Why did the Bike Stripper join the Riddler?
This question had been nagging at Batman. At Gordon. At everyone who'd read the intelligence reports. The answer lay in what happened several hours after Jude left the bombed-out GCPD.
Only, it happened in a very different setting, with very different company.
"Please, I'm not a pervert like the Joker," the masked, black-robed figure known as the Bike Stripper spread his hands in a gesture of harmless good intentions. "I just hope fewer people die on the battlefield. I also hope to survive myself. Self-preservation. A very basic motivation."
He stood in the center of an abandoned theater that the Riddler had converted into his base of operations.
"The Joker ambushed your men the night before," the Bike Stripper continued, his voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "That big coordinated assault with machine guns. I just got everyone into the hospital together before they could bleed out. Technically speaking, I turned a game you were about to lose into a draw. You should thank me, really."
In front of him, the Riddler stood perfectly still, leaning on an exquisite, custom-made golden cane shaped like a question mark. He wore his signature immaculate green suit, his expression giving away nothing but patient, analytical focus.
On either side of him, super-criminals formed a semicircle. A star-studded lineup of Gotham's most dangerous: Killer Croc, Clayface, Two-Face, and Poison Ivy. Each had fought Batman to a standstill. Each analyzed the Bike Stripper with predatory, aggressive interest. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut.
"You are clever, my friend," the Riddler said, his voice perfectly modulated and almost pleasant. "Much cleverer than the applicants who wait until the war has already begun to pick a side." He tapped his cane on the floor. "But here's the thing: we know absolutely nothing about you. Do we?"
The Riddler's smile was thin and sharp as he began to pace.
"I love riddles. But I despise boring, bad riddles. And you, my masked friend, are a very bad riddle. You appear out of nowhere like a ghost. No history. No backstory. No beginning or end to your narrative." The Riddler stopped, fixing the Bike Stripper with a penetrating stare. "Do you know what this reminds me of?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"It reminds me of a similarly clueless, utterly thoughtless, completely idiotic person whom I've encountered three times now. I finally understand why people say a genius's meticulously planned strategy can be demolished by a fool's random inspiration." The Riddler's voice took on a bitter edge. "But a fool only wins one game through sheer, blind luck. He loses the ninety-nine other games where intelligence actually matters. And look at this: the fool has voluntarily put himself right in front of me. How convenient."
Just as he finished speaking, Two-Face stepped forward with the smooth, practiced motion of a seasoned killer. He pointed a pistol at point-blank range directly at the Bike Stripper's head.
Behind his ghost mask, Jude looked at Harvey Dent. The living embodiment of tragedy. Half of his face was pristine; the other half was gone, exposing raw, blood-red muscle tissue and bone. Even his hair on that side was dead and white. Jude felt a twist of pity in his chest.
With his free hand, Two-Face produced his signature scarred coin. He flipped it, caught it, and closed his fist over it without looking.
"Guess which side is facing up," Two-Face rasped, his vocal cords damaged.
The question was a test. A game. The wrong answer meant death.
Around the room, the others prepared for violence. Ivy's vines crept across the floor like hunting snakes. Croc bared his serrated teeth. Clayface shifted his arm into a massive sledgehammer, and Firefly's finger tightened on his flamethrower's ignition trigger.
One word from the Riddler, and the Bike Stripper would die messily and quickly.
"What are you talking about?" The Bike Stripper's voice came out genuinely puzzled. "I don't understand what you're implying. Do you actually want to reject free help? Because if so, I should probably go ask the Joker instead. At least his threshold for recruitment is lower. Less discriminating."
The Riddler's eye twitched. The casual dismissal spiked his blood pressure.
"Alright," the Riddler's voice turned icy as all pretense of politeness vanished. He stepped forward until he was inches from the masked figure. "Let me make this much clearer, since you're playing dumb. This morning, Officer Jude Sharp officially resigned from the GCPD and boarded a one-way train to Metropolis. But Officer Sharp has faced both me and the Joker and survived. Does a man with that kind of courage get scared away by just a workplace explosion? Does that sound natural?"
"What nonsense are you talking about?" the Bike Stripper said defensively. "That wasn't 'just' an explosion. The GCPD was flattened!"
The Riddler ignored him. "Coincidentally, the vigilante known as the Bike Stripper appeared right after Jude Sharp arrived in Gotham. Same timeline. Same area of operations. To suggest they have no connection is an insult to my intelligence." The Riddler's voice cut like a knife. "Stop messing around, Mr. Sharp. Take off the mask. We both know who you are."
Two-Face reached out with his free hand, grabbed the edge of the distorted ghost mask, and pulled. It came off with no resistance.
Gasps echoed around the room.
Everyone stared at what was beneath the first mask.
It was another mask.
This one was bright, cheerful pink. Bulbous and cartoonish, shaped oddly like a hair dryer. It took a moment for recognition to dawn.
It was a pig. Specifically, Peppa Pig. The British children's cartoon character.
Absolute, complete silence descended on the theater.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" the Riddler's voice cracked, losing all composure. The stupid, utterly ridiculous absurdity of it brought back the terrible memory of his last encounter with Jude—the feeling of being a serious actor forced into a children's birthday skit.
Furious, the Riddler stepped forward and yanked the Peppa Pig mask free himself, revealing the face underneath.
For a long, frozen moment, the entire room of super-criminals was stunned into silence.
Because beneath the Peppa Pig mask was not Officer Jude Sharp.
It was the face of a middle-aged man. Scruffy. Unshaven, with bags under his eyes and crow's feet at the corners. The weathered look of someone who'd lived hard and long. Not a fresh-faced police officer. Just a regular, slightly overweight guy making disappointed life choices.
"What are you looking at?" the unshaven man asked, sounding slightly offended. "Can't I like Peppa Pig just because I'm in my thirties? What kind of discrimination is this? Men stay young until they die! Youthful spirit transcends physical age. This is basic philosophy."
The room became suffocatingly silent. You could have heard a pin drop. Normally, this room resembled a hundred monsters parading at night, constantly testing and intimidating each other.
But this? This had broken everyone's brains simultaneously.
Two-Face slowly turned his head to look at the Riddler. He didn't say a word, but his expression screamed: Are we in a comedy sketch?
The Riddler's face twisted through confusion, disbelief, rage, acceptance of the absurdity, and then straight back to rage.
"Check his face!" the Riddler choked out. "Thoroughly! I want to see how many layers this goes! Strip away every prosthetic and every bit of makeup!"
For the next ten minutes, the Bike Stripper endured intense scrutiny. Clayface prodded his skin for seams. Poison Ivy used vines to check his heat distribution for artificial materials. After extensive examination, they reached a conclusion: this was his actual face. No prosthetics. No makeup. Just an unkempt, middle-aged man.
The Bike Stripper rubbed his face—now pinched red and bleeding slightly from the prodding—and bent to retrieve his fallen cloak. The movement revealed a substantial beer belly bulging over his belt, a declaration of sedentary defeat.
"You can check my face if you want, but why are you pulling my cloak off?" he muttered, wrapping the fabric protectively around his midsection. "I'm just trying to cover my beer belly. What's wrong with that? A man's allowed some dignity."
The Riddler's expression suddenly brightened, like someone who had just solved a puzzle. He smiled, genuinely pleased.
"What's your name?" the Riddler asked sharply.
"The Bike Stripper."
"No," the Riddler shook his head. "Your real name. Not your title."
The middle-aged man hesitated, then shrugged. "Okhoric Thor."
Poison Ivy raised an eyebrow, letting out a small laugh. The absurdity was too much even for her. "Okhoric Thor? Like the Norse god? With a beer belly instead of muscles? Why?"
"My ancestors were from the Black Flag of Gotham," the man said with defensive pride. "Pirates. Raiders. Warriors. My bloodline is pure. The beer belly is genetic. And none of your business."
Okhoric Thor put his masks back on. First Peppa Pig, then the distorted ghost face. Double-masked. Double-protected identity.
He looked at the Riddler with whatever passed for dignity behind a cartoon pig and horror movie aesthetics.
"So," his voice turned businesslike. "Did I get the job? Yes or no. Are you hiring?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~