Batman 1 - Batman by Craig Shaw Gardner

them. The fellow at the table next to her dropped his fork and fell face first into his pasta salad.
    Vicki put on the mask.
    A moment later, she was the only one still conscious in the entire restaurant. A hundred people had fallen around her. Some rested on tables, half in and half out of their meals. Far more had fallen to the floor, their arms and legs at unnatural angles. Some of them had collected in piles near the doors as they realized what was happening and tried, futilely, to turn and escape. All of them were out cold.
    At least, Vicki hoped they were only unconscious.
    The far door of the museum slammed open—violently. Whether she wanted it or not, Vicki was receiving visitors.
    A couple of the boys used a little plastic explosive to rip the delivery doors of the museum off their hinges. Sure it was visiting time, and they could have walked right in. But where was the drama in that?
    The Joker led the way. He had put on his artist’s beret for the occasion. The boys followed quickly, toting the champagne and the glasses, and, of course, Steve-arino carted that huge ghetto-blaster. Boom, shakalakalaka. Boom, shakalakalaka. It was time to party.
    He walked over to the nearest wall to examine the artwork.
    “Okay, everybody,” he announced. “Let’s broaden our minds.”
    The boys all went to look at paintings of their own.
    Boom, shakalakalaka. Boom, shakalakalaka, the radio commented.
    The Joker sighed, awed to be in the presence of so much fine art. Not, of course, that these were ideal viewing circumstances. Oh, the champagne and music were fine, but you had watch out with all these bodies on the floor. A person could trip or turn an ankle or something if he wasn’t careful. Ah, well. It was true what they said. You had to suffer for your art.
    Ah, here was a painting the Joker recognized: “Blue Boy,” by Gainsborough, a beautiful full-length portrait of a young man dressed in blue. What lines. What a sense of color. It was almost perfect.
    The Joker raised his cane to trace the outlines of the portrait. Yes, he could feel that artistic impulse now. He pressed that special button on the handle of the cane, the one that tripped the switchblade. Now he wanted just the right sensibility here. The Joker bit on his tongue as he carved a large Joker smile in the Blue Boy’s canvas face. There! Much better! He smiled at his underlings. Art could be so satisfying.
    The boys took that as their cue to make artwork of their own, working quickly with their knives and spray paint, giving all those stuffy old Manets and Renoirs and Degases some thoroughly modern additions.
    Boom, shakalakalaka, the radio urged them on. Boom, shakalakalaka. It was much better with music. As the Joker always said, whistle while you work.
    He moved on down the line of paintings, letting the boys have their way with all but the very best. What had we here? “The Scream,” by Edvard Munch. A black-and-white figure, screaming with pain and anguish and madness, a creature both pitiful and terrifying in its intensity, as if it contained all the pain and anguish and madness in the world.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dagger swinging into action. He glanced around to see Bob about to make a slice of his own. The Joker raised a cautionary finger.
    “I kind of like this one,” he declared. “Leave it.”
    Bob grinned and nodded. He jogged farther along the wall, ready to spray-paint a Jackson Pollock. Jackson Pollock? It seemed sort of pointless, but Bob should have his fun.
    In the meantime, the Joker had other business. His date was waiting for him in the café upstairs.
    Boom shakalakalaka. Boom shakalakalaka.
    Vicki could feel the trap close around her.
    The Joker and a dozen of his men had burst into the museum and set about methodically destroying the paintings. Vicki wondered if there was some way she could run for it, but, within seconds of their arrival, henchmen were covering both main doors and all of the emergency