Bathroom Monologues: Possible Origins for Him. 14.

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I don’t expect you to believe it. You haven’t believed anything I’ve said, have you? But it’s all his idea. It’s always been his idea. I think he wanted a me even before he invented one.

My wife was the most patient woman alive. She put up with every failed career choice I ever set my heart on, even the stand-up stuff. I’d do anything for her. But overtime wasn’t making the bills for the two of us, so when she said there was a kid on the way? Couldn’t turn down any opportunities. Fell in with a group of hoods. We were robbing chemical plants, selling patented secrets off to the Scarecrow or LutherCorp or whatever.

He came down on us like black rain. Broke a guy’s jaw. Tossed the ringleader off a scaffold. Kicked me in the solar plexus, knocked the wind out of me and sent me into a bubbling vat. If I’d been able to breathe, it’d probably have killed me to suck that stuff in.

Instead he dragged me out by my ankles. Dumped lye on my face to counteract the acids. Even though he was saving my life, I was begging him not to kill me – “Have mercy, I’ve got a kid on the way.”

Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him kill someone directly. That rule about him might be true. He doesn’t like to murder. He likes to use you.

While I was crying into a mirror, he made me the offer. This hair. This skin. I was perfect to play a monster. Play a mobster. Terrorize the public, kill as many corrupt officials as I could until he showed up. Then go down in one punch.

I did it. Pretending to be insane to stay in the asylum was the hardest part. Whenever the doctors started to catch on, I had to make up a new story to throw them. Pharmacist-gone-terrorist. Avenging a slain circus act. Taking inspiration from other costumed killers. Eventually I even believed a few of my stories. That’s when I thought I was going mad. The company you keep in there will do it for you.

Two months later, he planted the explosives and key cards. I looked like a genius escape artist. Found psychotropic laughing gas and directions to City Hall stashed a mile ahead, in this makeshift cave hideout he built just for me.

The routine came on quickly. He embellished it more with every breakout.

“Claim you poisoned all these fish.”

“Hijack this freighter.”

“Challenge me from on top of this skyscraper.”

And always, the order to do something increasingly stupid when he arrived, get caught, go down. Do not collect two hundred dollars, go directly to Arkham. Abide for the next breakout. Read the occasional paper praising him as the dark knight, protecting his city from unimaginable fiends.

I never saw a dime. He pays a perpetually inflating sum per breakout through a phony life insurance policy. It goes to a single mother in Gotham Harbor. A widow. Apparently her husband was a night watchman and got killed one night on duty. Thugs didn’t even leave a body for them to bury. Poor woman went into labor when she heard, and suffered the doubly poor fate of giving birth to baby boy with cystic fibrosis. If he’s going to live any sort of life then he needs intense care, and it’s so expensive.