The Further Adventures of The Joker by Martin H. Greenberg

know, Gideon,” I informed him, “that the nursery rhyme, ‘Ring Around the Rosey,’ dates back to the plague years? The children danced around bodies and when they sang ‘Ashes, ashes, all fall down,’ they were referring to the death and burning of the victims. That has always been my favorite nursery rhyme.”
    Gideon grunted unappreciatively. I admit I need an audience. What great performer does not. But this uncultured twig barely qualified.
    “Pull over,” I said.
    “Why?” asked Gideon.
    “Because the Joker says,” I replied leaning out of the shadows, putting my face next to his. I could feel him hold back the urge to recoil. “We are going to play Joker Says. Joker says pull over.”
    Gideon found a place on the side of the road beyond the bridge. Traffic was light. It was well past midnight. He parked about twenty yards away from the highway, but kept the motor running.
    “Joker says, turn the engine off.”
    Gideon turned the engine off.
    “Joker says, get out of the car, but leave the key.”
    Gideon might have let out a sigh. I felt it deep within him as I touched his shoulder, but he contained it and got out. I followed him closing the backdoor as I got out. The car had been air-conditioned. The night was hot and moist.
    “Joker,” Gideon said, full of false bravado, “what’s this? You need a toilet?”
    “Sadly,” I said, “we are no longer friends. Remember that wonderous moment in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Blanche lies dying on the beach and Jane, beautifully made up, says, ‘You mean that all this time we could have been friends?’ ”
    “Joker, come on,” Gideon said backing away. We were on a bay, the vastness of dark water catching glints of the half moon beyond the railing toward which Gideon was moving. “You can’t get anywhere without me. You’ll be spotted the minute the sun comes up.”
    “Joker says, let me worry about that,” I said. “It will be more fun solving that problem than enduring another minute with the humorless creature you have probably always been.”
    A car breezed past behind me and in its headlights I could see the frightened eyes of Gideon. His hands were against the rail almost as knuckle-white as my face.
    “Okay,” he said, his voice quivering. “That’s the way you want it. No hard feelings. I’ll just stay here, walk to town.” He looked around to see which way a town might be. Little lights danced across a curve in the bay.
    “Joker says,” I whispered, moving close to him, “it doesn’t work like that. You know too much.”
    “Know too much,” Gideon bleated like a lamb sensing slaughter. “I don’t know anything.”
    “True.” I sighed, grinning into his face, hoping the light of the moon from the water cast an appropriate macabre shadow, “but it seemed like the right thing to say. It suggests motive, albeit sinister, for what is about to transpire.”
    Gideon tried to duck under my arm, but I grabbed him. He lost his wide-brimmed hat. He punched at my face but I did not evade him. I took the punch and laughed. I let him punch me again and laughed even louder.
    “Joker says, take a moonlight dip.” And with that I threw the gurgling Gideon over the railing. I heard the splash, heard him come up gasping. I leaned over and covered my mouth to keep from laughing.
    “Can’t . . . swim,” he gasped.
    “Can’t . . . swim,” I mimicked. “But you must. Swim,” I commanded.
    “Can’t . . . please,” he gasped and thrashed.
    “Swim, Gideon,” I ordered, but all I got back was a burble. “Oh,” I said with small laugh, “I forgot to say ‘Joker says.’ ”
    I found Gideon’s hat. It fit surprisingly well. I got back into the stolen vehicle, turned on the air conditioner and proceeded on my pilgrimage heading south, knowing that I was running out of gas, knowing they were behind me, knowing the dawn was coming. Only the Joker could truly appreciate the aesthetic joy of this instant.
    I drove listening to a