Michael Dunham had enjoyed the last six weeks about as much as the average cat enjoyed being thrown off of a cliff into a dump truck full of dogs.

To begin with, the Riddler had escaped from Arkham right under his nose! Well, okay, technically he and his nose had been a good ten miles away at the time, recovering from his bout of severe allergic shock under the watchful eyes of the nurses at Gotham General. But what did that matter? He'd been less than attentive – he should have seen the Riddler slipping pepper into his meal, dammit! - and he'd suffered the consequences.

There hadn't been many repercussions at work, of course. Oh, there had been the occasional muttered snicker at his failed attempt at keeping the Riddler under wraps as he moved among the inmates at the asylum. But there had been no official censure, no reprimand, no black mark in his record. (The night guard who hadn't noticed the charcoal-daubed paper filling in for Eddie had not been so lucky.)

At home, though, it was a different matter. Nygma had broken into his house – not once, not twice, but so many times that he'd lost count. Every time, he left a little calling card of his affection for Mike.

It had started small, with little quarter-sized bits of paper inscribed with question marks left all over his house. It had taken him days to dig all of them out. He was still finding the goddamn things in his shoes, his pockets, and even in his wallet.

Slowly, bit by bit, the Riddler had stepped up his campaign of harassment. Once, all of his furniture had been glued in a pyramid in his back yard. When his shoelaces were replaced by cooked spaghetti, he knew who to blame. When his car refused to start because the engine had been neatly disassembled and laid out in a giant question mark on the lawn, he knew who was responsible.

For six long, horrible weeks, he'd arrived home knowing – just knowing – that the Riddler had been there, messing with his stuff. He'd walk in the door, neck prickling with dread, and find that his television had been glued to the ceiling, or his kitchen had been covered top to bottom with riddles written in ketchup. One night, he'd even found question marks and derisive commentary scribbled over all the good bits of his porn magazines.

He'd moved across town – twice - and the Riddler had followed him each time. He'd called the cops, and they had come – but the Riddler hadn't. It was almost as if he knew when the cops were going to be watching his place. But that was ridiculous...wasn't it?

And the city's so-called vigilantes were no help at all. The cops had at least bothered to show up the first dozen times he'd called them. Batman hadn't even once dropped by to see what was going on. And yeah, there had been that big gang war down on the south side, but they were always fighting. The Batman and his friends could try to stop it all they liked, but they weren't going to achieve anything. Meanwhile he, an innocent citizen, was being preyed on by a supervillain and no one cared. And after he'd gone to all that trouble when Batman told him to keep Nygma in Arkham this time...

He'd even blown quite a large part of his salary on a sophisticated set of motion-detecting security cameras to watch his doors and windows. When he'd arrived home that night, confident that at last he'd know how the madman was getting in, he found that all of the saved footage had been replaced with a perpetually looped tape of the Riddler wagging a scolding finger and saying "Naughty, naughty!" The cameras themselves had disappeared, only to reappear one by one in various places – his mailbox, the glove compartment of his car, the inside of his oven – and of course, all of them were completely destroyed.

Well, enough was enough. He was going to catch that son of a bitch tonight if it was the last thing he ever did. And when he did...well, the Riddler would never get another chance to escape from justice again, that was for damn sure. He let his fingers slide reassuringly over the large, heavy gun tucked in the pocket of his thin work scrubs.

Remembering last night's little gift – a selection of rotting vegetables in question-marked green-ribboned gift baskets – he took a deep breath and plugged his nose. Then, with a rattle of the half-frozen doorknob, he flung the door open and flicked the light on.

His living room was black. What had happened? Had Nygma painted the place? He promptly flung himself backward into the front yard, fumbling for his epipen as he realized what the bastard had done.

Pepper. Pepper lay in drifts on his furniture. Pepper was glued to his walls with god-knew-what. The floor, the windowsills, hell, even his basket of laundry was covered top to bottom with pepper. The only bit of his carpet that was still visible was one long, curved line – a perfectly drawn question mark.

He spent the next few hours on his cell phone in various levels of scream. He called the police – not that it would do any good, since they hadn't even shown up the last three times he'd called them. He called Mighty Maids – again – and agreed to pay double overtime if they came to clean his house as soon as possible. The odd looks they gave him as they scurried inside with their cleaning supplies did very little to calm him down. And then, because he needed to scream at someone, he called the police again and cursed at the dispatcher for not sending a cop car to his home quickly enough. When he threatened to call the media and expose them for the lying, lazy scumsuckers that they were, the dispatcher hung up on him!

So he called the media too. They, at least, said they'd be there as soon as they could.

Laughter and chatter from the crew of maids echoed from his open windows. Mike sat on the curb, ignoring the chilly concrete beneath him as he lit a cigarette, fingers trembling with rage. The Riddler had gone too far. He could have died! If he hadn't been holding his breath – if he hadn't had an epipen -

He took a long, calming drag on the cigarette. It would be okay. The cops would have to pay attention to attempted murder. Maybe now they'd get off their lazy asses and get to work finding Nygma's latest hidey-hole.

A chorus of shrieks erupted from his house. He craned around just in time to see the half-dozen maids scrambling out of his house, eyes streaming with tears. "What? What happened?" he demanded, hurrying over to them.

The head maid, eyes nearly as red as her hair, sneezed repeatedly. "Pepper," she sniffled. "Pepper in the ducts. The furnace kicked on and blew it everywhere." She wiped her streaming eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. "You're gonna need all your ductwork cleaned."

"Well, I'm paying you, aren't I? Get to work," Mike demanded.

"We don't do ducts. And sir, if I can offer you some advice?" She sneezed once more, delicately, like a cat. "End this prank war. Someone's gonna end up getting hurt."

Someone would, and it wouldn't be him. "Fine. Who does clean ducts?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Check the yellow pages, I guess." The flock of maids began moving back toward their van.

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. Where the hell are you going?"

"Home. There's no use trying to clean in there. Anything we clean is just going to get covered with pepper again," one maid volunteered.

"And anyway, it's not safe for my girls. Once you get the ducts cleaned, we'll come back. Whatever you paid us for tonight, we'll put toward that, okay? I'll write it down so I don't forget." She patted her apron pocket and frowned. "Corrinna, do you have my pen and pad?"

The tiny, enduring flowers of paranoia bloomed in every corner of his mind. Pen and pad. Hadn't Nygma said that? Pen and pad pat, or something. He'd come out with some kind of word jumble and it had led to nothing but pain and misery for him.

Well, he wasn't going to get caught the same way twice. Before the woman knew what was happening, he had her down on the ground in one of the standard restraint holds he'd been taught when he'd been hired at the asylum. "Where is he?" he snarled.

"What the hell?" the woman spluttered, spitting out an unintended mouthful of dead, dry grass.

"Nygma. You work for him. Don't try to deny it," he insisted over her protests. If the cops weren't going to protect him, he'd just have to do it himself. "Where is he?"

"Mister, I don't know what you're talking about!" the woman wailed.

"Get off her right now, buster." A pair of arms, strengthened by decades of housework, yanked him onto the ground. The woman that the head maid had addressed as Corrinna loomed over him.

He swung to his feet and plowed into her, kicking her knees out from under her and pinning her to the ground. "So you're in on it too, huh," he growled, leaning his forearm against the woman's throat. "You're all working for him, aren't you? You've been working for him this whole time! You can tell him that I'm done playing games. You can – erk!"

With a snakelike twist, Corrinna spun out from under him and scooted backward, kicking him hard in the face with one tennis-shoed foot as she got out of range. He spat blood, snarling, and surged to his feet.

The maids retreated to the safety of their van, slamming the door in his face. He picked up a discarded pushbroom and brought it down on the windshield with a satisfying crunch of safety glass.

The van began to roll back out of his driveway. Oh, no. He wasn't letting them get away that easily.

The broom smashed through the driver's side window, sending broken glass flying through the air as the women shrieked in terror. As the driver scrambled to get away from him, he reached through the hole and opened the door. Maids spilled frantically out of the car as he climbed inside and took the keys.

Right. He slid back out of the van and stormed toward the sobbing knot of women crouched around their injured comrades. The gun was in his hand, and the Riddler's gang was right in front of him. "I'm going to ask you one more time," he growled, letting the gun barrel swing menacingly from target to target. "Where is he?"

"Who are you looking for?" one of the maids toward the back asked, a quivering note of absolute terror ruining her carefully calm voice.

Like she didn't know. That was what really made him mad. If they'd just owned up to what they'd done, if they'd just tell him where the goddamn Riddler was hiding, he wouldn't have to do this!

They weren't going to listen until he proved he was serious. He picked a woman in the front – young-looking, scared, easy to break – and aimed the gun at her kneecap. "You tell me where he is, little lady, or you're going to regret it," he promised softly.

And at this wonderful, picturesque moment, the silence of the night was ripped apart by blaring sirens and flashing lights. A pair of cop cars screeched to a halt in front of his house mere fractions of a second before a truck from Channel 5 slid into place across the street. Cops, reporters, and camera crew skidded to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk as they took in the scene.

"Mr. Dunham?" one officer asked.

"That's me," Mike offered, keeping his gun trained on the women. "Took you long enough to get here."

"Can you put the gun down, Mr. Dunham?" another officer asked.

"They work for the Riddler," he explained, not taking his eyes off them.

"No we don't!" yelped a maid.

"Shut up!" Mike snapped. "I've just about had it with your lies."

"All right, all right," the officer said soothingly. "Mr. Dunham – Mike – you can put your gun down. We're here to protect you. Let us handle them."

Mike dropped the gun and stepped back, smiling with the anticipation of seeing justice be served. In an instant, he was belly-down on the ground, cuffs snapping tightly around his wrists. "What the hell are you doing?" he bellowed as a cop kneed him in the shoulderblades.

"Oh thank God! He's crazy!" a maid shouted. "He tried to kill us all!"

"He was going to shoot us!"

"We tried to hide in the van, but he broke out the window -"

"-and he kept asking us where some guy was -"

"-a goddamn lunatic -"

"They work for the Riddler!" Mike screamed as a pair of cops hauled him to his feet. "Don't let them get away!"

"You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to -"

"I didn't do anything wrong!"

The cop took in the panorama of terrified women, broken glass, and concrete splattered with blood. "Sure you didn't," he snorted, stuffing Mike into the backseat of his car.

Mike jerked angrily against his cuffs, watching indignantly as the women were fussed over by the media and helped into newly-arrived ambulances.

Movement by the side of his house drew his attention. There, in the shadows! Something moving. Something...green.

The Riddler, carefully keeping a concealing shrub between himself and the circus of media and police, stared at him with a quiet smile of triumph on his face.

"He's here! The Riddler!" Mike screamed, the sound reverberating around the inside of the firmly secured car. "He's here!" He threw himself at the door, setting the car rocking on its shocks as he tried to batter his way out of the car. Blood from his broken nose splatted in polka-dot streaks on the back of the plexiglass divider separating him from the steering wheel.

A car ghosted up in the alley behind his house. The Riddler tipped his hat politely, smirking all the while, and trotted over to it, seating himself regally in the back.

Mike slammed his shoulder against the door. "HE'S OVER THERE! THE RIDDLER!" he screeched at the top of his lungs.

A cop detached himself from the crowd on the lawn and sauntered over, opening the front door of the car. "Calm down," he advised, glaring at Mike. Behind him, with a cheerful wave, the Riddler sped away into the night.

"He was right there and you let him go!" Mike accused.

The cop looked over his shoulder, saw an empty alleyway, and turned back to Mike. "Buddy, there's nothing there."

"Well, sure, there's nothing there now," Mike snapped.

"You just hang tight. We'll deal with you in a few minutes."

"Aren't you going to go after him? He's in a white sedan -"

The cop slammed the door.

"Hey. HEY!" Mike yelped, drumming his foot against his door.

The cop cracked the front door open again. "You have the right to remain silent. I suggest you use it. Now calm down." He slammed the door and strode away.

How was he supposed to be calm when the Riddler was getting away and his gang was being cosseted by the cops? Fury pulsed through his body. He slammed his shoulder again and again against the door, screaming epithets at the world in general with an extra-large helping for the idiot cops that had locked him up instead of the women.

His door suddenly opened, spilling him out onto the ground. He coughed, stunned, and looked up into a pair of tasers aimed directly at him.

"Calm down," one cop ordered.

"Screw you," Mike grumbled as he tried to find a way to stand up.

A sharp pain like a snakebite stabbed his stomach. Then, accompanied by a barrage of ominous clicking, electricity ripped through his body, throwing his head back and to the right while he stiffened helplessly on the ground.

After an eternity, roughly measured at five seconds, the taser stopped buzzing. Mike gasped openmouthed on the ground, shuddering.

The cops picked him up and dragged him across the lawn to an empty ambulance. "Present for ya," one cop grunted as the pair of them dumped him on a gurney.

"Gee, and I thought you forgot my birthday," the EMT joked, watching as the cops opened Mike's cuffs just long enough to snap them securely to the gurney. Without further ado, he reached over and yanked the two taser prongs out of Mike's stomach. "Arkham, huh?" he said, reading the stamp on Mike's scrubs as he pulled them aside to bandage his stomach.

"I work there," Mike muttered blearily.

"You sure you don't live there?" the EMT said, taping the bandage down.

"I live here," Mike snapped. "This is my house."

"Just asking. There you go," he added, tugging Mike's shirt back down. "We're gonna take a little ride to the hospital now. Don't go anywhere!" Chuckling to himself, he wandered out of Mike's line of sight. A cop seated himself on the little bench to his left, shutting the ambulance door behind him. With a bouncing jolt as they hopped off the curb, the ambulance took off toward the hospital.

Mike glared out of the tiny rear window, seething as they barreled through the quiet streets of suburban Gotham. This was all Nygma's fault. And as soon as the cops let him go, he'd make sure that Nygma got what was coming to him. Oh, yes. And he knew just how he was going to do it...

Author's Note: Eddie makes friends everywhere he goes, doesn't he? The title of this chapter, Eddie's revenge, and Mike's fabulous mustache were inspired by Roald Dahl's 'The Twits'. Thanks for reading!