was of it, at any rate . . . came roaring back to the surface, speaking so quickly that it would have been impossible for anyone overhearing to understand a single thing he was saying. “Stickley, I’ve had a breakthrough! And a breakdown? Maybe. Nevertheless. I’m smarter. I’m a genius. No, several geniuses. A gaggle. A swarm. A flock of freaking Freuds.” Then, switching to what he imagined to be an approximation of Freud’s voice, he continued, “Unt I am experiencing a saturation of the cerebrum . . .”
His mind flared once more, and suddenly he was the short order cook at the greasy spoon Stickley occasionally stopped by for breakfast on the way to work. “Yo, Charlie. Gimmie an order of brain-fry. Extra well. Hold the neurons.”
Too many question marks . . . Wayne’s assessment and caution asserted itself.
Thinking of Wayne grounded him just slightly, and he looked at the slack-jawed Stickley. “Riddle me this, Fred. What is everything to someone and nothing to everyone else? Your mind, of course. And now mine pumps with the power of yours.”
He flashed onto a movie musical that Stickley had fallen asleep watching three weeks ago and, to the tune of “Top Hat, White Tie and Tails,” began to sing, “I’m sucking up your IQ . . . Vacuuming your cortex . . . Feeding off your brain . . .”
And when Stickley had woken up, a British comedy of manners was on . . .
In a clipped accent, he said, “Fred, I must confess you were a wonderful appetizer. Simply divine. But now I yearn for a meal of substance. The main course. A wide and varied palate. Ah, to taste the mind of a hero. A nobleman. A poet. Einstein in a Jungian sauce with a dash of Nietzsche on top.”
He sensed that his mind was starting to peel away completely and, with what little control he had left, he reached over and shut off the machine. The light flickered and died and, with a sigh as if having just physically separated from a lover, Nygma murmured, “What a rush.”
Then Stickley, for what might possible have been the first time in his life, actually did something . . . interesting.
He spoke.
The reason this was interesting was that Edward had had no clue that Stickley would be able to speak, or think, or make himself understood after the treatment. So being subjected to the device wasn’t terminal. Clearly a best-case scenario.
“What the hell just happened?”
Nygma smiled gleefully. “A surprising side effect. While you were mesmerized by my 3-D TV, I utilized your neural energy to grow smarter. And yet, now that my beam is off, your intelligence—as it were—has returned to normal with no memory of my cerebral siphon.” Boisterously he added, “I am a Columbus of the mind. Land Ho!”
It took Stickley a few moments to truly comprehend what it was that Edward Nygma was telling him. Nygma had been . . . what? Puttering around in his brain? Sucking away neural energy? It was . . . it was like some sort of mind rape.
Making no attempt to restrain his fury, Stickley roared, “Bruce Wayne was right, you demented, bizarre, unethical toad. It is mind manipulation! I’m reporting you to the FCC, the Human Experimentation Board, the AMA, the police, the federal government. You’re going to court, to jail, and then to a mental institution for the rest of your twisted little life! But first and foremost, Nygma, you are fired! Do you hear me? Fired!!!”
Cackling with the demented glee he’d once seen a comedian display in a movie, Nygma shot back, “I don’t think so!”
He lashed out with a foot, kicking the chair to which Stickley was tied. The chair rolled back across the slick floor at high speed, Stickley yelling obscenities and totally unaware of his jeopardy until he smashed through the large round window at the end of the corridor.
Stickley shrieked . . . and stopped short.
The chair was teetering on the edge, glass plummeting down and away. Only one thing was keeping him from tumbling off the precipice, and
His mind flared once more, and suddenly he was the short order cook at the greasy spoon Stickley occasionally stopped by for breakfast on the way to work. “Yo, Charlie. Gimmie an order of brain-fry. Extra well. Hold the neurons.”
Too many question marks . . . Wayne’s assessment and caution asserted itself.
Thinking of Wayne grounded him just slightly, and he looked at the slack-jawed Stickley. “Riddle me this, Fred. What is everything to someone and nothing to everyone else? Your mind, of course. And now mine pumps with the power of yours.”
He flashed onto a movie musical that Stickley had fallen asleep watching three weeks ago and, to the tune of “Top Hat, White Tie and Tails,” began to sing, “I’m sucking up your IQ . . . Vacuuming your cortex . . . Feeding off your brain . . .”
And when Stickley had woken up, a British comedy of manners was on . . .
In a clipped accent, he said, “Fred, I must confess you were a wonderful appetizer. Simply divine. But now I yearn for a meal of substance. The main course. A wide and varied palate. Ah, to taste the mind of a hero. A nobleman. A poet. Einstein in a Jungian sauce with a dash of Nietzsche on top.”
He sensed that his mind was starting to peel away completely and, with what little control he had left, he reached over and shut off the machine. The light flickered and died and, with a sigh as if having just physically separated from a lover, Nygma murmured, “What a rush.”
Then Stickley, for what might possible have been the first time in his life, actually did something . . . interesting.
He spoke.
The reason this was interesting was that Edward had had no clue that Stickley would be able to speak, or think, or make himself understood after the treatment. So being subjected to the device wasn’t terminal. Clearly a best-case scenario.
“What the hell just happened?”
Nygma smiled gleefully. “A surprising side effect. While you were mesmerized by my 3-D TV, I utilized your neural energy to grow smarter. And yet, now that my beam is off, your intelligence—as it were—has returned to normal with no memory of my cerebral siphon.” Boisterously he added, “I am a Columbus of the mind. Land Ho!”
It took Stickley a few moments to truly comprehend what it was that Edward Nygma was telling him. Nygma had been . . . what? Puttering around in his brain? Sucking away neural energy? It was . . . it was like some sort of mind rape.
Making no attempt to restrain his fury, Stickley roared, “Bruce Wayne was right, you demented, bizarre, unethical toad. It is mind manipulation! I’m reporting you to the FCC, the Human Experimentation Board, the AMA, the police, the federal government. You’re going to court, to jail, and then to a mental institution for the rest of your twisted little life! But first and foremost, Nygma, you are fired! Do you hear me? Fired!!!”
Cackling with the demented glee he’d once seen a comedian display in a movie, Nygma shot back, “I don’t think so!”
He lashed out with a foot, kicking the chair to which Stickley was tied. The chair rolled back across the slick floor at high speed, Stickley yelling obscenities and totally unaware of his jeopardy until he smashed through the large round window at the end of the corridor.
Stickley shrieked . . . and stopped short.
The chair was teetering on the edge, glass plummeting down and away. Only one thing was keeping him from tumbling off the precipice, and
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