I have a plan.

You don't know it, but I have a plan.

Tell you?

Oh no. No no, that would ruin all the fun. It's a secret. A surprise.

A game!

Come out to play, come out to play!

Introduce a little anarchy into your life.

I have a plan. You're going to play.

I insist.

The rules?

No. You're thinking like them. They like rules.

The game is timing. The timing rules everything, and when I play my little joke, you'll know how to play along. No rules.

You'll know.

And that's the point.

But why so serious?

Overcoat, single-breasted, purple lined with orange silk, four buttons, three outer pockets, several inner pockets, five buttons per sleeve.

Coat, blue-grey lined with orange silk, two buttons, three outer pockets.

Pants, purple pinstripe, pockets front and back.

Vest, forest green suede front, purple-grey back, four buttons, two pockets.

Shirt, hexagon patterned purple, seven buttons, one pocket. Patterns within patterns.

Tie, purple and green diamond.

Suspenders, green and white diamond, elastic, nickel fittings, leather ends, 35 mm wide.

Socks, multicolored argyle.

Shoes, brown suede, custom.

Gloves, driving, purple leather, cashmere lined.

Watch chain, extra long.

I'm a man of simple tastes.

A name.

Names are important.

You see—a name like The Gamester or The Gambler doesn't have the same effect.

The Riddler, The Questioner, The Anarchist, The Puzzler.


The Scarecrow, The Inquisitioner, The Watcher, The Weirdo.

You see?

The Knave, The Knight, The Jack, The Fright.

The Dark, The Sight, The Fear, The Blight.

None of these names sounds correct.

If you want to send a message you have to make a game; the game is in the timing and the rhyming and a name.

A playing card, a trader's mark; a call to start, shot in broad daylight.

I have no backstory.

I'm a shot in the dark.

People—they don't know what to do. They try to demonize me. They try to humanize me. Explain the reason why I am. Use their charts to find a box, a classification.

A name.

It's easier when they think I'm insane.

But I'm not a monster.

I'm not.

People—when they face something they fear, they call them monsters.

The joke—words are mirrors. Recognize your reflection. Stare into the abyss and the abyss stares into you.

I don't have a backstory because I don't need one:

You'll write it.

I have a joke—listen to this:

Joe asks his math teacher, "What's math good for?"

The teacher asks Joe, "Have you ever been to the Grand Canyon?"

Joe's confused. He says, "No."

Teacher takes Joe and they drive down to see the Grand Canyon. He asks, "So, Joe, what's the Grand Canyon good for?"

Joe doesn't know.

"Then I'll show you."

The teacher takes out a chainsaw, hacks off Joe's arms and legs and throws them down the canyon.

And tells Joe while his screams echo for miles of silence, "That's what it's good for!"

But why so serious?

People—they don't notice things.

You have to send a loud message if you want their attention.

The message is in the medium:

Every city is a little system, a tiny world of its own. Inside the system are more systems: Police. The Mob. Government. Banks.

They have their order, their way of doing things. They have connections.

The secret of timing is to find those little spots that spin everything out of control.

I'm here to show you how.

The secret is expectation, and what happens when the rules people expect are gone:

It feels like chaos, but it's a new order.

I love this city.

I love it.

It's chosen.

You're chosen.


Come out to play, come out to play.

There's no other place in the world that could produce two freaks so perfectly matched for each other. No other system in the universe could make us who we are.

Without Gotham, we're nothing. We owe everything to her, the sick bitch of a she-wolf nursing us on her teats.

Set loose on the city hungry, mad dogs.

We owe her our souls.

He: immovable.

I: unstoppable.

We are destined.

Like all good sons, we'll try to do her justice.