Lyle Bolton was released from the infirmary a few days later and returned to his cell. As he was escorted into the cell block, he was immediately assaulted by a horrible stench.

"What the hell is that smell?" he demanded of the guards.

"Some science experiment Crane's doing," retorted the guard. "The other inmates have complained, but Dr. Leland says Crane seems very unstable at the moment and she doesn't want him to have a complete breakdown, which seemed likely when she told him to clean up his cell. But there's rotten food and dead rats and God knows what else in there."

"Sick freak," muttered Bolton. He entered his cell, and the guards left, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Bolton sat down on his bed, staring at the wall and considering the injustice of his circumstances – a man who had only tried to do good, and justly punish the scum of humanity, now forced to share spaces and smells with them, he thought, wrinkling his nose. It was grossly unfair. He should have beat that pathetic weakling Crane to death when he had the chance, and blamed it on an accident. Then he wouldn't have to put up with this stink now. What could the sick freak be doing in there? He didn't like to speculate, and it wasn't likely that Crane had a reason – he was utterly mad. Yes, he should have rid the world of that particular piece of scum a long time ago…

He suddenly noticed that the bed was moving slightly underneath him. Puzzled, he stood up and lifted up the covers…and instantly started back with a cry.

The bed's mattress had been completely covered in maggots, writhing and squirming so much that the mattress itself appeared to be moving. Bolton backed away from the bed, his heart racing, as he leaned against the wall…

And felt something drop onto his head and fall to the floor. He looked down to see that a pile of maggots was forming there – glancing up, he saw that they were dropping through the vent above him, more and more of them, in a seething, writhing mass…

He began panting in terror, looking around for some place that would be safe from them. But a glance at the sink showed that it too was swarming with maggots. Bolton backed against the bars, sweat pouring off him as he gripped them tightly…and then felt them writhe in his grip.

With a shriek, he tore his hands away from the maggots crawling up and down the bars. "Oh, come, come, Mr. Bolton," said a familiar voice. "They're harmless."

Bolton looked up to see Crane standing next to the bars of his cell. Crane reached through the bars toward Bolton, opening his fist to reveal more maggots in the palm of his hand.

"No!" gasped Bolton, falling backward and panicking – there was no escape from the squirming, seething devourers of rotting flesh. He was trapped in a little box, and they were surrounding him, suffocating him, consuming him…

"No, no, no!" he cried, looking around wildly in terror. "Keep them away!"

"But they're harmless creatures, really," said Crane, smiling at him. "No need to be afraid of them."

"I'm…I'm not afraid," gasped Bolton. "I'm not afraid…of anything…"

"Oh, but you are," whispered Crane, dropping the maggots at his feet. Bolton leapt back with a scream.

"Wanted to join the Marine Corps, didn't you?" said Crane, quietly. "That was the most challenging branch of the armed forces, and you wanted a challenge. To prove yourself a man. And you did, except for that pesky little survival training bit, where you had to learn to survive on insect larvae. That thought repulsed you, and even though you tried to overcome it, your irrational mind rebelled against you. You were always scared of insects, ever since you were a boy and found the carcass of your beloved pet dog in the street being devoured by maggots. You were ashamed of your fear, but you couldn't control it. But you endured it, you passed the course, and shortly after you were deployed. And soon that survival training came in very handy, when you were wounded, and separated from your medical supplies. Your comrades knew the wound would fester, so they did what they were trained to do – they found some maggots and let them devour your wounded flesh, so that it would not become infected. But rather than be grateful for this quick thinking, you began raging and panicking, ripping the maggots out of your skin and threatening to kill your comrades if they tried to do anything like that again. You were raving, completely unstable, mad with fear. And when your commanding officer insisted that they keep treating the wound with maggots, for your own good, you attacked him. You were dishonorably discharged from the Marine Corps on your return home, all because of your little irrational fear of these harmless, useful little creatures. Ironic, isn't it? That a strong, brave man, a former Marine, would lose everything because he feared something tiny and small and weak."

Bolton wasn't listening – he was looking around the cell for some way of escape, for some corner that was free of the writhing masses. But there was no way out, and nowhere safe. His panic became blind and desperate.

"Let me out!" he pleaded. "Get me away from them! Please!"

"Oh, there's no escaping them, Mr. Bolton," murmured Crane. "Even if you could leave your cell, I have plenty more spread throughout the asylum. I managed to catch quite a few with the rotting food and the rotting flesh, of course."

He ran his hands down the bars, sending several maggots dropping to the ground. "There's no escape from them ever, Mr. Bolton," he murmured. "We will all die one day. And then do you know what will consume our bodies? These tiny, weak, little creatures that you devoured for your training. You will be buried with them in a tiny box six feet underground, they will swarm you, and they will devour you. And there will be nothing of you left at all."

Bolton lost all sense at that moment. He began screaming wildly, curling up and trying to shield himself from the sight of the maggots everywhere. His desperate shrieks attracted the attention of the other inmates as well as the guards, who found Bolton curled up on the floor, shaking in terror and babbling.

"What the hell did you do to him, Johnny?" asked Ivy as she watched the guards struggle to drag him away, still screaming and shaking.

"I broke him," murmured Crane, smiling smugly. "I won, Joker."

Joker glared at him, and then shrugged. "Well, it was a stupid bet anyway. You didn't really win anything. And to be honest, I wasn't trying my hardest."

"Well, even a meaningless victory is a victory nonetheless," said Crane. "And there is something like poetic justice in a man such as Bolton being broken by such small, pathetic creatures."

"Does that mean you're gonna clean out your cell now?" asked Ivy. "Because the smell wasn't really worth it."

"Yeah, it was," said Harley. "To see Bolton like that was worth anything."

She hugged Crane, kissing his cheek. "You did a great job, Johnny," she said, beaming at him. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, Harley," he said. "I must say, I've only felt this elated once before in my life."

"When was that? When you got your first girlfriend? Oh wait, still waiting on that one!" chuckled Joker.

Crane ignored him – the Joker's petty insults couldn't get him down today, and he knew he was only throwing them out now because he was angry that he lost.

He returned to his cell and began cleaning up, spraying copious amounts of air freshener around and remembering…

Richard held Crane against his locker, striking him a blow to the cheek. Crane glared up at him, blood dripping down his face.

"Don't hit me again," he whispered, quietly.

"What's that?" said Richard.

"I said don't hit me again," repeated Crane, firmly.

Richard laughed mockingly. "Oh, this is rich! The pathetic wuss thinks he has a spine now, does he? Thinks he's gonna be brave? I'll do what I wanna do to you, Crane, as always," he growled, punching him again. "Because there's nothing a weak little loser like you can do about it…"

Richard howled in pain suddenly as Crane unsheathed a knife, slicing the blade across his face, above his eye. Richard released Crane, dropping him to the ground, as he fell to his knees and cupped his forehead, which was streaming blood. Crane climbed to his feet, standing over him, bloodied knife in hand.

"I told you not to hit me again," Crane whispered.

"What on earth is going on?" demanded the principal at that moment, rounding the corner. "Oh my God, Richard, what happened?! And Jonathan, is that a knife?!"

Crane didn't remember details after that – he only remembered the pure joy and happiness he felt at seeing Richard writhing in pain on the floor, as he had so many times before, and Crane standing over him as the victor, as the aggressor, for once.

He vaguely remembered sitting in the principal's office with his parents present, and the principal explaining that Crane was not welcome back at his school after assaulting another student with a weapon. He vaguely remembered some stern lecture his parents gave him on the drive home. But all he remembered crystal clearly was that feeling of power, of victory, of happiness, at inflicting the same pain and misery and fear on the people who had inflicted those things on him. And how good it felt to inflict those things on the people who deserved it.

"Violence is never the answer, Jonathan!" his father had shouted.

"Oh yes, it is, Father," murmured Crane, quietly. "Sometimes it's the only solution. It was the only way it was ever going to stop. Nothing I could do would prevent Richard from bullying me, because it wasn't my fault. It was his. He had to learn his lesson and change his behavior, not me. He was the aggressor, and he deserved to see how it felt to be a victim for once."

"Do you realize how much trouble you've caused?" demanded his mother. "We have to find you a new school, not to mention do everything we can to make sure that boy's parents don't sue us!"

"I am terribly sorry that my triumph is an inconvenience to you, Mother, as my pain always was," murmured Crane. "But I much prefer this inconvenience."

"Triumph?" repeated his father. "You didn't triumph! You just proved yourself a thug, and a bully, and a violent criminal! You're meant to be better than that, Jonathan! You're an intelligent boy!"

"Yes, Father," he agreed. "I am. And today I have become the most intelligent man who ever lived. I have mastered fear."

And he had again today, Crane thought, as he finished cleaning up his cell. And while the smell of victory at the moment was still the vague stench of rotting food and dead rodents, to Crane at least, it was the sweetest smell in the world.

The End