Chapter 169 - My OC Stash #69 - But Doctor, I Am Pagliacci by Acyl (DCU) (2/2)
”The United States Fish and Wildlife Service,” Quinzel said.
Jack's frown deepened. ”Wait, seriously?”
”That's what it says here,” Quinzel replied.
Jack opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn't know what to say.
Chapter 2
They considered him low-risk. These days, anyway. His old self would have probably been deeply insulted by that, perhaps considering it an unforgivable slight against his honour. But then again, he wasn't the Clown Prince of Crime anymore.
No. He wasn't the Joker. Not anymore.
So it was understandable that there were only two guards escorting him back to his room.
Jack considered the situation, as they moved down the corridor. The staff liked to use different paths through the building, but it wasn't all that much of a precaution. He still had a fairly good idea where they were.
He'd had years to build a mental map of Arkham, after all. And he'd always had a good memory, even through all those years when his brain had been fogged with madness.
The thing about comedy was… it wasn't all improvisation. Sure, some people did ad-lib on stage. But most stand-up comics had a script. One they'd long since committed to memory. Lines and timing.
”Hey,” Jack said, dragging his feet and lightly nudging one of the guards. The left one.
He didn't know what either man was called, and the Arkham guards were clever enough to not conveniently identify themselves with name tape.
Internally, he chose to call the guy 'Curly', because that was how the man's hair looked.
Curly frowned at him. ”Keep moving, Napier.”
”I gotta pee,” Jack shot back.
”There's a toilet in your cell,” the other guard stated.
Seeing as how the man's partner was 'Curly', Jack decided that made the right-hand guard 'Moe' by default. He didn't look much like one of the Stooges, seeing as how Moe was tanned and built more like a piece of architecture rather than a regular human being.
”Yeah,” Jack replied, ”but it stinks. Literally.”
”That's your problem,” Curly drawled.
”Look, man,” Jack complained, ”the anti-psychotic meds give me the runs, okay?”
”Like I said,” Curly continued, remorselessly. ”Your problem.”
”Come on,” Jack said. ”There's a men's room over there, can't I just, you know… ”
”Doc said to walk him back,” Moe interrupted.
Curly frowned.
”Come on,” Jack pleaded. ”You guys can walk me in, like you do.”
”Not seeing how that's convincing me,” Curly growled. ”Ain't nobody wants to see your pasty white d_i_c_k, Napier.”
Moe made a warning sound. ”Professionalism, man.”
”He's the Joker,” Curly hissed.
”He's an inmate,” Moe corrected, firmly.
Curly ground his teeth together. The man clamped his hand tighter around Jack's upper arm, all but hauling him to one side. ”Fine. You wanna piss, Napier? You got one minute.”
Jack resisted the urge to smile. He kept his face studiously neutral, right until they passed through the bathroom door.
Then, and only then, did he move.
The door was narrow. Which meant the guards had to split up, even if they both were trying to follow him in.
Jack spun, sending an open palm strike straight up, into the underside of Curly's chin. It felt more like the man's jaw was made of concrete, rather than glass. But Curly went down all the same.
Because he was feeling courteous, and because Curly hadn't really done anything to warrant serious head injury, Jack took the brief moment he needed to slow Curly's descent.
He didn't want the guy to crack his skull open on the bathroom floor. Especially since the floor smelt of excessive chemical cleaning products, and who knew what else.
Moe shouted something. It didn't sound like an articulate word in any language Jack knew. As it turned out, despite his size, Moe was fast. Unfortunately for Moe, Jack was even faster.
There wasn't truly any completely safe way to render someone unconscious. A chokehold was better than clobbering someone on the head and hoping for the best, but even then there were too many ways it could go wrong.
And even if it worked right, it wouldn't keep either man down for long. Jack knew that. But he didn't need them unconscious forever, just long enough for Jack to pull the plastic restraints off the guards' belts, and slap them on their wrists and ankles.
The high-tech plastic cuffs all but tightened on their own accord. They were easy to use, which was sort of the point.
He'd watched the staff use them on Tetch, when the guy had kicked up a fuss in the asylum cafeteria. Screaming something about tea parties and Alice.
Absently, Jack noted one small detail that he hadn't noticed earlier. The little plastic restraint devices did have a manufacturer's logo on them. LexCorp.
A part of him had expected them to be… WayneTech, or something. Of course, Doc Quinzel had repeatedly told him there was no such thing as the Wayne Group of Companies. No WayneTech. No Wayne Industries. No Wayne Capital. No Wayne Financial Services.
No Bruce Wayne.
Leaving the bound guards lying on the bathroom floor, Jack crossed the room, hauled himself up and above a urinal, and gripped the window.
The window was more for ventilation than any sort of scenic view. It would be a hell of a squeeze, and likely he'd damn near tear something cramming himself through.
But it would get him outside.
And that was step one.