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-[b]Chapter 3:  Question Authority[/b]
+[b]Chapter 4:  Question Authority[/b]
 
 Running.  Sweating.  Panting.
 
 And yet, he was going nowhere.
 
 Bright lights, murderous grinning faces, and those horrible red noses.  The deranged funhouse he found himself in was full of these white-faced monsters.  And no matter how hard he ran, he never seemed to escape.  He wore a fur-lined jacket, an emblem on the back emblazoned with a certain Arctic bird, a ski mask hiding his face.
 
 "Get away from me!  S-stay back!"
 
 Haunting, distorted laughter answered him, and suddenly he was tripped to the ground by some unseen force.  The horrible, purple-clad figures began surrounding him, leaning over, grinning down at him.
 
 "The irony of this amuses me."  A voice echoed around him, that horrifying voice.
 
 "Make it stop!"  The thug yelled, backing up against a wall as the grinning figures came closer, throwing all sorts of deranged items at him.  Whoopie cushions, chattering teeth, water balloons.
 
 "All this can go away, if you tell me what I need to know."
 
 The man covered his face.  "A-anything!  I'll tell you anything you want!  Just make them go away!"
 
 "Arkham City.  What is it about?"
 
 "I-it's some sorta new prison, run by Hugo Strange!  That's all I know about it!"
 
 "And what about the gangs?"
 
 "I-it's the..."  He gulped.  "clown, and Penguin!  They got this massive turf war goin', over who's gonna own Arkham City!"
 
 "And judging by your outfit, you've signed up for the Penguin's forces."
 
 "Y-yeah.  Joker's dead meat.  He's sick with... somethin'.  I dunno, but he's dyin'.  It's pretty obvious who's on the winnin' side, and..."
 
 "And?"
 
 The man looked again at the white faces.  "I hate clowns!"
 
 There was that laughter again.  "I know."  Suddenly, everything melted away.  The funhouse, the lights, the horrible clowns all disappeared, revealing once again the normal surroundings of a back alley, covered in snow.  The thug almost grinned in relief... and then looked down.  There was... some sort of yellow light, holding him up, pushing him against the wall of a building.  The light was coming from some strange ring, worn by...
 
 "No!  No it can't be you!  Everyone said that Croc ate ya!"
 
 "Perhaps he did."  The masked man replied.  "But I am here now, aren't I."
 
 The thug shuddered, trying to press himself back against the wall.  "Oh man, oh man.  You're some sorta zombie or somethin'.  Takin' revenge on all your enemies.  That it?"
 
 "It very well could be.  Now,"  The paid muscle was tossed across the alley, to the entrance, the yellow light releasing him.  The masked man was surrounded by the same light, and began to rise into the air.
 
 "You've told me everything I need to know.  Scurry back to your employer, because I have a message for him."
 
 He rose further, until he was high above the thug, silhouetted against the moonlight.
 
 "The Scarecrow [i]lives![/i]"
 ________________________________________________
 
 [i]"The Scarecrow may live, but does he have a life?"[/i]
 
 Crane suppressed a groan.  The radio he had retrieved in the Solomon Wayne Courthouse had, in reality, been a mole within Edward Nigma's, also known as the Riddler, employ.  Which meant that the narcissist could and would contact Scarecrow at any time, simply to annoy him as revenge for taking a radio that had been meant for the Batman.
 
 The Scarecrow and the Riddler had never been exactly friendly.  In the criminal underworld of Gotham, they could somewhat be seen as rivals.  Both had genius-level intellects, and were bent on unmasking the Batman.  This, of course, created tension between the two whenever they met.  Inevitably, they would end up bickering more with each other than concentrating on taking down the Batman.  But Scarecrow was not going to let that happen this time