you," Batman said. "Come, Robin. We're not finished here."
As they stepped out, the last guard began locking the doors behind them.
"Nothing gets in once this place is shut," he said with pride.
Batman stopped mid-stride.
"Nothing gets in," he repeated softly.
"What's that mean?" Robin asked.
Batman turned slowly. "He didn't say anything about getting out."
Inside the now-locked museum, the busts in the comedian exhibit creaked—and twisted.
The Joker emerged from his hiding spot inside the statue, followed by a crew of garishly dressed henchmen: Oliver, Stanley, Ernie, and W.C. Fields.
"Ah, my comic cohorts," the Joker beamed, "to steal a treasure under the noses of Gotham's greatest defenders—it's enough to bring tears to my eyes!"
He tossed his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the marble.
By the time Batman and Robin returned, it was too late.
The museum was empty—and the jewel collection was gone.
"Outwitted," Robin said, stunned. "He robbed the place from the inside out."
"A trick worthy of the Joker," Batman muttered. "But this isn't the end."
Later that night, beneath the flickering neon signs of Gotham Pier's abandoned amusement park, the Joker unveiled his latest invention—a custom-built utility belt, to match Batman's own.
"No longer will that infernal sash outshine me!" he declared. "My belt shall do everything his can… and more!"
Queenie, one of his new accomplices, clapped in delight. "Gee, Joker! Can I try it?"
"Not for your grubby fingers!" he snapped. "This is my masterpiece, not a toy."
He turned toward a tattered copy of the Gotham Gazette. "The SS Gotham is launching Saturday. A luxury liner fit for kings… or for me."
"You're going to steal a cruise ship?" Ernie asked.
The Joker grinned. "Not steal it, my foolish flatfoot. I'm going to own it. I'll seize it at sea—and no Batman to stop me."
The next morning, in the mayor's office, Commissioner Gordon held a small clown doll in his hand. It had been hurled through their window—mocking them.
"Another taunt from the Joker," he said.
Bruce Wayne entered moments later, fresh from a meeting on Gotham Shipping Lines.
"Odd," he said, eyeing the doll. "Mind if I keep that? A curious souvenir."
The commissioner shrugged. "If it helps us sleep better, take it."
As Bruce and Dick left, Gordon sighed. "We're in over our heads. If only Batman were here…"
Back at the Batcave, the doll lay on a metal scanner while Batman adjusted a lens.
"No secret ink," Robin said, watching the results. "Just dust."
"Dust patterns are enough," Batman replied. "They may point to a location."
Minutes later, his eyes lit up.
"The Joker's been hiding near the Gotham Pier Amusement Park," he said. "And that clown doll—it was a reference to opera."
Robin tilted his head. "Opera?"
"Pagliacci," Batman said. "The tragic clown."
"Oh boy," Robin muttered. "That means the Joker isn't finished yet."
"Far from it," Batman said, snapping his cape. "He's just getting started."
To Be Continued...