Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: DC, please don't sue me! I'm just a nerd with a keyboard.

Whenever I tell people that I'm writing a story with a main character who's a Black kid in blackface, the reaction is understandably confused, and a little angry.

Please don't misunderstand, I do not condone blackface. Not even when Zoe Saldana did it.

This story is not a celebration of blackface nor is it a justification. Everything this story comes from me asking myself, "What if the Joker was Black?"

When the news about the Three Jokers first broke, I was ecstatic. Not only was it a great way to resolve the character's changes, but it also reintroduced the idea that the Joker could be anyone! "The Joker's not gay!" exclaimed enraged hetero parents at Lego Batman. Now I can say, "Oh yeah, which Joker isn't gay? There's three of them you know." And if anyone ever talks about casting a non-white man as the Joker and it gets backlash, we can go "There are three different Jokers, of course at least one of them isn't white!"

When I realized that latter point, I started thinking about what a Black Joker would be like. I realized almost immediately that I didn't like the idea. The Joker's entire philosophy is something that I don't think really speaks to the experience of the majority of Black people. The Joker's cosmic level nihilism is predicated on absolutely nothing, as evidenced by his fabrication of different origin stories meant to justify his rage. While The Killing Joke brings us as close as ever to an official origin for him, that is the origin of one interpretation of the Joker.

I started thinking of the Joker's essential themes and essence. I asked my self "at the end of the day, what is the Joker?" The Joker is a Trickster much like Buggs Bunny, who challenges our social customs and expectations. But the Joker uses these challenges to distort all aspects of reality which we take for granted into something monstrous. He believes that in chaos, a story may continue. His chaos is necessary for Batman to exist, and as long as there is a Batman there will be ten thousand Jokers, or at least one. Ultimately, the Joker sees reality and our commitment to it as evidence of the greatest cosmic joke ever. The logic of the joke is something known only to him, and he doesn't bother explaining it to people because he knows they'd never understand. To the Joker, we're all just trying to walk across bridges made from flashlight beams.

The reason I don't think the Joker's character works for the average Black man is due to how unfocused his critiques are. The Joker finds the world and society hilarious, but rarely states any specific aspect he finds more reprehensible than others. I think this is because the Joker's character has always been treated as race-neutral, ie white, by the writers. He doesn't have a generational trauma to look back on. He doesn't have anything by which people routinely discriminate against him. He's shown being poor in some of his origin stories, but even then he doesn't specify whether he blames that on the rich, the government, or the economic system as a whole. He isn't even recognized as crazy unless he absolutely wants to be. The political neutrality works for the Joker, but I don't really believe it can work with anyone of a demographic who's very existence is politicized. Or, at least, it can't work in any capacity that I would still consider representation.

Minstrel is the exact opposite of the Joker. He hates society, but he has the context necessary to identify which aspect of society bothers him the most: racism and white supremacy. Minstrel's nihilism isn't based on ersatz traumas concocted for jokes, but is instead based on real, identifiable generational and personal traumas that shape his identity. The Minstrel is the Minstrel because of the Rape of Africa, Slavery, Jim Crow, the Black Wallstreet Massacre, the Fred Hampton Murder, starvation in Haiti, mass incarceration, the AIDS epidemic, the manufactured crack epidemic, COINTELPRO, the Libyan Slave Trade, and every atrocity to befall Black people because we are Black. His nihilism is based on the surreal feeling when rage meets dejection as one realizes that there is little they can do as an individual to prevent a slow genocide against their people, and the fury that inspires them to do whatever they can.

Minstrel is the living embodiment of the old tale of the enslaved man who dies, discovers that God and St. Peter do not admit Negroes, and decides to sneak in to heaven and have as much destructive fun as he can. Minstrel is the Flying Fool who woke up and said "fuck it" then continued on his mad, mad day.

Blackface is often treated as a tool of humiliation and shame, but I and Minstrel see it differently. With Blackface, the white society was attempting to take what they fear about Black people and make it something they could mock. The 'simple mindedness' was a stand-in for our supposed animalistic, violent natures. The physical features of the minstrel and his friends (Sambo, Nat, Sapphire, Jemima, Rastuss, etc) evoked every physical feature we actually had, which they feared. Our dark skin scared them, so they made it darker. Our big lips scared them, so they made them bigger and gave them sinister smiles. They feared that we didn't have souls, so they gave us large, expressionless eyes. They feared our sheer numbers and their inability to recognize us, so they gave us nondescript faces that blended together. Through the minstrel show, white society allowed itself the opportunity to "reclaim" power over their basic fears.

Why does Minstrel wear Blackface? Because he wants to draw on that fear and weaponize it for Black people. The Joker terrifies people to laugh at what a joke the world is. Minstrel believes that hate crimes can only be deterred through fear.

Yet at the same time, it's ridiculous that such features are seen as fearful in the first place. Hell yeah, I'm black! My hair is curly, my nose is broad, and niggas can't see me at night! On some days, I think it's beautiful. On some days, I think it's just a fact of my appearance, and that placing such notions of aesthetics, whether positive or negative, is more unhealthy than anything. It still reinforces the idea that something has to be beautiful in the first place. On other days, I think it makes me sexy. It's nonsensical, but I understand it. This is the Minstrel's ultimate joke: the paradoxical notion that to be Black is beautiful while simultaneously understanding that we shouldn't have to be beautiful in the first place. And also feeling sexy sometimes. It makes him laugh. And in those manic moments in which I'm reminded that I should probably see a therapist, it makes me laugh too. It makes me laugh like I'm a nameless man that just read a letter he wasn't meant to open.

That's all I'm trying to do with this series. I think that all too often Black media chooses to respond to our struggle as something that's either so emotional that many people stop consuming it because they can't handle the intensity, or it removes all context and gives meaningless comedy that doesn't address the issues at all. I don't want to make people feel so bad that they're emotionally shattered, but I also don't want to make people laugh at jokes that don't mean anything. I want people to be somewhere in the middle.

Also, I just really love the Batman/Joker dynamic.

Thanks for reading this long essay. Unfortunately that's all I can think to say on the issue right now. I know this story may not be received as I want it to, but I just wanted to explain my reasoning first. If it sounds like something you're still interested in, go ahead and look at the next chapter. Trigger warnings for murder, violence, and racial violence all throughout. There's also a few allusions to sexual abuse, but never graphic scenes (such descriptions of sexual trauma goes against my personal philosophy).

Chapter Text

The television screen which had previously displayed Kanye West waltzing with an award-winning dancer suddenly stopped. The two figures were frozen in place, their faces contorted into hideous horrors while the sound of a thousand mosquitoes wings threatened to destroy the speakers entirely. The screen went black, then the inky-color changed.

The room on the screen was made to look exactly like ABC Gotham, WWGC. The background was the familiar blue-tinted image of the Gotham skyline which millions of her citizens had come to recognize and love. The big desk with the glass top and white plastic front had the WWGC insignia – a pigeon carrying a newspaper and pen like the famous dove carrying an olive branch – reproduced perfectly.

Seated at the desk was a single man. He wore a straw hat, suspenders, and a red and white striped button-down. Lofted in his arms was a banjo that gleamed in the studio lights. The figure struck the banjo in a slow, steady stream of plings and plucks, while his large eyes stared up at some unknown spectacle. His face, painted pitch-black like the Gotham night, was stretched in awe while his large, red lips were agape.

Suddenly, the spectacle turned to the camera and smiled.

"Oh, hello there. And good evening," the figure elucidated in a refined, high speech. Placing the banjo aside, he took off his hat and did a large, seated bow with a slight flourish of his gloved, white hands.

"It brings me the utmost pleasure to make your acquaintance," the figure continued. He then reclaimed his banjo and began playing a tune. Millions of Gothamites would say they recognized it, but would find themselves unable to place the exact origins. So slow and somber did he play that no one would realize the song was the beloved child-hood song, Camptown Races, until hours after the broadcast.

"You already know my name. I daresay that you know everything about me. Our relationship has been so intimate from a young age. My own mother allowed us both to suckle from her ample bosom. Of course, your helping was always much more sizeable than my own. I don't blame you for that of course. How could I? Aren't I your dear friend, just as you've always said?"

The mysterious figure covered his mouth as his entire body contorted hither and tither. A low, guttural voice chopped through the air. As the shaking grew faster and the voice grew louder, it took a more familiar form. The strange monster of a man wasn't growling or coughing or anything else. He was laughing; a cacophonous chortle which was more comparable to the sound of gravel and slide whistles in a blender than any sound a human could make, but laughter all the same.

"I entertained you," He screamed as he suddenly pointed at the camera.

"I told you the most wonderful stories and played you the most amazing songs. I told you how I escaped tigers and briar patches! I played games with you! Remember how we tossed the rocks and baseballs? Remember how we went gator-watching? We sang the most incredible songs! And you gave me the most delicious food. Food which I am to this day obsessed with. We were FRIENDS!"

The figure stopped laughing. So quickly did his wide, smiling face suddenly become still and reserved that it shocked viewers more than anything which had happened that night. His wide eyes still stared into the camera, but his face was plain and unreadable.

"So why would you betray me?"

The figure raised a hand to his eye, as though wiping away a tear. Yet his face stayed perfectly still and unchanged the entire time. The camera began to zoom in on the stranger's face. Soon, his dark complexion filled the entire screen and he became a floating pair of eyes and red lips.

"I'm upset, obviously. You've all been very bad girls, boys, and gender variant children. I don't think we ever were truly friends. I think you were always afraid of me, so we could never really be friends in your eyes. And for so long, I was kept suppressed and tried to make you my friend. But with each blow, I grew stronger."

The madman's face was replaced with different pictures. A black and white of a corpse who's face bulged so horribly and grotesquely that it hardly appeared human. A modern picture of a woman lying on the floor of a jail door. A young girl in a prison suit, crying in a courtroom. A burning building. People in a small village eating cakes of mud. People in a major city standing in line for cases of water. Men in black leather jackets connecting a thousand strings to the walls of a house. The horrific history contained in the images he showed, without warning, would prompt many tears that night, while also incur the jealousy of many historians throughout the country.

His face returned back to the screen. Now, he was smiling. It was the type of wide-eyed grin that would make a man look over his shoulder. The man's eyes beamed in the light but didn't appear to focus on anything. When the light reflected off his round, beautiful lips, it flashed a color of rich, red rum.

"I'm free now, you see. I escaped their souls and created my own physical form. In this flesh lies the fears of both you, my frenemies, and them, my family. But for my family, I'm more than fear. I am rage. I am hope. I am sex, money, murder, honor, DNA!"

He suddenly stopped. His hand hung in the air while he stared at the back of his hand quizzically.

"I'm so sorry, that's Kendrick's thing. I got lost in the moment. Anyway, Call me Minstrel."

Chapter Text

I remember early in my career one night, Gordon looked at me quizzically and asked a question I keep hearing, often from myself.

I was in the pouring rain, a would-be rapist in one hand while my other was knotted into a fist dripping with his blood. Gordon surprised me, something I didn't let happen ever again. He stumbled upon me caught in a rage as I pummeled the man's face in. We weren't yet friends, but we'd worked together before, so he didn't even pull his gun. He only reached for it.

"You're one of the good guys, right?" He asked.

I responded by dropping the wretch into a puddle of rain and rat feces, then taking out my grappling hook and leaving. That was the last time Gordon ever watched me exit anywhere.

A year or two later, I had my first real conversation with Clark. Just like before, I'd worked with him previously, but this was still in our relationship. We didn't really know each other, and he still thought I didn't know he was Superman. We weren't friends back then.

I was staking out a Gotham drug king-pin that was carrying out a deal in Metropolis when the red and blue boy-scout appeared. He flew up to the rooftop I was stationed on with a quizzical look on his face. I can't blame him, if I caught him surveilling a building in Gotham back in those days, I'd be curious, and maybe more than a little territorial as well. I pretended to ignore him, but he's Superman.

"You're one of the good guys, right?" He asked.

I replied by shooting a canister of tear gas into the building across the street, then grappling over and slamming my body through the window. Metro PD got fifteen collars that night.

I do that whenever people ask that question: I stay silent and I act on it. People need to realize that good isn't just a category we can box people into, it's about action. My Catholic father would have some qualms with that but ultimately agree, and the same goes for my Jewish mother. They both instilled in me an inherent desire to be thought of as good while also teaching me that the best way towards that was to actually do good things for good reasons. For the right reasons. Heaven and Hell were far off and probably not real, what mattered was doing the right thing every time I had the chance. I respond to those questions with action because that is the only appropriate response.

That's what I tell myself at least.

The truth is, I don't know if my actions are good. Selina likes to quote Bojack Horseman when I make such comments and tells me that I'm fetishizing my own sadness. Maybe she's right. I know for a fact that Clark and Diana question their actions as well, but that's different. Neither of them are Batman. Batman is not a symbol of hope and all things good in the world.

Take an ornate Catholic Church interior: Diana is the angel, the kind messenger sent here to guide and protect. Clark, no matter how much he wishes he weren't, is Jesus as of late. I'm not in the interior. I'm the gargoyle on the outside. I am ugly and cruel and scary in order to protect the worshipers inside from everything uglier and crueler and scarier on the outside that would try to get in. I like being the gargoyle because someone has to be. But just because I'm not a symbol of hope does not mean that I don't have a role to play in inspiring hope.

I'm Batman. I'm supposed to keep people safe from the monsters that would prey on them by taking on the qualities of those monsters. But I can never—must never become the monster itself. Sometimes I wonder when it is that I go too far. Whether it's smaller actions like my brutality or larger ones like Brother Eye, I make mistakes that make me less of a gargoyle and more of an actual demon. Every time I try to do something so good that I might shake these wings and scales off my back for a second, something brings me back. So I try and save my good deeds for when I become Bruce Wayne again, but the same problem arises.

Barry once asked me how I managed to build the Batcave without anyone noticing. I told him I used undocumented migrant laborers who were paid handsomely and given papers. He laughed, because there was no way that I'd do that. Diana once remarked that my bankrolling the Justice League had to have made my investors suspicious. I told her that I cook my books and she rolled her eyes. On paper, Bruce Wayne is a corrupt capitalist. I've hacked my own FBI file before, there are theories that I'm connected to everyone from El Chapo to Lex Luthor.

It even affects my private life and family, too. Clark asked how I managed to hide the boys' bruises and cuts from Gotham Academy school officials, and I told him that whenever a school counsellor comes knocking, I build another dormitory or create another scholarship. It bothers me to know that to maintain this lie, I've had to paint myself as the very thing my parents always told me to never become. Yet I keep doing it. I funnel money into off-shore accounts. I find families on the border abandoned by coyotes and promise them a house in a suburb in Michigan if they build yet another safe-house for me. I've paid bribes. To save a boat of sex slaves, I had to implicate myself in their capture and transport. Bruce Wayne has to get his hands dirty just as much as Batman, and that's what the others don't realize. In order for both Bruce Wayne, the hope of Gotham, and Batman, it's ever-present gargoyle to coexist, we have to do things that neither of us want to do.

The night of February First, I did one of those things.

Don't get me wrong, I supported the Gotham NAACP receiving a five million dollar donation. But I knew Joseph Grant – the man donating it – too well to be happy about it. Most of the room knew that he was a public supporter the Trump/Pence campaign, and had himself tweeted many disparaging remarks about the Black Lives Matter movement and Standing Rock protests. Those well-versed in legal history that gets swept under the rug by buying out newspapers also know that, like Trump's father, he was caught in a housing discrimination scandal a few years back.

Grant's family was also a founding family of the Gotham City Ku Klux Klan, and he himself was an honorary member. This was a fact known only to those of us in the room that made up the elite of the Gotham elite, and perhaps a few of the older members of Gotham's NAACP. The man was a racist, that was a verifiable fact. Yet there he was in my house, having a party celebrating a thinly veiled pre-emptive cover-up to the questions that would be asked during his nephew's campaign for governor. It made me sick, but I did it anyway, because this was the type of event that Bruce Wayne had to throw. It kept up appearances.

Lucius walked over to me, giving a small, socially acceptable hug which ended in a professionally friendly handshake, "I'm glad to see you're enjoying yourself, Mr. Wayne."

"I'm happier to see that you're enjoying yourself, Lucius. The happier I manage to keep the head of Gotham's NAACP, the more I ensure Grant doesn't rob me of my title as Gotham's most charitable man."

Lucius laughed, "Oh, Mr. Wayne you kidder."

"In all truth, Lucius, I think this is a phenomenal project. In fact, I'd like to toss my own hat in. Next year, I was thinking of—"

"Okay, Bruce you can stop, the reporter's not looking our way anymore."

I relaxed a little and unclenched my body, "I meant everything I said, you know."

Lucius shook his head, "It was all true, but you didn't mean it. I know you're enjoying this about as much as I'd enjoy having Bane as my chiropractor."

I smirked, "I'm not saying that was more enjoyable, but I was having back troubles when that happened, you know. So for a quick moment..."

Lucius shook his head again, "And people say you don't joke enough."

I took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Bringing it to my mouth, I muttered, "That's the other guy."

Lucius smiled.

Taking another sip, I asked him the question that had been in my mind for a while, "Aren't you worried?"

"About this biting me in the back?" Lucius said with his hand on his chin, "No, I don't think so. There's a certain level of caution that went into finally making the decision to accept Mr. Grant's proposal, but ultimately, I don't think it'll hurt us too bad. If organizations like mine denied every check that came to us just because the person signing it had a less than reputable character, that would ruin us faster than any backlash would. You're old enough to understand that now, son."

I nodded along, largely unsurprised by his answer. There were obviously stark differences, but in that moment, I realized that what Lucius was doing wasn't too different from what I had to do to maintain the lie of my night activities. I wished he hadn't, most of all because his method meant that he still had to call someone as awful as Grant, "mister."

I looked around the room, annoyed with some of the names I recognized in attendance. "Still, the company he keeps...isn't this hard for you?"

Lucius just smiled and shook his head, "You should really read some Ellison sometime, Bruce."

I made a mental note to have Alfred purchase Invisible Man on tape for me.

At the pompous sound of a silver spoon hitting my third best crystal set, Lucius excused himself from my side to join Grant onstage, while I took my own seat at a table in the front row. Damian was already there, his head held aloft and a petulant scowl on his face. Tim and Duke were doing their best to appear interested, but I saw the tell-tale sign of a thumb war being fought under the table. I wanted to sigh but didn't, at least one of us had to appear acceptably invested by social standard.

"Ladies and gentleman," Grant said into the microphone with a haughty air. "I am pleased to be here with you all tonight, celebrating both diversity and persistence through adversity in our glorious city. I'm especially pleased that none of my own money is being spent in throwing this party."

A laugh went around the room.

"Father," I heard Damian whispering. "At your instruction I shall purchase majority share of his own company through one of our shell organizations."

"No hostile takeovers before dessert, Damian," I dismissively retorted with a wide, fake smile on my face.

Grant continued his speech, "In all honesty though, thank you, Bruce for your contribution to this endeavor. This is a fantastic party, and I can't wait to see the party you throw when you inevitably reassert yourself as the most Charitable Man in Gotham."

Another round of laughs around the room. I made a mental note to revisit the Disney World/WayneCorp Party for a Greener Earth proposal. Perhaps I'd scrap the whole idea. It seemed too predictable.

"When I first decided to donate five million dollars to the Gotham NAACP, I was actually at a small party gathering. Some of you may remember the Republicans of Gotham benefit dinner three weeks ago. I had the idea at that party during a conversation with a friend of mine. Well, when I told my friend I planned to donate one million dollars to the NAACP, he asked me why. Handouts and the like aren't typically the style of our party, he said. I told him that this was true. I don't want to get into politics here, but it is indeed a fact that our party tends to advocate for independent movement upward through our nations meritocratic system. But for so long, not everyone had access to the resources necessary to move upward. And that's all that the NAACP does."

Grant put an arm around Lucius in an awkward type of politician hug.

"I told my friend as I'm telling you right now that I will proudly support the NAACP. For it is an organization that is helping the remaining disenfranchised people of color in our great Gotham community work towards the future and all the benefits that we've all been blessed with. By giving to the NAACP, we invest in Gotham's future, not provide a handout."

There was dignified, respectable applause throughout the room. Lucius looked please but I'd known the man long enough to be able to tell when he was swallowing his tongue.

My phone went off in my pocket. One pulse and two small beeps. Emergency news alert. I decided that I'd check it in a second. When I heard Damian's phone go off, I cursed him in my head for disobeying a direct order and decided that I'd hide it again to teach him a lesson. He'd probably try to kill me for it, but that wasn't a big concern. When I heard Tim's phone go off, I knew it was time to have Alfred teach them proper social etiquette again.

When Duke pulled out his phone and stared at it for seconds, I knew there was something wrong.

"Mr. Wayne," he said as he sneakily passed his phone to me.

I didn't look down. I didn't have to. All around us, the ball room had transformed into an amphitheater of chirps, and buzzes. Gotham's social elite were retrieving phones, fiddling with watches, and staring into blank space as they read augmented reality displays invisible to the rest of us. I reasoned there were at least fifty different news apps that were all reporting at the exact same moment. There's a very limited number of things that would cause that great a response in Gotham, the city where a zombie on a rampage is delegated to the third page news.

Ever mysteriously dutiful, Alfred appeared right in the nick of time to spill a hot plate all over my lap.

"Goodness sir!" He exclaimed while he hurriedly covered my now singed privates with a cloth.

Poor Helena, I thought, Damian would get his wish of being my only biological child after all.

"I'm so sorry sir," Alfred continued as he began to lead me out of the room, "I was so dismayed when I saw the news on young Master Thomas's phone that I lost my composure. It will never happen again. There's another set of formal wear laid out for you in your private quarters."

"Thank you for your foresight, Alfred," I said. Once we were in the hall, away from prying ears, I asked, "What do we do if Bruce Wayne doesn't come back from his bedroom in a timely manner?"

My ever faithful companion smiled, "Well Miss Vale, I'm unable to disclose the comings and goings of my employer. But I assure you that the charge that he would leave a charitable event to...'play host to' a pair of models is absurd! I long respected your news station, but I am appalled to find they are investigating such lewd rumors which are obviously false."

The closest entrance to the Batcave was one of the oldest. Once again disobeying my psychiatrist, I positioned the hands to show the exact time of my parent's death, revealing a fireman's pole hidden in an alcove in the wall.

I landed in the Batcave with a soft, barely audible 'thud.' I made a mental note to apologize to Alfred for tossing all my clothes on the floor, but I was in a hurry. Luckily, it was easier to get into the Batsuit than it was to get out of my tuxedo.

I hopped into the Batmobile and turned the key. Hearing the engine roar to life, I began to speed through the Batcave towards the exit. As I passed the Batcopter and Batwing, I heard Damian's voice in my ear, through the Batcoms.

"Father," he said as though he were ordering me to respond. It was a great improvement from his usual method of interacting with authority figures. At least he wasn't talking like I was the child.

"Yes, son? Is there a problem?" I asked.

"What ever happened to Batcow? Robin-slash-Lark-slash-Signal doesn't believe me about it."

"I'm hanging up now," I stated through gritted teeth.

In any other situation I might have excused a little lightheartedness and humored his request. But not tonight. I already knew that I wasn't going to be in the mood for jokes.

"This is Tom Thompson," the voice on the radio stated. "And I'm coming at you live from the site of yet another Joker attack."

Chapter Text

"This is Tom Thompson," the voice on the radio stated. "And I'm coming at you live from the site of yet another Joker attack. Shockingly, the attack happened during a blackface party at the Gamma Epsilon Omega fraternity house of our very own, world renowned Gotham University. Current reports indicate that, around nine-thirty tonight, the party goers heard explosions as Joker Venom canisters went off. We have an audio recording from one of the party goers's social media pages."

The warped, drawn out sounds of "Straight Outta Compton" filled the Batmobile. It was quickly overshadowed by a voice: young, masculine, and clearly intoxicated. I'd guess he was twenty-one at the most. He said something unintelligible into the microphone for a moment, then screamed.

"What the hell is that?! What's that green *bleep*!"

A loud "bang" rang out, followed by a hissing as the youth continued screaming. The screams slowly changed, however. They became deeper, broken up gasps of air. Anyone from out of town would think he were coughing, but this was Gotham. We knew the first snickers of Joker Venom poisoning all too well.

Tom Thompson's voice replaced the horror of the recording, "GCPD was on the scene within minutes, but it was too late. By that time all the party goers, over a hundred students and visitors were all paralyzed with black paint sprayed onto their faces."

"Sounds like they got what they deserved if you ask me," Barb's voice rang out in the comms.

"You may have a point there, Oracle," I muttered while swerving past two expensive sport cars that were racing down main street. "Have Dick handle that," I said.

"On it. Also, the great Batman supporting a law-breaking criminal? Hell must have frozen over."

"I don't agree with what he did." I explained, "What I meant was that this crime appears too retaliatory in nature for Joker. Do you seriously believe he'd attack a bunch of kids for wearing blackface and calling themselves Beyonce?"

Barbara thought for a second, "No, you're right. I honestly see him joining them. So what? Someone trying to frame the Joker?"

"More than likely," I said. More than likely, it was a student that heard about the party beforehand that wanted to show their peers the errors of their ways.

But there was another question that was in the back of my mind, one I didn't want to ask Oracle.

"Verify that Joker's still in Arkham," I asked her, pushing the other thought out of my head. If the Joker had escaped afterall...

"I'm still waiting for a response, Batman, but I did already contact them," she said, an obvious sign of annoyance in her voice. She was upset that I'd insinuated that she was incompetent. That wasn't my intention, but there wasn't enough time to apologize. I was already there.

"Fill me in when you do receive word. I want cameras, audio, and door logs uploaded to our server for analysis. Batman out."

I stepped out of the Batmobile to witness the horror of the attack's aftermath.

All around me were men in gasmasks, running wild like ants in a fire. From behind the cordon, I could see a house in the distance; it was engulfed in white and green smoke. The ant-like men scurried in and out of the building, carrying people on stretchers to a fleet of waiting ambulances. Some of the children were lucky and managed to regain their ability to walk earlier than the rest. Those lucky ones were sequestered under a tree some odd yards away from the fraternity house. They coughed and cried, with bits of uncontrollable laughter interrupting every gasp for air. The youths would be traumatized with memories of this night for the rest of their lives, something that my more sadistic and cynical side couldn't fully hate.

When I heard it was a blackface party, I felt a shame well up within my heart. I'd hoped that the nationwide fad had finally died out, but it hadn't. Parties such as that seemed to return like Solomon Grundy, each time with a new generation swearing that it wasn't a big deal or that blackface wasn't always offensive. I'd hoped that there never would be one here in Gotham, but I was wrong. I'd finally give Clark that Metropolis had one win over my own city; their last major blackface scandal happened in the fifties.

"Holy shit, it's Batman!" I heard a voice exclaim from the crowd of passerby a few feet away. Camera flashes began to turn away from the injured college kids and towards me. As usual, I didn't engage them. I didn't need nor want their fanfare, questions, or blame.

Detective Harvey Bullock was maintaining the cordon. He scowled when he saw me, and I returned the greeting.

"Didn't think something like this would wind up on your radar, Bats," he said as he motioned for two officers to remove the wooden blockades.

Sliding in between the hole they formed, I didn't respond.

"Gordon's not here yet, told me to give you the details," he continued. There was a pause in his speech as he looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to respond to his comment.

I simply remained silent and continued walking.

Bullock pointed a thumb towards the building, "What we've got there, is a counter-active agent from the eggheads at Wayne. Supposed to neutralize the effects o' the acid, but so far....well, you can tell it ain't working too good."

"I'll pass that on to Wayne the next time I see him," I responded.

Bullock scowled at me again, but continued on with his brand of professionalism. "Thank you, jackass. Like I was saying, the gas don't work too great in stopping the venom, but at least it's safe enough for the boys t'get in and out."

"Are any of them lucid?" I asked, pointing towards the students under the tree.

Bullock nodded, "Had a feeling you'd ask. Only one is, claims he has an immunity to th'Venom and recovered just in time to see the perp leaving."

"Well, that's lucky. Too lucky?" Barbara's voice chimed in the back of my head.

"There's such a thing as being too suspicious, Oracle," I reminded her.

Bullock stared at me for a second then rolled his eyes. "I probably don't even want to know."

The detective led me to his car: an unmarked beater sedan that reeked of schwarma from ten feet away. In the rear passenger side, a young man sat with his head in his hands. He looked like he'd been crying. When I opened the door, however, his face changed entirely.

"Batman? Oh my god it is you! Can you believe I've been inhaling Joker Venom for eight years now and yet this is my first time meeting you?" He was a fanboy. From his comment, I'd hoped that he wasn't a groupie. I wanted to ask him what he meant when he said he'd been inhaling Venom for eight years, but I was too distracted.

He was a natural ginger, as much was obvious from the few hairs peeking out from the underside of his bald-cap. The beard around his face was obviously fake, with exposed wires hanging from his ears. There was a salt-and-pepper fake afro in his hands, and he was dressed in an old suit unlike any that would be made today. Looking at the brown makeup caked on his hands, I found myself growling at him.

"Hey, down boy!" Barbara said in my ears. I didn't follow her instructions.

"I-I'm Fredrick Douglas," he explained with an awkward laugh. I leaned forward, and he gulped nervously. "It's supposed to be honoring..."

"It isn't," I said in my deepest scary voice.

The kid jumped, "Look, Batman. I'm not a racist!"

"And yet here you are."

He didn't say anything to that.

"Tell me everything," I said once I'd grown tired of his discomfort.

The kid's name was Adrian, and he was a graduate student one semester away from his Ph.D. in political science. He worked as a teller in his aunt's bank for the past eight years to help pay for school. In eight years, the Joker had attacked that bank three different times, all on days that he was working. That's why the gas only paralyzed him for a moment, he'd built up immunity to it over the years.

The party was to commemorate Black History Month. Everyone would come as a prominent figure in Black history, drink lean, and listen to rap for the entire night. The invites specifically stated that no "sjw's" were allowed. Adrian himself wasn't technically allowed because he was a graduate student and the university had very clear rules about graduate students at undergraduate fraternity activities, but some of the undergraduates were his friends, so they invited him anyway.

"And you thought going to a blackface party was a good idea?" I asked him.

"I didn't know it was going to be all-blackface," he protested.

I grabbed his wrist and raised his hand to his face, "So you thought you'd be the only one? That doesn't make this look better, Adrian."

He didn't respond to that.

Adrian continued with his report of the party. It was a very lively and crowded affair, so no one noticed anyone strange entering the room. The first two canisters went off at the DJ's table and snack table respectively, more than likely an attempt to incapacitate as many people as possible. Adrian recognized the gas by its scent and tried to get away, but was paralyzed and lost consciousness before he could. Soon, though, he came to and saw the culprit still spraying victims.

"Didja recognize the guy?" Bullock inquired, trying to be useful.

Adrian shook his head, "No. But it was one of us, I think. Like, he was there for the party."

That piqued my interest, "He was in costume?"

"Yeah. He was wearing this baggy, striped shirt, tattered pants, and a dixie hat. He had dreads, but those might've been fake now that I think of it. And he was wearing blackface too, with this blood-red lipstick."

"Like one'a them old movies?"

I nodded, "Likely trying to make a statement about the minstrelsy the fraternity was putting on."

Adrain scoffed, "So it was one of those sjws, just like I thought. I guess that makes it okay for him wearing the face paint, huh?"

I walked away from him. I didn't need him anymore. I needed to check out the rest of the building for clues.

The interior was quiet. In the time it took for me to question Adrian, Bullock's men had already cleared everyone out. There were only one or two CSI's in the building, taking pictures of the crime scene behind their own gas masks. One of them jumped when she saw me.

The floor was covered in puddles of liquid. Most of it was identifiable as lean just from the color. I felt bad for the owners of the house, that much alcohol was never going to come out of the wooden floors properly. There were other puddles, too, but those were vomit. I wasn't sure if the lean or the venom caused it. I walked past all the puddles, discarded food, and crushed pills, all the while fighting the urge to raise up my cape in disgust.

The room looked like a tornado hit it. The furniture was overturned. All the lamps, chairs, and tables had tumbled to the floor and laid out in awkward positions. I could tell the room used to be covered in pictures, because there were a few lying on the floor in their own piles of broken glass. The television was still upright, but the screen was cracked and the picture warped. I deduced that the chances of the partygoers doing this themselves was unlikely. Sure, some of the damage was probably caused before the attack, but I found it hard to believe it would have gotten this bad without any attempt to stop the party. Plus, there was one object in the room that looked completely unharmed, almost as though intentionally so.

The object was a picture hanging on the wall adjacent to me. I walked up to it and scanned it with my eyes. There was nothing too suspicious about its placement. The frame was a brown, polished surface, and there was a small plaque at the bottom. The photograph showed a group of young men in suits, standing behind a freshly planted sapling. It was the active members from the year 1978, judging by the plaque. One member in particular stood out like a sore thumb.

"Could be a clue, have your men bag it." I said.

"What the—" Gordon exclaimed. "No. No that's not fair! How did you know I was behind you?"

I didn't feel like explaining to Gordon that seeing his reflection in the glass of the picture frame isn't a superhuman feat.

I tapped the picture, "What do you think?"

He grumbled and sighed, "The greatest detective in the world asking what I think..."

Gordon cleaned his glasses and stared at the picture. "Should I recognize one of these guys or something?"

"In this entire photograph, there's only one Black member pictured. He's in the back."

"And it's the only thing untouched in this entire room," Jim realized.

"Not exactly," I said as I pointed to scratches on the wall. I'd only noticed after he approached, but their position and shape indicated that the picture had been knocked from its position and slid down the wall.

"You're saying it fell? I could see that." He rubbed his chin, a sure sign that he was thinking something he wasn't confident enough to say.

"You know what that means, right?" I asked. I didn't like asking rhetorical questions, but I found they were effective in getting him to speak up. Jim was a good cop, I couldn't afford for him to grow to self-conscious.

"Well, obviously any picture that falls has to be picked back up. But if you're suggesting that Joker picked it up-"

"Not Joker," I interrupted a bit angrier than I wanted to appear. "He's in Arkham."

Gordon gave me a pedantic look. In the whites of his eyes I could see every failure I'd ever experienced with the psychotic clown.

"And you've verified that?" He asked.

"Working on it," was my curt response.

Gordon sighed, "Batman, usually you're the first one-"

"A blackface frat party where all the attendees get sprayed with black paint, Jim! A room torn apart but the only unharmed decoration is a picture of a Black pledge. Probably the first if not the only Black member of Gotham's Gamma Epsilon Omega. Don't act like this is Joker's M.O."

He created a barrier between us with his palms. "Okay, okay. You have a point there. So are we saying this guy here's the suspect?"

"You're thinking too much like a cop," I said, "It's not that simple. Look into him if you want, but I doubt you'd find anything conclusive. Rehanging the picture was an act of respect, not of egoism."

"I get it, someone unrelated. This is a racial crime."

I didn't love the way he said the category, but I let it slide.

"One of my officers mentioned hearing talk about backlash from the university's Black Student Union when the news hit," Jim said while slipping on a pair of gloves.

"Could be worth looking into," I agreed. "But I'm still skeptical. Bullock's witness said there was one perp. I don't think the average college student could manage to pull off something like this on a whim. Why would they have the Joker Venom on hand?"

Jim nodded. With dancer-like grace, he raised the frame from it's setting and turned it over. There was no opening; the picture had been glued to the wood, then glass was placed on top of it.

"There goes that theory," he said.

"And that's another thing." I said, "Joker always leaves a calling card. If your officers didn't see it when they first walked in, it probably doesn't exist."

"So we're dealing with a Joker copycat. Most likely Black, hates racists and pulls pranks to shame them." Jim sighed, "I need to get out of this city."

Suddenly, Harvey Bullock came running into the room, holding his phone aloft.

"Ya guys see this!"

Gordon and I turned to him. The commissioner took the phone out of Bullock's hands, and the detective bent over gasping for air.

"Calls...himself...Minstrel," Bullock said.

Chapter Text

The familiar fanfare fills the air around millions of Gotham's television sets. WWGC's familiar logo, the pigeon in flight carrying a pen, appears on the screen. It's soon replaced by the interior of the WWGC newsroom, a familiar sight to many of it's regular viewers. What isn't familiar, however, is the man sitting in the spot usually occupied by Vicky Vale.

With his pitch-black makeup, giant, red lips and bulbous eyes, the stranger makes an entire city recoil. Some in horror, some in embarrassment, some in laughter and validation. The hypnotic swing of the large, black, yarn locks beneath his straw Dixie hat captivated thousands of Gothamites. A wide smile spread across his face, giving him an appearance so disturbing that it traumatized an entire generation of Gotham's children.

"Greetings, citizenry and visitors of Gotham City," he eloquently elucidated. In the background of the studio, the sounds of a banjo strumming a light, fast tune began to play. The figure simply stared into the camera for a minute and a half, not saying anything or even commenting on the music as it played.

Finally, he raised one hand, pointing up as though the source of the sound was right above his head.

"Currently, your ears are being pleasured by the musical genius of the great Nina Simone. Your banjoist is yours truly, and the piece is entitled Mississippi Goddamn."

He took up a sheet of white paper from his desk, nodding his head and contorting his face as though he were actually reading it. But his eyes were crossed. One was staring down at the paper while the other was still looking down at the screen. The disgusting body horror sent many mothers anxious, as all around the city they warned their children not to attempt it.

"I see," Minstrel said as he turned the paper over. His eye was still stuck in the same position. With his left hand, he took a finger and repositioned it properly, so it too looked straight at the camera.

"It appears that Miss Simone was inspired to compose this masterpiece after receiving news of the murders of Medgar Evars, Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, and Carol Denise McNair."

With each name, a black-and white picture flew past the impromptu reporter. A later analysis of google searches would indicate that for the next two days each of the victim's names, preceded by the phrase "who was" would dominate searches for the area.

"In the aftermath of their brutal murders," the Minstrel continued, "Miss Simone was enraged. She went to her garage and decided that she needed to construct a gun. Her exact target was unclear to her in the moment, but she resolved to figure out who to target first after her tool was constructed."

At that moment, the strange figure turned away from the camera for the first time. His head hung low while he shook it in disapproval. This break in his monologue continued for eighteen seconds before he suddenly snapped his head up and reformed his wide, over-exuberant smile.

"Miss Simone did not go on a shooting rampage, however. Instead, she was rescued from her fit of rage by her husband, who reminded her that she wasn't a killer but instead a musician. There were better ways a woman such as her could help the situation."

The song continued to play, but the instrumental was overshadowed by the sound of Nina Simone's voice wailing throughout the studio. People in nursing homes began to dance to the familiar sound.

"And so, this classic protest song was born. Nina realized that to create music was better than to take life, so she set to work over this song, Mississippi Goddamn, and the rest is history. Black History. This has been your Black history minute, Gotham City."

The broadcast went black.

Three seconds later, the broadcast came back.

"I, of course, will not write songs to combat murderers," Minstrel said with a blank, unsmiling face.

The broadcast went black again.

Ten seconds later, the broadcast still wasn't back.

Ten more seconds later, the broadcast came back again.

"By the way," Minstrel said while holding the camera aloft in his hands, "I do of course mean that I'm about to go on another killing spree. Stop me if you can, Batman."

The broadcast went black.

One second later, the broadcast came back.

"This is Minstrel, by the way. Should have mentioned that. Okay, for real this time. Ex-oh-ex-oh."

Chapter Text

They say only the worst criminals wind up in Arkham, but that isn't true. The worst criminals wind up in Wallstreet. Arkham isn't even truly a home for the criminally insane, it's a home for everyone that society wants to forget about. It's nightmare fuel to keep children in line, and medicated people too scared of retaliation to ask to switch to a different prescription.

As Bruce Wayne, I'd tried everything I could to fix Arkham, and I still do. But I truly think it's hopeless. The place is more corrupt than the GCPD, and that's saying something. The gaurds are abusive, the doctors all quacks, and the bureaucratic red tape surrounding the place makes admission and release a nightmare. I honestly believe the whole place should be torn down.

But it's what I have to work with.

When Oracle confirmed that the Joker was locked up in Arkham during Minstrel's attack, I wasn't surprised. The crime didn't seem to fit Joker. It wasn't too hard to eventually convince Gordon that our Minstrel likely bought some Joker Venom off the self-titled Clown Prince.

"But," Gordon said to me, "what in the hell could someone have that the Joker of all people would want?"

I was glad he asked the question. I myself had been wondering it since I first realized that Joker could't have been behind the attack. An average college student couldn't just walk up to Joker with three-week's pay and ask for a gallon of his most well-known weapon.

The entire situation was too strange. The Venom was more than just Joker's favorite weapon, it was his calling card. He'd never let just any one run around spraying it, no matter how much money they gave him. Minstrel had to be special in the Joker's eyes, or atleast have something special to trade it. The idea of what the Joker would consider special bothered me, because it could only spell trouble for the people of Gotham.

I had to talk to Joker, that was the only way to crack this mystery. I recruited Nightwing to come with me, in case any complications arose while we were at Arkham. I didn't need to be alone during another riot in the facility. But that wasn't the only reason. I wasn't infallible, an extra set of eyes and ears could be helpful in a mystery like this.

The orderly that led Nightwing and I through to the Joker's room was named Clifton. He was a short, thin man who looked like he'd be more suited to taking care of the elderly than working at Arkham, with deranged criminals that wouldn't hesitate to kill him. Clearly aware of that fact, Clifton had two night sticks and a taser attached to his belt. Odd attire for an orderly, but warranted in this case.

"He's right through here, Mr. Batman," he said while leading my partner and I through a long, narrow, corridor.

"Just Batman will do for him. Mister works for me, though. Please call me Mister," Nightwing joked.

The orderly smirked, "Okay, Mr. Mullet."

"It was popular back then," Nightwing exclaimed in protest.

"No it wasn't," I said. To the orderly, I asked, "how many nurses usually tend to him?"

The orderly stopped in front of a cell door and reached for a ring of keys on his belt. The door was a large, rusted sheet of unidentifiable metal with one viewing slot at the top. On the left side was a series of shiny, new locks. All analog, but designed to be nearly impossible to pick. It took me three minutes last time I had to sneak in.

Turning to me, Clifton explained, "A physical lock is better given his computer skills. And it's usually just me, sir."

"You?" Nightwing's tone was a bit more surprised than polite. He began stammering, trying to undo the personal injury.

Clifton held up a hand, "Nah, it's cool. I know what you're thinking: tiny dude like me? Weighing one hundred forty-one pounds? No way I can stand a chance if this fool goes on a rampage again. And you're right. But what no one ever seems to realize is that everyone thinks like that."

He pointed to each cell surrounding us, one by one, counting off their occupants.

"Killer Croc used to be in that one. Next to him was Mr. Freeze. Pyshco Pirate. Condiment King. Cat Man. Solomon Grundy. I treated all of them, and confronted some of them during riots. They usually leave me alone, since they don't see me as a threat, or anything interesting enough to kill."

He tapped the Joker's cell, which he was still struggling to unlock. "As for this guy? People used to draw straws when it came to check on him. But I wasn't as scared as most, so I just started volunteering my services. For every minute I spend with him, I get fifteen from the orderly pool added to my time card. My student loans will be all paid off in six months."

Nightwing was impressed. I wasn't. I was too busy counting locks.

"Seven locks. That's a fire hazard."

Clifton turned to me and raised a sarcastic eyebrow, "I don't think a man that dresses in a militarized children's costume and punches people for a living should judge us. And I'm one of your fans, Batman."

"No one deserves to die in a fire," I said.

Clifton shrugged. "If Heaven is a place on Earth, then why can't Hell be?"

The last lock finally gave way. The "click" of the bolt sliding out of place rang around the entire hall. Clifton jumped when heard it.

The Joker was crouching in the darkest corner of the room. His head resting in his knees while his arms hugged himself, the man looked like a frightened toddler during a thunderstorm. Not phased by his latest ruse, I walked into the room and prompted Nightwing and Clifton to follow.

"Joker," I commanded.

He whispered something I couldn't quite make out.

"Hey, Joker," Clifton said, "you got visitors today. No, it's not Harley Quinn. And no, it's not Jennifer Lawrence in a Harley Quinn costume, so don't even ask again."

He whispered something else.

Nightwing hummed suspiciously, "I don't know, Batman. Maybe we really did catch him on a bad day."

I raised a hand to hush my apprentice up. Leaning closer, I struggled to make out what he was saying. His voice was hoarse and his speech fast, but eventually I realized that he was reciting a song.

"Now the world don't move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you may not be right for some. It takes diff'r'nt strokes, it takes diff'r'nt strokes, it takes diff'r'nt strokes to move the world. Now the world don't move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you may not be right for some. It takes diff'r'nt strokes..."

On and on, he sang the theme song to Different Strokes. I never liked the show, but Dick was obsessed with it for a long time. I never understood why.

Clifton walked up and poked Joker with his nightstick.

"Hey!" The clown suddenly said as he jumped up, "Buy a guy dinner first!"

I raised the Joker into the air and threw him onto his bed.

"Uh-oh. I didn't know this was a lemon slashfic!" He laughed at his own joke.

"We have questions for you, Joker." Nightwing said as he approached the clown.

Joker ignored both Nightwing and myself, and turned back to Clifton. "I hope you wore your Helmut when we...you know."

Clifton's eyes widened in horror. He raised his stun gun and pointed it straight at the Joker.

"Why did you say that name? WHY DID YOU SAY THAT NAME?!"

Nightwing came at him from the side and threw him to the ground, disarming him in the process.

"How did you know my first name!" Clifton continued to scream.

The Joker blushed like a school girl and shrugged. "What can I say? I know a lot of things."

"Calm down!" I ordered the screaming youth. He immediately hushed. I told him to leave us alone and take some time to cool off.

"He knew my name, Batman!" The orderly protested, "No one knows my name except H.R.! How did he find out? Why did he find out!"

"To get you to react exactly as you are now, so leave," Nightwing said as he began to walk the orderly out of the room.

Helmut Clifton clearly wasn't satisfied with leaving, judging from the scowl on his face. He relented nevertheless and allowed Nightwing to guide him out the door, closing it behind him. Internally, I breathed a sigh of relief. If he wanted, Clifton could have just told us to leave, but that would mean we'd have to go to the trouble of sneaking back into the hospital. I had to thank young Clifton from preventing me from going through that much trouble.

"Well, well," the Joker began, "We're finally alone."

He leaned in close and whispered, "Brucey."

I ignored his taunt, instead focusing on the task at hand.

"There was an attack on a fraternity house last night. Joker Venom was used, and now there's a criminal taking credit. His motif has some similarities to your own."

The Joker gasped, "I am appalled, Batman! While I have been known to don the Vaudeville shirt and straw hat, my style could hardly be compared to such offensive theatrics as a Jim Crow show!"

"So you do know," Nightwing said, stepping forward. "Tell us everything. Who is this clown?"

"Why, I believe this rogue calls himself Minstrel, doesn't he?" The Joker said with a demonic chuckle, "Or atleast that's what they said on the television."

"There's no television in this room," Nightwing said, glancing around the small cell to be sure. Indeed, the only things in the room were a bed, toilet/sink, and a card table in the far Northwest corner.

The Joker tapped his temple, "I meant the TV in my head, Sherlock! I keep the ol' idiot box in there."

"A fitting place," I commented. "What connection does Minstrel have with you?"

"I believe we're both Tauruses and our mothers dreamed of fish before we were born."

Nightwing groaned in annoyance. His training still wasn't complete. He didn't realize that the Joker all but confessed to knowing the Minstrel well.

"Why did you give him the Joker Venom?" I asked. "Did he pay for it? Or did he find one of your supply stores?"

The Joker turned his head and looked at a picture of a window that appeared to have been torn from a catalog.

"What a pretty day," he remarked.

"Answer the question," Nightwing snapped.

The Joker turned to him again, "I already told you everything you needed to know, bird brat. If I just gave you all the answers, that would spoil the ending."

He jumped onto his bed and raised an impassioned fist into the air, "These people demand drama! Blood! Mystery! SEX! If we fail to supply, then they won't vote for our story!"

I didn't respond. There was a question I wanted to ask the Joker, but I wanted to see if Nightwing had figured it out first. I gave him a look, and my partner's face relaxed as he took a deep breath in. I could see the mental cogs in his mind turning from the scrunched expression of his face. After a while, a smile spread across his face and I knew he'd figured it out.

"How old was Minstrel when you adopted him," Nightwing asked.

Joker's smile grew even wider as a glee I'd never seen him express took over his eyes. He sat back down on the bed and leaned so close to my face that it set off every alarm in my mind. The skin of his face was as pale as a corpse's, and his eyes were yellow like his teeth. Surprisingly, his breath was minty fresh, while his body odor smelled like charcoal. It would have been unnerving if I hadn't been so used to being that close to him.

"My dear, darling nephew came to me when he was fifteen years old. Harley was so overjoyed; she'd always wanted a son or a little brother, dear Minstrel could be both. And he was Black! That's really en vogue for adoption right now, you know?"

I didn't say anything. Letting Joker talk was the best way to deal with him.

"Do you want to see a picture of him!" His scream was hysterically high, making his statement feel more like a desperate demand.

He scurried on all fours like an animal to the other side of the room. Lifting a brick from it's setting, he pulled out a bundle of papers from the wall, then stood up and walked towards me with pride.

"Here," he said as he thrust the bundle in my face, "my darling baby boy. I think."

I leafed through the pictures one by one. As anyone would expect, they looked like something a child would draw. They were all stick figures with large, circular heads and wide grins. Minstrel was drawn with brown crayon, where as Joker was drawn with a purple one. The activities they performd varied from murdering dogs to swimming at the beach.

One picture in particular caught my eye. It showed Joker, Harley, and Minstrel all standing together, with their arm-lines connected. Like a family holding hands. In the distance, there was a giant circus tent on fire with silhouettes running around frantically.

Was this another one of Joker's fantasies, or was he openly telling me that Minstrel was a circus child? It would definitely explain how the two met, but it didn't bring me any closer to figuring out who he was. Joker didn't usually travel far from Gotham, but that didn't necessarily mean he couldn't have gone to any circus in the world and recruited a kindred sociopath.

I made a mental note to look into circus disappearances later. There was still the matter of the Joker giving Minstrel access to the Venom. I could tell that he was trying to let us know that he did so because Minstrel was his nephew. But that alone wasn't enough. Was Minstrel only acting under his "uncle's" orders, or was his uncle the one playing second string this time?

"If Minstrel was running around with you and Harley since he was fifteen," Nightwing said, "How come we've never met him before?"

Joker gasped and grabbed his chest, "Clutch the pearls! Do you seriously believe that I would send a CHILD into the field of our work before their training was complete? What kind of irresponsible sociopath do you think I am!"

Nightwing snickered. I glared at him. He stopped snickering.

"I do hope you enjoy him, Toy Wonder," the Joker said, "I made him specifically to be a playmate to you. Once you took over from daddy here."

"We've heard enough." I said.

"What? He told us nothing-"

"We've heard enough," I said again.

The Joker nodded, "Good Batman! Now go! Solve the Mystery of the Minstrel with the clues I gave you! Go be the hero! Godspeed to you both!"

He laughed all while we walked out of his cell. We could still hear him from the other side of the door once Clifton locked it again.

Chapter Text

Take it from the beginning.

I'd heard some talk from my boy, Joaquin 'bout this new shipment of Jordan's supposed to come in--

Not that far.

Right. Sorry. I guess...so by the time I got to the mall, it was already going down, right? I was trying to make my way to the Footlocker, but there were all these people blocking my way. I figured it had to be, some kinda promotion or something. But then I got closer and I realized that they were yelling. 

An angry mob? 

More like an angry audience. Curiosity got one on me, so I walked forward to see what was going on. Had to be about thirty niggas there, all of them screaming some shit I couldn't even follow. 

Can you give us an example?

"Get the fuck out of here," someone said. That stuck out to me the most. A lot of people were saying it, kind of like a chant.

There were a few old heads in the crowd, too. One standing near me was shouting something about marching with King. I could't make out the context, though. 

And then there were all those people shouting 'racist' over and over, like they couldn't think of what else to say. 

Was it Minstrel? Is that what they were mad about?

Not exactly. I mean, I won't say no cuz my own people don't even know how to view him, you know? Niggas hate him one day, then swear he's the second coming the next. A few people always hated him, even less always liked him like talking bout it. Thing is, Minstrel hadn't even arrived yet. I didn't even think he would.

At first, I thought it was going to be your MAGA boys, you know? I figured they came round trying to pull one of their demonstrations and the hood just wasn't having that today. While I tried to make my way closer to the center of the crowd, I was expecting to see some white kids wearing red hats and giving nazi salutes. 

But that's not what you saw? 

Oh, there was white kids. But...they were wearing black makeup all over their faces.

Blackface? So trying to look like African Americans? Why? 

Nah lady you not understanding. They were wearing black makeup. Like the actual color. And big red lipstick. There was four of them, two dudes and two females. The chicks had these giant fake breasts and fake butts, and their hair was tied up all weird. Like they were trying to do bantu knots or some shit.

What about the men?

They were wearing these big, baggy shorts that looked like old canvas. They had on these fake afro wigs, too. Where'd they even find all that? That's what I'm wondering.

Were they saying anything?

Oh, of course they were. They were screaming to be heard over all the people shouting at them. Saying how they weren't trying to be racist, but were trying to show their support of us.

What?

I'm not going to dive too deep into their logic, okay? 

Fair enough.

So anyway, that's when he appeared. There was this loud crash that took everyone's attention away for a quick second. Shit was still heated, but we were all distracted momentarily just cuz we couldn't believe it.

A trashcan had been thrown out the window of a nearby Pizzaria.

Like...like in Do the Right Thing, the Spike Lee joint?

Yeah. On the other side of the glass was Minstrel.  I could hear cursing in the background and saw that the chef was running out the kitchen. Running-running! Dude looked like he was about to clock eighty five and join the Doc and Marty. And he was carrying this huge knife. You know, one of those square ones that chef's use? A cleaver, that's what it's called!

What did Minstrel do?

This nigga cold as hell. He turned his head halfway. Didn't even turn it the full way and look this man directly in the eye. Just a half-turn was enough. Chef took one look at who was standing there and slowly put his knife on one of the tables.

And how did the crowd respond?

We were just as speechless as Chef at first. Speaking for myself, I didn't know what to say. Misntrel's famous, yeah, and I think he's kinda cool, but I don't really know how to talk to a dude like that.

So we all just stared at him while he slowly walked out of the pizza place with this wide grin on his face. He came through the window, with glass crunching under his shoes with each step. When he was out, he picked up the trashcan that he'd just tossed out, and sat it with the flat end up. He sat on that, crossed his legs, and then he just looked at us. 

So the white kids spoke up first. The bigger of the dudes walked up all humble and head lowered, you know?

"We didn't mean anything by it," he said.

Then one of them little white girls stepped up and pulled something from her pocket. I couldn't see what it was, but she was showing it to him. She said, "See? We support Black Lives Matter. We hate Trump, too. But we respect you and what you're trying to do and we wanted to show that. We're activists like you."

What? 

Really not trying to follow their logic, sis. 

I got a friend that's always saying profound shit. He said the thing about white people that they don't even realize is that even when it's super obvious to everyone else that they shouldn't do something, they just go and do it anyway because they know they can point at us and scream double standard. I think that's what that was, I think they knew full well that what they were doing was stupid, but they felt like just because Minstrel did it, that was enough to justify it. It didn't matter to them how many niggas hated Minstrel. Minstrel did it, so they could too.

So then the other dude walks up and he starts talking about the twins-

The twins?

You didn't hear about that? The twins that were walking down past the new Queen Industries building, and got the cops called on them. Shot on sight. The brother died and the girl's in a coma right now, doesn't even know that her brother's dead! And they were only fifteen years old! How come you don't know that!

I did, I did. I just didn't realize that's what you meant. Please, continue.

So the second guy is talking to Minstrel about the twins, yeah? He's saying something about how they were planning on going to GCPD in their makeup to protest for the cops that shot the twins to be fired. Then Minstrel just walks up and punches him with a wide ass grin still on his face.

So the two girls are screaming now. The guy's buddy jumps up and starts yelling at Minstrel. Throwing out a bunch of "hey buddies" and shit. Minstrel doesn't pay him no mind, he just kicks the same dude over and over, grin still wide as hell.

Then the dude grabs Minstrel's shoulder to stop him from beating on his friend. My man does not even flinch! He doesn't turn around, he doesn't say anything. 

White guy tries to turn Minstrel around. And he manages to spin him, sure. But Minstrel just punches him and he goes down. Just one hit and that boy was out cold.

What about the girls?

Well, shoot. I guess Minstrel ain't much for that gentlemanly stuff. Soon as he was done with the guys, he turns to the girls immediately. His grin looked bigger and his eyes got wider when he saw them. Minstrel starts walking up to them while one of them gets on her knees and makes her hands like she's praying. She's begging Minstrel to stop, but her friend is egging him on. The friend pulls a knife from her pocket and starts screaming how she isn't afraid of him.

Minstrel walks up and kicks the kneeling girl dead in her head. She lands on the ground and rolls for a few feet. I could tell he wanted to go towards her body, probably to curb-stomp her. But before he gets a chance, the chick with the knife comes up and starts slashing the air wildly, screaming and cursing the entire time.

Minstrel just yawns.

He yawned?

Isn't that what I just said? He yawned! He put his hand to his mouth and sighed. It was obviously fake, but that wasn't the point. He was trying to piss her off.

Knife girl ran up to Minstrel, and he took a huge leap back. She runs up to him again, and he takes another step back, right? This happens perhaps three more times, and then she gets in arm's length and he doesn't back up. She goes to cut or stab him, and he pulls a damn banjo from behind his back.

A banjo?

Yes.

Where did he get it?

From behind, like I said.

Behind his body? What was behind him? Why didn't she notice the banjo before?

The banjo wasn't there before! Minstrel backed himself into a damn wall, then reached behind his back and a banjo just appeared. It was like an old cartoon. Faster than any of us could see, he pulled out a banjo and hit the bitch dead in the face!

Language.

Sorry ma'am.

Then what happened?

Well, after that, the girl fell to the floor. Minstrel reached into his pocket and pulled out a can of spray paint.  I don't have to tell you what he did with that, right? Good.

And the crowd was still around?

We all were. No one left, I don't think. We watched Minstrel paint their faces. And when he was done, we all started cheering.

You cheered? 

Yeah. And I'm not ashamed of it. Those kids were out there in blackface and fake breasts! They were making a mockery of us and no one was doing anything. They had the audacity to act like they were helping us, but that was just an excuse. Then Minstrel came and put them in check? Yeah, we cheered. I cheered. Like I said, people still felt some type of way about Minstrel, but when he did that, he secured our trust entirely.

So then what happened? 

Well...

*sigh*

At first we thought he was into it, you know? He was sitting on the car, watching us all with that wide smile of his, and we thought that meant he was happy. And we were more certain when he started laughing. The way he laughs, man, it's like the most pure laughter in the world. He sounds like my niece, even though he has the voice of an adult man. In hindsight, it's creepy but in that moment, he made us all want to laugh too.

Those kids lying on the ground looked funny to me. I felt like Minstrel had told me the greatest secret of the universe by beating on them. They went out in black costumes, thinking that they'd get fanfare and praise. But all they got was blood and bruises. It was funny.

And then, I'm not quite sure when, Minstrel stood up on the car. He was still laughing. His arms were grasping his body while he rocked back and forth on his heels. He was dying laughing.

But he wasn't laughing at the kids. He was laughing at us. And after a while, I think we all realized it.

Why do you think he was laughing at you?

...

Answer the question.

I-I don't think you'd understand, ma'am. I don't really understand it either. The best I can say is that when a Joker wannabe in Black face is standing up and laughing at you, it changes your perspective. I think when Minstrel stood there laughing at us, we realized that he didn't see us as any different from the kids he'd just beaten up. In fact...

In fact what?

In fact...I think he might have felt more for them than us, even if only for a second. It felt like we'd just disappointed him in some way. But for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why.

...How did it make you feel?

*sniffs* It makes me want to cry. I feel sad now. Sadder than I've ever been. Cuz deep down, I know why he was laughing, I do. It's something I've been running away from for years. I think we all have. That's why it's so easy for so many of us to hate and love the dude at the same time.

I don't understand.

Nah. You wouldn't. That's fine though, it's not for ya'll to understand. Minstrel was talking to us, his people, when he was laughing at us. 

In fact...I'm starting to think that's his secret. Like, there's two Minstrel's. There's the one that's for ya'll, the one that beats ya'll up and sprays black paint on people's faces. Then there's the Minstrel for us, and he's the one that throws trashcans through windows then laughs at us all. I think whenever he's speaking to you, he's speaking to us in a different language entirely.

I still don't really get it. But thank you for your honesty. How are you holding up?

Honest ma'am? I don't know. I don't think I've ever felt like this before. I feel sad and angry, but more sad. I've never cried in front of a woman before, yet here I am crying in front of you! It's just so much to feel at once. I feel overwhelmed. 

Fascinating...Thank you for your statement. It'll be very helpful for our search. You can go now.

...

What? 

It's just, before I go...perhaps just once more?

No. You're a married man, and a loyal one at that. I kissed you because I had need of you. I have no such need any longer. Besides, if I were to kiss you again it would make my control last longer, and I don't think you want that.

But Miss Ivy! I do! I swear I want it! I would live under your control forever!

Of course you would. But I don't need you forever, I needed you to tell me what you saw and you did. Go. Before my girlfriend gets too jealous.

Chapter Text

It had been a long night, and Joseph Grant was exhausted. He didn't bother turning on the lights of his penthouse when he walked in, choosing instead to let his mind and eyes rest in the darkness. He stood at the welcome mat for a second, taking a deep, relaxing breath as he willed all thoughts of the outside world to melt out of his pores. Satisfied with his newly slowed heart rate, Grant removed his blazer and tie, placing both on the arms of his kaya-wood coat hanger poised by his front door. He stepped out of his fine Italian leather loafers, and untucked his shirt from his pants before he took his first step past the front door.

Though pitch black, Grant could navigate the interior of his penthouse apartment perfectly, the result of spending an astronomical amount of money to own as few possession as possible. He'd had the simple lay out memorized like a dance. 

Five steps forward, mail table. He didn't bother leafing through whatever catalogues and paternity suits his assistants had combed through for the day. Two steps forward, eight steps to the right, kitchenette. The checker-board marble tile floor was hard, but so cold that it was a much needed relief on his feet. Five steps forward, three to the left, his spirit cabinet, so named because it was a much needed relief to his spirits on a day like this.

He poured himself a vodka tonic, and found his eyes had finally adjusted to the dark as soon as he reached to bring the glass to his lips. He had the faint traces of light pollution filtering in from the far window to thank for that. 

Grant decided to finish his nightly ritual in the typical fashion. He walked from the kitchen to the window on the far side of the main room. He didn't even think of sitting in the designer recliners or couches as he passed them. Grant didn't even hesitate at the large, 5KHD television when it enterred his line of sight. All either of those things would do was distract him further. If he was truly to relax and sleep well, he needed the Gotham skyline. 

Grant didn't open the blinds immediately. He took a moment to bathe in the faint glow slipping through. This, he thought, was the most calm he'd ever be. Grant's life was too hectic. Even vacations to island paradises weren't enough to relax him. Massages from fine beauties, a stroll on the green, not even a leisurely afternoon at the theater calmed him. It was only those simple moments with a vodka tonic in his hand, and the light of the city drowning him, could Grant feel truly at peace. 

He removed his phone from his pocket, opened the home assistant app, and ordered the blinds to open...

***

Oliver Walcztloh was told that suburban bliss was the greatest thing a man could hope for in the modern age. That was hard to believe when he had triplets and an ex-wife on a feminist kick. Soccer, Ballet, Gymnastics, home, dinner, bed, repeat. No help from the ex-missus, she was determined to make him do it all himself AND shell out half his monthly wages for alimony. 

"Wicked Bitch of the West," he muttered to himself. 

There was a jackass on the road, as usual. Some idiot in a semi truck that wouldn't let him get over no matter how many times he honked or flashed his lights. Oliver took another look in his rear view mirror...yup, traffic was piling up behind him.

Oliver wished there was some way he could reach out to the cars behind him and telepathically assure them that he wasn't the cause.

His phone started playing the Wicked Bitch's theme song and his heart sank. He looked at the screen on his dashboard, pressing the green button only to find that nothing happened. He had to stab it an ungodly amount of times before it finally answered.

"Really, Oliver?"

"Sharon," he began through gritted teeth, "it's not me, it's this fucking car your brother sold me. The screen's defective or some shit." 

"I don't have time for this," she snapped. Sighing as if she was the one with reason to be stressed out, she continued, "Why haven't you picked up Lacey from Soccer yet?"

He was late, sure, but if she was that angry aobut it, she could always go and get Lacey from soccer. Oliver thought about reaching through the screen and--he pushed the thought out of his mind.

"There's an asshole on the road," he curtly responded.

"So you're on your way, good to know. Five-thirty means five thirty, Oliver! I have no clue why this is so hard for you to comprehend. I manage to do it and-"

"And you're back in school, working a full time job, and dealing with early-onset menopause," he continued. "I've heard the speech before, Phenomenal Woman."

"Yes, and you're an unemployed former athlete coasting by on League settlements and ad royalties," she shouted. "There's no excuse for your perpetual tardiness!"

Oliver pressed the red button. 

"I heard a tapping...ARE YOU TRYING TO HANG UP ON ME?!"

He pressed harder until her screeching finally died.

Finally free of the Wicked Bitch's cacophonous voice, Oliver said "fuck it" and turned his blinker on. Carefully mindful of the next lane, he swung his car to the side then floored the gas pedal. He raced past the semi, then re-entered the original lane. At least he got one victory that day.

Going no less than twenty over the limit of every road on the way, it didn't take him long to get to the park. He pulled into a handicapped spot and looked at his watch. The idiot in the semi made him twenty minutes late. 

Oliver got out of the car and looked around him. The parking lot was empty save one or two other cars. He could see the soccer field in the distance. Though covered in shadows cast by the trees in the twilight, he could tell that it had long been abandoned. There wasn't even a single orange soccer cone to be seen in the green beyond. 

Frantically, he reached into his pocket, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw a text from Lacey. She'd gotten a ride with her friend, Sam, and his parents. Oliver's feelings were mixed. Sam's dad was a balless beta that clearly sided with his ex-wife in the divorce, but Sam's mom was trying to stay neutral in the entire process. He hoped that meant she'd convinced her husband not to rat him out to his ex. 

Oliver shook his head as he re-entered his car. As many people do when unaware that they're in a horror story, he neglected to check the back seat...

***

Rebecca Walters couldn't wait to get home. It was the first time in years that she'd have the house to herself. Her son was off in college in Jump City, and her husband was away visiting a sick uncle. She could close up the bakery early and watch Aurora Teagarden on Lifetime until she fell asleep. 

Walters lowered the metal gate to the storefront and secured it with three locks, as usual. Taking in the cool air around her, she began her trek to the subway station a block away.

She thought of her son, Billy, in college during the entirety of her walk. She was glad that he didn't wind up going to Gotham University. After the story on the news about what those horrible Gamma Epsilon Omega boys had done, her last fond memories of the place had been forever tarnished. She didn't want her son surrounded by people that condoned such activities. Jump City was a very liberal place to live, as she'd been told. It was better to have him study there and not make the same little mistakes that she had made. 

She entered the subway terminal and her mood changed immediately. Rebecca Walters was scared. Her pulse was faster, her breath felt fainter, and her movements jittery. She wasn't sure, but she just knew that the disheveled man at the ticket kiosk had looked at her when she walked in.

Walters stole a look at him in response. He was a small, thin man. His clothes were tattered and baggy, as though he stole them off the corpse of a much larger vagrant after killing him. His grey hair sinewed into strands of long, grey dreads that reminded Walters of the Spanish moss trees she saw on her vacation to Louisiana. He had a similarly unkept beard, which was full of crumbs and other material that she couldn't identify. His wide, brown eyes looked sinister, and his face blended into the dark shadows of the terminal too well for her comfort.

Walters wasn't sure that the man was a danger, but she didn't want to take that chance. It was only natural for a woman to be suspicious of strange man in this day and age, after all. She quickly walked up to the turnstiles and placed her card on the reader. The green light flashed and the happy-sounding bell chimed, and she continued through the gate, then down the stairs to her platform.

A minute passed. The train still hadn't arrived. Walters heard footsteps coming down the stairs. She didn't want it to be what she thought. It was. 

The disheveled man was stumbling down the steps, limping like a drunken idiot. She thought she saw him look at her, this time licking his lips expectantly. She wasn't sure. Walters took out her phone, ready in a moment's notice to call...she didn't know. Who would come to rescue her if he attacked her? 

The man stood a few yards away, and Walters was certain he was trying to appear normal for the cameras. It wouldn't do to appear as though he were obviously following her. She felt trapped by the distance. Even if some rescuer appeared, he could say he was minding his own business even if he weren't.

She heard the train before she saw it. The platform filled with the sounds of rolling thunder that she knew from experience could overpower everything else. Now's his chance, she found herself thinking. Over the roar of the train, he could attack and no one would hear. She closed her eyes, expecting to feel a hand on her shoulder or a knife in her back. Neither came.

When the train's doors opened, Walters practically lept into the car and raced to the chair at the furthest end. The car was empty, just as she feared. The man followed her inside, but sat on the opposite end of the train. She looked at the door to her side, determined that she'd run to the next car should he so much as sneeze. 

"Five stops to go," she whispered to herself. She did so again, and again, and again. It became a mantra.

The train stopped. A cop got on, and Walters's heart did a somersault. The man surely wouldn't do anything with an officer on board! She could relax.

The cop was a lanky, skinny kid with adorable freckles and the faintest tuft of red hair peeking from beneath his cap. His green eyes appeared wide, soft and kind, much like Walters's own son. He was likely a new hire, just out of the academy. Still, she felt safer with him there. 

The cop sat three seats away from Walters and pulled a small bible from his pocket. He began to read silently to himself, his body haunched over as though he were a toddler gazing at a picture book. Just like her Billy used to gaze at his picture books. 

At one point, Walters found her eye turning upward, again aligning with the disheveled man. She was positive that time, he had looked in her direction and was still doing so. Was he looking at her, or was he just looking at the cop? She wasn't sure, but she knew that she didn't like either possibility, as they both meant he was definitely up to something. 

Walters reminded herself that the man would be a fool to act with a cop three seats over, and dropped her gaze. She tried to find another part of the train to focus on, and found herself immediately locking eyes with the cop.

The ginger officer looked at Walters, then turned his head to the disheveled man behind him. He turned to Walters again with a puzzled expression, but then turned his head back to the disheveled man. Finally, he stood up, placing his bible onto the seat he'd arisen from and one hand into his pocket. He walked up to where the disheveled man was sitting and plopped himself in the seat right next to him.

The cop didn't speak. The man didn't speak. The cop looked at the man, and the man tried to avoid the gaze of the cop. But there was nowhere for the bum to run, he'd cornered himself into the last seat before a solid wall. They sat there, just like that for a while, and Walters looked on at the strange pair, with an odd chuckle waiting in the back of her throat.

Finally, the train came to a stop at the next station. No one got on.

The cop pulled his hand from his pocket and presented the disheveled man with a few dollars. 

"Take the next one, buddy," he said to the bum.

The disheveled man, eyes wide and terrified, grabbed the cop's pocket change and hightailed off the train. Satisfied, the cop walked back to his original seat and took up his bible again, neither looking at or saying anything to Walters.

After a minute or two of silence, Walters leaned towards the cop and said a quick, "Thank you." 

He nodded respectfully but didn't take his eyes off the pages of his bible. 

Three stops later, it was time for Walters to get off the train. She arose from her seat and began walking to the door, but then she paused and turned back to the officer. Walters tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Sir? I'm sorry to disturb you but I wanted to thank you again for getting that man off and commend you for the professional, peaceful way you handled the matter."

The cop shrugged, "No problem, ma'am. Just a part of the job, y'know?" 

Walters was satisfied with his response, sure that he'd been properly thanked, and turned again to walk off the train car. 

"Ya know what," the cop said as he suddenly rose from his own seat, "I think I might walk with you. Unless you got someone meeting you from here on out? It's Gotham after all." 

"Oh dear, thank you so much!" Walters nearly cheered for the officer. Truly, she had been nervous about walking back to her apartment alone, but she didn't want to say anything and be a bigger burden. 

The two exited the train at the same time and began walking to the stairs at the far end of the platform. Walters felt a bit awkward with the cop in tow, but ultimately it was better to feel awkward than terrified. With a GCPD officer at her side, no one would dare try anything with her.

"One thing ma'am," the officer suddenly said, "d'ya mind holding on to this for me?" 

He thrust his hat towards her. She reflexively grabbed it without questioning why. The man had given up his hard-earned money and a few minutes of his day to help her, the least she could do was hang onto his hat for him.

"And this too," he said as he placed another item inside the overturned hat in her hands. Again, Walters was glad to tote the item for the officer, wanting to be as helpful to him as she possibly could. 

In the very next second, Walters realized there was something strange about the object he'd just placed into the hat. Beige in color, it kept rolling around and pumping into the hat's walls. Curious, she reached in and pulled it into the light to get a better look at it.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" 

Walters screamed and dropped the object to the ground. It was soft when she grabbed it, almost like real flesh. The artificial, costume nose was so much like the real thing that it made her want to faint.

"I must say," the cop said in a newer voice, "that was a very rude thing to do. I daresay you've damaged my property, madam." 

Walters watched in horror as the cop reached up to his face and pulled the skin clean off. Beneath the beige, freckled layer that she'd so adored was a horrible face that turned her blood cold. She recognized the black paint and red lipstick from the news, just as any Gothamite would.

What Walters saw was the same face that greeted Joseph Grant when he opened his blinds. It was the same face reflected back at Oliver Walcztloh from his rear-view mirror.

It was my own beautiful visage. The face of a Minstrel.

Chapter Text

A week ago, a clown came to Gotham. He gatecrashed a party and delivered a cruel and twisted justice. Three days later, he beat four stupid kids half to death and destroyed their faces. He hijacked airwaves and terrorized citizens. Then he stopped. We thought it was the second coming of the Antichrist when he first appeared, but after he went quiet, we didn't pay it much mind.

I want to say that the moment's rest allowed me a chance to take a sigh of relief, but this is Gotham. The coffee is either too cold or too hot, there's always a fog and a stink in the air, and the citizens always find some new way to hurt one another. There's no such thing as relief under these conditions.

Two months before the Minstrel first appeared, one of my officers got caught up in a civilian shooting scandal. I had civil rights attorneys and teenagers on Twitter gunning for my neck, demanding that I either fire him or place a hot, led pipe in a particular orifice.

The victims were two African-American teenagers, Jada Sumpter and her twin brother, Eric. Eric died on the scene and the last I checked in, God hadn't granted me that favor and woken up Jada. She's in a hospital with a medically induced coma and I can't even break the news to her that her younger twin is dead.

The officer involved was Namzmiren, a man I've had working the beat for a few years now. A bit of a blowhard who clearly watched too many cop movies, but a good officer nonetheless. He respected God first, the troops second, and the badge third. In a precinct full of Johnny-Look-Aways that were quick to take a buck or bed one of the city's working women, that kind of integrity made him an asset.

Jada and her brother were loitering on a municipal bench outside the new Queen building along with two of their other friends. Those friends fled when Namzmiren appeared on the scene, satisfied that they had gotten the Sumpters into just enough trouble for that day. Jada became provocative and irate when Namzmiren asked them to leave, and Eric was acting dodgy and twitching with guilt. He fit the description of a mugger and suspected dealer that had been reported in the area, so Namzmiren asked to see his identification. His sister became even more argumentative towards my officer. While he was trying to calm her down, Eric reached for a knife in his pocket. The story ends how you'd expect.

A knife was recovered on the scene, confirming his story. Crime scene techs couldn't find any of Eric's DNA on the knife, though they did find Namzmiren's. He made a mistake and handled it on his own without gloves, but the court of public opinion didn't agree.

I had to take in his badge and gun, and the DA was pressured to charge him. Though my heart is with Namzmiren and his family, my official stance is neutral. I'll stand by whatever decision the jury makes. If the court reviews all the evidence and decides that he was wrong, then he was wrong, plain and simple. But I know I won't like the cleanup no matter what that decision is.

***

I felt a feeling of intense, cold nothingness enter my office. A clunk of metal hitting wood soon followed. My back was turned, but I didn't need to look.

"Victor Fries won't be terrorizing Ace Chemical or its employees for a while, I take it?" I put out my cigarette on the window sill, then sat in the old, leather chair of my older wooden desk.

The Batman didn't nod, because he wasn't the type. I imagine that he was conflicted, because he wasn't the talking type either. Finally one of the two won out, and his monotonous voice spilled from beneath his mask.

"He was building a weapon. A modified ballistic freeze gun for mass production. Similar guns appeared at an Intergang auction in Metropolis." Batman pointed down to my desk, where one of the guns was sitting, partially blocking a stack of papers I'd been reading a moment before.

In one night, a man dressed like a bat destabilized a major gangland arms deal by punching a depressed scientist wearing a glass bubble. Nights like these make me wish I'd picked a better career path after high-school. Like interpretive dance.

"I'll have the boys take a look at it. Nice work, Batman." I knew better than to compliment him, he was never flattered. Every failure was the Rapture, and every success was Tuesday. Still, I do it anyway. I secretly hope it pisses him off.

He didn't leave. I swallowed my pride and turned to the window.

"Lovely moonlight tonight, don't you agree?" When he didn't respond, I turned back around. But Batman was still there.

I sighed. This was going to be as fun as Barb's rants about my male ego.

"Okay, I'll bite. What is it?"

"You haven't asked me about the Minstrel," he replied.

I shrugged my shoulders, "That's not how this usually works. Aren't I supposed to wait for you to have news?"

He didn't answer the question. "Jim, don't tell me that you aren't worried about his next move."

I shrugged again. I wanted to play off my annoyance. The way he asked sounded rude, like he was insulting my intelligence. I folded my arms.

"I will admit that it's crossed my mind, but there's been no news or leads on the guy since his last public appearance. He hasn't even hacked the TV feeds. Regardless, when you compare him to someone like Professor Pyg..."

"His UNCLE is worse than Pyg," Batman forced.

I held up a disarming hand, "You're right. His ties to Joker are worrisome. But so are Harley Quinn's. I think Minstrel might just be a fanboy with a political axe to grind. A public nuisance that Bullock can handle, if not another mask in Gotham."

That man was the only person that could pack so much nuance in a grumble that I could immediately tell he both agreed and disagreed with me.

"I've learned not to ask for a minor criminal in Gotham," he explained.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "Ever think Joker is just one sick son of a bitch that no one can match crazy with no matter how much they want to?"

He had seen all the same copycats as I. Depressed men that wanted a girl that didn't want them back. Military vets that thought murderous nihilism was a personality trait. Kids that listened to trash music while taking too many drugs. Sometimes they came close, but no one could ever be as horrific as the laughing enigma that all of Gotham had long accepted would likely be the death of us.

"Every day. But that doesn't make his people any less dangerous. Gotham is in a precarious situation, Jim. How well are you monitoring it?"

I picked up a file that a rosy-cheeked intern had sat on my desk. I didn't have to be the world's greatest detective to figure out that he was talking about the Namzmiren trial.

"The Feds sent a dossier on all of Gotham's street activists. Mostly clout chasers and scam preachers, but with strong followings. There aren't any protests underway now, but they're preparing for one when his trial concludes in a few days."

Batman looked at me for a drawn out minute. I could tell that he was expecting more, and I knew exactly what he was about to ask, so I answered before he had a chance, "That's all they sent. I've had some of my men monitor internet chatter in known white supremacist circles, but so far nothing."

"There's going to be a counter protest," Batman said. The way he spoke made me feel like it was more of an order rather than a helpful tip.

I shook my head, "You're probably right about that. But as it is now, there's no evidence that--"

"Minstrel is going to strike in the coming week. Be prepared."

I knew that he was probably right, so I didn't argue. But dammit, what did he expect me to do? I couldn't just tell my men to be prepared for an attack that MAY happen, one that MAY result in deaths of innocents. I needed more before I went into the bullpen and started barking out orders, and the Batman knew that.

"I'll put my men on alert," was all I could respond with.

He didn't answer or give any indication there was anything else he wanted to say. I played my role. I turned my head away and took a long, pensive look out the open window to my office. The city beneath me was aglow with the light of a metropolis, but the heavy condensation scattered the light. It looked like I was looking down into the first cavern of Hell, with a strange glow being the key sign of a blazing inferno far below. Course, Gotham had been turned into Hell so many times that I honestly had no trouble believing that somewhere far below, Satan himself was sitting on a throne and waiting anxiously for me to turn on the signal on the roof so he could do battle with our dark night. Was that who Minstrel was? I wasn't sure, but Batman seemed to be much more certain than I. Because that's the only way he knew how to see these psychos, and I honestly couldn't blame him for that. If he was even half as dangerous as fucking Condiment King, Minstrel was a threat to the city.

I sighed, then turned back around. Of course, Batman was gone.

Chapter Text

Ever since the first night, Batman had been worried about the Minstrel making a reappearance. The tense political situation in the wake of the Twin's Shooting only made him even more nervous. Problem was the Batman can't be nervous. The Batman can be concerned, cautious, uncertain, but never nervous. Perhaps if Batman could be nervous, then Comissioner Gordon would have taken his warning more seriously.

The Namzmiren case happened two months before Minstrel even appeared. The trial started days before his first attack. Still, Batman was certain that he would act in response to it. Considering his commitment to fighting racism, it made sense that Minstrel wouldn't ignore the case. But perhaps Batman was so determined that Minstrel would strike because he needed it to be true. Strategic minds like Batman couldn't tolerate unpredictability. He needed to find a pattern to Minstrel's behavior, just as he was constantly searching for a pattern in the Joker's.

It happened on a Sunday night. Minstrel appeared on the news again, but he wasn't alone. He stood upon a stage of purple curtains with a medical operating table on either side of him. The man and woman strapped down to the tables didn't appear very jazzed to be there.

"Greetings citizens of Gotham. It is with a heavy heart that I inform you there has been an increase in cancer diagnoses in our city. In the interest of educating the masses and securing public health, I have recruited two volunteers for this educational surgical theater."

Minstrel walked behind the table on his right, the one the woman was strapped into. Her hair was a mess across her face, and her makeup was smeared by tears. Slowly, with the type of care and love as one would give to a mother, he placed his hand upon her shoulder, then spoke with an equally nurturing tone.

"Now, now, Rachel, dear. It'll be all right. But Mammy needs your help. Tell the good people what ails you."

With a whimpering voice fighting back cries of terror, she stammered out her obviously scripted response. "T-t-Tounge cancer. There's a lump on my tongue and it makes me tell lies."

The corner of Minstrel's mouth ticked up in a sadistic grin. "Good, dear, good. Doesn't it feel better to tell the truth? But don't worry, Uncle R will remove that horrible lump from your mouth and stop those god-awful lies."

"Please. I made a mistake. I never meant to-"

"Moving on!" His sudden, sharp cry made the woman's body jerk in surprise. She didn't finish her thought or even let out a wail. Her mouth stayed firmly closed.

Minstrel walked over to his other hostage, masquerading the same innocent concern and placing an equally tender hand upon the man's shoulder.

"Do. Not. Touch. Me!" The man barked at Minstrel with the confidence of one that wasn't tied to a table. Inside, he surely must have been shaking at the uncertainty of his fate, but his outward expression didn't betray any signs of that fear.

"Calm down, calm down Oliver. It's only me, your good pal and man-friday, George. Now, now my dear, tell the kind people about your affliction."

"When I get out of here, I am going to take off your head and use it to practice field goals!"

Minstrel made a big show of rolling his eyes, "We get it, you played football!"

Minstrel moved his hand off Oliver's shoulder, then proceeded to point down to his crotch.

"You see, boys, girls, and those undecided, the problem is with little Olly. He's growing ladies, but not in the way you'd want."

The Minstrel laughed at his own joke, then took a step away from Oliver and retook his initial point between the two tables. He reached behind his back and pulled out two latex gloves and a surgical mask. He began putting those items on as he continued his monologue.

"This cancer is not born like ordinary cancers, so Chemo won't work. It's a cancer born in the mind, which leads to malignant growths in the body. Take Ms. Rachel Walters here, who's been suffering from this cancer since she was in college."

Rachel began to cry at her table, and Minstrel raised a shushing finger that she did not obey. He only shrugged and continued his story.

"Miss Walters was the victim of a sexual assault during her sophomore year. Or was she? She picked out her fellow student, Leon Anderson in a line up, and told tales of how he degraded her and called her a white bitch during the assault. The accusations landed young Leon in jail without bail, where he awaited trial for half a year. He never saw trial, however, and committed suicide in his jail cell through self-inflicted sharp object wounds. A private investigation concluded that his DNA didn't match the suspect's, a fact which the city was well aware of even while Mr. Anderson awaited trial."

"So the bitch lied and ruined a man's life," Oliver said, "why am I not surprised?"

"It's not true," Rachel said in a small voice.

Misntrel smiled even wider, then eagerly walked over to Rachel. He leaned close in her face and lingered over her for a moment.

"Is that true? I made a mistake? Well, take this as your moment to set the record straight. I would hate to spread misinformation on such an educational show."

Rachel Walters took a deep breath. Then another. And then another.

"My parents beat me for as long as I can remember. They were old fashioned and they--they didn't want me becoming a whore. That's what they'd always say, even when I was a little girl, 'don't be a whore, Rachel.' When I got to college I thought I could rebel and just live my life. I was drunk, I had sex without a condom, and when I woke up the next morning, I just knew."

"The miracle of life," Minstrel interrupted, "Oh I'm sure it was magical. Tell us all what it felt like."

"It felt awful. All I could feel was fear and shame and anger, because I knew how my parents would react. Don't you understand how my father would have responded? He'd treat me like I was a prisoner, even worse! I had to-I had to get rid of it."

"But you didn't," Minstrel said, "You gave birth to a bouncing baby boy on the twelfth night of August, some eight months later."

"Even after I told my father that I was raped, he refused to let me abort it! I love my son, more than anything, but I was only nineteen years old. I was terrified about what would happen. I prayed to God every night, hoping that he would protect me and my unborn son, and deliver us from that awful house so he could grow up happily. And He did!"

The Minstrel yawned, "yeah, yeah, God is good all the time, all the time God is good. Let's get to the juicy bits. Why did you accuse Leon Anderson of raping you?"

"I NEVER accused him of raping me! I never accused anyone! I went to the police and told them that it was a stranger. I tore my clothes and scratched my body up well enough to convince them, then said I was walking alone in the park when a stranger grabbed me. When they brought me into the line up, I tried to remind them that I didn't see his face, but they pressured me! They screamed at me and said it was all my fault and that if I couldn't identify the suspect then he'd walk free and rape someone else."

"So you pointed to a random person?"

"The way they were talking, I thought maybe one of the men in the line up had already raped someone else! I pointed to someone, anyone, and they were so happy and nice afterwards. I thought I'd maybe helped some other woman get justice. I prayed that the Lord would guide my hand, and the next minute they told me that I'd done an excellent job."

Minstrel shook his head and sucked his teeth. "Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Don't you understand that none of that was your fault? It was the cancer warping your mind, convincing you that making up a fictional Black rapist was the proper way to handle the matter."

"I-"

Minstrel stopped her before she could continue, "And you did specify that he was Black. I've read the police report. You described your attacker as a Black male, in a university sweatshirt with the hood pulled down. He called you a white bitch and other slurs and took the cash from your purse immediately after. These details, the obsession with your fake attacker's race, all of this is proof of the cancer."

More tears began to rush down Rachel's face. For a few seconds, she was a whining mess incapable of intelligible speech. She had to fight through her fear and sadness to plead for her life one last time.

"I'm sorry! I am! I apologized to his family after he died! His mother forgave me, and we even prayed together. It was my parents, not me, and everyone understood that. Why are you doing this?"

Minstrel's eyes widened in shock at her words. He looked at Rachel, then to the camera, then back to Rachel again. Back and forth his head turned, and each time it stopped he appeared more and more confused.

"Well," he finally said after having enough of his own antics. "I know that I have an ass that won't quit and contour flawlessly, but no one's ever confused me for a beautiful Black woman before, least of all someone's mama. I'm honestly flattered."

He walked away from Rachel to stand over his other victim, Oliver.

"As for this young man, his symptoms are largely similar-"

"I've never done anything as bad as that c***!"

"Language, Mr. Walcztloh! We're on local public television, not the locker room of Gotham U's football team."

Oliver looked at Minstrel indignantly, "Look, kid. I get it. You're pissed that the lady over there framed one of your brothers and made him kill himself. I get it, I do. But I'm not like her. Lots of good guys on my team nearly got ruined because of false reports, myself included. Whoever's told you otherwise is mistaken."

Minstrel reached behind his back, somehow materializing a clipboard in the process. He read from the obviously blank sheets of paper before he responded to his captive. "No, I don't think so. Obsession of a sexual nature, indicative of deep rooted racial fetishes ultimately leading to harm against others. Sarah Page's Disease, same cancer as Ms. Rachel Walters over there. Isn't that why you had three separate sexual assault claims made against you while you attended Gotham University? All by Black female students?"

"Nothing but lies! Those girls were drunk sluts that regretted it the next day and wanted to gain sympathy by playing the race card. Why don't you tell all of Gotham that none of those claims led to criminal charges while you're at it?"

Minstrel acted as though he didn't hear Oliver's protests, "And then there's the truly troublesome matter of Ms. Ariella North, a cheerleader from your short lived professional career. Her suicide caused a lot of discord in the sport's community, especially after she was revealed as an anonymous source in the Daily Planet's expose on sexual harassment of college and professional level cheerleaders across the nation. Curious timing, don't you suppose?"

"I barely even knew Ariella! And she never even said who it was that raped her!"

Again, the Minstrel shook his head and sucked his teeth, "And once again we see the strength of this cancer's delusions. Oliver, there are photos of the two of you at a post-draft party all over her social media page. The two of you tagged each other in posts. Yet you say you barely knew her?"

Minstrel stepped away from Oliver and reached behind the rear curtain of the stage. From there, he wheeled out a gas tank with two masks attached. The Minstrel was silent as he brought it to the front of the stage and positioned it perfectly between his two hostages. He covered Oliver's face first, and though the man screamed and cursed in a futile attempt to fight back, his breath quickly slowed and his voice slurred.

"Please," Rachel cried as Minstrel moved towards her with a mask. "Please don't do this. I know what I did was wrong, and I live with this guilty conscience every day. Don't destroy your own soul just for revenge. You can be the better person here, a model for all your peers. I'll do whatever else you want until you think I've been punished enough. But please don't hurt me."

Minstrel smiled down at her. After taking a huge, deep breath that puffed his chest nearly a mile out, he began to sing in a sweet, melodious voice.

"I don't really care if you cry. On the real you should have never lied. Baby don't you see the madness in my eyes? I just really want you to. Die..."

The rest of Gotham didn't get to know the fate of Rachel Walters and Oliver Walcztloh until the next morning. At that very moment, the feed was terminated.

It wasn't Minstrel doing, of course. If he had his way the broadcast would have continued to show all the gruesome details. He had no interest in sparing the sensitive audiences of Gotham a high-definition, front stage glimpse of him cutting out Rachel's tongue and castrating Walcztloh. Of course, the recorded footage still made it's way on the internet anyway, no matter how hard Batman and the Oracle tried to stop it from leaking.

"I heal their cancer," Minstrel said as he showed Rachel's cut tongue and Walcztloh's dismemberment to the camera. He tossed both over his shoulder haphazardly, then discarded his gloves and mask in a similar fashion. Minstrel reached behind his back again, and pulled out a small tube.

"And now I make them beautiful!"

He walked over to Oliver's still unconscious body, then pressed down on the tube. A spray of black liquid shot out and caked onto Oliver's face. In less than two seconds, Walcztloh was as dark as the Minstrel, but he still wasn't ready. Minstrel turned the same tube upside down, then twisted the sides until a bloodred stick shot out. Before he marked the man, he turned to the camera and presented the device to the audience he still thought was there.

"Minstrelfier! For the next time your pasty ass needs Instalikes. Order right now with promocode, SHAMEC, and receive two for the price of one."

He turned away from the camera and began walking towards Rachel Walters to begin the same process, but he didn't make it in time.

Glass rained down from above, and the Minstrel immediately ran for cover. Two figures touched down onto the stage, and Minstrel instantly recognized both.

"Batman! And, ew, put that thing away! No one wants to see ya Dick!"

Batman and I chased him through the old theater. He threw old stage equipment and props to try and block us, but we avoided them as well as we dodged his quips and jeers.

"How did you even track me down? That's the last time I buy a VPN off an app market."

Minstrel wound up running himself into a dead end. He was sandwiched between an old, brick wall and the Dynamic Duo themselves. Most criminals knew that wasn't a good place to be, and Minstrel was the same. He immediately dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together in prayer.

"Please dear Lord, send my guardian angel to get me out of this!"

"A bit too late for that, Minstrel," Batman said.

"I doubt the man upstairs is doing you favors after everything you just pulled," I agreed.

Minstrel just looked at me and laughed, "Oh you poor, confused, Nightwing. My god has no gender."

Before I could even think to ask what he meant, a giant blast went up in our faces. Batman threw his body in front of mine and raised his cape up to shield me from the blast debris. The smoke was thick enough to cut with a batarang, and I could hardly rely on my ears because they were still ringing. Despite that, I could still hear a familiar, hyper voice over the tone.

"Run, Jimmy! I'll hold back Batman and the Brat Wonda!"

"Harley!" Batman said in shock. Neither of us had expected her to show up, least of all to actually help Minstrel.

It ended like these stories usually end. Minstrel got away, we tangled with Harley for a couple of minutes before we managed to restrain her. Gordon's boys showed up soon after and dragged her to the station for questioning. Paramedics told us that both Rachel and Oliver would live, but they'd live permanently disfigured by a criminal that Batman and I failed to stop.

"We failed, Dick. We failed the whole city," Mr. Brightside said once we returned to the cave.

I couldn't help but agree with him. The minute we got the call from Gordon earlier in the night, we did everything we could to arrive before Minstrel had a chance to harm his hostages. But we couldn't deduce his location fast enough. And once we finally had, Harley Quinn arrived and ruined everything, and Minstrel was in the wind again.

"It's not a complete failure, though," I told Batman as a thought suddenly dawned on me. "Bruce, I think we have a clue who Minstrel is."

"What do you mean? Did you notice something earlier?"

I nodded, "Remember what Minstrel said when we first crashed in?"

"'No one wants to see your dick.' I remember. It was a pun, a play on your name to let us know that Joker told him our real identities. Luckily for us it looks like he shares his uncle's trait of not wanting to share it with the world yet."

"No, you're wrong Bruce. Not about him knowing our identities, that's given. But the joke wasn't what you're thinking. He actually said 'No one wants to see ya Dick.' Ya as in you."

"But it's the same-"

"Just listen, Bruce! Based on that picture, we thought Minstrel had to be a circus kid, right? Well when I was a kid in the circus, I had a friend. Every time we saw each other, he would say, 'No one wants to see ya, Dick.'"

He nodded, "So you think the Minstrel is this kid? I agree it's possible. But how do you know Joker and Minstrel didn't just find out about that joke between you and your friend?"

"Because Harley didn't call him Minstrel when she appeared. She called him Jimmy, and my friend's name was James Byrd."

Chapter Text

Batman had us all on high alert that night. Gotham’s citizens were pissed off, and rightfully so. Back before I was running around in this Signal suit, I would probably have been with them. On the streets, holding a sign with all my friends and allies, demanding change in a sick, sad world. The belief in justice and the power of the people is what fueled We Are Robin, and if the group were still active, I would have led as many of us as possible to support the protestors.
             Problem was, it wasn’t just the protestors out there. Not everyone in Gotham believed that two kids should have the freedom to walk down the street at night without being killed by someone sworn to protect them. When Namzmiren’s verdict was announced, that side had two responses; celebration and preparation. They toasted and cheered and took pictures and hashtags celebrating what they believed was justice done well. They boarded up their shops, pulled out their guns, and prepared for their neighbors that believed it hadn’t.
             There was a march led from City Hall to the police headquarters. It wasn’t Black Lives Matter, NAACP, BYP100, or anyone else leading. “Fuck it, I’m going to the station,” was the rallying cry, delivered via TikTok by a reporter who had been waiting for the verdict to drop. Young Black dude for one of those online pages…I think it was The Root or The North Star, but it might have been Ebony or Essence. I guess he figured that Gotham was special; we weren’t in the South and we had an Independent mayor, an open-shut case like this should have been easy. When the judge declared Namzmiren innocent, that had been the last straw for the reporter. He said “Fuck it, I’m going to the station,” and stopped the live stream. No one was sure if he expected anyone to follow him, and more than likely he wasn’t, but people did anyway. His words weren’t deep or profound or even thought out, but it was exactly what everyone needed to hear. It was the type of spontaneous action that people write poems about, but only rattle me to my core.
             Bruce and I had tried warning Gordon before any of this jumped off, but he wouldn’t listen. He’d taken all his expert analysts at their word and assumed that everything would be fine just because there wasn’t any chatter on the message boards of a right-wing terror attack, and all the community activists were ‘small potatoes’. The thing about rage is that it tends to just sneak up on people.
             Soon as a bunch of Black people started traveling through the city, those white boys got scared. It wasn’t enough to just grab their guns, they needed everyone to know they had them. Soon the cop’s supporters had organized themselves through word of mouth and internet chatter. I imagined Gordon’s analysts frantically panicking as their computers lit up with online discussions of weapons distribution, strategic occupation points, and other combat tactics. The good old boys of Gotham had nearly a hundred men and counting stationed the same block as the police station in less than half an hour, while news of the march across town was still breaking out.
The news was talking about two armies about to converge, but all I saw was lemmings. There’s a joke I see online a lot but have never been in the types of discussions with the type of people that would allow me to make it myself: Black people see one nigga running and then they all want to run. The march was like that. In my head, I called it the Get Out Challenge and had even slipped up and called it that in front of Alfred, who (luckily) had no idea what I was talking about. One nigga started walking, and next thing you knew, damn near every Black person in Gotham was following him. There’s another thing I saw online: Everybody wanna be a nigga but nobody wanna be a nigga. Whites, Asians, Latinos, everyone sees what we do and they copy, they don’t even realize it. Sometimes it’s just inappropriate or embarrassing, like white girls saying ‘yas queen.’ But at times like this? It was hard to be mad, after all, they were just trying to help. Still, it was a problem. One nigga started running, so all the niggas started running, and then some people that weren’t niggas put on their jogging shoes because they only know to follow us when we act.
             A secret about me that no one else knows? I don’t have Black friends. I’m a nerdy Black kid, so that was always hard. And I’ll admit that when I was younger, I believed too many people when they told me I was special, so that made it even harder. I built a wall between myself and my people, and I wound up not even hearing about the impromptu march until Batman radioed in. I wonder if I would have been one of those lemmings if I had that connection to my people.
             The news reported it as two armies about to converge. But unlike them, I looked down on the protest first hand. Far above it all, on the rooftops I’d adopted as my primary mode of transportation when I accepted this role, I could see the world. I saw signs and water bottles and first aid kits. I saw people holding hands and singing songs. I saw people taking selfies as they posed for pictures. I couldn’t see a single gun, and Alfred trained me to spot those a mile away. Those protestors were no different from me or the other Robins of the old We Are Robin. Every last one of them, even the elderly struggling along after being in too many similar marches (or not enough), was just a kid. They were a scared kid in a homemade costume that thought they could take down the evils of this wicked city. And they were about to face a rogue militia alliance, and then the militarized and corrupt Gotham police department.
             “I don’t think I can do this,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether my stomach was spinning or if I had it confused with the world around me. The rotation of the earth withdrew from the realm of complex ideas and became a tangible, unfortunate reality as I struggled to balance. Put me down on the ground in front of a bunch of white boys with army training and I could handle myself. I’m Signal. I was a Robin. I was trained by Batman and Alfred Pennyworth. I’d fought metahumans and assassins and madmen alike. When I was just a kid, I was ready to stand up to the fucking Riddler. Beating this enemy would be easy, protecting everyone else in the process…there were just too many. People would be hurt, lives would be lost, that was inevitable. Bruce knew it, I knew it, everyone in Gotham did.
             There was a commercial I saw once, it was criticized as fascist propaganda. A single riot officer stood in a unit of many more as a tidal wave of protestors prepared to cascade upon him. He nervously flashed back to his time in the army, and we compare the two uniforms to see how small he is now in comparison. He takes fire from terrorists shouting something unintelligible (literally, it’s not any language known to Twitter). Commercial clips to a day on the beat, as a criminal he’s pursuing fires three shots into a crowded playground. He pauses, unsure whether to pursue the criminal or to check on the children. Transition to his home, where his little sister is about to get into a car with her friends. She’s blonde and pretty, vulnerable. Later, as she’s leaving a club with her friends, a man with a thick beard and tan face follows them as he shields his face with a hoodie. Clips back to the cop. He lowers his visor, and the shot clips back to his military service as he straps in his helmet. I was with everyone on Twitter for the longest and saw it as propaganda, and I still do. But as I stalked the protestors through the streets, nervously waiting for some counter-protestor to strike at them, I felt like that cop. What does that make me?
             It wasn’t long before the march met the counter-protestors on the block outside the station. They couldn’t surround the station itself, so I guess they figured it was the next best thing. By the time I arrived, the armed counter-protesters had nearly doubled their numbers. They were carrying high-velocity rifles and tactical vests. Some proudly displayed their military ranks while others displayed their imagined ranks. They boasted all types of brotherhoods and militias and political parties. They weren’t one single unit, but they operated like one. Their lines were neat and their movements tactical. They were an army protecting the police that was, in turn, being protected by the police. GCPD had rolled out a riot brigade and stationed them between the two parties, but they had their backs turned to the armed ‘protestors.’ It was a stark picture, and from high up, I could read the dawning realization on the faces of the protestors below.
             “It’s a trip, ain’t it?”
             I jumped when I heard the voice. I knew who it was without looking. I’d studied his videos religiously since the first one came out. I’d be lying if I said he didn’t interest me in a weird, macabre way.
             Minstrel walked forth from the shadow of a roof-top shed. His grin wasn’t as wide as it usually was, and that put me at ease. His movements were slow and small, his face not nearly as horrific despite the jet colored face and bloody lips. I believed then that I was receiving the rare gift of seeing a calm, reserved Minstrel.
             I reached for the nightsticks at my side and readied into a battle stance, “What the hell are you doing here, Minstrel?”
             He didn’t respond. He only walked to the ledge of the building and sat down. He invited me to join him by tapping the space near him, but I refused. We both knew that he’d have only pushed me off. Still, he shrugged as if I was being difficult but he would entertain my reservations.
             “I wasn’t feeling very well, so I came out for a laugh,” he explained.
             “You think this is funny?”
             “Of course it is! Look at them, they’ve got no chance! They’re marching straight into death and calling it bravery. But I’m wrong! I’m crazy for doing the same thing. These assholes walk up to men with a gun holding a sign that says ‘shoot me’ and they’re fighting for their rights. I do it and I’m ‘expressing a concerning lack of disregard for my life and trespassing on a firing range.’”
             I didn’t laugh. Batman warned me that’s what his type wanted.
             “I swear,” he continued as he leaned over the ledge a bit more than I would have been comfortable and looked down on the crowd below. “Our people will follow any nigga in a nice haircut and a suit.”
             “That’s not why,” I commented, giving him precisely the type of engagement I’d always been warned to avoid with Joker.
             He counted on his fingers with each name he mentioned, “Al Sharpton, Jessie Jackson, Booker T. Washington, W.E.B Dubois, Martin Luther King Jr., Al-Hajj Malik Shabazz…shall I go on?”
             I sighed, “That’s not a fair comparison at all. Each of those men was vastly different from each other. Their presentation does not undermine the political, spiritual, and cultural philosophies that informed their very different tactics and ideologies!”
             His face widened as air exited his lungs in a high, choppy laugh, “Sorry, sorry. I just really didn’t think you’d recognize that many Black names at once.”
              I was getting sick of his game quickly, but I had to be careful. I couldn’t figure out what he was planning, and I didn’t want to do anything hasty that led to people getting hurt.
             “They’re all the same,” he said with a disgusted tone. I couldn’t tell who he was talking about.
             “What are you going to do about it, then?” I asked.
             He flicked twirled his fake, yarn dreadlocks around his finger as he crossed his legs and his eyes in thought, “I don’t know. What do you think?”
             I sighed, “I think that you’re a passionate but confused person that wants to do the right thing, but doesn’t realize how. But I think you know that what you’re doing is wrong, or else you wouldn’t be talking to me?”
             “Yeah, this is a fanfic written by a narcissistic sociopath, not a Hallmark movie.”
             I was going to argue, but he cut me off before I could say anything. “Why do you think you’re better than they are?”
             “I don’t think I’m better than anyone,” I answered.
             He sucked his teeth, “You big lipped bitch! You know damn well that you’re better.”
He gestured to the ground below, but I legitimately couldn’t tell who he was indicating. The protestors, the counter-protestors, the cops? I wasn’t sure.
“You said I know that I am better, I don’t think that. Why do you ask why I think something you’ve already accepted as true?”
“Because, Duke Thomas,” he said with a sudden leap from the ledge. He landed in front of me and I jumped back anxiously, trying desperately not to lock with his wide eyes, “I’m trying to understand the depth of your madness.”
“You’re the one that dresses like Jim Crow and has the emotional consistency of an Animaniac,” I retorted. I didn’t ask how he knew my name, because I could tell that’s what he wanted.
“This is no laughing matter, Mr. Thomas!” He said that in between his own cackles and struggled to continue, “You’re suffering from pathological Negroism, or That Nigga Syndrome as coined by Professor André Benjamin.”
I rolled my eyes, “Again, I think you’re describing yourself. You can reference Black leaders in politics and thought and make an Outkast joke at the same time. You’re clearly smart enough to realize why what you’re doing is flawed. You’re spreading so much fear and chaos that you’re making things worse. Yeah, the white folks that really run this city are scared of us and hate us, that isn’t some profound realization! But you’re making it harder for the few that are on our side to support our cause. If the mayor looks at you running around, kidnapping people and castrating them on tv, all he’s going to do is hire more gun-crazy cops ready to shoot every Black dude that breathes. You have to see that this is all pointless!”
He put two fingers in his ears and stuck his tongue out at me.
“Do you realize that your name popped up more than any other keyword on 8chan the very second that the verdict was released? And on Twitter, you have people wishing that you go out and just kill Namzmiren. None of this would be happening if it weren’t for you! I wouldn’t even be out here if it weren’t for you!”
I hated myself the moment I said it. But there was a lot of truth to it. Riddler had just escaped prison. Rumors were circulating about League of Assassins foot soldiers working their way through the Gotham underworld, looking for recruits. Poison Ivy had recently resurfaced and was seen assaulting civilians. I would still support the movement in any way I could if I didn’t have Minstrel to worry about, but the idea of being on the ground with the other Robins, holing a Black Lives Matter sign was a fantasy. I’m Signal, which means super-criminals take precedence.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Minstrel said. “Einstein defined madness as irrational distrust borne from inadequate living conditions, after all.”
I prepared myself for another one of his bad jokes, but he surprised me by silently reaching behind him, then pulling out a gun. I reacted quickly, grabbing my nightsticks from my side and bracing myself for a fight. But he didn’t point it at me. He held the gun in front of himself, contemplating its design for a moment as he muttered words. I couldn’t tell if he was speaking to me or to himself.
             “That Nigga Syndrome is a serious illness. Luckily we’ve found a treatment. One Gangsta’s Pill should do the trick.”
             Minstrel looked up at me, eyes wide and smile even wider, “Do you know, Duke, what a Gangsta’s Pill is?”
             I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t figure out the answer. Minstrel was nice enough to explain. He raised the gun and pointed it at his temple.
             “That’s a little piece of lead, taken to the head.”
             “Minstrel, don’t!” I reached forward, but it was too late. The sound of the shot filled the air, echoing off the walls and windows of every skyscraper around us. Minstrel fell to the ground in a lifeless heap, the gun falling from his hands and clattering ominously on the concrete rooftop.
             In the next moment, I heard screams from the crowd below. The sounds of accusation and fear permeated my ears. I looked over the ledge but already knew what I was about to see. In the streets was chaos, pure anarchy. The shot had only fired a few moments before, but already people in the streets were fighting. I watched the family I was so estranged from being shoved and beaten by cops and militias. I saw some of them punch back and swing their signs like clubs. People overturned trashcans and hurled them, then used the spilled contents as projectiles. I turned my gaze away when I saw the first tear gas launcher.
             “It’s a trip, ain’t it.”
             His voice was deeper. Harsher. It didn’t carry that same, affected, maniacal air that he’d been using the entire time so far. Was this a mask being pulled back? Was I finally hearing the real Minstrel? I didn’t care. The cries of anguish and please for mercy entered my soul and lit a fire. I raced to Minstrel, grabbed him by the collar, and leaned him against the side of the building.
             “You’re a bit too young for me…wait, how old are you?”
             “WHY!”
             “So I know if you’re legal before-”
             I punched him in his mouth. The lipstick that smeared on my glove was too red for me to be certain that my strike had any effect, so I delivered him another one in his gut. I didn’t like that type of merciless violence, but it to measure my anger. Down below, the same people Minstrel claimed to fight for were suffering worse.
             “You do not fire a fake gun, or ANY gun, in the middle of a protest!”
             “Why not? I thought it would be fun.” The sound of blood clogged his throat and made his voice disgusting.
             I rolled him around and forced his head over the side of the building, “They were peaceful before! They wanted to be peaceful! You ruined everything!”
             Minstrel laughed. It was a wet, wheezy gargle that he was clearly forcing out against his will. “Nearly half a thousand men and women showed up to face down confederate wannabes and the same police force that killed a child and showed no remorse. Why would they gather in such a large number? What did they think would happen? They wanted to fight!”
             “Then why didn’t you stop them!” I screamed.
             “Where’s the fun in that?”
             Minstrel suddenly jerked his body to the side. The shock made me stumble and nearly trip over the edge of the building. I quickly composed myself but had to let go of Minstrel in the process. He didn’t offer me much time to recover. The second I’d stabilized my body against the ledge, I felt the air around me shift, and my base instincts sent a jolt down my arms, pushing me away. A banjo dropped down on the same concrete spot where I once leaned.
             “Come on, come on,” Minstrel said as he crept towards me. Banjo raised over his head and eyes wild and bloodthirsty, the sight of him sent a chill down my spine with every step his lumbering feet took. “You know this is what it has to be. You gotta make it look good for your boss.”
             “Batman is not my boss!” I shouted this as I swung a leg up in a wild drop kick meant to drive distance between us.
             “It’s better than being a token like Luke, I suppose.” Minstrel said with a laugh and another swing of his banjo. I dodged it expertly and it only caught air.
             “Who are you? How do you know so much about us,” I demanded.
             “I’m the guy that distracted you long enough for that to happen.”
             Like an idiot, I turned around. I felt my stomach boil with worry as I looked down on the crowd. I didn’t know what it was that I expected to see, but nothing had changed. Fire, destruction, pain. Clouds of gas covering parts of the streets, and cops moving like Stormtroopers as they forced people to the ground. I thought something worse would lay before me, but what could be worse than this?
             I turned back to face Minstrel. I was sure that it was all just a trick to distract me. But he wasn’t in the same spot any longer. My instincts drove me to whip my head around and check my six, but he wasn’t there either. As suddenly as he appeared, Minstrel was gone.
             I looked down on the crowd. So much pain and destruction all caused by one man.
             “Signal, report in,” I heard Batman call over my commlink.
             “Copy, Batman. Signal on scene.”
             “Minstrel’s been spotted in your area. Your objective has changed. Stop Minstrel before he escalates this situation. But do not engage without reporting in.”
             I turned my microphone off for a moment so I could curse.

Chapter Text

Dear James,

This is a letter that I’d been meaning to write for years; and I mean that sincerely. I didn’t want to lose touch with you, I didn’t want to lose touch with anyone. But I couldn’t help it. My life got complicated after my parents died, and I was in a dark place for a long time. By the time I came out, you were gone.

What happened to you, James?

-Richard “No one wants to see ya, Dick” Grayson

I remember him best with a trail of snot running down his nose. Looking back, it was obvious that he was allergic to the animals, but no one really said or did anything about it. Hew as a little boy, everyone figured, and little boys have snot running down their nose all the time. True to form, he was constantly smiling and running happily around the circus, and sometimes I was running with him. Not all the time, though, and I regret that. I played with James enough to be friends, but only as long as I was in the circus.

James was always younger than me, and I liked that. It made playing with him easy. The things that fascinated him were far simpler than those things that fascinated me. He wasn’t very demanding, either. He was so happy to have someone that wanted to engage with him that he was willing to do just about anything I recommended. I don’t want to overstate how important he was in my life, because the fact is that I forgot about him for years after I left the circus. But still, on the days where I was bored or sad or disappointed with life, playing with James helped me feel better, and I’ll always be grateful for that.

“No one wants to see ya, Dick,” James would often comment whenever I made my way to him. He never meant it, though, and he often flashed me the same, toothy grin to confirm that we were still friends. James was four years younger than me, so hearing such a lewd joke from him always brought a laugh to me and everyone else that heard it. None of us had to wonder where he’d picked up the language from, his father and some of the other adults around only censored themselves when a paying audience was around.

When I think back to these moments, I often remember James handing something to me. I think that was because I often found him with the animals. He liked feeding the elephants, and on more than a few occasions the tamer had to kick the both of us out of the tent for playing too close to the lions.

“My mom liked animals. She wanted to be a zoologist,” he would often say. He always said it in the past tense. I never met his mother, and though I often wondered about her I knew better than to ask a question like that outright, so I always asked the same question, which was different from the one I really want to know.

“Is that what you want to be when you grow up?” I’d ask.

James would always shake his head and then correct me, “No, I want to be—” but he never continued the sentence the same way. The answers often differed, as if his soul weren’t yet settled on what or who he was. I remember days where he said he wanted to be president, or a secret agent. Sometimes he’d say that he wanted to be an astronaut so he could see space, or a pilot so he could see the world. James didn’t know what he wanted to do, but he knew that he wanted to be somebody. And I knew that he would, because even then I knew that he had that chance.

“What do you want to be,” he’d ask after telling me about whatever career was occupying his mind that week.

I’d always shrug my shoulders and look towards wherever my parents were.

“I think I’ll just stay in the family business. I’m really good at it, after all.”

To prove that point, I’d do a couple flips. And even though he’d seen me perform on a real trapeze dozens of times before, he always clapped and laughed.

I wish I could say that this was a regular experience. Though it was frequent, it was hardly ever regular. I liked James, but he was still four years younger than me. We both still lived in a circus, where we were encouraged to work, and eager to help our parents. We played together infrequently, and there were many days where neither of us even crossed paths. The moments we did have together, though, we cherished as best as we could.

When my mom and dad were murdered, I entered a cycle of obsession. First, I was obsessed with revenge, and later I was obsessed with justice. I let being Robin take over my life, until there was little room for Dick Grayson to be his own, independent being. Seeing what that same thing did to Bruce has helped me from getting as bad as I could. I think I’ve gotten better at juggling these dual identities of mine, but for a long time, anything related to Dick Grayson came second in my priorities, and anything related to Dick Grayson’s life before Batman came fourth.

I was 18 years old when I managed to enter a point in my life where thoughts of James entered my mind and made me want to reach out to him. I don’t really know what spurred those feelings, I guess the time just finally felt right to catch up with James. I wrote a letter to C.C. Haly, catching him up on things since we last talked some months before, and I asked if James and his dad were still around. Haly told me that James and his dad left the circus not long after I had, following a dispute about pay during a fraught time for the circus. Despite their disagreement, they ended things on friendly terms, which is why Haly was surprised when Malcolm Byrd stopped calling and writing.

I was eighteen years old then. I wasn’t just Robin anymore, I was Nightwing. I was my own superhero, my own man, and I had bigger and badder foes that occupied my time. Haly told me that he didn’t know how to find James and Malcolm Byrd, and I just shrugged my shoulders, thought ‘Oh well’ and moved on. I think I rationalized it to myself by saying that I’d track them both down later, but I never did. I should have done more then. I could have done more then. Afterall, I was Nightwing.

The first thing that I did after encountering Minstrel was investigate my old friend, James Byrd. It took me about ten minutes to find out his whole story. He wasn’t living on the streets, he hadn’t been in jail, he didn’t join the military, and he didn’t even join another circus. James Byrd wasn’t in some far away state or city, living an anonymous life of seclusion and secrecy. James Byrd was living right in Gotham City with me and Bruce, and he had been for years.

*

“There’s no evidence that your friend is Minstrel,” Batman said.

“It’s him, Bruce, I can feel it.”

Oracle cleared her throat, “Nightwing, I have to agree with Batman here. There’s just nothing in this profile to suggest he’d do something like this.”

“What is the exact profile that would suggest someone may turn into Joker?” Signal countered.

Batman grumbled, “You may have a point there, but we can’t ignore that patterns have arisen before. Joker’s emulators tend to be young, disenfranchised men, often with a history of mental illness, psychological trauma, and criminality.”

“James lost both of his parents and grew up in foster care,” I reminded everyone.

The news was a surprise to me when I first heard it. Malcolm had always seemed like such a strong and healthy man. When Barbara told me that he died of a heart attack, I could hardly believe it. It made me wonder about his life, the things that boys never noticed about the adults around them. Was he really so strong and powerful, or did he just appear that way to me?

Hearing about James’ mother, though, was far worse. Barbara managed to find out that Jessica Byrd died from complications related to childbirth. She had to be operated on to safely birth James but wound up bleeding out faster than the doctors could treat her. An investigation and lengthy lawsuit later, James Byrd wound up with a trust fund worth $100,000 that would activate when he was 18. James would be able to go to college or buy a house, and all it cost him was his mom. I wasn’t too surprised to learn this part of James’s story, because even at a young age I realized that his mom had probably died, and his dad sometimes mentioned to mine how he had money set aside for James. Still, having all the details laid out for me was surreal.

In a way, James and Malcom were always invisible to me. I think we, as people have a bad habit of trying to create other people; we take the people we know and choose to understand them in contexts that we relate and connect with. Learning the specifics of James’ history destroyed that image of him I’d kept in the back of my mind, then dusted off from time to time. He couldn’t just be what I interpreted anymore. I was reminded that he was a real person with a real story, and that story was sad. And I was left to wonder how differently things might have gone if I had been around to help him deal with the loneliness and grief that had become characteristic of my own life.

“Yes, but then he went on to college, got decent grades, and works at the DA’s office.” Oracle pushed back.

“Harvey Dent was the DA,” Signal said.

“Whose side are you on here, exactly?” Red Robin asked.

I assume that Signal shrugged, “I don’t have any horses in this race, man. I’m just trying to get us all to be real here. We can’t use a psych profile to guess who will or won’t become a mad criminal like Joker because so many that exist are just exceptions to the rules we use.”

“Signal’s right,” I said with a nod and a sigh, “James isn’t disenfranchised in the same way a lot of criminals are, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. I’m going to continue my investigation.”

“We’re sitting on a powder keg here; we need you in the field.” Batman pushed.

“I am in the field!” I said, defensively. Then I grimaced a bit, “I mean, I’m in the outfield at least.”

“You’re a mile away from all the protestors,” Oracle mentioned.

“If my hunch is right, and James is Minstrel, then I’m at the perfect place. There’s no way he’s missing his chance to make a move on this protest, it’s just too big.”

“Still can’t believe that cop got off,” Signal muttered.

“This is Gotham, after all,” Red Robin reminded him.

“All this gossiping is giving me a headache! Let’s just get started already.” Red Hood cried into his coms.

“If there’s a fray, I can easily get to the protest and help. But so far, Minstrel being James is the best lead we’ve got, so I’m going to see it through.” I hoped that reminding everyone of those simple facts would work in my favor. But stuff like that always depends on how rational Batman is feeling that day. 

“Fair enough. Everyone remain on guard. For those of you that are still on your way, report in once you’ve taken position.”

“Are we really not going to comment on the fact that Nightwing unironically used the word ‘fray,’” Tim said, stifling a laugh.

I ignored him and focused on the task at hand. I turned the volume down on my comms so they couldn’t distract me. Raising my scopes back to my eyes, I continued my observation of James in the building across from me.

James Byrd was a diligent worker, the kind that preferred to stay behind after hours preparing for the next day. As he worked, there was a subtle fire of passion burning in his eyes, and a serious tightness to his otherwise round jaw, as if whatever he was working on were the most important thing in the world. I was happy to see it, it was nice to know that James had found himself something to be passionate about.

I thought about what I’d read in Oracle’s report; how James Byrd first attended a small college out in the Midwest before he transferred to Gotham University. I wondered what James was like in his college days. Was he more of a nerd, or a jock? His grades were good, but not extremely good, so I imagined that maybe he was just studious enough. I thought about what it would have meant if I could have met him then and become his friend. Would that even be possible? Putting aside my hectic life as Nightwing, I wondered if he would even want me as a friend. From his perspective, I left him and everyone in the circus for the life of a billionaire’s heir, and I couldn’t have even been bothered to contact him to be sure that he was okay.

I didn’t know if James was Minstrel. Despite how adamant I was with everyone else that I investigate him, a part of me desperately wanted for my hunch to be wrong. Maybe Minstrel was another Black kid that was raised in the circus. Maybe the joke he made about my name was just a coincidence. If Minstrel and James were different people, then maybe there was still a chance to right my wrongs.

Of course, I wouldn’t blame myself for James becoming Minstrel. Ultimately, our choices are our own; and while I’m certain that someone, somewhere hurt him so much that he began to believe the only thing he could do was hurt others in return, I don’t think that means he had any less of a choice to become Minstrel. Nor does that mean that I should feel responsible.  I still wondered what kind of hurt he would have gone through, and what I could have possibly done to help him deal with it. Could I have helped James and stopped him from becoming Minstrel? Could I still help him and get him to turn his back on that life before it was too late?  

I sighed, finally understanding why Bruce struggled so much with Joker.

And just like that, I heard Bruce on my comms once again. The shock made me remember how long I’d been watching James, a unit of time that I’d been counting in the back of my mind but not paying close attention to. It had been nearly twenty minutes, and in all that time, James Byrd just typed away at his computer.

“Everyone converge on Signal’s position! We have confirmation that Minstrel was in the area.”

“Don’t tell me he’s the one that caused this riot. I thought Dick was sitting on Minstrel!” Red Robin shouted.

I bit the inside of my cheek angrily. “I guess I was wrong. It’s not James.”

“I’m sorry everyone,” Signal said, with an unusual heaviness to his voice.

“Why are you apologizing?” I asked. I didn’t hear his answer, and I didn’t care. I rushed to my bike and sped towards his location. I was done wasting time chasing ghosts.

Chapter Text

Somewhere in the world, a screen flickers on without anyone activating it. The frame is filled once again with the fraudulent Gotham local news station. The two anchors: a woman who infrequently dresses as a clown, and a young man in attire and makeup which is uncomfortable to describe. Their names are known to all Gotham City citizens, but those names are harbingers of fear and chaos only to be uttered in the safety of the daylight.

              “Sorry for interuptin’ your usual stories!” Harley says in her usual, overly enthusiastic tone.

              “Greetings Gotham City, you may refer to me as Minstrel,” The young man said as he took off his straw hat (and his fake, dreadlocks of yarn along with them), placed it into his chest and bowed.

              “And I’m his big sista, Harley!”

              “And we must interrupt A Maroon in Midnight Blue for a public service announcement.”

              Harley Quinn leaned back in her chair as she took a deep breath, ready to exclaim at the top of her lungs.

              Minstrel cut her off, “There is no moral shame in performing cunnilingus.”

              Harley shot her body forward and scowled at Minstrel, “Aw, Jimmy! Ya took away my big moment.”

              She turned back to the camera and cupped her hands together, “EAT PUSSY, YA COWARDS! IT TASTES AMAZING!”

              Minstrel cleared his throat and gave Harley a knowing look.

              “Oh, right. Maybe I was a bit too enthusiastic…”

              Minstrel held up a white gloved hand, “Nonsense, there is no reason to not be enthusiastic about your sex life.”

              Harley nodded intelligently, “But we shouldn’t make chowin’ down another part a’ getting our fuck on that people think they’re owed.”

              “We should all endeavor to pleasure our partners,” Minstrel agreed, “but pleasure cannot come from force.”

              Harley spread her arms wide and made jazz hands, “Or coerce!”

              “It’s recently come to our attention that some…we’ll say, ‘policy makers’ feel differently,” Minstrel reported. “We’re here to show you that, yes, heroes indeed do that.”

              “And they love doing it! Let me tell you, this one time with Nightwing---” Harley cut herself off and looked nervously at Minstrel. She swallowed a nervous gulp and continued, “A story for another audience. Point is, heroes love pussy.”

              “Though not all,” Minstrel added.

              “But most a’ them!”

              “Indeed.” Minstrel agreed.

              “So, send the kids to bed, and if you’re under 18, please don’t look,” warned Harley Quinn with a shaming finger wave at the camera.

              “Because for the next few moments, we will be taking an in-depth look at cunnilingus among the capes of Gotham city. All for the benefit of Gotham’s citizens.”

              A brief lull passed between the two. The moment was over when the studio lighting changed and Lionel Richie’s “Let’s Get it On” began to play. Minstrel eyed Harley, and Harley eyed Minstrel, then both eyed the camera.

              “Wait, did ya’ll think…” Harley asked.

              “Repugnant! Despicable!” Minstrel cried as he slammed fist after fist on the table.

              “We’re brother and sister, ya freaks!” Harley said as she defensively grabbed Minstrel to protect him from the audience’s degeneracy.

              “And my sister is a happily married woman!” Minstrel added.

              “Yeah! If we’re turnin’ this into a three-player game, I gotta clear that with Ivy first!”

              “Just roll the tape, roll it!” Minstrel said.

              “Jimmy, wait! You didn’t make any jokes yet.”

              “Feminine pleasure is no laughing matter,” Minstrel said.

              Harley laughed, “Maybe when you do it.”

*

              It’s a cliché, but I remember the fist time so vividly that I’d swear that it happened yesterday.

              Selina Kyle broke into my house. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. These were back in the days when I still tried to make my house impenetrable to her, failing to realize how futile that was. Alfred wanted to shoot her on sight, but I never listened and always ordered him to surrender his gun to the Batcave.

              “Fine, you can have this one.” He’d always scoff before going away in a huff.

              From whatever room I was in, I would watch Selina on the cameras. I didn’t attempt to stop her, rather I wanted to study her and figure out her methods. I knew every single nook and hidey-hole in Wayne Manor, and I wanted to see which one she would and wouldn’t notice, and what her methods of breaking into them would be. With every break in, I learned something knew about Selina’s abilities, methods, and priorities; information that would be more than helpful in my future crimefighting. When I’d seen enough, I’d let her escape, but only to give her a head start before our pursuit.

              That day was different though. I watched in horrific awe as she walked straight up to my antique cabinet, cut a hole inside with her pinkie finger, and grab a single Fabergé egg.

              There was a story behind that egg, and Selina knew it. She knew what it meant to me, and how much I cared to see it, and everything else in that display case, safe and well-taken care of. The moment that she even touched it, a silent alarm activated, and every entrance in the room sealed itself shut. Everything else in my mansion wasn’t nearly as protected, but that egg mattered more to me than anything, and I was determined to get it back.

              I activated the intercom speaker in that room and said, “Please return the object where you found it. I am not playing with you this time, Catwoman.”

              There were microphones in the room. They were so sensitive that they could track her breathing, and she knew perfectly well that they were there. But rather than speak to me, she looked right into the camera, and ran her tongue along the top row of her teeth.

              “I take it that once again, she’s committed this act to schedule what is known as a ‘booty call?’” Alfred asked.

              The camera feed went out. I rose from my chair and started stripping.

              “Please, sir, at least wait until I’ve left. Or were you hoping that I would record the interaction?”

              “Ready the Batmobile, Alfred. She’s going to her apartment.”

              “Very well, sir. And shall I include the magnums this time?”

              I tossed my shirt at his head.

              Bending down, I opened a small alcove in my desk, revealing a hidden cache of the parts of my costume that I couldn’t wear under my regular clothes. This was the old days, before the heavier armor technology. A simple skinsuit, some boots, a cape and cowl, com-links, a utility belt, and a ballistic plate made from the melted gun which killed my parents. Faster than Dick could shout, “Moon Prism Power!” (and believe me, he’d done so before), Bruce Wayne was gone once again, and Batman was on the chase.

              I tracked Selina to one of her apartments. It was one that I’d never seen before, and that made me feel odd. I wasn’t angry, but more disappointed that once again, she was hiding from me. She’d seen parts of me that I didn’t show anyone: not Dick, Alfred, Ace, Diana, or Clark. Still, it wasn’t enough for her to tell me her real address.

              I shimmied up the fire escape and walked through the window. She was already inside, laying on a garish, heart-shaped bed and reading a magazine. The bejeweled egg laid on its side atop a nightstand to the right. I let my eyes pass over her and walked towards the nightstand.

              Selina sat up on the bed and extended an arm to block my path.

              “I’m sorry, Bats. But this bridge has a toll. I didn’t just break into your house and take mommy’s egg for fun, you know.”

              I figured as much. The egg was the first present I ever bought for my mother—the first thing I ever won at auction. I worked hard and saved up a day’s allowance to buy it. When I told Selina the story for the first time, she laughed, but then said it was adorable. She understood what it meant to me.

              “What do you want, Selina?”

              Once again, she made the same gesture that she made to the camera, “I think I was pretty clear about what I wanted.”

              I felt a rush of chemicals coursing through my body. If this were our first meeting, I would have sworn she slipped me some drug, probably one of Ivy’s aphrodisiacs. But we’d been down this route too many times before; I knew that she just had that effect on me.

              “Mask on or off,” I said, feeling my voice rise slightly in anticipation.

              She purred, “Oh? What’s wrong, are you nervous, little boy? Leave the mask on, then. I know it makes you feel safe.”

               I shot forward at the bed and tackled her. I couldn’t help it, something about her voice, her face, her smell. It all filled me with pure desire and transformed me into an animal. I lost all composure wherever Catwoman was involved. The refined gentleman that Alfred taught me to be went away, and I slipped even further into the part of my mind that was a creature of the night.

              We kissed for some minutes. Then, Selina scooted herself higher on the bed. I licked at her cleavage and caressed her sides. She scooted herself higher on the bed. I reached up and began to unzip her, then planted small, loving kisses on her belly. She scooted herself higher on the bed. I stopped.

              “I’m Batman,” I reminded her.

              She raised a curious eyebrow, “Honey, I’m Catwoman.”

              I looked down nervously. Her body looked so alluring in her tight, shining, latex pants. How often had I stared at that same area and wanted to thrust myself inside? Now all I could think about---

              “It’s a vagina, Bruce. It’s not going to smell like a cupcake.” Her voice was still playful, but it was growing a little annoyed.

              “I didn’t mean to —I’ve never really done that before.”

              Selina laughed, “Really? I always figured that’s why Wonder Woman kept the two of you around.”

              “Can’t we just do what we always do?” I asked.

              She yawned, “I’m sorry, baby. But I’m in a very…particular mood tonight.”

              My eye glanced over to the egg. Selina followed it and deduced what I was thinking.

              “You can take it,” she said. She rose from the bed, re-zipped her suit, and held the egg out to me. “If you’re not into it, then I guess the game’s over.”

              “If I leave, are you just going to call someone else?” I asked.

              “Isn’t that what you do when I’m not in the mood? Do you really want to talk exclusivity now?” She pushed back. She took a step closer to me, placing the egg into my chest and pressing her lips into my cheek. “I’ll still want you tomorrow, Bats, don’t worry about that. I may know some girls with some skills, but what you and I have is more than that. Fly home, now. Put mommy’s egg in a good place for next time, okay?”

              I nodded, and we kissed once again. I took the egg from her, then headed back to the Batmobile. I sat the egg in the glove compartment, then sat at the wheel for a few moments.

              I ran out of the Batmobile at a speed that could match Barry’s. I re-entered Selina’s apartment, unsurprised to find her waiting for me spread-eagle on the bed with a riding crop in her hands.

              “What took you so long? I hope you brought my favorite dental dams.”

              I began fiddling awkwardly with my utility belt, “I have condoms and a pair of scissors.”

              Selina rolled her eyes, “I’m kidding, I brought my own. Now, get onto this bed and help me get off.”

              “Yes ma’am,” I nodded.

              I took a step forward, and she gave me a disapproving look. I dropped to my knees, then began to crawl towards the bed, my eyes filling with thoughts of lust.

              Between her thighs once again, I felt a familiar wave of anxiety pass through me. I looked up to her pleadingly, “You know, this is still a little weird for me.”

              Catwoman chuckled, “I’ll walk you through it. Just let me know if it gets too weird.”

              “And then we can stop?” I asked.

              She nodded, “Yes, but remember where we left off. In case it seems less weird later.”

*

              Inside a fireplace-lit cottage, Harley Quinn sits in a rocking chair, reading to Minstrel, who sits on the floor and watches her eagerly.

              “And after that day, Batman realized he LOVED eating pussy. He became a pussy-eatin’ machine! If there was a carpet in the Justice League, Batman was munchin’ on it. But he never, ever forgot the woman that first opened his eyes to the beauty of cunnilingus.”

              “I like that story,” Minstrel said with a happy nod.

              “I do, too. I hope hearing it teaches all the little boys and girls the beauty of oral sex.”

              Minstrel nodded, then frowned, “But what if Batman really didn’t like it? What if he really didn’t want to do it? What if *I* don’t want to do it?”

              “It’s fine if ya don’t like it, but it’s also important to remember that sex is a situation where conversation and compromise are the best way forward. Next time, we’ll read the story of how Lois grew to accept that Superman won’t go down on her, but remained fulfilled by all the other ways he takes care of her sexual needs.”

              “Aww, can’t we read it now!” Minstrel protested.

              Harley shook her head, “Sorry, Jimmy. It’s way past your bedtime, and we gotta get you back into the events of your story. Say goodnight to the good people now, Jimmy.”

              Minstrel turned to face the audience. His jet-black face hung center frame, as folds began to spread all-throughout. The red of his lips grew and grew, separating as Moses parted the sea to reveal gleaming incisors and canines. His eyes opened wide, the lids stretching so far back that they seemed to disappear. This wicked smiling face bored deep into the souls of all that witnessed it, and with a hushed tone, Minstrel declared,

              “Sometimes, it’s better to give than to receive. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

              “Yeah, go get your fuck on!” Harley cried as she straddled a vine, riding away to some unknown location.

Chapter Text

I took in a deep breath, netted my fingers, and placed my chin upon the back of my palms. I wanted to put my hands in my face and talk into them instead, but this was business first and foremost, and there were rules about how to express fatigue in business. The night before drained me, and the internal conflict I felt about even having this meeting did nothing to help. But I had to power through it because—

“We need to talk about Minstrel,” I said.

Lucius Fox nodded, “I understand, Bruce. This is a very delicate situation our city has found itself in. All due respect, I don’t think Batman can punch his way out of this.”

“No need for such formality, Lucius. If I didn’t want your unfiltered opinion, I wouldn’t have asked you here. That goes for all of you, please don’t feel like you must hold back, I want to hear everything.”

Luke scoffed, “Don’t tell me you’re about to say, ‘this is a safe space’, man.”

“It is.”

Luke shook his head, but his tone wasn’t too derisive, in fact it was almost comical, “Alright then. So, what do you want to talk about specifically?”

I cleared my throat and made a sideways glance towards Duke. I didn’t know how to telepathically signal that I wasn’t blaming him for what happened.

“Put simply, Minstrel’s philosophy and tactics aren’t the kind we typically see. His cause is a bit more empathetic than one would hope, and it’s coming at a time where it may be hard for the average Gotham citizen not to sympathize with him.”

“You mean, of course, that it’s hard for the average Black Gotham citizen not to empathize with him,” Luke corrected.

“Luke,” Lucius warned.

Luke shrugged, “Look, if we’re going to be real then let’s be real. You don’t call vegans when Poison Ivy’s on a rampage, but Minstrel starts a riot and you assembled what I suspect may be the only Black people you know as both Batman and Bruce Wayne.”

“The Johns are both off-world, and Jefferson’s on another assignment,” I muttered, awkwardly. Regaining volume to my voice, I added, “If I’ve upset you, then I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen. Yes, you are here because you’re Black and I can confide both parts of my life to all of you. I know you aren’t experts in this, that’s not why you’re here. You’re here because you’ve lived life in a way that I haven’t, a way that I need to understand better if I’m going to solve this problem.”

Luke nodded, “Good. As long as you’re honest with yourself and us, that’s all I want. So, you’re worried about Minstrel starting a revolution?”

“That wouldn’t happen,” Lucius quickly interjected. “Minstrel is insane and uncontrolled. He would never be able to lead a movement, at most he could manage a small gang. No one with actual power or ability in affecting change for Black people would ever follow him, much less listen to him.”

“I think you’re underestimating him a little,” Duke said. His voice was oddly distant, projecting an air of childlike meekness. He still blamed himself for the other night.

Lucius sighed, “I understand that he got to you but—”

“It’s more than that!” Duke said. He looked to Lucius with pleading eyes, begging him to understand, “He got to me, yeah, but that’s only because he knows what he’s talking about. He understands people—Black people—on a fundamental level that we can’t underestimate. Minstrel’s insane, and I can’t say that his plans are well thought out, but he knows how to get people to react. He doesn’t need anyone to follow him, he just needs them to react to him. And he proved as much last night.”

I nodded, “That riot lasted five hours, over three hundred citizens were detained, twenty-seven were rushed to the hospital, with three fatalities. Businesses were destroyed, public property was damaged, and the governor called the National Guard in.”

“They aren’t actually here, though,” Luke reminded everyone.

“Yes, because this is Gotham. Though we were able to avoid things getting even worse, Minstrel did exactly what he set out to do that night; he demonstrated the brutality of the police and that Black Gotham citizens are living under a police state.”

“An oddly woke statement to come from a white billionaire,” Luke said with a smirk.

I couldn’t disagree with him on that point. “I don’t patronize Fox News. The fact of the matter is that the protest was peaceful until the gunshot, and afterwards, it was the police’s overbearing reaction that exacerbated the scenario. I told Jim to be on guard, but he didn’t take this seriously enough. Perhaps if he had, none of this would have happened.”

Lucius twisted his mouth, “All due respect, I think that’s a little naïve, Bruce.”

I raised an eyebrow, and made my face inviting so he knew he could continue. But I didn’t speak.

Lucius sighed, “I’m not saying that a riot was definite, but you have to remember the times. In every situation, I would have bet good money that someone was going to be assaulted at that protest, and I’d have bet more money that it would be a cop that would have done it.”

“I agree,” Luke said, “no matter how peaceful a protest is, the threat of danger is always going to be there.”

I nodded, “I see your point. Still, I don’t want to accept that this was unavoidable.”

“It wasn’t,” Lucius began. “Not entirely unavoidable, at least. Look at what happened here, you had a massive movement converging on police headquarters without training, official purpose, or even a real leader to control the situation.”

Lucius frowned and shook his head, “That’s not the way we did it. When I was Duke’s age, our protests were planned by people who helped prepare us for some of what we’d face out there. We had lists of demands and educated, articulate men and women that were able and willing to negotiate with government bodies. If we didn’t have a bail fund prepared or a network of people to call on in case we were hauled off, we didn’t march. Because our marches were intentional, reasoned, and thought out. As admirable as last night’s efforts were it was purely emotional and impulsive.”

I nodded again, “Thank you, Lucius. I think I’m beginning to understand. Perhaps as Bruce Wayne, I could—”

Luke cut me off before I could continue, “Now hold on a second. Dad, I take issue with how you’re characterizing that march last night. Yes, it was an impromptu one, but those existed in the 60s, too. Not every march needs to have a formal list of demands, either especially not when activists have been saying the same thing for years. And you say there were no leaders there but there were, they just weren’t commanding the whole thing from the front lines. If at any point, Gordon or Mayor Hill had offered to sit down with community leaders and activists, there were people from BlackYouthProject100, BlackLivesMatter, Gotham City Copwatch, Gotham City Stop The Violence, neo-Panthers, and even the NAACP. And that’s just everyone from formal organizations, there were lots of independent activists there, too. We had just as much of a chance to affect real change as your generation did, but that chance was taken away from us when the cops decided to force us all home.”

Lucius pushed back, “It doesn’t matter how many previous demands you’ve made or how many actors from other movements are present. We live in a world of formalities, son. I taught you to understand that. Every protest needs clear leaders and clearer demands if it wants to be successful. You say that the mayor could have spoken to representatives from all these organizations and collectives, but which ones specifically? Cuz I know Mrs. Gold from the Stop The Violence campaign, and she’s one of the last women I’d want in any meeting. These things have to be thought out if they’re going to be meaningful.”

I sensed hostilities rising, so I tried to weigh in, and in so doing remind them that even though this was a serious discussion, it was still being held among family, “There’s an impasse here that I’ve seen echoed in my other studies of Black history and politics. Really, it’s a tale as old as time; the previous generation criticizes the tactics of the current one. I wonder if this divide has impacted Minstrel’s worldview.”

The father and son calmed in those brief moments I spoke. Lucius’s tone was more measured as he responded, “Most likely, I believe so.”

“Minstrel seems upset at the way things have typically been done,” Duke added with a nod. “Don’t forget one of his last messages was a criticism of Mississippi Goddamn.”

I remembered the video in question. What I couldn’t figure out was whether Minstrel was saying that he would respond violently or calling the rest of Gotham’s Black community to do the same. Thinking back on it raised a question in my mind, but I pushed that aside for the time being.

Luke weighed in, “My guess? Minstrel’s an accelerationist. He’s the one wearing a mask, but I think he wants the rest of us to drop it. He wants riots and looting and fights in the street because it means this story might finally end.”

“And that’s why he’s dangerous,” Lucius said.

Luke shrugged, “It’s not like we’re the ones that started all of this, though. Even Minstrel didn’t really start it.”

Duke agreed, “Facts. Minstrel may have caused the riot, and he may be fanning flames, but he didn’t start this fire.”

“Yes,” I said. “If we’re going to ever hope to not only beat Minstrel but prevent any copycats, then we need to keep in mind that these problems don’t begin and end with him.”

There was a brief silence for a moment. It wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable (to me at least). All of us were just thinking our way through what we’d all discussed. I appreciate silences like these, it means that everyone is listening and considering different solutions. I enjoyed sound like any bat would, but these silences were what I truly cherished in this human life.

“Are you all familiar with the concept of the Overton Window?” I asked.

Duke shook his head, “What’s that?”

Lucius explained, “It’s a term used in politics to describe, essentially, the culture of politics and how it changes over time. If we consider certain beliefs, regardless of party, to be inherently Right or Left, then depending on how prevalent those ideas are, a political system as a whole is either skewed more to the left or more to the right. As ideas cycle through a political sphere and politician’s platforms change, the Overton Window shifts and what was once a talking point by conservatives becomes one used by liberals and vice versa.”

I shook my head, “Exactly. The Overton Window concept reminds us that politics are never static, as situations change, so do politics. And lately I’ve been thinking that perhaps activism and advocacy work in a similar way. If I want to prevent new Minstrels from appearing, I think I have to adopt new tactics that better fit this racial climate.”

“So, Batman’s about to bash the Klan?” Luke asked.

I nodded, “If need be. I’ve never been a stranger to white supremacist violence; it exists here in Gotham and surrounding areas just as much as it does everywhere else. But it’s never been a priority of mine. I hate to be so blunt, but it’s true. There are ninjas, warlords, and crime bosses that have done more damage to the people of this city than any of the Neo-Nazi gangs in Gotham could ever even dream of.”

Lucius commented, “That’s going to have to change, though.”

I nodded, “Yes, I agree. Additionally, I think that as Bruce Wayne, my tactics must change, too.”

Duke raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that supporting charities and assistance programs isn’t enough to address racism in Gotham. Minstrel’s getting everyone ready for war, the police are unresponsive to the people’s fears, and our president has convinced an entire demographic that they’re at risk of genocide. If there were a window of acceptable forms of activism, it’s shifted long ago, and I need to adapt if I want to ensure that there’s some meaningful change here in Gotham.”

“A commendable desire, to be sure,” Lucius said. There was a clear note of uncertainty whistling alongside his voice, and I knew what it meant.

“Bruce,” Luke began, “I think this is something that’s bigger than even you can handle.”

“I understand that.” It was true, I really did understand that much. What I was working against was centuries old, and far more invasive and intangible than even the Court of Owls. Attempting to solve racism entirely would take me too much out of my work as Batman. But as I explained to Luke, “I know that this is something I can’t fix. But it may be something I can help. At least enough so that Minstrel doesn’t have the amount of support that he does, and we can minimize risk of copycats or recidivism once he’s captured.”

Everyone nodded, and once again there was a brief silence. It was eventually broken by Lucius.

“Well, Mr. Wayne, if you want to be more involved in combatting systemic racism in Gotham, that’s something I can help with. I have connections that would be useful for you, we can create more outreach programs, and we can also invest in advocacy groups. We can find the people that we know can lead this fight and give them everything they need to do it.”

I could tell that there was a ‘but’ coming. I could also tell that, perhaps, Duke and Luke weren’t too passionate about the idea of his father and I leveraging our power to select people to lead social change in Gotham. I had no interest in over-stepping by launching some kind of astroturf campaign, and I wanted to let both of them know that. But I also knew that going further into that discussion might exacerbate a much bigger, more heated debate between the three of them.

“But…” I said, encouraging Lucius to move on to his next thought.

Lucius leaned forward, “But what does that mean for Batman? No matter how you slice it, Bruce, you’re everything our people fear. A wealthy white boy in a suit, beating up criminals with no legal oversight.”

“I understand their fears, but I try to only engage in violence with people that are posing an active threat to others or myself,” I explained.

Duke rolled his eyes, “Said every cop ever.”

I sighed, and shook my head, “Yes, I understand how I come off. But I’ve never intentionally killed anyone, and the tools I use are designed to minimize that risk.”

“It’s not just about killing, though, Bruce!” Lucius pushed back.

Duke took a step forward, “It’s the fact that a cop can swing on me at any time and he’s in the right. Even if I can prove that he was wrong, what’s going to happen? He’s not going to lose his badge and get kicked off the force, he’ll just be reprimanded and at worst get desk duty or time off. Police are people that can be as violent as they want and have the support not just of the legal system, but of citizens, too.”

“That’s why I became Batman,” I argued, “That’s why I support you and Luke and the Outsiders and the Justice League and the Titans. I think that, if violence is absolutely necessary to preserve justice, then just and righteous men and women should be able to engage in it and protect the innocent. I’m trying to give that power back to the good people of the world, so that they aren’t caught between remorseless criminals and biased or corrupt police forces.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Bruce,” Duke said as he shook his head, “You don’t empower ‘the people’, you empower your people. Every night you go out, you make a world where privileged white men can engage in violence to defend their sense of ‘justice’ and ‘innocent people’. You can give me and Luke and Black Lightning all the tech and inspirational speeches you want, but at the end of the day, our communities don’t have the power to defend themselves without first consulting the will of some white guy. I would have never been Signal or a Robin without you or Alfred bankrolling and training me, that’s just facts.”

My pulse quickened and I felt blood rush to my face. My skin grew hotter as I felt their eyes on me. What were they looking for? Why did their bodies seem so squared off? Their eyes, while friendly, still so tight? My brain began looking for holes in Duke’s argument, and I grew ready to push back on his claim and argue—I stopped myself. I was becoming defensive, emotional. That wasn’t what this meeting was for. Even if I felt like Duke and the others were being hostile, that didn’t mean anything, after all, I only promised that I would keep an open mind here, I never instructed them to do the same.

“I hear you, Duke, I hear you. I guess my next question, then, is what should I be doing as Batman to prevent this?”

There was a silence that passed around the room as no one knew how to reply. I couldn’t tell what the others were thinking, but I suspected their reasoning was along the lines of my own. If I brought more Black people into the fold, gave them the training and technology they needed to be the heroes that their communities needed and deserved, that wouldn’t actually shift power towards Gotham’s Black community. It was the easy fix scenario, the one that I felt most inclined to go with so that whole conversation, and each one thereafter would be easier. But Duke was right, Black heroes only go so far and mean so much if some white guy is making a path for them.

Since Minstrel first appeared, I’d been asking myself a question, one that I had to keep asking myself even though it flew in the face of everything I believed…or everything that I wanted to believe that I believed.

I looked around the room, and for the first time that day I really looked at each of the men I was talking with. Lucius, with his refined and serious gaze, somehow weary with bags but eyelids hanging at an easy-going height. Where most men would be uncomfortable in situations like this, he wasn’t. He’d been in conversations like this so many times that it was as natural as breathing—or maybe not? Maybe the finely pressed and tailored, tan, plaid suit was his own cape, and his friendly but non-plussed expression a cowl. Was he treating me the way he treated men like Grant? Was he humoring me, this wealthy white man with a guilty conscience? I didn’t want to believe that he was doing that, I hoped that as friends we could be honest with each other in matters like these. But as his friend, I also had too much respect for him to delude myself into thinking that this wise, older man wasn’t capable of placating me with a few well-selected expressions.

I looked to Duke next. His demeanor had changed a bit during the conversation. No longer was his back slightly arched and his neck bent as he looked out to us all from the safety of his tortoise shell. He spine erect and his eyes straight forward, he looked far more comfortable as he sat in his hoodie and jeans, resisting the teenage urge to lean back on the last legs of his chair. Still, I could tell there was some hesitation to his existence. Lines of concentration on his face directed me towards a tightened jaw, tapping fingers, and the faintest evidence of an absent mind locked behind his irises. There was a machine inside Duke’s mind, and it was working over-time trying to crack some equation too large for me to even consider. And it had been running like that for some time.

Finally, there was Luke. Throughout our talk he’d been rather casual. His demeanor reflected the same. He sat with a slight slouch and legs spread apart, a posture more befitting of an afternoon hang out than the serious business at hand. To say that his face was unreadable would be incorrect, though bland, I could still make deductions from the lack of signs it gave. He wasn’t especially emotional in this conversation, an air that the others had given off but appeared more notable to me because of how authentic it was. With the top button of his shirt undone and his hands in motion for no reason other than keeping his body active, he looked comfortable and open. He had no intention of hiding his true feelings.

“There’s a question that I have to ask you all,” I began. I knew what words to say, and I knew they had to be said. I just didn’t want to be the one to say them.

People mischaracterize me all the time, they think that my suspicion and pragmatism mean that I don’t value the people around me. But that isn’t true, I’m distrustful and discerning because I value the people around me. This was another example. I didn’t want to ask this question to either validate or invalidate Luke, Duke, and Lucius, I did it because I valued each of their opinions, and I wanted to take them into consideration as I planned my next steps.

“None of us support Minstrel, Bruce.” Lucius reassured.

I believed him at his word, but I didn’t think his statement was true, either. The way that reality often contradicts itself would be funny if it weren’t so damn annoying. I knew that each of their answers would be more complicated than that. In fact, I would have preferred more complicated answers than a flat ‘no’, because it would be in those complications that I’d better understand the impact Minstrel’s ideology had on even those working to stop him.

I thought of a way to approach Lucius’s response. I didn’t want to draw Luke and Duke into the crossfire if I could help it at all.

“You’re not swayed at all, Lucius? Why’s that?” I asked.

Lucius shook his head, “Like I said, he’s going about this all the wrong way, and from what I’ve seen and heard of him, I don’t think our end goals are the same. I don’t think he’s concerned with racial harmony, justice, or even freedom. If he were, why would he be Minstrel and not just a Black man? No, I cannot support Minstrel. He makes a mockery of everything my people have suffered under and fought for so he can justify his need for wonton destruction.”

Luke rolled his eyes. The action was immediately noticed by Lucius, and it caused the man to scowl at his son and give him a warning shake of his head.

“Sorry, Dad, but I really can’t bring myself to say that I’m against Minstrel.”

It was the kind of honest, real answer that I’d been hoping to receive, even if it did trouble me. I thought about what this bias might mean for Luke while he was in the field. I didn’t think that he’d betray the team and our objective, but that didn’t mean he would always have a clear head. All Minstrel did was talk to Duke and he froze. I wondered; would Luke’s sympathies lead to him doing the same?

“Luke! That is not how you were raised!” Lucius argued with his son. His fist tightened and his face twisted in a scowl. It was one of the most blatantly angry states I’d ever seen the older gentleman in, and I found myself wondering who it was meant for. Was the scowl for his son, who’d said something which went against the central beliefs of their family? Was it for himself, who had to maintain an illusion of control and influence over his children to feel validated? Or was it for me, the white man who couldn’t hear that any Black person they held in high regard, could feel neutral about a man like Minstrel.

“I never said that I agreed with him,” Luke shot back to his dad, but in a reassuring—if not pleading – tone. “You’re right, I wasn’t raised that way. I could never do the things that Minstrel does. But I don’t know if that means he’s wrong. It just means that he’s wrong for me.”

I nodded, “I understand your perspective, Luke. I feel the same way about many of the people I’ve had to work with in my day. This is a complicated game that we’re all playing.”

Lucius frowned at Luke, I could tell that he was disappointed in him, angry even. But I couldn’t see why. Luke was just speaking his own opinion, one informed by the realities that he and his people faced. I couldn’t be mad at that, so why was Lucius?

Luke didn’t appear interested in debating the matter with his father. He turned to Duke, “And what about you, Duke? I mean, you talked to the guy, so I’m sure you get it too, right? Minstrel has a reason for what he’s doing, and I think that makes it hard to determine whether he’s wrong or right.”

Luke’s question to Duke was met with a vigorously shaking head, but no corresponding speech.

“Glad to see that someone sees reason,” Lucius mumbled.

Duke shook his head again, “I’m not saying I agree with either of you. I neither like nor believe in what Minstrel’s doing, and I do wonder how much of his ideology is born form a sincere desire to end the suffering of other Black people, and how much of it is just him justifying his own insanity. Even if he is insane, I think it’s clear that he didn’t get that way on his own. Something happened to him to drive him to this, and I can imagine quite a few things that would make him think chaos like this was the way forward. I don’t know what type of effect he’s going to have on the people, I don’t know if we’re about to see more riots or copycats, and I don’t know how far he’s willing to escalate this. This guy is a complete mystery to me. And honestly, that pisses me off.”

I was curious about what he meant, but I didn’t push Duke. I watched as he shut his eyes for a few seconds as he took calming breaths.

“Minstrel’s Black, and I’m Black. He’s talking about the same issues our entire race has been talking about for years, issues that I know about and have briefly studied myself. Minstrel’s running around telling us exactly what he wants and why he’s doing this, I know he is. But it’s like he’s speaking another language that I only kind of understand. He should be an open book to me, but I have no idea what he’s thinking, and that just makes me angry at him.”

Duke didn’t mention that it also made him angry at himself, but I knew him well enough to deduce he was thinking that. It wasn’t a feeling that I was unfamiliar with, I’d been living in that emotional state for years. I’d felt that exact way about Minstrel’s uncle, Joker, but also for my other foes. Ra’s Al-Ghul, Bane, Catwoman, all the people that mattered to me made me feel that way. To say it felt like having just one empty piece of the puzzle left didn’t do the feeling justice. Having an adversary like this felt like having just one last puzzle piece left, a set of instructions on how to solve it, and a puzzle piece in your hand that wouldn’t fit no matter how hard you tried to force it.

Minstrel started off targeting a blackface party. He used Joker gas, a non-lethal mixture, and painted the attendee’s faces. It was assault, but more of a public nuisance crime compared to everything else he’d done after. Paint washes out and the effects of the gas can be healed with minor risk to the victim. Then there was the instance at the mall, where Minstrel assaulted teenagers dressed like him; again, he didn’t deliver any serious or fatal blow, the kids were in and out of the hospital in under two hours. The same couldn’t be said of the man and woman he’d kidnapped and disfigured. Minstrel cut out and destroyed a woman’s tongue and a man’s penis, that was a drastically different form of assault, one with lasting consequences. Still, there was an internal reason to that crime that I could map out, the man in question was a rapist and the woman’s lies led to a man’s incarceration and suicide. From Minstrel’s twisted perspective, he’d delivered justice. Despite being a rapid escalation, I could still see how the three were linked—they were retaliatory crimes against, in simple terms, white people that had harmed Black people either literally or figuratively.

Then there was the previous night, when his entire M.O. was thrown out the window. Minstrel could have gone after Namzmiren, the judge, or the jury. He didn’t even have to wait for the verdict, but he did. He waited for Namzmiren to be declared guilty and then did nothing to him or the GCPD. He fired a gun in the middle of a protest, knowing that it would cause a riot. More than that, he likely knew that most of the protestors were unarmed, whereas all the police and counter protesters were carrying arms. He brought pain to people he claimed to be avenging, but why? Just to prove that he could?

Then again, Minstrel never said that he was trying to help the Black community of Gotham. Nor had anything he’d done improved anyone’s life or protected it. Was he only interested in revenge without helping others? But even if that were the case, it still didn’t explain why he incited a riot.

“For what it’s worth, Duke, I don’t know what to think either.”

Chapter Text

This Chapter of Maroon in Midnight Blue is dedicated to Mary Alicia Owen and Joel Chandler Harris

I passed a homeless man today. Red hair, patchy beard, distant look in his eyes and an even more distant voice. He held a sign prophesizing the end of days. I handed him a dollar, and in exchange he told me stories of Jewish cabals manipulating Islamist terror cells and Black supremacists to distract us all as they poisoned the water supply and turn everyone into homosexuals.

“Satan has gripped this world because weak men allow it. Only good, strong, men can combat his plot and bring about the righteous, moral society.” He said.

I wanted nothing more than to unmask in front of him. Drop the invisibility cloak I so often found myself draped in and reveal that I was a harbinger of Satan himself. But that would have been too easy.

I thought, then, about hitting him with my banjo. Disfiguring his face and watching the bones spill out onto the pavement in a pool of blood. But this was…not too violent, just not funny enough. I wanted to make the whole world laugh, but something like that would only make me laugh. Every plan I could think of had an obvious counter argument at the back of my mind.

Waterboard him and call it a baptism? A bit too high-brow, too many people wouldn’t get it.

Lean in close and whisper in his ears some words that make him cry? Only happens in movies, no one can just figure shit out like that after meeting a person for the first time. I knew secrets of this universe that would make him cry, but he would need to believe my claims for that to happen.

Kiss him? Spit in his mouth at the end and say, “I’m glad you could be a part of our project”? I would be called homophobic in the comments. Besides, I’m saving myself for Rami Malek.

I even thought that perhaps I could steal a page from Uncle’s book and cut a smile into his face, but that was too derivative.

I’m not certain how long I sat there before I finally found the answer I sought. I wish I could say that the realization made me jump for victorious joy, but that would be a lie. In truth, the fact that this was the best I could come up with disappointed me. It still does. I fancy myself a mastermind madman, capable of plunging the world into chaos with a few small actions. Sure, to respond to such a small slight with chaos of such magnitude was marvelously mad in its own right, but it still felt like overkill. I wanted that chapter of my life to have a better beginning than what I had in mind, but I could think of nothing better at that moment. And at the bottom of my heart, I knew that no initializing event would ever be good enough to engage the plan I’d sat on for far too long.

I looked at the man and I sighed. He appeared confused as I lowered my head and shook it disapprovingly. “It’s going to have to be today, isn’t it?” I asked.

*

The problem with white women is that they scream and cry. Horror is such a foreign concept to them even though they’re the last ones standing in all the movies. There are too inclined to a world where kind people help and protect them, especially from people like me. There is no satisfying way to scare them without having a mob swarm you immediately. If one so much as looked at a white woman the wrong way, here comes the boys ready to rape a nigger then hang him from a tree. Shit, that could happen to you without looking at the woman at all.

The only option, of course, was to not fight it at all. I just had to let Mrs. Namzmirren call the mob of white boys.

“You want me to do what?” She asked. Her mascara flowed down her face in a sticky ink that trapped strands of hair to her cheek. Dimples began to form as her mouth made a nervous smile and she grew conflicted between hope and suspicion. Though near shattered from the force of despair, Mrs. Namzmirren laughed at the ridiculous notion. I watched the ripples of laughter flow through her body and thought to myself how unfortunate her paleness was; I may have wifed her then and there, otherwise.

“I want you to call your husband,” I repeated in a slow, clear voice so that she wouldn’t ask again.

“Why do you want my daddy?” Sophie Namzmirren asked.

“This is excellent tea, Sophie.” I responded as I took another sip from my cup. It wasn’t a lie; the girl made an excellent cup of tea. The bitter burn at the back of my throat put hair on my chest and cured me of all that I was ailed by. I didn’t judge her for spiking it. Afterall, a certain Mr. Fuzzles seated to my left had become quite an intolerable bore since he’d resigned himself to a life of sobriety.

I turned my head again to Sophie’s mother, “I want you to call your husband. Run along now, Sophie and I will be just fine here, she’s an excellent host.”

Mrs. Namzmirren shook her head, “I’m not leaving my daughter!”

Minstrel sighed. I sighed? Yeah, I sighed, “Very well.”

I placed my finger onto the trigger of my gun.

Mrs. Namzmirren screamed, “Stop! Please!”

“I don’t think you have the power to make me stop, Mrs. Namzmirren.” I made my voice deeper now. The Caucasian woman was genetically predisposed to be easily manipulated by a thick, baritone of a Negro Africanus. They found such voices both terrifying and alluring, and in the situation I found myself with her and her daughter, I would certainly hope that she felt the former feeling.

“I can do whatever I want here. I can make as much noise as I want. I can make as big of a mess as I want. You are a woman at home, alone. You have no gun, I took it from you. You have no dog—”

“We do have a dog!” Sophie corrected.

I looked over at Sophie, “You had a dog, young lady. You must learn the difference between past and present tense.”

I didn’t focus on her long enough to observe the thought begin to register with her. I turned back to Sophie’s mother, “Ma’am, I told you before, I am simply conducting an experiment. I need your help, so please cooperate.”

Mrs. Namzmirren shook her head again, “I am not leaving a freak alone with my daughter.”

“That’s not a very nice word,” I said. I felt a laugh at the back of my throat, but I struggled to force it down. Nothing more annoying than when the actor breaks during a skit.

“For my experiment, it is necessary that—”

“What fucking experiment! You know this isn’t about an experiment, it’s about those kids that died. I’m sorry they died, my husband is sorry they died, but this is not how you go about these things!”

A very effeminate giggle came out against my will. “I do have an experiment. I want to see which has a greater effect on a man’s speed: the desire to protect or the desire to avenge.”

A bit more blatant for my tastes, but the threat worked wonderfully. The muscles of her neck contracted with the tell-tale signs of a sharp exhale, and her already shaking hands became even more unstable as they fumbled with her phone. Everything was going according to plan.

“I need you to come home,” she said into the phone. I could hear confusion on the other line, and the raised voice of someone in an argument. Her face twisted in frustration and Mrs. Namzmirren screamed into the phone, “Just listen, dammit! I need you to come home right now.”

I cleared my throat, “Tell him that Minstrel has a gun at you and your daughter and will shoot unless he gets here in the next five minutes. Try to talk in a ghetto voice and use the term ‘white bitch’ so he thinks it’s real.”

She did as I instructed, sans the stage directions and adlibs that I recommended. Usually that type of thing would have annoyed me, but it was okay. If she didn’t want to put on a good show, that was just fine…

“H-he wants to talk to you.” She said as she handed the phone to me.

I took the phone from her grip with a polite grin. For a visual representation of my exact smile, simply google an image of Mr. Popo from Dragonball Z.

“Mr. Namzmirren, I presume?”

“Minstrel! I don’t know what you think you’re doing but you really fucked up by bringing my family into this.”

“Well, I certainly don’t appreciate that kind of language, young man!” I chastised. I pointed my gun at his wife, then remembered that we weren’t using the video call feature.

“I thought it best to let you know that I have a gun to your wife, is that okay? I don’t really understand social cues—is that a faux pas?”

“I’m not here for your games, Minstrel!”

“You’re right,” I said, “I’m sure you’re a terribly busy man. I’ll let you get back to your work, I’m sorry for bothering you.”

I hung up the phone, then threw it to the ground.

“Mother, please join us,” I directed to Mrs. Namzmirren.

The phone began to ring again, but I didn’t bother checking it. These days, whenever someone calls without texting first, their name is probably Scam Likely.

Mrs. Namzmirren took up one of the small, plastic seats next to her daughter. Ever the dutiful parent, she immediately wrapped her arms around the child and began whispering chants of, “It’s going to be okay.”

“Here,” I said as I bitched the pot, “this will calm your nerves.”

She eyed the cup in front of her warily. I must confess that I lost my manners, composure, and shit as I laughed at the wonderful sight. There I was, little old Minstrel, aka *SPOILER*, son of *SPOILER*, sitting in front of a grown woman that didn’t realize that her cup was empty. It was perfectly insane.

“I certainly hope you don’t go around driving a BMW,” I muttered as a took a sip of tea.

“What?” She asked.

I slapped my hand on the table, “Oh my god! I never told you about my friend, Kamilah, did I? Silly me.”

The phone began to ring again. Mrs. Namzmirren looked at it, but I snapped in front of her face and directed her eyes back to the strange Black man holding a gun on her and her daughter.

“Very rude to take calls at the table, don’t you know? Wouldn’t want to impart poor manners on young Sophie here.”

Mrs. Namzmirren nodded. Then, without my prompting, she grabbed the cup before her, and mimed taking a sip. I don’t like to be sentimental but those really are the moments I live for.

I took a sip of my own tea but didn’t feel nearly drunk enough to break into a good story-telling cadence. I poured a few more cups from the pot, then stole one of Mr. Fuzzles when the pot ran out and he wasn’t looking. All properly liquored up, I leaned back in my chair, then scratched my temple with the barrel of my gun.

“The thing is, that’s not really a story a kid would find interesting. Most of my stories are inappropriate for children or just boring to them. Except for…oh! Sophie my dear, would you like to hear the tale of the Flying Fool?”

Sophie looked up at her mother and waited for her nod of approval. The phone rang again, and I screamed bloody murder. My two hostesses looked at me like I was crazy, so I poured myself another cup of tea and pretended that nothing happened.

I thought back to the story. It had been so long since I’d heard it, and I didn’t want to butcher the plot, meaning, or dialect.

“Once wuz a nigger wut died n’ went to heben,” I began.

Mrs. Namzmirren tightened her face.

“I dropped my southern, Negro dialect and asked her what was wrong,” I said.

Her face was tightened, but she refused to look me in the eye and turn it into a proper scowling, “We don’t use that word around Sophie.”

“Implying that you use it when she’s not around,” I hastily commented before recreating my favorite Kermit the Frog meme.

“We don’t use it ever! I’m sick of defending myself to you! We’re not these backward hick racists you think we are! We’re good people, and my husband was only doing his job—”

“Fuck your husband and his job!” I slammed my gun on the table, then used my other hand to pour another cup of tea. I felt as if my speech were going to begin slurring if I didn’t focus, so I fought the urge to curl into a ball and sleep off the hooch.

“Are you even Black?” Mrs. Namzmirren challenged, “You’re always dressing like that, talking like that. Not one of my Black friends thinks you’re really Black. What you’re doing is disgusting and it directly harms real Black people.”

The phone began to ring again, but I didn’t have the time to come up with a joke, I told the gun to check it, and was promptly reminded about what happens when you ask a gun to do anything.

Sophie screamed and her mother let out a small cry. I rolled my eyes. Typical white woman, more sympathy for a phone wounded by a bullet than for two Black kids suffering the same fate

“Once wuz a nigger wut died n’ went to heben. Stand’n there in all he glory wuz St. Peter. But St. Peter ent like ta see dis nigger up in heben wit dese white folk, ‘n de second de nigger’s turn came up ‘n line, he put up a sign.

Nigger say, ‘What dat read?’

St. Peter say it mean he on break.

Nigger say he wannabe in heben wit de Lord.

St. Peter shake he head, ‘No niggers in heben.’

Nigger man git mighty upset. He start stampin he feet, cursin a storm and makin all kinda treble. He make demand of St. Peter, askin fer God t’come down n’ talk wit him.

St. Peter shake he head again ‘n he say, ‘God not in today.’

Den St. Peter leave. Nigger man get mighty upset and start projectin how he gon’ get inside. He notice dat St. Peter forgot to lock de gate. He run inside fore enybody spot him.

Nigger man in heben n’ seein all dem dead white folk livin real good. He decide he want dat too. He find de spot where all de angels hand out wings, ‘n he sneak up n’ steal a pair fore hisself. He start flyin’ round, crashin into things ‘n he attract de ‘tenshun of dem angels.

Angels start ta chasin de nigger man all cross heben, and he keep crashin into everythin ‘n makin a whole mess a’de place. Dey send out de angel Michael, ‘n he de only one fast ‘n strong fore ta stop dis nigger.

Michael take ‘im to God, ‘n God git to fussin ‘n hollerin at dis nigger man. Finally, fore de nigger can explain hisself, he take de nigger up by de throat, den he throw him right down back ta de earth.

Wen de nigger go round tellin he friends bout bein in heben, he always say, ‘Dey may not like niggers in heben, but I wuz a flying fool wen I wuz dere.”

As always, the story brought a chuckle to my throat and a tear to my eye.

I heard the front door open in that moment, and from the floor below, a cry rang out.

“Minstrel!”

Sophie and I both screamed, “Daddy!” Talk about awkward…

I straightened my shirt, quickly poured then downed another cup of liquid courage, then tipped my hat to my two hostages—I mean hostesses.

“I bid you ladies adieu. Time for guy’s night, if you know what I mean.”

I rose from my seat and left the women to their tea party. Officer Namzmirren was waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase. Seeing his hardened scowl and raised hands, I remembered once again that I had a gun. I raised it up so it was aimed dead for his chest, then tried to put on my most intimidating voice. But the typical white male refused to let me get in a word edgewise.

“Is my family alright?”

I shrugged, “Slowly dying as all things are, but I didn’t shoot them if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The pig let out an exhale of relief, “I want to thank you for leaving them unharmed.”

I began to descend the staircase, my gun pointed right at him the entire time.

“If I killed them, the backlash on Twitter would be insane.”

When I was a step above Namzmirren, I reached out a hand and shoved him to get him out of my way. He took the hint and followed my command, letting me lead him all the way to his nice, floral-pattern couch in front of the television.

“I shot your bitch, though,” I confessed.

Namzmirren nodded, “I saw the body on the front porch. She attack you?”

“I don’t remember. I just don’t like dogs.” It was a lie, but I didn’t feel like diving into the topic and figured this as good a response as any.

Namzmirren sighed, “I know you feel I deserve that. What happened with the twins was a mistake, one that I regret and will live with for the rest of my life. But you cannot believe that I had any malicious intent against them. The courts have shown that I acted in accordance with my training—”

“That’s the problem,” I said, “I’ve had better trained Pokémon.”

“He had a knife!”

Minstrel—that is me—shrugged, “And I have a gun.”

“What do you want? A confession? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

I sighed, “See, this is why I didn’t want to do this today! You’re just making every routine, expected response. There’s no variety, no shock factor, and no puns! I’m just going to shoot you dead and that’s all? Lame.”

I turned to the camera in my head, “Hey everybody, downvote this chapter, the writer’s an idiot.”

“I don’t know what you want from me! I did what I was supposed to.”

I rolled my eyes, “Oh come on! ‘I did what I was supposed to.’ Nice parallel to Nuremberg there. Come on man, I’m giving you the chance to say something really profound and groundbreaking as your last words. At the very least you could tease 52!”

“If you kill me,” Namzmiren began.

“Unfortunately, you mean ‘when.’”

“When you kill me,” Namzmiren began again, “that’s going to be it for you. Right now, all you’re really looking at is three counts of kidnapping and assault.”

I shook my head, “You forgot inciting a riot.”

The look of realization is always so fun to look at. I remember taking Harley to the premier of Empire Strikes Back and watching her completely loose her mind when Vader was revealed to be Luke’s father. It was a memory that I’ll always treasure, no matter the fact that I wouldn’t have been alive when Empire first premiered.

Namzmiren had the same face that my dear friend Harley Quinn did in the theater after hearing James Earl Jones confess to siring Mark Hamill’s pasty ass. Eyes widened in shock, a mouth agape in confusion, a neck turning in denial, and a body quivering in dark acceptance.

“You made that shot? The protest was peaceful! Everything was going just fine! Why would you do that? Do you have any idea how much damage and injury you caused?”

“Oh, I already explained this with Du….D-Da Signal.” I turned to the camera in my mind again and gave it a look that read, ‘can you believe I almost revealed that Duke Thomas is the vigilante formerly known as Robin, briefly known as Lark and currently known as Signal?’

“You’re incredible. How is it that you can think yourself some—some kind of hero to Black people when you run around like this literally causing damage to them? There were children at that protest and because of you they were teargassed!”

I stayed silent for a long time, a look of reflection across my face. It was entirely fabricated, of course, but such expressions were useful for providing a situation with gravitas.

“Oh gods. Oh Ancestors! I made a loud noise and brought upon the force of the Gotham Police over kind, defenseless Negroes. I-I-I…oh, Mama Christ am I the villain of this story?!”

Namzmiren shook his head, “There’s no reasoning with you, is there? You can’t reason with stupid.”

“Nigga, ya mama stupid!” I spoke. I pulled the gun away from him for a second and shot at a picture of his mom on the far wall. At least, I think it was his mom. It may have been a picture of Trump. Or a clock. I’m not certain.

“Just kill me already! All you’re going to do is turn me into a martyr. The cops or Batman will prove that you started that riot, and when it happens, they’re all going to see you for exactly what you are. You kill me and I just become a hero.”

I nodded, “I’m cool with that. Say goodnight, Gracie.”

Ready to finally start his luau, Minstrel placed the barrel at the gun to the back of Namzmiren’s head. He regretted using “Say goodnight, Gracie,” as his one liner, but felt too awkward to go back and change it. I mean…could I change it, he thought. Nah, he realized, it was better to stick with what he started. He took a deep breath to prepare himself for the shot and—

At that moment, the glass of the front window shattered. Minstrel and Namzmiren shielded their eyes from the blast of shards and didn’t uncover their eyes until they were both sure that no more glass was flying at them. And that’s when I—I mean, Minstrel saw him. Okay ya know what, I’m done with this tongue-in-cheek third person narration bit. Let Deadpool keep that schtick all to himself.

Batman walked in the house. Which is to say he stomped one boot, then another through the window. His neck slightly inclined so that his eyes looked menacingly up towards me. Though slow in movement, he was an imposing figure even from the twenty or so feet away, and just watching him move made my blood run cold.

“Batman!” I shouted as I pulled the trigger. Namzmiren’s brains splattered all around us, causing stains that only the power of Pine Sol and their sassy spokesperson could ever even hope to remove, sugar.

“What are you doing here?” I said as I shot Namzmiren’s lifeless body again for good measure. Then again, and again and again. The gun soon emptied, and I indignantly threw it straight at the Dark Knight, who was charging right towards me.

Of course, tossing a gun at a charging Batman is about as useful as one would think. He grabbed me, slammed me onto the ground, then slipped a pair of his patented Batcuffs (which I have been assured were NEVER used during a friendly night with Catwoman) around my wrists.

“You get what you want, murderer?” Batman asked.

I looked at Namzmiren’s dead body on the floor and shook my head.

“I managed to be the first villain that didn’t freeze up when the hero arrived. I’d call that a win, yeah.”

Chapter Text

The people of Gotham city had grown comfortable. They hadn’t heard from Minstrel in some time, and they had assumed that meant he was finally gone for good. Between the Namzmiren trial and the riot the night after, it seemed like he had no intention of hijacking the televisions signals again. The thought calmed the people of Gotham, it signaled that his story might soon be over, and the city would move on to the next madman to pick a fight with their local vigilantes. The thought was calming, but deep down they knew it was just that, a fantasy.

In one moment, the screen showed gladiators in silk bouncing a ball from one end of a field to the next. In the next, it showed only a shirtless man standing under a harsh light. His skin was pale and pasty, with sweat dripping down its many wrinkles, bulges, and folds. The man’s arms were raised above him, revealing a forest of greying, moist underarm hair which glistened under the lighting. Viewers could only speculate how long he’d been in that position from the shallow, labored breaths that he took.

There was a sharp sound, and the man howled out in pain and defiance. A single tear rolled down his face as he tried to force back all the curses which came to mind in that moment. His whole body writhed in agony as two more similar sounds rang out.

“Say your name!” An unseen but familiar voice called out.

“My name is Joseph Grant,” The man indignantly cried.

The sharp sound rang out again. Three sounds, three grimaces and cries of agony from the man.

“Say your name!” The voice cried out again.

“When I get out of here,” Grant began to warn, but his voice was cut off by the pain.

The camera cut to a different, side angle. Minstrel stood behind Grant, holding a murderous grin on his face and a whip in his right hand. Keen-eyed viewers would recognize the whip as a Cat O’ Nine Tails, but not as many would recognize the reference Minstrel was making to Levar Burton’s character in Roots. What very few people would understand, though, was the significance behind the whip being made entirely of electrical chords.

“Say! Your! Cotton! Picking! Name!” Minstrel cried out, swinging his whip with every word.

Joseph Grant didn’t respond.

Minstrel sighed and turned to the camera, “It’s so hard to find good help these days. Take my butler for example, he doesn’t appear to appreciate the position that he’s in.”

Minstrel reached behind his back and pulled out a small sack of burlap. He reached inside, and pulled out a fist of fine, white salt.

“Say your name! Say it!” Minstrel cried out. He tossed fistful after fistful of salt onto Joseph Grant’s back, and the older man’s face grew red and hot, but he didn’t’ say a word.

Minstrel took one last handful of salt and blew it onto Grant’s back, then he proceeded to whip him again. Nine times the flail struck Grant, and nine times he howled in pain before Minstrel finally stopped.

The villain took a step towards Grant and mixed the salt and blood on his victim’s back with his hand.

“What was that? Did you have something to say, sweetie?”

Eyes dripping in tears, Grant stammered out, “My…my name is…I am Alfred.”

Minstrel’s eyes lit up. He dropped the whip, clasped his hands, and hugged Grant from the back, “Welcome to the family, Alfred. You’ll love it here!”

Chapter Text

I think about getting outta this town all the time. I really think I should. What have I got here that I’m scared of losing?

The job? Fuck this job. I do it for money, and with Gordon breathing down my back, money’s getting harder and harder to come by. It was hard enough making this badge work for me before, it’s getting even harder to take the occasional kickback without going too far or getting on Gordon’s radar.

Friends? I ain’t got friends. Least, not any that I can’t enjoy just as much through an exchange of letters. Course, the types of folks I befriend ain’t much for writing, so we’d have to use our phones. Not texting, though, that’s teenage girl shit. I’ll happily keep my flip phone and voice calls.

Women? No such thing far as I’m concerned. I do alright, get laid every now and then. But I can’t say that I’m drowning in girls out in Gotham. City life isn’t too great on a lot of these ladies anyway, and I’m getting to the age where the only chicks I can pull are crackheads and old, dogfaces wearing more paint than Harley fucking Quinn.

I don’t know why I stay in this town, I really don’t. But I know I gotta get out of it, and each and every night I come across another reason to get out.

“Hey, Bullock!” I heard a voice call me. The game was on, so I not to hear. Sure, it was a recording from last night’s game, but it was still on, and I was still watching it.

“Bullock!” I heard again as a hand slammed down on my desk. That pissed me off. I started to get hot under the collar and felt a burning in my lungs but none of the delicious tobacco flavor that usually came with that sensation.

“The fuck you think you are, Harrison?” I asked.

Brown haired bitch smirked. His pearly whites reflected the buzzing 40 watt lights overhead into my eye. I counted the patchy stubble that barely formed a beard and tried not to tighten my fist and throw it in his face.

He pointed to the back of the station, towards the cells and interrogation rooms. “You know Minstrel’s in there, yeah?”

I knew where this was heading. I pulled out one of the cheap cigars, which had long since become my go-to cigar, and lit up. I eyed Harrison with the indignation of a hawk and let himself keep talking his way out of his cheap, warehouse-store suit and into a bright orange one with his name monogramed on the back.

“You think about my proposition?” He asked.

I shrugged, “It’s crossed my mind.”

His eyes narrowed, “And what do you think?”

I shrugged again, “Like I said, it’s crossed my mind.”

A clicking in my ear directed my eyes down. I noticed that the Brown-haired, brown-suited bitch was tightening his fist up. What he thought he was going to get to do with it, I don’t know, because I was waiting for an opportunity to drop the little turd right onto the top of my desk, face first.

“This is a good offer, Harv,” Harrison urged, “you oughtta take it.”

“And what if I don’t?” I asked. I leaned closer in his face, getting a better whiff of him and letting him catch the scent of my own natural musk. It was no question to me which of us had the bigger balls and the strongest testosterone flowing out of them, but clearly, he needed a reminder.

The cool-eyes, badass wannabe motherfucker pretended that I didn’t phase him, “We’re offering you protection, man. You’re going to want it, because you’re going to need it. It’s not just IA and project babies you gotta worry about now, it’s cats like Minstrel too. Or do you want to end up like Namzmiren?”

I tried to fight the thoughts away, but he really got to me. Cops are supposed to be invincible, and that’s true for everywhere except Gotham. I’d seen countless men and women in blue having their spines broken or their entrails used for fucking sock puppets, I learned a long time ago that there was no meaningful protection or safety for a cop in Gotham. But Namzmiren’s murder hit different. I won’t lie, it was because he’d been killed by a black guy for plugging two other blacks. This was a common law city; we lived and died by precedent. If Minstrel could incite a race war, what would stop any other Joaquin or Joniqua from over in the Narrows doing the same?

Every cop in this precinct had put a bullet in one of these thugs once or twice, even the Black cops. But these days, it seemed people only wanted us to shoot the white guys. Minstrel was setting a dangerous precedent that could wind up getting everyone killed. As if being a cop wasn’t already hard enough.

“How long have you said it to me, Bullock? How often have you told every cop here that the Bat needs to kill the clown?”

He had a point there, I couldn’t disagree. I’d been dragging Batman through the mud for that for years, and I stood by every word of it. Give me a loaded gun and some time alone with the Joker, and I’d wind up with a dead clown on my ledger and Batgirl spinning on my dick in gratitude. Wasn’t a real cop here that didn’t feel the same way. Batman was brutal, don’t get me wrong, but it was all for show as long as he didn’t have the balls to actually follow through with it.

“He’s not going to kill Joker and he ain’t gonna kill Minstrel. You’ve seen the Joker copycats, Bullock, imagine the Minstrel copycats.”

He had a point. I nodded. Sue me. And while you’re filing the paperwork, fuck yourself.

At that moment, I heard a voice call my name again. Yet again, it wasn’t a blonde.

“Bullock! I need to see you,” Gordon called from the door to the roof.

I picked up my hat and put it on my head, tipping it in an exaggerated “Fuck off” to Harrison.

“You think about my offer, Harv. You think on it.” He said as he finally walked away.

When Gordon and I got to the roof, I sighed and cracked my neck. Thing no one ever realizes about the Bat Signal is how heavy it is, or that Princess Gordon can’t be bothered to position and light it himself.

“Not tonight, Harvey. He’s already on his way.” Gordon said. He pulled out a cigar of his own.

“What makes you so certain?” I asked.

“He was the one that brought Minstrel in. He’ll be back once our guys get nothing out of Minstrel.”

I chuckled, “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Comish. You sure know how to make our boys feel appreciated.”

Gordon shrugged the comment off and changed the subject, “What was Detective Harrison talking to you about? You two don’t typically run in the same circles.”

And there we go! The real reason Gordon wanted to talk to me; he wanted to make sure Crooked Harvey wasn’t getting into trouble again. I didn’t need nor want a goddamn babysitter, and I wasn’t interested in hearing any of Gordon’s shit about what I should or shouldn’t do. But he was still my boss and—like it or not—the only person I trusted in the whole precinct. So, I told him the truth.

“Harrison’s asking me to join this new circle jerk he’s part of. Calls themselves the Overwatchmen, and they claim they’re trying to stop Minstrel or anyone trying to become like him or the Panthers or any other race-baiting thugs. It’s all Hollywood’s idea, as far as I can tell.”

Gordon placed his fingers to his temples and sighed, “Dammit! I knew Fredrico would be trouble ever since he came here from L.A. County. I will not plague gotham with the same cop gangs they have out there, Bullock!”

I shrugged, “I can’t say I disagree with the idea. Minstrel’s causing trouble, bringing up shit that Gotham hasn’t had to deal with before. I’d love nothing more than to form a posse and string him and his uncle up by a lamppost, seeing as we ain’t got trees.”

I’ll say one thing about Jim Gordon: He may act like a bitch, but sometimes he isn’t. The second I said that, he grabbed me by my collar and pushed me into the stair-well door. His face was red in fury, eyes popped out of his skull, and his wide, open mouth showed carnivorous teeth as he shouted at me.

“Bullock, if I even hear a whisper of you joining up with something like that, you won’t have to worry about the Joker or Minstrel or anyone else! Do I make myself clear?”

I pushed him off me then dusted off my collar, “Get off, Jim! I didn’t even say yes. But I’m thinking about it, and you should too. This pacifist shit will get you killed, Jim. Like it or not, we gotta start going at these bozos harder than they come at us.”

Gordon shook his head, “We’re not murderers, Harvey. We will NEVER be murderers!”

I pointed out to the city below, “There’s millions of people down there that think different. Doesn’t matter if the perp has a knife or a gun or comes at you, if you defend yourself and your colors don’t match, then you’re a murderer and a racist. These liberal, antifa sons of bitches are going to bed at night thanking God for Minstrel killing Namzmiren and hoping that he comes after you next. You, Jim! Your daughter! Your family could be next, and they’ll fucking cheer. Murder’s a subjective word, Gordon. Kill the wrong person and it’s murder, kill the right person, and it’s self-defense.”

I lost my cigar when Gordon threw me, so I pulled another from my pocket and lit it.

“If you think that we’re all safe just because Minsrel’s in a cell, you’re wrong. Now it’s official, Gordon. Now this story will end like it always does. Minstrel’s going to get out; maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe a year from now, but he’s going to get out. And he’ll kill another cop. And he’ll do it again and again and again, and each time he does it, he’ll drive some other psycho out there even further to the edge until we’ve got a thousand of him running around.”

“We’re not the goddamn Klan, Bullock. You can’t just become a—” He didn’t finish the thought, but I didn’t need him to.

I chuckled, “Go on, say it, Jimbo. Say that we can’t take the law into our own hands. Say that we can’t defend our own sense of justice. Say that we can’t become vigilantes.”

He didn’t say it. Of course he didn’t. Poor, old Jim. He was a good guy, but good guys tend to lack in the testicular area. I didn’t tell him that, though, cuz I’d already told him enough. All that was left to do was smoke on the rooftop and wait for Batman to come down and instruct us on the proper way to deal with Minstrel.

Chapter Text

              There are many heroes to the Black community. Many proud, strong Black women who stood up for the people and ideals they believed in. I remember being a little girl, looking up to those figures as all Black girls do, burning names and stories into my memory so that they would live on. Sojourner Truth, Harriet Jacobs, Ida B. Wells, Shirley Chisolm, Rosa Parks, and of course, the Harriet Tubman. Each of them revered and respected in their own right for the work that they’d done.

              But what about the people that we don’t learn about in school? And no, I don’t mean the Claudette Colvins and other unsung heroes. I don’t mean heroes at all. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no such thing as heroes. Anyone that claims to be a hero should be evaluated by a doctor, and anyone that would call someone else a hero is just selfishly projecting their own desires onto reality.

              What I’m concerned with isn’t heroes at all.

*

              The man staring at me scowled, so I scowled back. I wasn’t interested in hiding my exact view of him and people like him, and I found myself in one of those rare situations where I could be a bit more honest with my feelings without it jeopardizing my goals. He scowled at me, and I scowled right back, and the two of us sat like that for quite some time.

              “Am I under arrest?” He spat out, forcing each word out of him with an intense fury he just barely managed to contain. I saw a twitch in his nostrils, noticed his hands were clenched tightly, and recognized the tell-tale bob of a man’s Adam’s Apple—he was scared, but he was playing tough. Just as I’d expected.

              “Have you done something illegal, Mr. Fox?” I shot back.

              “I don’t think I should speak any further without my lawyer present. Might I please have use of a phone to contact one?”

              I smiled, “I assure you, you will have no need of it, Mr. Fox. You see, everything you say here is protected. You have my word on that.”

              He shook his head, “Somehow I doubt that, Ms. Waller.”

              My name was emphasized when he spoke it. Just as in any other context, it carried weight. He shot it at me, hoping that it would cause damage or at least make me recoil. But only a fool is harmed by her own weapon. And I am no fool.

              “I am not surprised that you know who I am, Mr. Fox. Afterall, we have some mutual acquaintances, don’t we?”

              His greying beard wiggled as his face tightened. The eyes behind his large, square glasses narrowed at me suspiciously. The moles on his face jumped in agitation, as if he were preparing a physical assault but trying to hold himself back. There lay the great secret of Mr. Lucius Fox; he portrayed the stoic man in every board meeting, and the friendly mentor when he met with our mutual acquaintance, but the very moment you put him in an uncomfortable situation, it was all over, and Lucius Fox became a man as any other.

              “I would reiterate my desire to not speak without my lawyer present.” He responded, placing an extra, spitting emphasis on the last two words.

              I learned forward in my chair, “That’s fine. I’ll talk, you listen.”

              His shoulders sunk a bit, and I took that as reluctant acceptance of my offer.

              “Mr. Fox, I’m concerned that you don’t quite understand the position that you’re in. You have your finger in quite a few different pots all at once, and I’m beginning to wonder if you can manage them. For years, I’ve chosen to overlook your work with our mutual acquaintance, for no reason other than both of you were too minor to be concerned with in comparison to the grander scope of my offices. And yet, I turn on the news one day and see that you’ve been behaving irresponsibly.”

              His eyebrows lifted and his right hand unclenched. I reacted by reaching into my pocket and retrieving a phone. The video was already queued. I pressed play.

              Lucius Fox was on the screen, but this one was some days younger than the man sitting before me. He stood in front of a podium embossed with the official seal of Gotham’s chapter of the NAACP. His face was smooth and austere, but his fingers twitched slightly as he gripped the edge of the podium. Each word he spoke was flat and uniform, as though passing through a series of checkpoints between his brain and mouth.

              “I will say this now and I’ll be clear: The tragedy of those riots were a direct consequence of the hero worship towards Minstrel that we’ve allowed to remain unchecked! I know it’s not all of us, I know it’s not even most of us, but too damn many in our community validate this individual, and it was these types of people that exacerbated the violence of last night.”

              Mr. Fox paused the video.

              “I fail to see, Ms. Waller, how anything I said during our town hall event would warrant a visit such as this.”

              “Then you’re not as smart as you pretend to be,” I replied.

              I took a deep breath before I continued. I noticed his shoulders slack in response as his neck shifted slightly forward. I resisted the urge to smile.

              “Mr. Fox, I don’t believe you are aware of what your role is. You’ve got to be the first leader of an NAACP chapter that doesn’t understand just what it is that you’re supposed to do.”

              He scoffed, “And just what, do you suppose, is that, ma’am?”

              I narrowed my eyes, “You’re supposed to advance our people. You are not supposed to admonish them—any of them. You aren’t supposed to even speak on someone like Minstrel, not in public, at least. Like it or not, Minstrel is the new Elijah Mohammad, the new Seale and Newton. He’s persona non grata as far as you’re concerned.”

              It’s not often that you see a Black man purse his lips. Pursing one’s lips is too feminine a behavior; it shows restraint and for that, most men are too proud. Black men specifically see such restraint as an insult, and I cannot say I blame them. For a race that is expected to be silent, pursing ones lips is a foreign act; it represents either failing to speak up when one should, or failing to remain quiet when one is expected. Black men and women either say what they mean or say nothing at all, only an idiot needs to stop themselves half-way.

              “I understand your concern,” he began, then interrupted with a sigh. “I know just as well as you that the perception of our community is vital to our survival. But I would have never reassured the establishment without mentioning Minstrel. Like you said, he’s the new Elijah Mohammad, the last thing we need is a cult coming up under him.”

              I shook my head, “You still misunderstand, Lucius. Your job isn’t to reassure ‘the establishment’ at all.”

              He leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing.

              “The Establishment—as you put it—is reassured just by your existence. That’s why we allow you to exist in the first place. Now is not the time to reassure anyone, now is the time to use this fear to your advantage.”

              He laughed, “Are you kidding? What kind of militant Black Power fantasy are you on?”

              Growing annoyed with his inability to see what was spelled out for him, I scowled.

              “I’m not the same as you, Mr. Fox. I don’t give a damn about things like that. You’re an African-American, I am simply American. My job is to secure the national security interests of this country; and part of that is allowing small fires to thin the herd. I cannot accomplish that job if you keep stamping them out.”

              Mr. Fox continued to eye me suspiciously, “What exactly are you suggesting I do, then?”

              “Your job. Organize people, advocate to the establishment for social change. Make petitions and hold peaceful protests when you have to, support politicians you agree with when you don’t. If there’s a riot, you hold a prayer circle and cleanup effort. If Black men with guns start marching in the streets, you do a gun buy-back program. If a new religious movement gains members, you hold meetings with city officials and the local Black preachers and reverends that already conform to the plan. And you do not mention those rioters, crazies with guns, or cultists publicly. You pretend that they don’t exist and allow the establishment to read between the lines of the writing on the wall.”

              He didn’t respond immediately. I could see from the way his eyes remained fixed on me and the slight fidgeting of his jaw that he was truly listening to what I was saying and thinking about what all it implied. I appreciated that, even though I knew it wouldn’t necessarily make this conversation any easier.

              He sighed, “Ms. Waller, with all due respect it sounds like you’re the one that’s confused about what I do. My job is to lead this community towards all the blessings that our people are due. If there’s a threat to us, or if I see people going down the wrong path, I will correct it.”

              I rolled my eyes, “Mr. Fox, you over-estimate both your importance and your ability, so let me make this clear.”

              I leaned forward, let my voice turn lower, and hardened every part of my heart that I could feel beating in my chest, “You are not a leader. You never were a leader. You will never be a leader. Not unless we determine that you are fit to be such. And currently, you’re failing to impress.”

              Mr. Fox’s face tightened. His body began to tremble, and I saw his jaw begin to unhinge. He was going to yell, and like all men he thought that would intimidate me.

              “Now see here!” He began.

              I slammed a fist on the table and quickly rose, letting my larger body overshadow his. I looked at him from the bottom of my eyes and boomed:

              “Do not EVER forget your place!”

              Mr. Fox flinched back as if I was going to slap him, and I can’t say that a small part of my brain wasn’t just as afraid that I’d do the same. That was the real trick of intimidation; it wasn’t enough to talk loud and act like you were going to hurt someone, you had to convince yourself that it was true. Too many people can spot a lie or a false threat, and I knew that Lucius Fox was one of those people.

              The old man was frozen in time as his arms were raised up in front of his body, defensively. He was scared, confused, and small like a child. I could easily imagine the type of thoughts running through his head in that moment. Was I really about to strike him? Would he be allowed to leave this place unharmed? What the hell was wrong with me? I’d heard it all before, and I found it all boring and predictable.

              “See what fear does? It slows you down. It calms you down. It makes you listen long enough to realize what’s truly in your best interest. But if the NAACP did that, we’d have no choice but to place every one of you in a little box with no name. Let the people that carry guns carry guns. Let the rioters and looters riot and loot. Let Minstrel and everything else that people fear be fearful. So that when you make a demand and a white man looks at you and asks what possible leverage a bunch of uppity Negroes in a social club have, you actually have something to point to.”

              I sat down in my chair, leaving just enough time that Mr. Fox might feel compelled to speak up if he was still feeling combative. He didn’t.

              “Don’t try to be a hero to the Black community, Mr. Fox. Those that came before you are already dead or dying. Those that exist right now are already in place and not going any damn where. And those that don’t exist yet are still being selected. Being a Black hero, whether that means you’re in or out of a mask, means little more than posturing and dancing to a tune you aren’t playing, then having a bullet pumped into your body when you’ve outlived your usefulness or made too fatal an error. The Black community doesn’t need a Superman or a Justice League, so stop trying to make one.”

              He scoffed, “So what are you saying that the community needs? More Minstrels? More bogeymen and thugs and terrorists? Because with all due respect, Ms. Waller, it sounds like you’re saying that our community needs more villains.”

              I looked him dead in his eyes. But that wasn’t enough. I could tell from how he sat that he was still resisting me. I grabbed his hand, and instantly I felt him become disarmed. This simple act of human contact brought his barriers down, and still he couldn’t see why he couldn’t be the leader he so desperately wanted to be.

              “Lucius,” I began, “that’s precisely what I’m saying.”

Chapter Text

“Who is this Minstrel to you, Quinn?”

People are just so boring! All day, every day, I swear I been hearing that same stupid question! I heard it from the cops, from the bat and his brat, and even from my one ‘n only main squeeze bombshell babe, Ivy. Ever since Jimmy put on his war paint and started vlogging over the 9 o’clock news, people’ve been trying to figure us out—learn all they can about the two freaks of Gotham and what makes them tick. It’s infuriating! I just wish that they’d all stop and let me get back to living my fantabulous life, but they won’t take a hint and avoid the topic! Case in point…

“Truth is, I’m not quite sure anymore, and that worries me.” I said to Ivy. She was the only person I said that to. It was the most honest statement I could possibly give at the time.

I could tell that it didn’t satisfy her based on the way that she just looked at me, all confused and perplexed and concerned. She stared at me with critical and curious eyes, then bit her lower lip as she tried to align the right words in her head. She wanted to know more, but she was worried that if she pushed on and asked in the wrong way, then I’d shut down completely. I could tell exactly what she was thinking from that one look, because I’d seen it too many times before.

I didn’t know what else to say, and I didn’t really want to know what to say, either. So, I gave her a big, wet one that said, “Au revoir’, then ran into a building screaming—

“Run, Jimmy! I’ll hold off Batman and his Brat Wonda!”

*

“None a yer muthafuckin beeswax, Batman!” I said, adding a shot of my lollipop-painted blue tongue at him. He wasn’t amused, but I knew that if I just kept trying, I’d get a chuckle out of him, yet!

Nightwing had me restrained with my arms behind my back. I tried struggling against his grip, but he was holding me too tight. Just as I’d given up, he started to pull me in closer so he could whisper in my ear.

“Listen, Harley, two people were just disfigured, so we’re not interested in your games today. Tell us what you know, now. You know GCPD won’t be nearly as nice as we are.”

I threw my head back and cackled.

*

I pinched my nose as I replied, “I need you and your breath six feet away from me, Bullock.”

The big gorilla slammed a fist on the table and screeched, “I ain’t playing around with you, Quinn!”

I showed him a particular one of my fingers while I pulled down the bottom of my right eyelid.

In the far corner, the Comish started massaging his temples.

“I don’t get it, Harley,” ol’ Gordo began. “I thought you and the Joker were enemies now. Or did you get back together?”

I shook my head vigorously, “Fuck no, Gordo! I’m a liberated woman, now! The next time I even see that no-good, rotten-faced, soft-dicked, Mistah J, I’m giving him a taste of what-for, and you can quote me on that!”

At that moment, I remembered there was a tape recorder on the table in front of me. I felt blood rush to my face as I leaned forward and screamed, “Allegedly!”

“So you and Joker are still broken up? Then why are you helping out Minstrel?” Gordon asked.

“I ain’t saying a damn thing! I plead the fifth! I want a lawyer! Objection! You’re out of order! You can’t handle the truth!”

One thing I have to say about Gordon, he was a good actor. The way he kept a perfectly still face even after I’d made what was likely the greatest series of court-room jokes he’d ever heard was inspiring. I decided then and there that I wouldn’t bash his face in—not until I got a chance to run lines with him for the next Suicide Squad movie.

Bullock leaned in close to me, and I wanted nothing more than to push him off then spray him with a flamethrower. He was so close that I could see every small hair of his unshaven face. Bullock had to be the only man I knew that had so much acne at his age, and I swear the pimples were so close to me that I could hear them whisperin’ prayers that he’d finally learn how to wash his face properly. His breath smelled of bad street food and cheap alcohol, and the stench was so bad it made me want to throw up.

“Ya know what I think, Quinn? I think you and Minstrel got something going on.”

I felt a spark go off in my chest, and just as quickly, the rest of my body grew warm. In a deeper, more natural tone devoid of my usual whimsy and Jersey accent, I sneered at Bullock, “Just what are you implying?”

Bullock scoffed, and I fought off a desire to spit in his face then claw it off.

“Look, Quinn, I’m not judging you here. None of us ever believed Joker was into chicks anyway, so if you traded up for a bigger model—”

I slammed my forehead into his nose before he could continue. He doubled over and landed on the ground with a crash. I jumped up, then on top of him while I screamed and clawed like Selina taught me. But his fucking face was too greasy, and my nails were too smooth to break the surface of his skin.

Two of Gordon’s Oompaloompas stormed the room and pulled me off Ol’ Slimer. His nose bleeding and his face full of rage, he tightened his fist like he was ready to punch me, but Gordon grabbed his shoulder and reeled him in before he made that mistake.

“You gross son of a bitch!” I screamed at him as the cops hauled me back to my cell. “I’d never do that to Jimmy! Do you hear me, you fucking pervert?!”

*

“Fuck off, Kaonashi!” I snapped as I threw a pillow at the bars.

The Question stood perfectly still and silent without even reacting.

“I’m sick of this! Why can’t you people leave me alone? Minstrel could be my best friend or my worst enemy and I still wouldn’t tell any of you shit!”

In a smooth whisper that was definitely not influencing me in any way other than sexually, she responded, “I’m not Batman, Harley.”

I shrugged and folded my arms.

“Do you understand the ramifications of what Minstrel’s been doing?”

I turned my head away from her and covered my ears while I went, “Lalalala, lalalala, I can’t hear you!”

It didn’t work. Somehow she could make her whispering voice carry over eight feet, “He mutilated a woman on live television, Harley. I don’t know if you really believe what she did justifies that, and I don’t care. The fact is that there’s a lot of people that sympathize with her. People with guns that aren’t going to be satisfied with this cat-and-mouse game that Gordon and Batman want to play.”

I scoffed, “Those militia wannabes couldn’t even catch Kite Man if they wanted! They aren’t going to lay a finger on my guy!”

I slapped my palm over my hand then bit my tongue.

“So, you are his ally? You need to tell him to stop, Quinn. Cuz you’re right, these regular, work-a-day-Joes in their MAGA hats aren’t going to lay a finger on him. But they will be able to hurt anyone else. Do I need to remind you what happens in this country when Black men are only accused of hurting middle class, white soccer moms?”

“Go fight them, then!” I pushed back. I rose from my bed and walked up to the bars of my cell. I reached an arm out and jabbed an angry finger in her ribs. “You capes always want people to think you’re the good guys. You want everyone to think you’re heroic for doing the same violent and crazy shit that me and Pammy and Jimmy get called deranged for! I used to think that we were the same, that the only difference between us was that I own my shit and sleep on this side of the bars, but I guess I was mistaken. I’m better than you are, Dick Tracy! Cuz I chose to help the guy gunning for the Klan wannabes, but you’re trying to stop him.”

There was a silence that hung in the air after that. I pretended that it meant that my words had actually gotten to her and she was struggling to reconcile her world view with the undeniable fact that she was full of shit. But I knew that wasn’t the reason. The Question felt sorry for me, I could smell the condescension in her sweat. That was the thing about moody capes, they had arrogance encoded in their very body language. The way she hung her head, kept her hands in her pocket, and maintained that irritating silence was all I needed to know that she thought I was the dumbest person in the world.

“We are not dealing with Klan wannabes anymore.”

“How the hell would you know!” I snapped.

“If you know where to look, it’s not hard at all to find the ripple effects of Minstrel’s actions. There are very powerful people keeping a close eye on Minstrel. If he causes too much trouble for them—”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t realize that hat was lined with tin-foil.”

Again, there was a short silence.

“Did you know that Joseph Grant has gone missing, Harley?”

*

“I’d never do that to Jimmy! I’d never do that to Jimmy! I’d never do that to—”

I slapped the tape recorder off the table. It doubled over and made a loud ‘clack’ sound when it hit the floor, but I could tell that it didn’t actually break.

“What’s yer point, Nosferatu?”

Batman scowled, then growled at me.

“Bitch,” I mouthed at him.

Nightwing continued his good cop routine by softening his own face and speaking with wide, open-armed gestures, “Harley, there was a riot. We don’t know how many people were injured.”

I shrugged, “Who cares about a bunch of Holocaust Deniers getting plugged?”

“None of them were,” Batman said.

He took a couple steps towards me. Each slap of his boots against the linoleum floor sent a shiver through my body. I’d been staring down this emotionally stunted, leather masochist for so many years that I forgot he wasn’t just an MMA fan in a gimp-suit. The Batman was scary. Really, legitimately scary when he wanted to be. I wasn’t scared of him hurting me, I wasn’t even scared of him yelling at me. As he inched closer and closer to me, I realized that I had no idea what this crazy son of a bitch was going to do to get the information he wanted, and THAT terrified me.

I bit the inside of my tongue and let he pain shock me out of it. I lived with Mistah J. I’d encountered Ivy on a rampage and had her eating me out ten minutes later. Shoot, I once asked Amanda Waller if I could touch her hair. I’d fought through my fear countless times before, so I could do it again.

“The guns were only pointed at one side, Harley. There wasn’t a single gun recovered from the mob walking towards the precinct. The people that were shot were innocent. And it’s Minstrel’s fault.”

I already knew, but I didn’t let him catch on that I knew. I heard the commotion from all the cops in the building and caught snippets of their conversations. I realized something bad was up when the other cells around mine began to fill, and I was able to talk to all the people that were arrested. They weren’t in good shape. I saw broken noses and jaws, blood streaming down people’s faces and slowly coming out their sides. The gas victims were the worst to look at, though. In all the cells around me there were people having asthma attacks, throwing up, and screaming. There was so much screaming, I couldn’t bear it!

And yeah, I knew that Jimmy was responsible. I didn’t know what he did or why, but it just made sense, you know? A march to the police station to protest that Namzmiren bastard getting off? Of course Jimmy would be there, and of course he’d do—something. I didn’t know for certain that he meant to cause the riot, but I knew deep down that it probably wasn’t an accident. Whether I liked it or not, Jimmy was one of us—whether I liked it or not, I was one of us. Joker, Jimmy and me, the Three Clowns of Gotham making everything worse.

“What’s your relationship with Minstrel, Harley? Why did you react like that with Bullock?” Nightwing pressed again.

“I’m not telling!” I said through gritted teeth.

Batman grumbled, “Joker told us that Minstrel was adopted. We weren’t sure how true that was at first. But you seem very protective of him, and it’s clear that you know his real name.”

I clapped my hands, “Wonderful! Just marvelous! Okay, new one: tell me what I had for beakfast today using just the stains on my shirt!”

Nightwing took in a deep breath, and I remember thinking, “How queer.”

He didn’t just suck in air like a regular person would. His head hung a little low, eyes fixed on a random space on the table. His hands were balled into fists, and I noticed an odd tremble in them as the air hit his lungs. There was a fire under his collar, but I couldn’t tell what was causing it. Not until he spoke, at least.

“Why do you call him Jimmy?” He forced from behind gritted teeth.

I looked from him to Batman, then Batman to him, then him to Batman, then Batman to Batman then him to Batman to him to him to Batman…once my eyes were crossed and my head dizzy, I let them fall on Nightwing one last time as I raised an eyebrow.

“It’s his name, you dumbass cape!” I twirled my finger near my right temple and crossed my eyes at the two leather freaks that had proved, once again, that they deserve a spot at Arkham more than me or Pammy.

“What is his last name, Harley?” Batman demanded with a loud slap of  the table.

I didn’t jump when Batman slammed his hand against the table. I didn’t flinch or scream or cry or start stripping or doing whatever his sick-fuck mind was expecting me to do. A minute or two ago, I think I might have, because I didn’t understand what was going on. But now I understood perfectly.

Batman and Midlife-Crisis-Robin were close to figuring out Jimmy’s real identity. Clearly, they weren’t sure, or else they wouldn’t be talking to me, but they had an idea and they wanted to test it. They weren’t trying to get information out of me, they were trying to get confirmation!

I laughed. I crossed my arms, cracked a wide smile, and laughed my ass off.

“Ask him yourself!” I screamed.

Chapter Text

The thing about these weird criminals is that they’re a dime a dozen here in Gotham City. A new high-tech or highly deranged criminal appears every other day, and it’s impossible to keep track of them all. Some guy in a weaponized tutu claiming to be sent by God could blow up an entire building and kill everyone inside, and in two months no one would be able to tell you his name or what he looked like. I’d tried for years to figure out what it was that makes some of these guys so infamous, but I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure it out.

Now, Minstrel? That was a different story. Or at least, it was for me. The minute I saw his first video, I knew the exact word for him: fake. He put on his makeup and talked like Steppin Fetchit so he could shock everybody, but then he’d switch. The jokes would fall away, and he’d hold himself and speak like he was some kind of high, refined scholar. First time I saw Minstrel, only one thought went through my head.

“Calvin,” I commented to my wife.

She looked away from me and raised an eyebrow, “What you bringing up him for?”

I pointed at the screen, “He don’t remind you of Calvin? Really?”

My wife looked at the screen, then shook her head disapprovingly. Side from side it swung until it found it’s way back to me, with a disapproving frown on it’s face. “Why you gotta make my ex be the crazy, psycho man on the news?”

“That is Calvin! He has that exact same, arrogant, pretentious look in his eye!”

My wife still didn’t believe me, so I grabbed the remote out of her hands and rewound the broadcast. I took some steps towards the screen and felt the heat of four thousand pixels hitting the back of my corneas. I struggled not to blink as the television slowly crawled along. In an instant, I saw it, and in a quicker instant, I slammed my thumb down on the pause button, then pointed at the screen in triumphant validation.

“Look at that! Right there! Tell me I’m lying!”

Minstrel’s frozen face filled the center of the screen. I’d stopped him right at the end of his banjo solo, just before he got into the more blatant parts of his monologue. I’d captured him right in the middle of a micro-expression—a slight, quick positioning of his face that revealed the thoughts he was keeping locked up in the back of his head, hoping none of us would notice. In that frozen window of time, his head was cocked slightly back and to the side. His grin was crooked, with the right corner of his mouth stretching higher and building a larger dimple than his left. His eyebrows were unfurrowed, and his lids were slightly drooped. Minstrel didn’t look at the camera as if he were looking at the dumbest person in the world, Minstrel looked at the camera as if he himself were the smartest person in the world, and he was amused at the idea that us regular people could ever compare to him. And that was the exact type of bullshit that Calvin used to pull.

My wife shook her head, and chastised me between fits of laughter, “You leave Calvin alone! He’s a perfectly nice man!”

I rolled my eyes, “He’s an asshole and you’re the only person that refuses to see it. I was in undergrad with you both, remember? No one liked Calvin once his mouth started running, but once he finally did shut up, it was even worse. Cuz he looked at everyone the same way that this asshole is looking at our whole city!”

My wife laughed again, “You’re wrong for that! You know Calvin is—he just—he doesn’t try to be like that!”

I shook my head, “Girl, I told that nigga ‘what’s up?’ last week, and he looked back at me and said ‘the pollen count’, with a wide ass, Eddie Murphy grin like he’d just said the funniest shit in the world!”

“He’s awkward!” She defended again.

“No, Steve Urkel is awkward. Calvin is just a jackass, and you know it. Why you always dating jackasses, Reina?”

She rolled her eyes and ignored me.

I shook my head and went back to watching the television. But as I looked at Minstrel, I only shook my head more. I found myself wondering what kind of narcissist someone would have to be to do something like that. Why would someone debase themself—and in so doing, debase their whole people—while speaking on the horrors that our people experienced in the past? And how could anyone do something so hypocritical while smiling at a damn camera like they were a genius for it?

I didn’t like Minstrel. I didn’t fuck with Minstrel. I didn’t even fuck with the people that did fuck with Minstrel. And believe me, there was a lot of them.

“That Minstrel, he’s one bad mother fucker!” Clarence shouted with a raised fist in the air. 

I shook my head and frowned. This was the same day of the attack at the mall, and damn near ever nigga I met was singing Minstrel’s praises. My whole reason for hitting Clarence up on my day off was to get away from all that, but the minute we walked into the bar, he brought up that old topic again.

Around the room went nods of approval and cries of, “hell yeah” and “what up!” I sipped my beer silently and shook my head at Vicky Vale on the T.V. screen hanging in the corner. I hope Ms. Vale didn’t take that too personally, though; it wasn’t her that I was really upset with.

“I’m glad Minstrel’s out here,” Paul, the bartender said as he wiped down a glass. The older man shook his greying head approvingly, “These white kids really gotta learn to stop fuckin’ with us!”

“They learned today!” Clarence said.

On the other end of the bar, a kid that looked a little too young and a little too tipsy to be there slammed his hand on the table, “Minstrel came in like bap! Fuck with Black folk again!”

Now, I’ve never been the type to stay silent when I felt strong about something, but I also wasn’t the type to pick arguments with people. I kept my voice calm and didn’t let my emotions get the better of me as I said, “Minstrel ain’t that different from them, though.”

Clarence rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand at me. Paul just shook his head and scoffed, “Aww shit, Officer Winslow’s all in his feelings again!”

“For real?” The boy at the edge of the bar said, “You a cop? Bruh, why you hating on Minstrel! He doing more than ya’ll do about Namzmirren!”

Namzmirren. That was another uncomfortable subject for me, and my second reason for trying to get away. It wouldn’t be long for a verdict to come out, and I knew that it wouldn’t be a point of celebration for me and my people. I empathized with my brothers, Lord knows I did, and I felt pity for that poor young man that lost his life, and his sister that was battling for her own. But I also knew the case and knew Namzmirren, and there was no doubt in my mind that the shooting was legal. Justified? I didn’t believe so, I personally wouldn’t have drawn my gun in that situation. But I couldn’t fault Namzmirren for that. I couldn’t fault any cop for being too cautious and trying to protect their own life.

I pushed the thoughts out of my head. I wasn’t really trying to debate Minstrel, but I damn sure wasn’t trying to hold the police brutality debate—especially not in a bar where I was outnumbered.

“Let’s face facts here. Minstrel may do stuff that we wish we could do, but he is not a role model or a hero to our people. Anyone that denigrates Black people in any way is ineligible of being a hero to our community. I simply cannot believe for one second that Minstrel cares for our collective well-being, because I can’t imagine a single Black person that doesn’t get sick just from looking at him, or the racist depictions that he draws his inspiration from.”

Two men playing pool shook their heads, affirming my perspective. That made me feel more confident.

Clarence nodded his head to the side, “I mean, I see your point. But we ain’t never said the nigga was sane!”

Paul nodded his head, “If you ask me, I think Minstrel might be a lil sweet. Got a nephew like that, he remind me of him.”

“All these young cats either sweet or crazy these days,” Clarence agreed. “Stands to reason that there’s going to be some niggas that’s both.”

“Hey, don’t put that shit on me!” The boy at the edge of the bar said as he held up two hands, “I’m a strict pussy-tarian!”

“We all pussy-tarians out here!” Said a large man that was squeezed into one of the booths opposite the bar. I looked at him and felt my soul get heavier. As he laughed at his own joke, I couldn’t help but wonder what pains he was carrying, being all alone at a table full of empty bottles.

Paul spoke again, “Look here, Julius, I know that you’re a cop and I know that you’re all about peace. But this nonviolence shit will get you killed. We tried non-violence to death! A hit dog will holler, and a man can only take so much. Even you gotta agree with that.”

I shook my head and took a sip of my beer, “Sure, I agree with that. I’m not against Black men fighting against slavery in the Civil War. But we’re not in the Civil War. I’m not against the Deacons for Defense and Justice driving around, looking for klansmen and trying to prevent lynchings, but we are not being lynched anymore. I’m not even against the Black Panthers driving around California and trying to stop those gangs with badges from killing our people indiscriminately. But this isn’t California and it damn sure isn’t LA County, we’re not going to be infested with those same kinds of cop gangs.”

“Hell yeah, instead, ya’ll got cops in the Two-Face gang!” The kid said. He raised a glass in salute of no one in particular, then swallowed all it’s contents.

“My point,” I said, feeling the frustration growing in the back of my mind, “is that we are not in the same situations we were before. We still have our problems, yes, but that’s why there’s cops like me on the force. That’s why we have community activists working with our people and the government to make life better for us. We are not at the point where we need to be violent like that.”

“Bullshit!” The kid said.

He jumped off his barstool and stumbled towards me. My body seized up as my eyes watched his hands, feeling my pulse and hearing it all around me. I didn’t reach for my gun, I knew better than that. He was being rude and aggressive, but he hadn’t actually threatened me or anyone else in the bar. If I responded like he had, then I’d only validate every cop that brutalized every sober and well-behaved, young, Black man.

He came closer to me. I was worried for a moment that he was going to get up in my face, but he was smarter than that. He stopped just short of five or so feet past me—so close that I got ready for a fight, but not so close that I made the first move. In just a few seconds, I studied him.

He looked young, like I said before, but not in the same way that he looked young at the edge of the bar. He looked African young, that was the only way I could describe it. I know it’s not politically correct, but those Africans really do be aging different from us, just like we age different from White people. Calvin would probably wax poetic about how it was caused by being closer to the Motherland, but I knew it was probably something like diet or sun-exposure. For whatever reason, the boy looked young like that; he looked young in a way that told me he probably wasn’t the age I thought he was, but I still wasn’t convinced that he was twenty-one.

His eyes were redder than any I’d ever seen before, and I could tell that it was from all the drinking that he’d done. Nasty, alcoholic sweat dripped down is brow and made him look like he’d just jumped straight out of a pool of vodka. His body was emaciated, with long, skeletal limbs that looked like he’d stolen them off another man. If he was a little fatter, I’d call him an averaged sized young man, but with so little body fat on him, it felt like I was looking at a 5-foot-8-inch Munchkin.

“Niggas ain’t getting killed by cops?” he said, spraying flammable spittle at my face.  “Niggas ain’t getting lynched? Niggas ain’t going around picking cotton for a white man! Fuck you been, Training Day?”

He jumped onto the bar, and I felt a huge gust of wind from every eyelid widening and every jaw dropping. The kid had to be some kind of Olympic-level sports prodigy to get onto the bar without bracing himself or getting a running start. One minute, he was standing in front of me, then he hopped up and towered over us all.

“The only way to defeat violence is with violence!” He said as he shot a fist into the air.

“Alright, Bobby Seale, I think you’ve had enough,” Paul said as he tugged on the kid’s leg. The kid didn’t budge, so Paul tried a different approach. He folded his arms, scowled at the boy and said, “Nigga you got five seconds to get off my fucking bar!”

The boy didn’t listen. He picked up the bottle of beer from in front of me, swallowed it all down and started singing, “Rally round the flag! Rally round the Red, Gold, Black and Green! Marcus say, Sir Marcus Say—”

Before he could make it to the end of his song, I stood up and flashed my badge and handcuffs.

“Okay, kid, get down, now, and show me your ID!”

The kid stopped his song and stuck his tongue out at me. For a minute, I thought things would have to get uncomfortable for both of us, and I’d have to force him down against his will. But the kid was surprisingly smarter than that. He climbed down of his own accord and stood in front of me with his hands up.

“Do! Not! Shoot!” He shouted, “I! Am! Reaching! For! My! Wallet!”

I felt my head grow hot again. If I were any other cop on the force, I probably would have had my gun out, or at least my tazer. But I was trying to help the kid. I wasn’t even planning on arresting him, I just wanted to find out where he lived so I could drive him back home to his parents. It made no sense to me to see the kid hauled off to jail for being a public nuisance. But the more annoying he was, the more I reconsidered that stance.

“I don’t even have my goddamn gun out. ID now, or are we going to have to go to the station so I can run a background check on you?”

The kid rolled his eyes and slowly reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a bright, yellow wallet with a plastic window on the front, then handed it to me.

I grabbed the wallet and looked at the ID. Then I blinked and looked at it again. I still wasn’t convinced, though, so I pulled it out of the wallet, and held it up to the light. I ran a black light over it and—shook my head. If it was a fake, it was a convincing fake.

“I already did all that, Julius,” Paul said. “You know I don’t just let kids in here.”

I shook my head. The kid, despite how he looked, was over 21. In fact, he was *INSERT WHATEVER BULLSHIT AGE DC CLAIMS DICK GRAYSON IS HERE, AND SUBTRACT 4 YEARS*

“See? I’m perfectly legal,” he said.

I handed the wallet and the ID back to him. “So it seems, Mr. Byrd. Now get the hell out of here before I haul your ass in for drunk and disorderly conduct!”

The kid snatched the wallet and ID out of my hands. Then he gave me that same look I always see on Calvin’s face, the same look I saw on Minstrel’s when he first announced his presence to the world. Arrogant, self-inflated, narcissistic and all around rude, it was the type of face that made my ghetto side start screaming with the voice of Charlie Murphy’s ghost, “Stomp this motherfucker out right here!” But I took a deep breath and dialed it back. I knew that if I was going to be the type of cop that proved this kid wrong and showed everyone that our community had nothing to fear from an honest police force, then I couldn’t just beat his ass cuz he pissed me off. I’d have to let him go out in the world and get his ass beat by someone that didn’t have a badge.

“Better remember who team you on!” The boy taunted as he backed his way out of the bar.

That event stuck with me more than anything else I’d ever experienced. It made me think about Minstrel and the type of people that supported him. I recall spending the rest of the night checking in at the station and hospitals, seeing if anyone picked up a James Byrd, or even an unidentified John Doe matching his description. No news ever came, but I couldn’t get it out of my head.

Anytime someone mentioned Minstrel, I thought of the kid.

Anytime his face was plastered on the news, I thought of the kid.

When Minstrel went on national television and mutilated two people, I thought of that kid. I asked myself if he’d still support Minstrel after seeing him do that. I told myself that he wouldn’t, that even someone as angry and drunk as him could plainly see how attacking people like that was wrong, no matter what he accused his victims of doing. But I was wrong, and I realized as much the minute I pulled up my phone and started scrolling through my various social media apps. Once again, the Black community of Gotham City was debating Minstrel, and once again, more people than I would have hoped were singing his praises.

I won’t repeat the posts that I read. I don’t want to think about them. I turned my phone off and tossed it away from me. It wasn’t a rough throw of anger, and I didn’t intend to break it. I just wanted it away from me.

I looked at my wife, and I shook my head. My muscles felt heavier than ever before, and I nearly broke down in tears.

“It’s just people on the internet, you know they don’t mean it.” She assured me.

I shook my head, “You’re wrong, baby. It won’t be long till there’s rioting in the streets, just trust me on that.”

A few days later, I was proven right. Namzmirren was found innocent just as we all knew he would be. Understandably, people were tired, and so they wanted to go out and show how tired they were. But it wasn’t the right time, there weren’t enough leaders making sure everyone was safe, and they made no efforts to coordinate their movements with the GCPD. I don’t blame the reporter that started the whole thing, or the countless innocent and peaceful people that just wanted to feel heard. But I do blame the rioters and agitators, the people that threw bricks and bottles at cops and counter-protestors. And most of all, I blamed Minstrel.

“He wasn’t even there!” Clarence argued.

I shook my head, “It doesn’t matter! And you know it doesn’t! It’s just like Lucius Fox said, this happened because we let his way of thinking go unchecked. Our community has not taken a hard stance against Minstrel, and that validates him in some people’s minds. Remember that kid at the bar? I bet you ten to one that he was out there, too, causing as much chaos as he could.”

Clarence blinked at me, then widened his eyes and searched my face. “What kid at the bar?”

I just shook my head at him. It made sense that he didn’t remember. Clarence was a good guy, but he never had a head for anything important. It’s why I stayed friends with him, he was so easily distracted from the horrors of everyday that I always knew he could take my mind off things.

I won’t lie, being a Black cop is torture. I’m caught between a sense of duty between two different communities that are integral to my identity. I see kids say all the time that Black lives are different from blue lives, because blue lives can stop being blue whenever they want. But I stand as testament to how untrue that is. Being an officer of the law, protecting people from every sinister and crazy person that would do them harm, that’s buried deep in my soul. It affects me in all areas of life, just as being Black does. My race is important to me, but it’s a physical description of my skin. Being a cop goes deeper than that, it describes the very nature of my soul.

I’m a protector. I believe in law and order. I want to help not just Black people, but all people get to the end of the day. That’s all I want, for everyone to get to the end of the day. In Gotham City, people don’t get that. They wind up with bullets in their bodies, blades in their backs, or hallucinogenic gas in their lungs. We all had to live in fear of fucking South American dictators on steroids coming into the city and trying to destroy it for no apparent reason. Batman and the other masks like to think they help, they think they protect justice without the influence of corruption, but all they do is exercise power without responsibility and accountability. I carry both on my shoulders every day as I go into a sick, sad world that needs my protection.

It is saddening to me that I’m so hated by my people. I want for them the very things they want for themselves: safety. The chance to live a life free of brutalization by racist forces. Neighborhoods free of drugs and guns, where women can walk around without fear of assault or harassment from rapists and pimps, and children can play without being snatched away to cruel and unknown sickness. I fought in a war I didn’t believe in to achieve that dream. I studied forensic science to achieve that dream. I spent hundreds of hours in firing ranges and martial art dojos and criminology seminars to achieve that dream. I spent years as a beat cop fighting for justice on the street and in my own precinct. I spent years of my life sculpting myself into the type of person that I knew could fight the sickness permeating through our communities, but that wasn’t enough. If Black people weren’t calling for me to be defunded, they were calling for me to be abolished, based on the whims of twenty-somethings in t-shirts who thought the answer to every crime was destigmatizing mental health resources.  

I was broken after the riot. It dismayed me to know that despite having the best interest of my community at heart, they still saw me as the enemy. Sure, my wife and friends tried to tell me otherwise, that people were just upset over the discrimination that they felt, that the police just needed better relationships and open conversations with the Black community. But I didn’t believe any of that shit, I couldn’t. Especially not when Namzmiren was killed.

I wasn’t scheduled to work then. I was actually about to start a much-needed vacation away from my job. As my wife packed our bags, I stared at the news on my phone, and the token negro news anchor that the station pulled out of nowhere to present the story.

“GCPD officers received notice of the home invasion late this afternoon and immediately rushed into action. Neighbors in surrounding homes were quickly evacuated as SWAT teams and hostage negotiators rolled in. Officer Namzmiren, who was enjoying his first day back at work since his acquittal, entered the home unarmed, but wearing a bullet-proof vest, and confronted Minstrel directly. Details are still unclear about what precisely transpired inside the home, but after some minutes, a shot rang out. Batman appeared on-scene a moment later, restrained then released Minstrel into police custody, then confirmed to Gotham Police Commissioner Gordon that Namzmirren was dead upon arrival. Upon confirming this, and the health and safety of the late officer’s wife and daughter with on-scene paramedics, the police Commissioner released this information in a formal statement to our on-field press agents.”

The anchor, a young, Black woman who I’d never seen in all my years of watching Channel 8, sat her stack of papers to the side, placed her hands within each other and looked directly into the camera.

“Channel 8 would like to extend our sympathies to the Namzmirren family and Gotham’s law enforcement community during this tough time. Out of respect for the family and the ongoing investigation, our station held off reporting this news until police successfully secured the scene.”

“Good for his a$$!” A comment read. The entire time that she’d been speaking, comments scrolled across the far left margin of the screen, as bubble-shaped reactions floated from the bottom up, then out of the screen’s range entirely. Most were positive—there were expressions of ‘thoughts and prayers’, questions of ‘when will this violence stop?’ and tagging ‘#bluelivesmatter’ as prayer emojis and weeping faces floated across the screen. But not all comments were so positive.

“This the same Channel 8 that called the slain protestors ‘rioters?’ This the same Channel 8 that showed video of Eric Sumpter being shot with no content warning? This the same Channel 8 that’s owned by Joseph Grant?”

“When the fuck did we start sending sympathies to CHILD MURDERERS????”

“FuckThaPolice, and Fuck Batman too for taking in Minstrel!”

“Man, if I’d been on that jury we would have had Namzmirren swinging from a rope!”

The comments were angry and political. They were so disconnected from the reality and severity of the situation. Minstrel waited until an innocent verdict was delivered, took a defenseless woman and child hostage, then took the law into his own hands. A thorough investigation and a jury of his peers found Namzmirren innocent, but Minstrel found him guilty and shot him. And people were applauding this person? It made me sick to read those comments, but it made me even sicker to read one particular brand of negative comment that seemed to pop up in between every other message.

“LOL!”

“LMAO”

“XD”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

People were laughing. A man was killed, his wife and daughter traumatized, and people were laughing. I wanted to throw my phone across the room, but I just kept staring at it, frozen. I couldn’t understand why people were acting like this, why my community was acting like this. Had we just forgotten common human decency? I didn’t cheer when Eric Sumpter died, I didn’t say he deserved it, and I especially didn’t laugh. Why, then, was the thought of a cop losing his life so damn laughable to my own people?

A green bar appeared at the top of my screen, and my device began to buzz. It slowly drew me out of the depressing thoughts, and as my conscious mind breached the surface, I read the name of the caller. I didn’t need to ask why Jim Gordon was calling me. If they really had Minstrel in custody, there was only one explanation.

“Julius?” Gordon asked form the other line, “I hate to interrupt you, but I truly hope you haven’t gotten on that plane yet. Have you seen the news?”

I nodded my head before I answered, “Yeah, I was just watching it. Don’t read the comments.”

“I prefer print anyway.” He said.

There was a brief pause, so I decided to break it, “You got our boy in custody?”

“Yeah,” Jim answered. His voice kind of curved at the end, like he was uncertain. If I didn’t know better, I’d have assumed he was being unclear about having Minstrel, but I did know better. Jim was uncertain about how I’d respond, and so he was trying desperately to pick his words carefully.

“He talking?” I asked.

“No.”

I nodded my head again and sighed, “It’s fine, Jim, it’s alright. This is important. I want to be there.”

“I’m sorry, Julius.”

I chuckled, “You want to make up for it? Let me put my wife on, so you can tell her that we’re postponing the vacation."

*

Bullock handed me the file, brusquely. I didn’t take it to personal, because I’d worked with Bullock long enough to know that he was only ever that abrupt with people he considered his friends. I just shrugged it off as Bullock being Bullock and began to leaf through the folder.

The first paper surprised me. It was Minstrel’s mugshot, not anyone else’s. I imagined that Bullock would hand me a file with some Black or even a white man with a name like “Jacob Johnson” or “Ryan Sanchez” or maybe even something like “Kunta Kinte Ali-Bey.” I expected that the arrest form would have this person’s name and fingerprints listed, along with a physical description, his home address, license number, and any known aliases listed. I expected to get a copy of any other important records we’d been able to uncover along with that, all telling the life story of Jacob Ryan Ali-Bey or whatever the fuck his name was. But I didn’t receive that, I received Minstrel’s file.

“What the hell is this?” I said when I saw the inky black face and ruby red lips smiling back at me while holding up a placard that said “Minstrel” in all-capital letters.

Bullock scoffed, “Paint wouldn’t come off. Even the Bat didn’t know how to get it off. Just like with Joker and Harley. Shit, for all we know, that really is the color of his skin now.”

It was a ridiculous notion, but I couldn’t dismiss the possibility entirely. I thought that a man permanently dying his skin the color of coal was insane, but this was Gotham, where insane was just quirky. I pushed past it and continued my thinly veiled criticism of Bullock and my fellow detectives.

“Did you run his fingerprints?”

Bullock gave me a stink-eye, “Do I look like the fucking Scooby-Doo gang to you? Hell yeah we tried running his finger prints! The motherfucker burned them off like he’s in a goddamn spy movie!”

I scratched my head for a moment, trying to come up with some other way to identify him. In an instant, it occurred to me, and I celebrated the thought with a snap. “Facial recognition! We’ve used it before and—”

Bullock shook his head, “We tried our system, it couldn’t read the guy. We tried Batman’s system, it couldn’t read the guy! Eggheads over in Forensics think it’s because of whatever’s going on with his skin—it’s so dark that the camera can’t get a read off his face. Usually when that happens with you guys, we just stick you under a brighter light and it all starts working good enough. But it made no difference with him; no matter how much light you shine on the guy he’s just this big, black spot so dark you can’t even really make out it’s shape.”

“I get it, Harvey!” I snapped. I didn’t think Harvey was intending to sound like a racist jackass, but I also didn’t love how careless he was being with his words.

He rolled his eyes, “Well sorry, chief!”

I shook my head and pushed past him. I grabbed the door knob to the interrogation room and took in a deep breath. I let my heart harden, felt my body tense up a bit, and let my mind begin to overheat as it’s motor began to run faster than before. I was ready.

I opened the door and sat down at the table. Minstrel was already there. It felt odd to see him without his hat on—I never would have imagined that he was completely bald under there. I looked at him with disgust in my heart, but he only looked up back at me with a that same, cocky smile that I’d seen on the news.

“What’s your name?” I asked, as I grabbed the pen and pad waiting for me on the table.

“Minstrel,” he responded.

I shook my head, “Your real name.”

“What’s yours?” He asked, with a soft rumble in the back of his throat that sounded like either a laugh or a growl.

I didn’t want to answer, but I was a cop and he was being detained, I knew that I had to identify myself. I showed him my badge and held it up to his face long enough to read my name and badge number, then spoke it aloud for him, “I am Detective Julius Washington of the Gotham City Police Department.”

“Your name is Julia?” He asked with a cocky smile and an even cockier turn of his head.

“Julius!” I snapped, “And I would prefer it if you called me Detective. I’m fine with calling you Minstrel, but we need your real name for our forms. And it’s in your best interest that you provide it to us.”

Minstrel thought for a moment. He put a finger to his cheek and began to tap it. I thought he was weighing whether or not he would cooperate, so I was surprised when he snapped and said, “I got it! You’re the one they call the Golden Lasso!”

I was aware of my nickname, and it was a point of pride for me. It’s why neither I nor my wife were too upset or surprised when Gordon called me in. A little-known secret of the Gotham PD was that we had two people skilled in the art of interrogation, and of those two, only I carried a badge.

“So you know me, but I don’t know you. Care to rectify that? Cuz I’m feeling a little socially disadvantaged here.”

Minstrel chuckled. Then, he leaned forward in his chair. His voice took on a new cadence—each word he spoke shot out of his mouth like he was doing spoken word poetry. He sounded like Lance from The Cosby Show—he turned into every Black man I’d encountered in my life that tried to sell me a bean pie and convince me that the government flooded Black communities with crack.

“Well now you know, my brothah! Now you know what it means to be disadvantaged from one of your own people. I was worried you’d forgotten from all those years of waving a badge around!”

As soon as he was done, he leaned his head back and laughed.

“I’m not impressed,” I told him.

“Oh, come on, I’m just having a little fun shooting the shit with you my man!” He awkwardly extended a fist, expecting me to pound it. When I didn’t, he pulled his arm back and shrugged, “Okay, okay, I see. This isn’t that kind of hang.”

I was starting to get annoyed, “Minstrel, have you been instructed that you can have a lawyer present during this process?”

He shook his head.

“Did you call one?”

He shook his head, but in a different direction that time.

“I would highly recommend that you do, because you aren’t making the best choices here, and you’re facing serious charges.”

Minstrel smirked, shook his head, and tapped his temple. “How they gonna put a nigga on trial if they don’t even know his name.”

I didn’t comment on that, because I knew he was smart enough to know that the process wasn’t nearly that simple. I only crossed my arms at him. I was beginning to learn Minstrel’s game. He was the guy that liked to talk. All I had to do was sit back and let him.

Minstrel rolled his eyes, “Well, well, Porky, you went to a lot of trouble to get me here. What do you want to know?”

I exercised my right to remain silent. I had a list of questions I wanted him to answer, of course, but I had a hunch that I wouldn’t even need to ask half of them.

Minstrel chuckled, smiled, and pointed at me with a knowing look, “I know, I know. I know what you want. You want to hear about Namzmirren, right? What, is that a kink for you? Does the idea of one man lying on top of another, bloodier man help you get your rocks off?”

Minstrel mimed jerking himself and laughed at his own joke again. When I didn’t laugh back, he frowned.

“Am I wrong? You don’t have secret, gay feelings for Namzmirren? I won’t judge you if you do, I go both ways, as long as there’s abs in both ways, nah’m saiyan? Nah’m saiyan? NAHM SAYING? KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING!”

He started screeching those same words over and over, like he was possessed. From my right ear, I heard a tap on the one-sided window to the observation room. I held up a hand to let them know I was okay and not to come in, but otherwise didn’t react.

Minstrel kept screeching until he suddenly coughed. He pounded a fist on his chest and tried to clear his throat, eventually spitting a gob of mucus and saliva into the far corner of the room. He gave me a sheepish grin in apology, then continued his performance.

“Okay so what is it? Why do you care about Namzmirren? Don’t tell me…”

He leaned in closer.

“Did you hate him too?”

“Are you going to actually say something useful or are you going to keep playing this game?” I asked.

Minstrel sat back in his original position and giggled, “You did! You did hate him! My brotha, I cannot tell you how good it is to hear that! I was worried you’d gone Carlton on us. Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you, I know your hands are tied working here. I’m happy that I got rid of him for you, and you are absolutely welcome.”

I felt my pulse quicken as my face grew hot. “Let’s get one thing clear, Minstrel. I do not condone, endorse, or agree with anything that you do!”

I knew that I responded well enough, given the circumstances. Not responding would have been better, but I was too busy using all my self-control not to reach across the table and strangle him.

Minstrel frowned, “Don’t tell me I was right about you. You really wept for that guy? Damn, and I thought I had issues.”

I sucked in a deep breath and tried not to let him get to me. “Why don’t you tell me more about that? Am I correct that this was a politically motivated shooting?”

Minstrel shook his head. “No, you’d be wrong. It was a racially motivated shooting. Just like when he picked off Eric Sumpter. I didn’t want the ol’ albinos to have a score over us, so I had to tie the game back up, you know?”

He mimed taking a sip of coffee and commented, “Course, even with taking him out, we’re still lagging far, far behind. Someone should really call a Mercy Rule on this game already.”

That comment answered one of my questions, but it wasn’t enough, I had to get him to say it in clearer terms.

“Are you saying that you planned to commit more murders?”

Minstrel put his imaginary cup down, folded his hands on top of each other, and smiled politely, “Planned?”

"So you’ve already committed other murders?” I asked. I was technically leading him, but I didn’t care. As much as the number of people singing his praises worried me, I knew that there was no jury that wasn’t going to convict this psychopath.

Minstrel must have seen through my trap, because he didn’t respond to that. He turned his head away from me and looked at the window.

From this side, it was just a mirror. Minstrel primped his imaginary hair and smiled big to check his teeth. Seeing the stark white contrast against the red of his mouth and the black of his skin gave me an idea, and I inscribed in my notebook, “Subpoena dental records.” If my hunch was correct, Minstrel was a local, and that meant his movie-star perfect teeth had to come from another local.

“Hey, Boy on the Side of Babylon Tryna Front Like You’re Down with Mount Zion,” Minstrel said to me, though his head was still turned.

I rolled my eyes, “Don’t act cute. That comes from somewhere, but I can’t remember what.”

Minstrel turned to me with an incredulous look and shook his head, “Well, thanks for confirming one stereotype, fake nigga! You really don’t know Fugees? Really, nigga? Ol’-Not-Listening-To-Fugees-Ass-Nigga!”

I didn’t appreciate being called that word from people sitting on that side of the table, even if they were Black. I especially didn’t love hearing it phrased as an insult from a man who seemed to have permanently dyed his skin black.

Minstrel continued with his original line of thought, “Anyway, you see what I see, right? Other than the fine piece of ass in the mirror. I mean, you get why they asked you to deal with me, yes?”

I raised an eyebrow, “Oh really, and why do you think that is?”

He pointed to himself in the mirror, then pointed to my own reflection. Then he pointed to himself again, then me again. He did this a total of thirteen times before he said, “Isn’t it obvious? We’re both Tauruses. Did your mom dream about fish before you were born?”

I wasn’t an idiot, I knew what he was implying, and I didn’t like it. “I was selected because I’m a capable detective. No more, no less.”

Minstrel shot back a condescending glare, “Oh, come on! You can’t seriously believe that, my good man! If Gordon wants a capable detective to question someone…well, we both know that search light on the roof isn’t for you.”

I won’t lie, my pride was shot. I hadn’t been deflecting his taunts and jeers for very long, but they were really starting to get to me. I was the best damn detective in the precinct, and everyone knew that; it’s how I got the nickname ‘Golden Lasso’. Jim Gordon recognized my skills as a detective and interrogator, he knew that out of every cop in the precinct, I was the only one that could keep a clear head with Minstrel. Yes, he and I were both Black (presumably), but that was only an added bonus; Gordon picked me because he knew I could handle myself!

And just as I was about to tell all of that to Minstrel, he stopped me, “I want a glass of water. My throat’s getting scratchy.”

“It’s cuz of all that cackling you’re doing,” I scolded.

He shook his head, “Nah, it’s cuz of all the dicks I’ve been sucking. But you know how that is.”

I felt a vein in my forehead pop.

Minstrel held up two hands, defensively, “Alright, alright, I get it, no homo! I’m sorry, Lil Boosie. Now can a nigga get a glass of water?”

I wanted to say no, but I reasoned that giving him a drink would be a good way to get a DNA sample. I knew he probably wouldn’t be in the system, but even in that case, it was still a good idea. If I let Minstrel think he was in control of the situation, let him believe that he was just as clever and important as he convinced himself, there was a chance that he’d slip up, and when that happened, I’d pounce.

I rose from my chair and was sure to grab my writing pad and Minstrel’s file in the process. With a silent glare towards him, I exited the room, and nearly slammed the door behind me. I didn’t walk immediately to the water cooler, though. Nor did I walk over to Forensics and tell them to hand me an evidence bag and get ready to receive a sample. I needed a moment, so I leaned against the wall and just breathed.

Jim came out of the observation room. I was only a little surprised to see a man in a bat costume trailing behind him.

“Commissioner,” I said as I straightened up and put on a more professional face. “I was slipping in there, I know. And I’m sorry, I promise, we’ll get something out of him. In fact—”

Before I could position my writing pad better so I could see my notes, Jim cut me off.

“It’s alright, Julius, you’re doing great. Better than I would have even expected.” He said with a pat on my back and a kind, reassuring smile.

I scoffed, “That kid in there called me every name in the book and gave us nothing we didn’t already know!”

“He’s talking to you, that’s all that matters.” Batman said. I nearly grimaced at his voice, it was deeper than any choir baritone I’d ever heard.

I shrugged, “Come on, that’s hardly any kind of feat. Anyone could have—”

“I couldn’t,” Batman confessed.

And suddenly, the world grew hazy. It felt like someone plucked a corner of the room and made it start spinning. I tried to align the thoughts in my head into something cohesive.

“You already talked to him?” I asked. I knew the answer would be ‘yes.’ I expected it to be ‘yes.’ He was Batman after all, I knew that Gordon let him question Minstrel before he let anyone else even think of trying. That wasn’t what shocked me, though.

“I did. But he wouldn’t say a word.”

Gordon nodded, “Minstrel’s been playing it all close to his chest since he first came in. But I knew that if anyone could get him to talk, it would be the Golden Lasso.”

He said it approvingly, and I almost believed it. In fact, I did believe it; Gordon really did think I was the only one that could get Minstrel to talk. What I distrusted was his implication. He was acting like he saw me as an interrogator on par with Batman, but that wasn’t the truth. Gordon didn’t call me in because he thought I could out-question Batman and win Minstrel over using my intellect and experience. He called me in because I was a Black detective—worse he called me in because I was the Black detective. I was his ‘in’ with the Black community, and activating me was no different from when the government called in Black Dynamite.

“Thank you, Commissioner,” I said, awkwardly. No other words would come to mind. I excused myself to go get Minstrel’s water, but the entire time my mind reeled. I walked to the water cooler astounded. That smug bastard was actually right! I was just their blaxpert, their concierge nigga, their on-call ghetto translator! If I had put my foot down and told Jim that I would not postpone my vacation, they could have just picked out the next Black uniformed officer to do the interrogation and get the same results.

I looked down at my notes to review what I’d learned. I felt even less sure about them now than I had before. One line was the reminder to check Minstrel’s dental records, the other was just the word, “gay” underlined. That’s all I had on him. I was getting nowhere, but Gordon and Batman didn’t care. As far as they were concerned, the nigga was talking so everything was going great.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I won’t lie, my heart rate quickened for just a moment. I whipped my head around like someone had popped a gun, then slowly let myself relax when I saw who was there.

“Whoa, there, man!” Hollywood said. His hands raised up, his palms open, he signaled that he wasn’t a threat. I knew that the truth was a bit more complicated than that, though, and didn’t let my guard completely fall away.

“Sorry, just a little spooked.”  I said. I shook my head and added, “Sick of these nutjobs, I’ll never get why you left L.A.”

He scoffed, “You’re forgetting we have our own share of these nuts out there. We’ve got the Teen Titans, though.”

“And that helps?” I asked.

He shook his head, “Hell no! If anything, those kids make shit worse half the time! Don’t forget, it’s the Bat’s kids that usually wind up leading those teams.”

I shook my head, “You deal with some shit out there. Not as bad as here, still, but you deal with some shit. I can acknowledge that.”

He smiled. He tried to hide it, but I saw the twitch in the corner of his mouth, the slight narrow of his eyes, and the slightest change in the pink of his face. Hollywood thought that his plan was working, that he was right about to hook me, but he didn’t realize that I’d already hooked him. I didn’t know why Hollywood wanted me, but I knew that it couldn’t be great.

“We did deal with some shit out there, but the badge always took care of it’s own, you know what I mean?”

I did.

“No,” I said, and took a slight step closer to the cooler and reached for a cup, so that it’d look like I was trying to end the conversation.

He grabbed my arm, “Look, I know you’ve heard the rumors about me—I have too. But I know you’re not the type to believe baseless rumors, either. I wasn’t in the LA County Sheriffs, I was strictly California State, man!”

“That don’t mean much,” I said.

He nodded, “You’re right, it doesn’t. Look, the brotherhoods get a bad and unfair rep, just like everything our kind does, you know? A few guys act out and it tarnishes the whole brand. My kid went to school with the Thin-Blue-Line on a Mickey Mouse logo and got the snot kicked out of her by some girls that’ve probably been drifting in and out of this station since you were rocking the uniform.”

“She alright?” I asked.

Hollywood sighed, “Yeah, she’s fine. I went down to the school, yelled at the principal, told her I wanted to press charges. Those girls are going to go to trial in a couple weeks. If this were liberal LA though? Who knows, they might’ve said that the gender-neutral bathroom is a safe space for them and the school was in a sanctuary city.”

He laughed at the joke. I understood it, and  I didn’t disagree with the underlying message entirely, but I didn’t laugh back. I just didn’t think it was funny.

“There was a time when people supported the police.” I commented.

He slapped me lightly on my chest the way that white boys do when they want to establish a connection with someone.

“See? I knew you’d understand. Times aren’t like they used to be. Everyone’s adoring masks and race-baiters, forgetting that neither would be nearly as successful without guys like us.”

He was taking too long to get to his point, so I rushed him along, “For real. I saw the comments on the news reporting Namzmiren’s death, it was just sick.”

He shook his head, “Man, never read the comments. A psychopath rushes a cop with a knife and they declare a national day of mourning and want to change street names to shit like Black Lives Matter and Defund the Police. A cop dies and people celebrate. The world’s sick, man. And guys like Minstrel are only making it worse.”

I nodded, “Well, we got him now. And I suspect that if we get forensics to look into local dental records, we might finally ID him.”

Hollywood’s eyes narrowed again, but in a frown. His tone changed and he asked, “You really think this place is going to be able to hold him?”

I shrugged, “We’ve been holding Harley here without a problem for—”

“He’s gonna bust out! If not out of here, then out of Arkham—which is where they’ll take him rather than Iron Heights or Belle Reve, where he needs to be. Come on, man, you know that there’s no justice in Gotham for guys like Minstrel. Not unless we make it happen.”

I looked at him silently for a minute before asking, “What are you proposing, exactly?”

Hollywood got a little paranoid, then. He looked to his left, then to his right to make sure that no one was spying on us. He leaned in a little closer and his voice got real low, “Tell me, honestly, what you think should happen to Minstrel.”

“I think he should face justice for everything he’s done,” I said, without hesitation.

Hollywood’s eyes narrowed, “And you’re committed to that? You’re with us, and not him?”

I knew the implication behind his words. Hollywood wanted to know if I was Black or if I was blue. Truth of the matter is that I was both, and I’d never ignore that fact, which was why I was going to report him and whatever bullshit plan he was plotting as soon as I had a chance. But I knew telling a lie wouldn’t be in my best interest, not when I needed to gain his trust.

“My skin is Black, and my soul is blue. Before anything else, I’m a defender of the law and my community. Minstrel endangers both.”

Hollywood shook his head at me approvingly, and slapped me on the back, “I knew you’d be the guy we could count on. Stick around after the interrogation’s done. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the brothers.”

With that, he walked away. I turned back to the water cooler, and let the water fall into the cup. When it was done, I just looked at it. Didn’t grab it, didn’t walk back to the cell, I just looked at it.

It was funny in a way I couldn’t explain. The fact that Hollywood, Gordon, and even Batman all saw value in me cuz I was Black. They assumed that I’d have some kind of in, some wise insight to deliver, some way of connecting to that madman in the room. The second that they wanted to understand us, they saw men like me like psychics, they hung on to our every word like it was gospel. That night was my first night really meeting Batman, just like it was my fist night really talking to Hollywood. They were both acting like we’d always been cool, but I saw through that shit. And Gordon wasn’t all that different; even though I was the Golden Lasso, everyone knew that his main guys were Montoya and Bullock.

I thought I had value to them. I thought I was the Golden Lasso, the top interrogator in the station. I thought maybe one day I’d take over from Gordon. I thought that these people saw me as something more than just the Black guy. Why couldn’t I be more than just the Black guy? I didn’t want to just be the Black guy my whole life-I never chose to be a nigga in the first damn place! Why did I have to be saddled with this identity, this life that I never wanted?

I walked back to the interrogation room with heavy feet and limbs. Every pound of my shoe against the tiles only echoed with the memories of other interrogations that I’d had in the past. I wondered, then, if I’d been chosen for those cases because I was a good detective, or because I was Black? The answer that I was edging towards didn’t placate me.

“Tea time?” Minstrel said when I opened the door again.

I silently pushed the cup of water to him. He took one look down at it, then looked back up at me without even reaching for it.

“I requested a glass of water,” he said.

“We don’t have glasses, and I especially wouldn’t give one to you.” I said, my voice gruffer and more forced than before. I was losing my patience with him, and worse, I didn’t even try to hide it.

“I’m not going to drink that,” he said as he frowned, folded his arms, and looked away.

“I really don’t care.” I placed the writing pad down and put my pen in position. “I helped you, now you help me. What is your name?”

He stayed silent.

I rolled my eyes, “We’ll come back to that one. Let’s try another—How did you get the Joker gas?”

He remained silent.

“How did you learn sensitive details about Oliver Walcztloh and Rebecca Walters?”

He turned his head to me, and stuck his tongue out, then looked away. My blood temperature began to rise and I took a deep breath.

“Do you know anything about the disappearance of Joseph Grant?”

Minstrel turned to me again, then gave me a smug, silent look.

I slammed my hands on the table, “Dammit, Minstrel, I’m tired of this game! I want answers!”

“And I want a mother fucking glass of water! Why is that so hard for you to get through your thick, porch monkey brain!?”

Before I could react, he picked up his cup and tossed it at the mirror. Water splashed on me, and even though I knew his lips hadn’t touched it, I still felt sick and disgusted. Minstrel ranted and raved at the mirror, asking Gordon why he couldn’t find more competent staff. And sometime after Minstrel used the word “house nigger” I finally lost my temper.

I slammed my hands on the table again before I rose from my chair, rushed Minstrel, and pinned him against the wall. My mind was full of angry, violent thoughts, and I felt myself mumbling nonsense syllables as I pressed my arm into his neck.

I was still aware of Jim and Batman on the other side of the mirror. I knew that they were watching and judging me. I found myself wondering if they were disappointed in me. I wondered if Hollywood would feel the same. They wanted me to be the calm, measured Black guy that they could trust to handle the situation, and there I was blowing everything. Then, I grew angry for even thinking like that, for caring about anything that they thought about me. Just a minute ago I was insulted that they were using me, and suddenly I was worried about them being disappointed in me?

I looked at Minstrel, still just as angry as I had been, but now that anger was more focused. The thoughts began to align in my mind and I was starting to see reason. I was worried about disappointing Gordon and Batman and Hollywood because of Minstrel—he taunted me and called me a slave, a nigger, a coon. He put that idea in my head that I was there to serve them. He’s the one that made me question whether I was recruited to the case based on merit or my skin color. Minstrel was the reason I had to cancel my vacation. Minstrel was the reason I couldn’t read the comments on the news. All of it was Minstrel’s fault!

Pushing my forearm even deeper into his neck, I shouted, “Why do you hate me?!”

Minstrel just laughed—a strained, weak laugh that choked it’s way out of his throat—and said, “For the same reason you hate me!”

Those words did something to me. I hadn’t expected them. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect him to say that. I stopped restraining him and let him fall to the floor. It couldn’t be true. I didn’t hate him, not like that. I didn’t like him, sure, but I didn’t hate him either. And so what if I did hate him? He was a cop killer, he attacked people, he was a criminal. He wore fucking blackface! I was justified in hating him!

I pushed those thoughts out of my head and let reason enter my mind again. What I’d done was crazy. It was rash, dangerous, and a blatant example of police brutality. So why the hell wasn’t Gordon storming the room, demanding me to go home?

“Gordon?” I asked as I turned towards the mirror. He didn’t respond, and suddenly I found it difficult to imagine him and Batman looking in on us. I took a nervous step towards the mirror, then another nervous step, and soon my nose was touching the glass. I couldn’t see inside the observation room, but I felt like I could. I felt like I could have at least seen the vague, shadowy outlines of people watching us if anyone was really there. But I didn’t see that.

And in an instant, I saw nothing at all.

The lights went out, and before I could even register that, I heard screams and gunshots echoing from the halls. I reached for my gun, but then remembered that I’d walked into the interrogation room without it, thinking that I wouldn’t need one since I was in a secure location in my own department. I felt alone then—and I’d like to say that I felt alone even though I was with Minstrel, but really, I felt alone because I was with Minstrel. I knew that somehow, he had something to do with this.

The emergency generators cut on, and the room quickly filled with the red, emergency lighting. In the mirror, I saw myself, sweaty and dazed, and I saw Minstrel standing behind me, just over my shoulder.

I won’t lie, I yelped like a little girl. I jumped backwards and inched myself into a corner of the room, terrified of what he was about to do to me. His eyes were big and buggy, his lips so bulbous and bloody, I felt like Minstrel was going to pounce on me like a cat, sink his teeth into me and tear me to shreds as he devoured my flesh. He was crazy enough, he could have done it, but he didn’t make nay move to harm me at all.

Minstrel held out a hand to me and spoke in a different voice than before. It was deeper and leveled, unlike any voice I’d heard him use before. It felt like I was hearing his real voice for the very first time, and that thought calmed me in an odd way.

“You’re good, bruh,” Minstrel said. He nodded his head slightly to reassure me, and just repeated again, “You’re good, bruh. You’re good.”

Confused, my eyes locked with his as I shook my head. I didn’t want to believe him, but I found myself relaxing.

“You’re good, bruh. I promise you, okay? You’re good.”

His hand was still extended out to me, and I just stared at it forever. Minstrel kept repeating the same reassuring message, but he didn’t try to force me to accept it. He kept his distance, kept his face calm, and kept his arm extended to me the entire time my brain was trapped in that fearful daze.

Finally, I felt my arm begin to extend towards his. It was a slow, uncertain movement, and I fought the urge to pull my arm back at every instant. But I kept extending, and soon enough, my hand was in Minstrel’s. He smiled, shook his head, and pulled me up to my feet. And we just stood there for a moment with joined hands, staring at each other. I was still puzzled, unsure if this was really happening, but Minstrel just nodded his head to assure me that yes, yes it was.

The main power came back on, but I hardly registered that. The door to the room was kicked in, but I barely noticed that, too. Harley Quinn burst through the door, rose petals falling from her head, and all of a sudden, Minstrel was back to normal.

“Happy Kwanzaa, Jimmy!” Harley cried as she handed Minstrel his hat.

He unclasped my hand, grinned, and turned to Harley, “Happy Hannukah, Dr. Qunizel!”

Minstrel took his hat back, put it on his head, and began to walk out the room. In that moment, the cop inside of me began to wake up.

I took a step towards Minstrel and Harley, puffed up my chest, and called out in a much weaker voice than I expected, “Hey! Get back here!”

Minstrel turned his head back to me, and he put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Then, his face changed. His voice changed. He grew smug again, but there was a slight hint of anger behind his smugness.

“Better remember who team you on!” The boy shouted as he left the interrogation room.

Chapter Text

Here’s the story as I know it:

Harley Quinn and the Joker wanted to go out and see a show one day. It was the Joker’s idea, Harley wanted to stay in that night. But as always, it wasn't her choice. He’d seen a commercial that promised “The best clown in the world” and decided that he needed to see for himself if this clown was funnier than him.

When they arrived at the circus, it quickly turned into a shit storm. They wanted a private showing, so they arrived the night before opening. No one wanted them there, least of all the ringmaster. When he tried asking the couple to leave, the Joker only remarked that he thought the ringmaster frowned too much. He offered to fix that.

To say it was a massacre would be an understatement. Harley spared me all the gory details, but she made it abundantly clear why I’d never heard of the incident before—there was no witness left to describe it as anything other than an accidental fire. You didn’t need to be in Gotham for the police to not care about a bunch of circus freaks dying in a fire.

While they were setting the place ablaze, Harley went into the ringmaster’s trailer. His wife was in  there, wearing a costume that included, plastic tiara that Harley thought looked pretty. They fought over it. The woman called Harley some rude names that I’d only ever heard Harley utter when her cereal came without a prize. Harley pulled the tiara out of her hands, and the woman fell back and cracked her skull against a countertop.

Harley looked around the rest of the trailer while the Joker was outside, causing more havoc. She was wearing the tiara and singing a little made-up song while she searched. She managed to find their safe hidden in a cupboard, and inside the safe, she found a very peculiar photo album.

It was rather large, the kind that people would use to store entire generations’ worth of family photos. But there was only ever one person in all the pictures—a little Black boy. Considering that both the ringmaster and his wife were white, Harley was immediately suspicious. She kept thumbing through the album, trying to figure out who the kid was. But even after she’d gotten nearly halfway through the album, she didn’t see a single picture of the boy with the couple, only pictures of him all alone.

And in a lot of the pictures that Harley found, the boy was naked.

That’s when Harley got really scared. She took the pictures out of the plastic sleeves and checked the backs for a name or anything else that she could use to track the kid down. But all she found written on the back were prices. Going rate for a little kid’s innocence? Twenty goddamn dollars.

The Joker called to her, and she bolted from the trailer screaming about how the circus was ‘full of a bunch of sick fucks’. But when she found the Joker, she stopped screaming.

The little boy from the pictures was standing right beside Joker, who was kneeling and whispering in his ear. In the boy’s hand was a gun, and on the other side of the barrel was the ringmaster. He was on his knees crying, begging for his life, and gurgling on the blood that kept sliding down his throat. It was a familiar sight and sound for Harley, one that she’d seen whenever the Joker gave someone a new smile. She’d told me about how, at a certain point in her life, seeing people like that was hilarious to her. But she didn’t mention finding it funny then.

Joker kept whispering to the kid. Harley couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he could guess what it was about. The photo album was still in her hands, and with a morbid curiosity, she was still flipping through pages. The images disgusted her, they even brought tears to her eyes, but she couldn’t look away for long. She’d look at the pages briefly, then look at the boy before her, and her mind raced with questions that she couldn’t even put into words.

And then she found the worst pictures, the ones where the little boy started to look more like the older boy with the Joker in his ear. In those pictures, he wasn’t alone, he was with the ringmaster’s wife.

Harley told me that when the boy pulled the trigger, it was the loudest thing in the world. Not the shot itself, but the friction of metal against metal as the mechanisms activated. Harley heard them all in excruciating detail over the screams of all the circus performers and the roar of the fire.

“Bang!” The Joker screamed. He laughed at his own joke, as he was known to do even back then. Harley laughed too, and so did the boy.

The only one that didn’t laugh was the ringmaster. He only let out a confused grunt when he realized that a bullet hadn’t gone through him. He opened his eyes and saw that a little flag with the word, “Bang!” on it had grown from the barrel of the gun.

The Joker ran up to the ringmaster and lifted him to his feet.

“What’s wrong, frown clown? Smile! It’s only a joke!”

The Joker slapped the ringmaster on his back, but he still didn’t laugh. He cried, and cried, shouting that he was sorry and begging all of them, even the child, to just leave them alone.

The Joker shook his head, “Don’t like that joke, huh? I got another one for ya!”

He spun the man around and held him at eye level.

“Everyone loves this one,” The Joker said to no one in particular. “The old, spray-flower trick!”

A stream of glowing, steaming, green liquid shot out from a plastic daisy in the Joker’s lapel. It burned the man’s face down to the bone, and he didn’t—couldn’t go out quietly. He screamed his entire way into the night.

Minstrel went with Harley and Joker that night. No one told him to, and he didn’t ask, it was just an understanding that passed between the three of them that Minstrel was with them, now. The Joker didn’t seem to mind, and Harley was a little glad for that. She knew that life with the Joker was awful, but she also felt bad for Minstrel and wanted to know that he was okay. Had Minstrel just gone away on his own, or wound up in foster care, all she’d have done is spend the rest of her life wondering.

After some time (and Harley wasn’t clear on how long this was), Harley became pregnant. There was a part of her that always wanted to be a mother, and that part screamed at her for being so stupid.

Taking in Minstrel was one thing—he was old enough to take care of himself, and he did so frequently. Their first night together, Harley let him eat whatever he wanted, and she kept doing that night after night for a week or so. But she was struggling in her own way, and there were many days where she didn’t want to move at all. After some time, she stopped asking Minstrel if he was hungry. He got a few weeks of a doting older sister, and after that, he was on his own.

Harley would have to do better for a baby. She’d have to move even on days when she didn’t want to. She’d have to be available to feed it and clean it and play with it and put it to sleep. And it had to be her because she was surrounded by men. Worse than that, she was surrounded by the Joker.

If there was a baby around, the Joker wouldn’t stop being dangerous. Worse than that, he wouldn’t stop being abusive. She imagined a nightmare where the  Joker came back from a heist to find that his dinner wasn’t made, and the baby was crying up a storm. She didn’t like thinking of how he’d react to that.

But would she even get that far? Would the Joker have let her keep the pregnancy if he’d known about it? And if she waited to tell him until the baby was born, it would only be a matter of when and how he’d make her get rid of the child.

The choice was going to be made for Harley if she didn’t make it for herself. If she tried to hide the pregnancy until it was too late, the Joker might hurt her. If she left him, he’d find her. If she turned herself over to the law, they’d only take the baby away and she’d wind up like Lawton—trading jobs for Amanda Waller in exchange for a few minutes with her daughter. If she aborted the baby…that wasn’t an option for her, not then. She’d aborted before and felt fine about it, but that was before Joker. Aborting a child that she had with Joker would cause a whole different mess of emotions that she knew she didn’t want to deal with.

Harley was in turmoil for days trying to find an answer. And one day, unexpectedly, her little brother walked up to her and gave her a train ticket out of Gotham. Harley didn’t understand, but he pushed her, told her that he dreamt of fish, and so he knew that she was pregnant. Harley tried to get him to drop the issue, reminding him that the Joker would never let her just leave him. She figured that Minstrel’s heart was in the right place, but that he didn’t really understand, because he was still just a kid. But he was determined to get her out, and after some urging, he managed to convince her.

Harley went away to a place no one would think to look for her. She didn’t even tell me where that place was. When her daughter Lucy was finally born, she dropped her off at her sister’s place, then started her journey back to Gotham. In the nine months of gestation, she had a lot of time to think. And she realized that the best place for Lucy was with her family, but not with her mother.

By the time Harley returned to the Joker, Minstrel was gone and she was happy. Lucy was safe, Minstrel wasn’t with Joker anymore, and the Joker didn’t seem any different than usual. He barely even noticed that she’d been gone. She hadn’t thought of a good enough lie to tell him, and she quickly realized that she didn’t need to—he didn’t care.

After that, it becomes a story that I know a lot better. Harley and Joker went back to terrorizing Gotham together, but it didn’t last long. Through some miracle, I managed to get Harley to see that she didn’t have to feel afraid of the Joker and that it wasn’t her job to fix him or control his damage, either. She left the Joker, and we teamed up. Then, we dated. Then, we were married.

And then, one day, we were watching the news.

I rolled my eyes the entire time he was onscreen. I was sick of the Joker copy-cats. I know every friend I have has done some fucked up stuff, but Joker was unquestionably the worst, and I don’t see how anyone could possibly idolize him. The fact that it was usually men only explained a little of it—abusive men support abusive men, but with the Joker, I always wondered if it was something deeper. Sure, everyone that put on his makeup and ran around screaming “Why so serious” was probably already fucked in the head, but that answer didn’t satisfy me. How did the Joker, specifically get his hooks in men like this, specifically? The Joker was an unreachable icon that none of these men had ever been able to truly emulate or impress, so what kept them going? Failing to find clarity, I just sat with my disgust and let that be a kind of answer of its own.

But Harley’s expression when I looked over at her surprised me. She looked at the screen like a giddy little girl watching the Santa Claus tracker. I asked her if she knew the guy on the television.

“Know him? That’s my little brother, Jimmy!”

And that was all she told me. I asked her for more details, of course, but she didn’t give any. Her answers were vague. She talked about how she and the Joker found him one day and decided to adopt him, with the Joker as his uncle and herself as his older sister. I pointed out that wasn’t how adoption worked, but she just rolled her eyes. She refused to answer any other questions I asked and brushed me off whenever I brought the topic up in the following days.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll answer all your questions when he gets here.” She finally said one day.

“And what makes you so certain that he’s coming here?” I asked her.

“Cuz he’s family, Pammy! Who visits their big sister’s hometown and doesn’t even stop by to ogle her hot wife?”

The certainty of her response bothered me. She really believed that he was coming. I felt an uncomfortable feeling bubbling in my stomach. I sat her down on the bed and grabbed her arms.

“Babe,” I said as I pushed a strand of hair from her eyes, “I know you’re excited to see him. But you have to consider…it’s been years since you saw him last, right? He might have changed.”

Harley gasped, “You think he’s gay now! Honestly, I could see that. He always colored in the lines, if ya know what I mean.”

I sighed. The hardest part of living with a clown was that she could never be serious about anything. Harley was an expert at avoiding any topic that she didn’t want to talk about, and I was an expert in enabling her avoidance.

I had a choice to make. I could try to break Harley out of whatever mania seeing her ‘brother’ had her under, or I could go along with it all. I had to accept the fact that meeting Minstrel again meant something to Harley even though I didn’t understand what. I made the decision in a moment, but it wasn’t an easy one to make. Supporting the people you love hardly ever is.

Harley heard that Minstrel was behind an attack at the mall, so we went to the mall and questioned witnesses. Harley listened with glee and laughed at the story that our informants told. My reaction was different. I didn’t see Minstrel as a hero, and I didn’t see him as a textbook villain, either. I simply didn’t understand any of it—I didn’t know how Minstrel knew to be at the mall, why he engaged the kids, or why he laughed at the people supporting him. But I didn’t need to understand that, I just needed to help Harley. So, I sent the informants on their way, and Harley and I went home to regroup.

There were no leads for a long time. And I was beginning to wonder if Minstrel really planned to stay in Gotham. Sure, his messages promised a murder spree, but back then, he hadn’t done nearly anything that destructive. I convinced myself that maybe he wasn’t dangerous. Maybe he was just a practical joker that went a little too far, cuz he was just so angry at the world. I still didn’t trust him, but I was less worried about him and Harley's meeting than I had been before.

Minstrel only proved me wrong again. One day, he appeared on the news prepared to cut out a woman's tongue and detach a man's genitals. I felt sick at the thought of it. Even if the charge was false, how could Minstrel or anyone else fail to see how misogynistic it was to cut out a woman's tongue for making a rape claim? Or did he just not care? I didn’t try to think too hard about it, though. I just worried about Harley.

She was determined to go and see him. I didn’t want to let her. He was goading Batman, and while I knew that my wife could handle him any day, I didn’t want her to. Not for some kid that was still associated with her abuser. I reluctantly drove her to his location—a spot she knew from their days with the Joker—but the entire car ride, all she did was rave about all the things they were going to do together.

“We’re gonna get our nails done, and stay up late watching movies, and we’re gonna have playfights! And then we’re going to go to an all-night diner and order giant waffles with all the whipped cream and syrup in Gotham!”

I asked her point-blank, “Just who is Minstrel to you, Harley. Be real with me for once, please.”

And Harley was real with me. She didn’t say a lot, but she said enough. Enough to remind me of the agreement I made to myself; that I was going to support my wife and help her be happy. If it turned out that she was right, and that Minstrel was just as happy to see her as she was to see him, then that would be great. And if he hurt her in any way and proved me right, then I’d deal with him.

I let Harley go inside the theater. And as planned, I let her get taken by Batman and Nightwing. I wanted to spring her out of lock-up that night, but that wasn’t the plan.

“Jimmy’s whole thing is that he wants to fuck with people that fuck with his people, right?” Harley asked me before we even left our hideout.

I shrugged, not knowing if that were true or not. It felt right, but I suspected that there was more to it than that. The feeling that I got from Minstrel was that he was a person with something to prove.

“Well, who’s done more to fuck over the brothas and sistas than the po-po?” Harley asked.

“Don’t talk like that when he’s here, okay? You sound…white.” I told her.

“Noted! But I digress; it’s only a matter of time before Jimmy winds up in a Gotham precinct. And I want to be there to help him out when he does.”

“Pause for a second here, babe,” I told her. “Your plan is to get arrested and hope that Minstrel winds up arrested—”

“He may not get arrested! He might just go on a rampage!”

I rolled my eyes, “Fine. You’re hoping that Minstrel is going to get arrested or go on a rampage at the precinct before they transfer you to Arkham? Or Belle Reve? Or even Iron Heights?”

Harley shook her head and spread her arms in a celebratory fashion, “Yup! Ain’t it brilliant!”

I hate to say that it was brilliant…so I won’t. But it worked. After a week of me worrying about her, I heard the news that Minstrel had been arrested. After killing a cop and taking his wife and daughter hostage. The dead cop didn’t bother me so much, but there were a lot of rumors about what he did to the wife and daughter until he arrived, and that did bother me.

Harley wrote a letter to me and hid it in our place. It was in a cereal box. I didn’t find it until the night she was arrested at the theater, and I think it was intentional. It was nearly fifty pages long, full of non-sequiturs, amateur comics, and a few candid photos that she promised would ‘keep me entertained’ while she was gone. It explained, in a very roundabout way, the story of how Minstrel came to be a member of Joker’s family, and why Harley still felt so loyal to him after all those years.

I read and re-read that letter every day, trying to marry the image of Minstrel that Harley laid out with the image I’d see on the screen. I didn’t like the implications of a young man that suffered as much as he had identifying with the Joker of all people, because it was plain to see how he was using that training to return the cruelty he’d experienced as a child to a world that he blamed for it. I couldn’t judge him for that, it’s what every costume in Gotham did, especially the bats. But then I’d think about that little girl, waiting for her daddy to come home, and I imagined how scared she must have been.

I didn’t trust Minstrel at all. He was escalating with no sign of ever stopping. But I trusted my wife, and I wanted her to be happy. So, after some time, I put the letter down, grabbed a pot of roses I’d been saving for a special occasion, and went out to pick up my wife and brother-in-law from jail.

Chapter Text

The escape from the GCPD was a fuckin’ blast! 

Picture it: Your amazing protagonist, Dr. Harleen Quinzel has been captured by her enemy! But it’s all a rouse to finally free her ally, Jimmy, from the clutches of the evil Commissioner Gordon and his shit-breathed lackey, Detective Bollocks. As she paced patiently around the padlocked prison, Dr. Quinn, medicine woman, awaited the signal from her one true love, Ms. Poison Ivy-Quinn.

Luckily, our amazing anti-villain didn’t have long to wait.

“What the fuck!” A male voice screamed. 

“It’s the green bitch! It’s the green bitch!” Another said.

Pow! Pow! Pow!

Gunshots rang out through the cells as the desperate squeals of little blue piggies grew louder. Gunpowder and pollen drifted through the air, revving the engine in my Harley as I excitedly bounced up and down.

“Yeah, get ‘em, babe!” I called out, not even sure if she could hear me. 

Small, green vines began to erupt from between the floor tiles and the bricks in my cell wall. Smiling like a schoolgirl, I rushed over to one and began to caress it tenderly with my fingers. 

Trapped in a holding cell tucked away at the side of the building, there was no way for me to see Ivy. I didn’t know what kind of badass comic book nonsense  was going on in the main part of the building. But I could imagine it well enough.

A team of riot gear-clad blue fascists appeared out of nowhere, aiming rocket launchers at my love. But she didn’t lose a beat! With a snap of her fingers and a sexy lil dance, a long branch of thorns appeared from nowhere and penetrated them all. Their bullet-proof vests gave no resistance against the sharp thorns thrusting into them with the force of…something really, really forceful! 

What? Oh, fuck you! Writing is hard and I chose a useful degree, not something stupid like English! Back to my story! 

I imagined that after brutally murdering those wannabe nutcrackers, Pammy thought the rest would be easy. She’d just grab a key card off some detective’s desk, make her way to where I was, and then we’d fool around in the cell before going to rescue Jimmy. She probably got all hot and bothered, flushed in the face in that cute way she gets whenever I tell a knock-knock joke, and started excitedly looking for a key card.

But then, Batman appeared! 

Wait, no, not Batman. The fight would’ve been too long.

Batgirl appeared! 

No, not the redhead. And it wasn’t that scary one that doesn’t talk, either. It was the other, other Batgirl, the blonde one.

I imagined that Blonde Bat stared down my babe and said, “Not so fast, Poison Ivy!” 

And Pammy just scoffed at her, flicked her hair and replied, “Oh, please. You and I both know you’re no match for me. Run along little Bat, back to your cave. I’m on a mission of love!” 

And the Blonde Bat would be all, “Oh, unh-unh! I’m a super hero! So I’m gonna rescue all these Thin Blue Line chucklefucks that killed peaceful protestors. Cuz that’s what heroes do!” 

And then they fought! The Blonde Bat tossed out some batarangs—no, wait, she’d toss out something else! Something no other Bat has like…oh! Little pellets full of weed killer! Yeah, Batgirl cooked up some special formula to kill Pammy’s plants, and she threw them at Pam’s vines and they disintegrated.

“Your old tricks aren’t going to work this time, Ivy!” Batgirl would have said. 

But my super clever wife would just laugh at her! She’d say, “It’s a good thing I have a new trick, then!” 

And then she’d pull out a gun! 

Wait, no. That doesn’t make sense. Pammy doesn’t really use guns. Except plant guns. But I’ve never seen a plant gun…ooh! I know what I’m getting Pammy for Hannukah! 

Anyway, Pammy wouldn’t have pulled out a gun, she’d have brought out some special, rare plant that no one’s ever seen before! Because…because it was a plant she invented! Long, long ago, Ivy created some new type of plant to use against the Bats, and she’d been saving it for an occasion just like that. 

Ivy whipped out the plant—which was probably some sparkly, colorful orchid or something. And before Batgirl could react, the plant blew out a cloud of pollen.

Batgirl stumbled and fell to her knees! She looked up at Ivy with wide, confused eyes and asked, “Wha—what did you do to me?” 

And Ivy would have just walked over to her, lay her hand on the girl’s shoulder and go, “Shhh….you’ll be alright. Just don’t fight it. Don’t fight the sleep.” 

Batgirl resisted, because she was a hero and that’s what heroes do. But her resistance wasn’t enough. The freaky plant powder was stronger than her freaky bat powers. Her eyes grew heavy, her breathing slowed, and then before she knew it, she was on the floor, fast asleep. 

Or at least, that’s what I imagine happened. When Ivy met me at my cell, she didn’t say what happened and I didn’t ask. I just ran from my cell, planted a big-ol-wet one on her, and asked if she missed me.

“Of course I did, babe! Don’t do anything like this ever again, okay?” 

“No promises!” I declared.

Pammy rolled her eyes, but I noticed the twitch of a smile in the corner of her mouth. I planted another kiss on her to tease the smile out more, and it worked! Soon, she was grinning and giggling like there was something wrong with her. 

“Hey, you wanna…” I said, looking over to the cell bed. 

“No, babe! Don’t forget why we’re here. We have to save…your brother.” 

My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I slapped my hands to my cheek, horrified that I could forget something that important. Sure, my wife was smoking and I’d spent far too long away from her, but…wait, what was I thinking about again? 

“Harley!” Pammy said, snapping me out of my daze. “Come on, we need to grab Minstrel. I know where they’re interrogating him.” 

And just like that! Dr. Harley Quinn broke out of prison!

#

Getting Jimmy was an easy smash and grab. I smashed my way into the interrogation room, grabbed my little bro, and we started running through the precinct!

“What’s our getaway look like?” Jimmy asked.

“I got a hot convertible and a hotter redhead waiting for us. But I called dibs on both!” 

He chuckled, “Good.” 

He let go of my hand, and I felt my face grow hot. I shoulda known, he was getting too old to hold his big sister’s hand. All the other boys would make fun of him if they saw. 

“You go on ahead, I gotta see a man about a dog,” He explained.

I bit my lower lip, “Uh…Jimmy? Pammy’s tough but even she’s not enough to keep these cops off us for long. And who knows how long it’ll take Batman to get here—”

“He was here earlier. Couldn’t you smell him?” Jimmy asked. 

I sniffed the air and closed my eyes, “Unresolved teenage angst, testosterone supplements, expensive cologne and…Catwoman. Holy shit, you’re right! The Bat was here! We really gotta go now.” 

I grabbed Jimmy’s hand and resisted the urge to shout, “Rey!” 

He let go of my hand and shook his head. He held up a finger and pointed to the left of us,“Man. Dog. See. Gotta.” 

I pointed to the right, “Redhead. Convertible. Escape. Over a week since I’ve seen my fucking wife!”

He shrugged. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t even make a silly face. He just shrugged, and then he ran away from me. His own sister.

“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN!” I screamed. I couldn’t believe that no-good, banjo-playing, pretentious son of a bitch was really about to ditch me after I’d spent days in lock-up, waiting to see him. 

“Sorry sis, but I gotta advance the plot! There’s a reason I came here and the fans want to know what that is!” 

I rolled my eyes. There he was with his ‘our world is just a fanfic’ bullshit again. It was so fucking fake, and as a Psychologist I was appalled he’d make a mockery of real mental illness like that. He and I both knew we were in a comic book.

Still, I couldn’t argue with him, and I didn’t want to. Whatever Jimmy was after was clearly important to him, so that meant it was important to me, too. If we wound up missing our chance and getting tied up if Batman appeared, we’d just take him down together! 

So there you had us—Harley n’ her little brother, Jimmy, running through the halls of the GCPD, kickin’ ass and taking names! Or you would have had us like that if Pammy hadn’t fuckin’ obliterated every cop in the place (so hot!). Every time I saw a flash of badge metal or the familiar ugly blue-black of a uniform, it was on some cop that was either passed out, or staring into space—still dazed by the pollen Ivy hit ‘em with. So it didn’t take us long at all to get where we were going. 

Jimmy stopped in front of a door that said “personnel” on the window. I went to reach for the door, but he put out a hand to stop me. 

“I want to show you how much I’ve grown since we last saw eachother.” He explained. 

Jimmy put his arms behind his back, grabbed his banjo, and slung it around his shoulders. He cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and plucked a string.

“LaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa….” Jimmy sang. It sounded like a wet, rubber ball going through a dull and rusty garbage disposal. I wanted to cry, it was just like the lullabies my mom sang to me when I was just a little Harley. 

With his mouth still open wide, pushing notes out into the air, Jimmy took the banjo from around his shoulders and slammed it into the glass of the window in front of us. The glass shattered and fell all over the floor, making a sparkling mess that made me feel bad for the janitors. I had to admit, it was impressive Jimmy did all of that with his voice. I clapped for him, and he took a bow before he reached for the handle and opened the door. 

“Here, poochy, poochy, poochy!” I cried as I walked into the room.

I looked to my left, then to my right, wondering just what it was that Jimmy wanted in that dusty, old office. Though it was dark, I could still make out a couple filing cabinets, a desk, and the same computer model that I used AOL on when I was younger. 

Jimmy walked over to the desk and booted up the computer. I started screeching dial-up noises, because it felt culturally inappropriate not to. Jimmy seemed to agree, so he joined in and started screeching with me as he continued his task. When the computer came on, he reached into his shirt and pulled out a thin hard drive. He plugged it into the computer, and a dialogue box popped up on the screen, indicating that files were being transferred. 

“Whatcha downloadin’?” I asked. 

“Something to upload later,” He said with a wink. 

We both went back to screeching—it helped pass the time. 

In a moment, the file transfer was done. Jimmy grabbed a sharpie that was already on the desk, and wrote “Fido” on the hard-drive. He put it back down his loose, baggy shirt, and tapped his left breast to make sure it was safe.

“That’s it?” I asked.

Jimmy shook his head, “I got my dog, I got my sister, I got my banjo. I’m good.” 

Jimmy walked out of the room, and I followed him into the hall. I grabbed his hand and stopped him from walking even further away. 

“No bullshit, Jimmy,” I told him. 

He cocked his eyebrow up.

“What’s this all about?” I asked him. I closed my eyes, took in a deep breath, then glared at him.

“I’m your sister, Jimmy, you can’t just shut me out! I haven’t seen or heard from you in years and I hoped that meant you got out of this life. Went away somewhere, got a 9-5, started bumping uglies with someone and making little Jimmys of your own. Ya know, real life shit! I thought you were happy now…”

Jimmy laughed, “I am happy. Can’t you see me smile?” 

He grinned like a ravenous beast and spread his eyelids so far back that I thought the balls would fall from their sockets. 

“No bullshit, Jimmy. I want to know what this is all about. I’m willing to help you as much as I can if that’s what you need. But I need to know what I’m helping you with. What do you want here, Jimmy?”

Jimmy shook his wrist from my grasp and took a step back. He spread his arms wide and smiled. 

“A regular life? A nine-to-five? My dear, sweet, psychotic Harley, that’s fucking stupid!” 

He pulled his banjo out again and started strumming a fun, playful tune I didn’t recognize. The entire time, he looked at me with a grin on his face and spoke with a giggle in his throat. 

“I want a good story, Harley. That’s it, that’s all I’ve ever wanted—a good story. But I don’t want to be the hero, because the heroes are ugly. I want to be beautiful. I want to draw in the audience with every glimmer in my eye. I want to inflict untold pain onto this world, revel in the suffering of others, and know all the while that everyone reading this story just keeps turning the page.”

He sounded like Joker. I didn’t like that, and it made me think about Pammy’s suspicions of him. Was she right? Was I really just falling into the same pattern I was in before? I couldn’t believe that Jimmy was that much like Mistah J—I wouldn’t believe that! Still, I thought back to the protest. I believed that Jimmy had his reasons, but I needed to hear those reasons.

“I want to make people feel fear and pain, Harley. And not just the pale folks like you, who disagree with me silently because you don’t want to get called racist. I want to write a story that makes everyone feel pain, and fear, and hatred. I’m not just doing this for revenge, Harley, even though these whites deserve that tenfold. I’m doing this because this world is just a dark fantasy, but I want to turn it into a nightmare!” 

I didn’t laugh, but Jimmy did. To him, it was the funniest thing in the world. To me, it seemed…disappointing. I knew that there had to be more to him than that. Jimmy was smarter than that—he was better than that. There was more to his plan that he wasn’t telling me, and I wasn’t going to be satisfied until I heard more. 

Jimmy looked at me, waiting for the laughs to pour out. They never did. I felt him search my face for some kind of opening, some way to attack me and get me to drop my guard. But I didn’t give him that opening. I couldn’t, not until I was sure that—I can’t even say I wanted to be sure he was okay. I just needed to know where he was at. 

Jimmy stopped playing his banjo and sighed. With a less grandiose voice, he muttered, “Fine! I’m doing this because I have a long series of trauma and mental illness, and acting like this helps me feel valid. The more chaos I cause, the better I feel about myself. The more I feel like myself.” 

Jimmy locked eyes with me again, and I could feel an excitement growing within him, “Being like this is what makes me myself, Harley! I’m done running from who I am and what I am—I’m Minstrel. I’m a violent, psycho, egomaniac, porch monkey that just wants to cause trouble. And I like that about me! So from now on, I’m not running from it, I’m leaning into it!”

N’ after he said that, I guess it was my turn, cuz Jimmy took a step towards me and flashed a crooked smile, “What is all this, Harley? What do you want?” 

I sucked in my teeth. I didn’t want to lie, not to Jimmy. But it was a hard question to answer. Of course, I’d thought about it, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? I thought about stuff, then did some stuff, then thought some more, and did some more. People think I’m impulsive, that I just do whatever without considering my future. But that ain’t true. I consider my future a lot, it’s just that the thoughts I have ain’t that easy to translate to other people, so I don’t bother tryin’. No one wants to understand me anyway, not really. People would say they do, but they just wanted to fix me, make me more like them. The only people that didn’t do that were Pammy and Jimmy, and it took me a long time to realize that. 

“Ya ever been in therapy, Jimmy?” I asked. 

He kept his face perfectly frozen in the crooked smile that it was in already. But he let his head tilt to one side, as if his neck were on a broken hinge. It was hilarious, and I knew immediately that it meant, “What the fuck do you think?” 

I laughed, “Fair enough. I haven’t really been much myself, either. Save for those times the Bat had me locked in Arkham, but that don’t count. That’s not real therapy. And I know, cuz I’m a psychologist. When I talked with a client, I would always ask them what they wanted out of it, to see where their head was and figure out a way I could help them. They never really asked what I wanted, clients tend to be inconsiderate like that. But I always told them anyway, because I wanted them to know and to understand what my role in our relationship was.” 

Jimmy stared back at me unblinkingly, encouraging me to go on. That was another thing he had over Joker, Jimmy was actually a good listener. 

“I’d always tell them that I wanted them to be the best versions of themselves they could be. It sounds corny, but it’s true. It’s what any good shrink should want. The hacks at Arkham didn’t want that, they just want you to settle down long enough to move you out. But me? I want all my patients to be the best versions of themselves that they can be.”

My voice started to choke up at that point. I felt myself feeling things that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I’d gotten so good at distracting myself from those things that I’d forgotten what they felt like. Of course, I always knew they was there, and I always had those things as my guiding light. Like I said before, I thought about all this a lot, but I tried to get away from the strong emotions whenever and however I could. Sometimes that meant fighting in an elevator with high heels, sometimes it meant building my own highway. Either way, I avoided thinking about the most upsetting stuff in my life. But Jimmy was making it all come bubbling back up to the surface. 

“When—when it all happened…when I left, I felt so awful, Jimmy. I felt like the worst person in the world. I abandoned my daughter! For the goddamn Joker! I hated myself. I still hate myself. I know I can’t—I don’t have no right to ever try and get her back. But I also know that she’ll find out who I am eventually. And I don’t want her to just hear about some sad, broken woman that got brainwashed by the Joker.”

Jimmy reached into his nose and pulled out a handkerchief. He offered it to me, and I took it from him. Our hands touched, and I didn’t want to let go. But I had to, because my mascara was starting to run. I took the handkerchief and rubbed my eyes. The tears did their work to loosen up all the makeup, and I did my work to smear it across my face. Some would say I only made myself look worse, but those people don’t have Ph.Ds.

“I started to give myself therapy in a way. I didn’t have you to talk to, and I was too sad to talk to Pammy back then, cuz I thought she was gonna judge me and call me stupid and horrible for what I did. I didn’t think she’d want anything to do with me…”

I stopped. I grabbed my chest to make sure my heart was still beating. People think that the worst memories I’d have would be from when Joker would…they think my worst memories are of him, but they aren’t, not really. The worst memories I had was loneliness. For a long time, I felt like Ivy didn’t want anything to do with me, and that broke me all over again. I remember feeling like I didn’t even have a heart anymore, just a hollow pain where a heart should be. And whenever I thought back to that point of my life, that came back. All the bruises and scars I’d endured throughout my entire fucked up life meant nothing compared to that. 

“I didn’t have anyone else, so I started talking to myself—well, I started talking to Harleen, to Dr. Quinzel. She helped me through a lot in those days. I don’t know where I’d be without her. And during one of our sessions, I asked her why she was doing all this, ya know? Everyone else had given up on me, including me, so why not her? And she gave me that canned answer that every therapist is supposed to give. But it really hit me, ya know? Cuz when I realized that she wanted me to be the best version of myself, I realized that maybe I could really do it.” 

“And you think that you have?” Jimmy asked. 

I thought for a moment, and I shook my head. “Nah, I still got some shit I need to work out. But I’m far better than I was before, I can tell you that! When my little girl learns about her mom, maybe she’ll hear that I’m a villain, maybe she’ll hear that I’m a hero, but at the very least, she’s going to know that I was exactly what I wanted to be.”

Jimmy shook his head, but was otherwise silent for a while. It was a different kind of silence than before—it felt more hesitant than anything else. There was something he wanted to say, but he was struggling with it. 

“Jimmy?” I asked, and felt myself going to reassuringly grab his shoulder. But I fought off that urge, remembering just how much distance there was between us. 

“I tried my best, Harley, but…” Jimmy began.

I felt my heart begin to sink.

“What’s wrong? Did Joker find out about Lucy?” I fought to keep my voice from sounding frantic.

“He always knew, Harley. He just didn’t care.”

A truth like that can be some crushing shit, let me tell you. I could easily see myself just falling to the floor at those words. My abusive ex knew that he had a daughter, despite everything I did to keep her safe, he knew. And he didn’t even care. So I’d literally abandoned her for nothing.

I laughed, and I could tell that surprised even Jimmy to hear, so I explained for him. “I figured as much. He was so…different the night that she was conceived. For that one night it was like he saw me, not as a person of course, but as a thing that could be useful to him. And then when I came back, he was back to ignoring me, like he didn’t even want me around. And that was the first time I was happy for him to treat me like that. If Joker didn’t care where I’d been, then he wouldn’t be mad about Lucy, you know? I wouldn’t have to worry about him feeling like I’d ruined our sick little game and deciding that Lucy had to…I don’t even want to think about what kind of sick shit that bastard would have done. All I need to know is that if he didn’t care about her then, that only means that Lucy’s safe, for a while at least.”

Jimmy shook his head, “Till she’s 18.” 

I raised an eyebrow. I didn’t understand what he meant at first. The smile was gone, his eyes were avoidant, and his body felt reserved. Jimmy was ashamed about something. 

“I did what I could. I could only assure her safety until she’s 18. I’m sorry.” 

I was filled with emotions that I could hardly put into words. So I didn’t try. I felt tears roll down my face as I sprang up, tackled Jimmy, and began to land kisses on his cheek.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Eighteen years. Eighteen Motherfucking years! Not enough for me to never worry about her, but still long enough. Long enough for Lucy to have an actual childhood. Long enough for her to learn who her mother was, and how I wound up in the position that I did. 

And long enough for me and Pammy and Jimmy, too, to make sure that no good, pale faced, limp-dick, shit-breathing, Prince wannabe could put any part of his slimy hands on my baby girl!

Chapter Text

At 6:30am, I wake up. I climb out of bed, I change out of my pajamas, and I put on a t-shirt and biking shorts. I tell myself that one day I’ll start riding an actual bike as I hop on my exercise bike for thirty minutes.

At 7:00am, I hop off the bike. I don’t bother to check my heart rate or other stats or anything. I exercised, I know I pushed myself—that’s enough for me. I go to the shower. 

At 7:30am, I walk out of the shower. In my bathrobe, I walk to the kitchen and prepare my breakfast. It took me a while to crack the recipe. Pomegranate seeds, strawberries, blueberries, orange juice and peanut-butter powder, for protein. Blend it in the loudest blender known to man, hit the sides of the dinosaur appliance when the blades slow unexpectedly. Consistency varies, taste is always the same. 

At 8am, I’m staring at myself in my bedroom mirror. I’m fully dressed now and ready for a day of work. I make sure that my collar is straight, my tie isn’t crooked, and there isn’t a single strand of lint speckled on my navy blue suit. 

The sound of my alarm clock surprises me. I walk over to it and dismiss the alarm. I think to myself about setting it for 6:30am the next day, but I don’t. I tell myself that maybe I’ll sleep through the night this time.

By 8:30am, I leave my apartment. I take the number 52 bus for eleven stops before I arrive at the Gotham courthouse around 9am. A chill runs down my spine with every step I take of the front porch. The place feels heavy, and my soul sinks deeper into my body as I inch closer to the front door. When I touch the handle, I resist the urge to dart my head around and see who I feel watching me, because I know there’s no one there. 

I take the elevator up to the seventh floor, where the public defender’s offices are. Julie at the front desk is always surprised to see me.

“You’re here early, James,” she says.

I nod, “Got a lot I need to do today.” 

It’s the same dialogue we always have. I don’t have a desire to continue it. I know that if I’m near her long enough, my eyes will point straight at her chest and I’ll wind up in an HR seminar. I smile politely and continue walking on.

“Hold up!” She said, violating our routine in a surprising way. 

I take a couple steps backwards and raise an eyebrow. What’s going on? 

She looks around to make sure no one hears. But there’s no one around us. She pulls her glasses down lower to look me directly in my eyes, and I see that there’s a curious and suspicious concern in them.

“There’s a man waiting for you in your office.” 

I feel a fire burning in my chest. I tighten my face not to intimidate or scare her, but to force the flames down before I start yelling. My more rational mind knows it’s a minor issue. But the other part of my mind? The part that I spent years talking with counsellors to try and control? That part of me can’t tolerate anything upsetting, and as I spoke I’m ashamed to say that some fragments of that part of me came out.

“You let someone go into my office without me there?!” I snap. 

She looks at me apologetically, but doesn’t actually apologize.

“He’s the type of man you don’t say no to. Not in this town.” She explains. 

Though still angry, I feel my face soften. I remember that I’m not living in Missouri anymore, I’m in Gotham. Scary, powerful men forcing their way into public defender’s offices is as routine as my morning insomnia. Getting mad at Julie would do nothing. 

“Alright,” I say. I don’t tell her what’s on my mind—that while I’m still upset, I’m glad she was smart enough to protect herself and let the man pass. I don’t want to see her or anyone else hurt, even though I don’t necessarily want to deal with the stranger, either. We all had our parts to play if we wanted to survive meetings like this. The secretary is meant to let the mysterious strangers in the office, and the public defender listens to whatever threat or bribe they’ve come to deliver.

“Do you want me to call someone?” She asks. It’s a typical Gotham question. She didn’t ask me if I wanted to call security or the police, because she knew they’d be powerless. Guys like this only responded to two things—money and muscle. But I don’t have either, and I’m probably one of the few Gothamites that didn’t have a neighborhood gangster I could pay for protection. 

“No, I’ll go meet with him. Thank you for letting me know,” I tell her. 

I continue walking to my office. My heart is in my throat and my hands are shaking more than they ever have before. There’s a feeling in the back of my head that I can’t get rid of—a thought that it’s finally the end for me and the life I’ve built. I know that’s unreasonably paranoid—after all, suspicious callers in Gotham are a right of passage. Still, my anxiety’s through the roof. As I open the door to my office, all I can think is that I should have changed my alarm clock setting after all.

The man inside seems oddly familiar. The chin, the boyish smirk, the messy black hair—even his ass seems like one that I, as a straight man, had seen all too often. I raise an eyebrow as I search my brain, trying to tie a name to the person, but nothing’s coming to me.

“Sorry for just barging into your office like this,” he says with a friendly, embarrassed shrug.

“No real trouble, I assure you.” I say as I walked to my desk. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” 

I keep a pleasant, unassuming voice that makes me sick to my stomach. This man came to my office unannounced without me there, and here I am apologizing to him. It’s spineless and pathetic. And I can’t help but wonder why I’m reacting like this. Was it because he’d given my secretary crime lord vibes, or was this all just reflective of how I’d learned to treat white men over the years? I pray that the former is the case, because I don’t want to spend all afternoon feeling guilty and hating myself if it’s the latter. 

I sit at my desk, and invite the stranger to take the seat across from it.

“So, what can I do for you today, sir?” I ask. 

The man pauses for a moment and laughs, “Okay, okay. I guess I deserved that one.” 

“Pardon?” I ask. My eyes blink in polite confusion, inviting him to further explain any part of his being there.

The stranger’s eyes narrow. His mouth moves slightly, as if he’s saying to himself something that isn’t for me to hear. I really begin to search my brain then, because it’s clear that the stranger fully expects me to know exactly why he’s there. But save for a vague sense of recognition that I still can’t place, I have nothing to go on.

“I know it’s been years, but…I guess it was dumb of me to think you’d recognize me. Sorry, James, that’s my fault, I should have done better about keeping in touch.”

I nod my head, still unsure of how I know him. An old college friend, perhaps? I hope that isn’t the case—I especially don’t want to explain why I failed to recognize him if it is. 

“I should be the one apologizing to you, Mr….” I trail off.

He points to himself and beams, “It’s me! No one wants to see ya, Dick!” 

I blink even faster, but this time it’s less out of confusion and more out of frustration that I try to stuff down. What the fuck did this white boy just call me?

I want to say “I beg your pardon” but it comes out as, “What did you say?” 

He keeps grinning like a child and says it again, “Dick! No one wants to see ya, Dick Grayson! You remember from—”

“Mr. Grayson!” I shout, completely surprised and embarrassed. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten him of all people! I look around my office to ensure it looked clean and professional before I give him an apologetic shake of my head. 

“I am so, so sorry that I didn’t recognize you before!”

He looks at me, puzzled. As if I was the billionaire’s heir that just magically appeared in his office, “It’s fine, James, no need to worry about it.”

Any other day, I’d be annoyed that this white boy would call me James after I’d just extended the professional courtesy of calling him Mister Grayson. But even feeling annoyed feels like too great a social faux pas towards the son of Bruce Wayne.

“Did Julie offer you anything?” I ask. I pick up my office phone and prepare to page her. “Coffee? Tea? Water?” 

He shakes his head, “I don’t want to trouble her, it’s totally fine.” 

I lower the phone, “If you’re certain. Well then, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mr. Grayson?” 

He scoffs, but in a kind way. “‘Pleasure of this visit’, you’re so formal, James! Really, I heard you were working here, so I thought I’d pop on in and say hello. You know, catch up on missed time. If you aren’t too busy, of course.” 

I bite the inside of my cheek. I was afraid he’d say something like that. 

“Oh, well—” I begin. I f eel the last word stretch out, then fall flat. I can’t think of an excuse. I’d planned for possible run-ins with acquaintances before, but I never thought one of those acquaintances would be Dick fucking Grayson!

“You are busy, and I’m an asshole.” He surmises as he flashes an apologetic look.

“Yes. I am rather busy. Perhaps another time we could meet up?” 

I pray that he says yes. If he does, then maybe I can get out of this. I could stall for time as I tried to figure out what Dick Grayson’s connection to me was and try to get through our next meeting without raising his suspicions. Even better, perhaps I could give him the run-around with a long, confusing schedule that he couldn’t fit into. Eventually, he’d give up on trying to meet, either because he’d take the hint or he’d decide it was too much trouble.

“That’s fine with me, I understand.” He says with a nod. It seems solemn. And if I wasn’t scared out of my mind, I might have empathized with him. But I don’t have time to think about why the rich white boy’s sad, I had to get him out of my office! 

“I’m terribly, terribly sorry about all this,” I say as I rise from my chair. “I’m just really swamped right now. I’ve got work I need to handle, a girlfriend breathing down my neck, and not to mention my mom constantly calling me over to help her with something or another around the house. You understand, right?” 

The second that I stopped talking, I could feel everything come crashing down. From the look he’s giving me, it’s clear that Mr. Grayson doesn’t understand. He’s giving me a face so twisted in confusion that it’s almost like he’s been disfigured. The silence that hangs in the air burns and scratches my skin with anticipation. I feel as though I”m watching sparks go down a fuse, inching ever closer to a stick of dynamite in front of me.

Grayson’s face softens and he looked at me for a time. Then he closes his eyes, shakes his head, and sighs. “Your mom’s dead.”

I don’t know how to respond. I knew for a fact that my mom isn’t dead. Though I lied about her needing help around the house, I really do hear from her almost every day, and had briefly texted her on my bus ride here. If she were dead, I’d know about it. The problem is I can’t correct him or challenge him on it. Then everything I’d built will come crashing down. So I don’t respond at all, I just stare back at him with my best poker face, trying not to volunteer any more information for him.

But it’s not enough, Grayson’s already figured out the truth.

“You aren’t James Byrd,” he says through gritted teeth. “Who the hell are you and why are you using my friend’s name?” 

Chapter Text

I don’t know what to do anymore, and I’m honestly tired of trying. I can hardly remember a time where this wasn’t my life, and I find it even harder to imagine a future where it’s all finally over. I just want to be done, to be free of this and get on with the rest of my life—the rest of my story. But he won’t let me.

I can feel him, you know? Every time I close my eyes, every time I finally drift off to sleep, every time a dark thought pops into my head; he’s there. His face inches towards me from the shadows of my mind, and at first i think the darkness has come alive. The black twists and tightens into something almost recognizable, but not quite. In those moments, I only have the sense that he’s about to appear—I can’t actually see him or anything that looks like him. 

Then his eyes open. Floating, white orbs in the darkness, stark and stupid like a child’s. His lips uncurl next, and I’m hypnotized by their bloody coating. The eyes repel me, and the vibrant, red lips invite me, and the light reflecting from both reveals the truth of my visitor. He is not a friend, he is not my internal voice. He is both my captor and my invader, and I fear that he will be with me even when this ends. 

“Hey, Joe, whattya know?” He exclaims in an exaggerated mobster accent. He leaned closer and tilted his head forward, revealing his staw hat and yarn dreadlocks.

I stared uncertainly at the floating head before me. Was he another hallucination? Or was he the real thing? 

“How long have I been here?” I asked, to test it.

“Three years, seven months, six days, and two hours.” He astutely replied. I scanned his face for signs of the truth, and was dismayed to see that was all I found. His face didn’t twitch, his gaze didn’t break from my own, and his head hadn’t fidgeted in anyway—if Minstrel was lying, his body didn’t seem to know. Still, it was enough to confirm that for better or worse, I was dealing with the real Minstrel and not a hallucination. 

“What do you want?” I hissed at him, egged on by the embers of frustration which had begun to warm in the pit of my chest. 

I heard the sound of a whip crack, and my blood went cold. My back still ached from the wounds he’d already inflicted. I felt the heat that was in my chest go to my wounds instead, and tears began to fall down my face as the burning returned in the worst way. 

“Now, now, Alfred,” Minstrel began, using the name he’d bestowed upon me. “Do not forget your place.” 

Though enraged, I feared another beating. I wasn’t sure whether Minstrel thought he was going to break me, or was convinced that he already had. Either way, I couldn’t show any signs of my defiance, not until it was time for me to finally strike back. I bit down on my tongue and locked eyes with him.

Minstrel took another step forward—he was even closer now. I could see his shirt and choke on his cologne. I bit down on my tongue harder and resisted the urge to reach forward and break his neck. I could never have accomplished that anyway—my arms and legs were bound in a small, plastic chair.

“My dear Alfred, the noblest of my servants, I must call on your assistance once more. It is a task which will inconvenience you, but I know your true nature and trust that you will do everything necessary to assist me.”

I didn’t reply, and he chuckled at me.

“Okay then,” he said as he scratched his head. “Let me put it another way: If you don’t help me, then what’s either a banjo, a shotgun, or a copy of Fantastic Four #52 is going where the sun don’t shine!” 

He cackled at his own threat. In all the time I’d been there, I never managed to get used to it. His chortle didn’t just rattle or ring in my ears, it scraped and skinned them as the vibrations traveled through the canals towards my eardrum. It was an awful sensation that always seemed to last a second longer than I’d pray it would.

“What do you want!” I snapped at him, hoping that would get him to stop.

Surprisingly, it did. Minstrel whipped his head down to face me, and for a moment he only looked at me. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for in my face, but I was sure determined not to give it to him—I kept my expression as blank and purposeless as I could manage. Still, he smiled wide and nodded to himself, as if my stoicism was the answer he sought the entire time. 

“You’ll do.” He said. Before I could ask what he meant, he reached into the collar of his shirt then pulled out what, in the dim light, looked like a phone case, with the word ‘Fido’ inscribed on it.

Minstrel’s next words were different. He dropped my exonym, but also the goofy voice. Delivering highly refined speech in an equally high voice, he prompted me, “Tell me, something, Mr. Grant. Would you like to be a part of a once in a life-time business opportunity?”