For chronological clarity, this story his takes place about one year after The Dark Knight, nine months after "Right Foot Red", about six months after the Joker has escaped from Arkham, and two weeks before "Not Playing with a Full Deck". Thank you for reading, and Happy Halloween!
* NO ENTRY WITHOUT WAIVER *
Part 1
. . . . . . .
As the night chill settled in, the queue lengthened and people grew restless. The cheap illuminated sign that was propped up haphazardly on the two-story building's roof buzzed in a low hum, casting an unnatural green neon glow on the faces below. It was only the third night of active business for Chambers of Doom, yet already the second letter "o" in the word "Doom" had burned out in the sign. Halloween was more than two weeks away, but the haunted house industry was in full swing across the country, already catering to those who were looking for a discounted admission price for early season entry, or to those who were looking for an early fear fix.
Others drawn to the spectacle were looking for something else entirely.
This was a bad idea.
Like a broken record, the thought kept playing over and over in his mind. This was a bad idea. The sheltered nineteen-year-old had heard the speculation about this haunted house's intensity, and it was that very speculation that incited so many people to attend. There was no reliable information anywhere on the Internet about what to expect, and the thrill of the unknown had guests showing up in throngs. Rumor had it that a waiver was required for entry. Allegedly, signing the waiver gave the workers the right to manhandle the guests. What if it's true? What if they can actually touch us? It was that very possibility that pushed the college student to brave the Chambers of Doom experience. The idea of being touched without warning thrilled him.
The idea also terrified him. It all depended on who was doing the touching.
What if they do more than just touch us? I shouldn't have come. This was a bad idea. He had arrived early, to get the experience over with as quickly as possible. There were only about two dozen people ahead of him in line, but hundreds were lined up behind him already. There would be no way for him to gauge by guests' reactions when they left Chambers of Doom just how bad it was inside, because he was too near the front of the line. He realized that others would be gauging how bad it was by how he appeared when it was over.
He looked around apprehensively at the crowd of drunkards, ruffians and thrill seekers behind him. About half of them were university students; the other half were jaded adults who were looking for a fun dare that was outside their comfort zone. Broken glass and cigarette butts littered the parking lot of the dilapidated strip mall. He had never felt more out of his element in his life.
As if reading his mind, the sizeable fellow university student ahead of him in line turned around, bent forward and clapped a meaty hand firmly down on his shoulder. "Hey, Elway, you finally gonna get some action tonight?"
Elway stiffened, as three other lacrosse players turned around in line to stare at their team captain's target of ridicule. He didn't make eye contact with the onlookers, but he could feel their eyes appraise him coldly. He forced a calm veneer and defaulted to a defense of self-debasing humor. "Well, you know, eventually I'm going to have to get lucky."
Troy's eyes narrowed as his smile grew. He squeezed the smaller man's shoulder firmly enough to bruise it. "Atta boy, El. That's the spirit!" Condescension clung to each word, as thick as the stench of beer on his breath.
Years of honing self-deprecating comebacks served Elway well. He shrugged. "If the rumors are true, and all of us are getting grabbed at some point in the tour, I figure that even I have a good chance of getting an accidental hand job by the end of the night, right?"
Genuine laughter erupted from the other lacrosse players, while Troy merely snickered. He wasn't used to someone dodging his intimidations so deftly. He also didn't like that the rejoinder elicited more laughter from his friends than his initial attack had. But Troy had a retort of his own. Alcohol may have slowed his response time, but not his ability to craft a cruel remark. "You haven't had a hand job yet? I thought your cousins would have practiced on you before they're allowed to work at the family massage parlor."
And there it was. Elway suspected some form of racist remark was imminent, but even he hadn't seen that one coming.
Two of the other players exchanged looks, one emitting a crescendo of "Oooh!" before they both turned around to face forward in line. The third player looked at Troy and motioned to Elway. "His family owns a massage parlor?"
Troy stood up to his full six-foot-two inch height, as he ran a hand through mussed brown hair. "Sure. I mean, if his family doesn't, then one of his cousins must." He paused to let the insinuation sink in. "Right, Elway? That's the national business where you come from."
Elway fumed internally, but kept his voice even. "I am not Thai. I'm Korean American."
Troy shrugged. "What's the difference? Just another ching chong country, if you ask me." Then he looked Elway up and down. "I'm surprised your name isn't 'Ching' or 'Chong'." He took a swig of beer from the bottle in his hand. "The name 'Elway' sure doesn't sound Korean to me." He turned back to his cohorts, whose attention had already shifted to seek out another target for derision. After finishing off the drink, Troy threw the bottle across the parking lot, cheering as it shattered.
Elway fought back tears of indignant rage, as he struggled with his own internal dialogue. Don't you dare let them see you cry. Troy is an asshole. Remember why you came. You are GOING to do this! He slowly exhaled as he warily watched the back of his tormentor, half-expecting Troy to turn around and start up on him again. Don't give that guy the satisfaction of seeing you leave. Caucasian, privileged athletes had been the bane of Elway's existence all through school, as they were for all other smaller East Asian male students he knew. Bullying often involved snide remarks about their height, or the outright mocking of their names and perpetuating racist stereotypes of the Chinese, regardless of what the heritage actually was of the person being bullied.
His parents were first generation Koreans, who had moved to Gotham a few years before his birth. Elway was born right when Denver Broncos quarterback John Elway was in his heyday professionally. Meaning well, his parents thought that naming their son after a venerated American sports hero would help root him firmly in the culture, and smooth the road ahead of him so he would be accepted socially as a true American. On the contrary, the name made him even more of a target for bullying throughout his school years. When Elway's height topped out at five-foot-five, a good ten inches shorter than his namesake, the irony of his parents' name selection became all the more pronounced.
He was never big enough to fight back physically when ridiculed, so through the years he'd learned to use humor to diffuse attacks. His limited group of friends was comprised of geeks and social misfits, who were just as marginalized as he was. Their bond was predicated on the shared experience of victimhood. They had sanctuary only with each other.
I could have stayed inside tonight and been safe with my friends. He knew that at this very moment, his friends were all in the recreation room of their on-campus dormitory, eating cold pizza and debating the realism of the latest "House" episode's mystery illness. Maybe even debating the merits of alternate universe versions of Star Wars fan fics they'd read online. That's where Elway could have been.
But Elway wasn't there. He had made the choice to come to what was rumored to be the most cutting-edge haunted house experience in the entire city of Gotham, forcing him to face a host of his anxieties. He didn't like crowds, he didn't like loud noises, and he didn't like the entire horror genre. In particular, he was extremely uneasy about the pervasive rumor that all participants had to sign a waiver just for the privilege of being terrorized inside of a haunted house. Yet, here he was, because the only thing stronger than his aversion to being terrified was his fascination with Jasmine.
Like Elway, Jasmine was a sophomore at Gotham University. Six weeks earlier at the start of the semester, Elway had sought refuge from a migraine headache in the darkness of the university's theater balcony, a haven he had discovered in his freshman year. Unexpectedly, a drama class entered the theater down below, gathered in a circle on the stage, and made their first day of class introductions to the group. The acoustics of the theater carried the voices effectively right up to the balcony, though his presence was obscured from the students and professor. While uncomfortable with his own voyeurism, before he could sneak out, a female student on stage caught his attention and kept him rooted in his seat.
The student introduced herself as Jasmine Rivas. As pretty as she was, Elway was even more taken in by her personality. She shared with the group that she had chosen Gotham University to escape a limited future in south Florida, wanting to pursue acting and a career in the film industry. She was magnetic: self-assured and loud, friendly and optimistic. Decidedly extroverted. She was everything that Elway was not, which fascinated him. She shared with the group that she'd successfully auditioned to be a "player" in a new haunted house that was going to open near the university campus in mid-October. The rehearsals were already underway, and the management encouraged method acting, highly improvised and emotional. "Trust me," she had told the group, "as a woman of Cubano heritage, I can definitely do emotional!" The group laughed along with her. And with that, Elway was smitten.
Elway was far too shy to approach Jasmine to talk to her, and they had no classes together. Essentially, no common interests, the challenge of which wasn't lost on him. The only time he could see her, aside from an occasional chance passing in the campus bookstore, was to spy on her drama class from the theater balcony twice weekly. He knew how creepy that would seem if she ever found out about it. He also was ashamed of himself for what he felt could be categorized as stalking, but the compulsion to watch her kept him coming back. He figured that as long as he played it safe, no one would ever find out. As far as Elway knew, no one had ever been in the balcony to witness him watching the drama class surreptitiously.
As far as he knew.
Elway wondered what Jasmine's costume would look like. Would she be a zombie with rotting flesh? Would she be some unwitting, scantily clad damsel in distress on display for the visitors? He hoped it was the latter. Whatever she was wearing, if there were any chance that she could touch him… he nearly shuddered in anticipation. It didn't matter if it were just a shove. He would settle for a slap. He just craved… something. He needed her to be a part of his experience.
He looked down at his watch impatiently, then up at the defective sign on top of the building. The man behind him in line was looking at it, too, and pronounced the name phonetically aloud: "Chambers of Dom." Elway chuckled when he heard it, because it did sound funny. The man continued. "Dom. Dommmmm. Dom dom. Dom dee dom. Ha."
Elway didn't know if he should respond to the man or not. He chose to continue to look straight ahead. The man behind him kept his gloved hands inside of his sweatshirt pocket, hood draped loosely over his head. Some stringy hair was visible, should anyone be looking closely. No one would have wanted to get too close, given his aggressive posture.
If they had, they would have assumed the green tinge to the blonde hair was simply the result of the overhead green neon sign's castoff light.
Economic hardship, not holiday levity, gave rise to Chambers of Doom.
Struggling retail businesses in an economically challenged section of Gotham had been in the red all year, and by mid-summer they desperately needed to make extra seasonal cash to tide them over to the critical Christmas holiday shopping season. Taking a calculated risk based on Gotham's historic appetite for the macabre, the business owners pooled their resources to create the Chambers of Doom haunted house. A bankrupt strip mall neighboring the north side of Gotham University's city campus was an ideal location: minimal construction was needed to build the set itself, as the existing building provided the skeletal structure; more fortunate yet was that the supply of labor was cheap and close by. As anticipated, university students lined up both for construction jobs and to work as employees of the haunted house itself. Between cash-starved college kids and an abundance of jobless urban dwellers, there was more than an ample selection of potential employees.
City council in-fighting resulted in nebulous city zoning codes, allowing the haunted house owners to cut corners with their new endeavor. The conversion of existing commercial property for entertainment purposes proceeded without mandatory safety checks of the new construction, nor were there health code compliance inspections. There also was neither time nor money available for background checks on the job applicants, as there rarely was for seasonal employment. Time was of the essence to get the haunted house up and running by the middle of October. All parties involved were too focused on getting the jump on fellow industry competitors by being the first location to promote – and successfully deliver – a more cutting edge type of haunted house experience.
An interactive experience.
Rather than having guests walk a pre-mapped route through a building, with the perfunctory scares charted out ahead of time, each participant determined where they would go… based on their reaction to the Chambers of Doom employees, or players, as they were known. No two guest experiences would ever be alike. The players were given near free reign (within reason, of course) to deliver a more terrifying experience to the guests. Touching of the guests was allowed. In fact, it was encouraged. Moreover, so was pushing, grabbing, and even slapping. Light hair pulling was permitted. So was licking. Players could shout at the guests. Obscenities, if they so chose, though the managers knew better than to stipulate any list of sanctioned abuse in writing.
Any guest who was too squeamish to endure the interaction was given the option to stop the experience immediately, resulting in an escort out of Chambers of Doom. All a guest had to do was to say the "safe word", which all players were trained to recognize and immediately respect. The idea of a safe word came from the eldest business manager, who was purported to be a regular of a sex club called Flesh For Fantasy. His sessions with Mistress Femke rarely made it the full sixty minutes he paid for, thanks to the safe word ending his pain.
All of the regular rules could be bent and even broken. All of it was possible, thanks to the requirement that guests must sign a waiver.
It was a clever marketing ruse to leak the rumor of a waiver ahead of time: gossip and natural curiosity took care of the rest, and word of Chambers of Doom spread quickly. It was on the down low, of course, that was the understanding. No overt commercial advertising. The owners didn't need any unnecessary attention from rogue do-gooder inspectors sniffing around and shutting the whole place down on safety violations. They also knew that its reputation for danger would grow, as more people heard of it in whispers and chat rooms. To that end, Chambers of Doom's website was fairly bare bones by design. There was no copy of the waiver uploaded for pre-printing. The absence of a document preview helped perpetuate both the mystery and the perceived danger.
Of course, not all of the danger was merely perceived. Some of it was quite real.
A loud hissing noise unexpectedly shot out from the front of the building, as smoke machines kicked in. Ghoulish laughter pumped out of oversized speakers, overlapping with pre-recorded shrieks. The crowd started to cheer and clap in anticipation of Chambers of Doom opening for business for the night. Four employees wearing street clothes brought out two chairs, a folding table and a stack of papers. A large, bald man in his mid-fifties with a long, full beard pulled out a bullhorn and addressed the crowd. A former semi-pro wrestler, he made his living calling wrestling matches on one of Gotham's lesser-watched cable TV stations. Years of working crowds led him to pace and punctuate his speech with dramatic intention. "Okay FOLKS, we're about to get this show STARTED! My name is MORRIS, and I will be the RINGLEADER of this outdoor circus. Line up SINGLE-file… ONE line only, please – ONE line ONLY."
Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd. Elway felt his heart rate accelerate as the people shuffled inward toward the building. He hoped he would spot Jasmine inside. Unless she were wearing a mask, he figured that he'd be able to tell which player she was, regardless of how much make up she had on. He didn't know what to say to her, or if he even could say anything to her. He just wanted to see her, and take a chance on physical contact. It was the thrill of anticipation that propelled him forward.
Morris continued his directions: "This is NOT going to be like OTHER haunted houses you've BEEN to! CHAMBERS OF DOOM has a UNIQUE formula that NO other house HAS. Here's how it WORKS, people: every GROUP that enters will have SIX people, and EXACTLY six people. LARGER groups will be broken UP. SMALLER groups will be COMBINED."
Disappointed cries erupted in various sections of the line, as assemblies of students realized they'd end up separated from each other. As if anticipating the protest, Morris put the bullhorn back up to his lips.
"SIX people to a group." He then spoke slowly to drive his message home, making a pointing gesture up toward the sky, to punctuate each successive clarification. "NO more!"
He paused and glared at the masses, pointing upward again. "NO less!"
Then he pointed out to the crowd. "And NO EXCEPTIONS!"
Random groups began chattering as they decided how to break themselves up, and bodies started shuffling around in line. The former wrestler continued his directions, motioning to the table next to him. "As you step FORWARD, you'll take a WAIVER form. You will then SIGN your waiver AT the TABLE, where it will be COLLECTED along with your ADMISSION TICKET."
Whispers undulated like waves through the crowd at the mention of the word "waiver", as speculation grew.
Morris continued with his directions. "There are some WARNINGS you will read on the waiver. I will go over those warnings NOW, so you don't waste your time waiting in LINE if you cannot HANDLE them. EVERYONE must SIGN the waiver. Otherwise NO entry is ALLOWED! I repeat: NO! ENTRY! WITHOUT! WAIVER!"
Elway didn't like the ominous sound of this. The man behind him mumbled, "C'mon, this is just a marketing ploy to hype the place up." Elway felt a little better after he heard that. Yeah. A marketing ploy. It can't be that dangerous, or they wouldn't be allowed to operate.
Morris held up fingers as he counted out the warnings. "Warning number ONE: if you are PREGNANT, we recommend that you do NOT go through Chambers of DOOM! Warning number TWO: if you have a HEART CONDITION, we recommend that you do NOT go through Chambers of DOOM! Warning number THREE: if you are physically DISABLED or cannot RUN, we recommend that you do NOT go through Chambers of DOOM! And warning number FOUR: if you cannot SCREAM or SHOUT LOUDLY, we recommend that you do NOT go through Chambers of DOOM! All of these WARNINGS are stated clearly on the WAIVER."
Elway stiffened. We need to be able to run and shout? Why is that necessary?
Troy waived his hand and shouted at the announcer. "Hey! Why don't you hand those papers out, so we can sign them ahead of time? It will make it go faster!" Concurring shouts of "Yeah!" popped up sporadically.
Morris lowered the bullhorn and walked down the line toward Troy, stopping in front of him, meeting him eye to eye. What he had to say clearly wasn't meant for broadcast. "Look, kid. That's the way it works. Each waiver needs to be signed in front of an employee as a witness. It's a legal thing. Just suck it up and do it, then you can go inside."
As he turned his back to move forward, Troy went for the laugh with his friends. In a lowered tone he said, "Why don't you suck this?" He grabbed his crotch and wagged it. His friends tried to muffle their laughter, but weren't successful.
Suddenly Morris spun on a dime, reached out a heavily tattooed arm and grabbed Troy by his collar, yanking him out of line and slamming him to the ground. "What did you say to me you little FAGGOT?"
Everyone in line gasped collectively and went silent. Elway felt a wave of emotional vindication at seeing his bully now the victim, but he was still shocked by the barbaric show of force. The man behind him in line broke the silence with a single cackle.
Troy's eyes were wide as he quickly realized the man looming over him was his physical superior. "Look man, I was just kidd—"
"No, YOU look you little SHIT stain!" Morris bent down to make sure Troy was fully focused on his words. "You don't like getting grabbed? Well then, you're too much of a PUSSY to go into Chambers of Doom! You're GONNA get grabbed in there, boy. You hear me? You're gonna get GRABBED, and you're gonna get SHOVED, and you might even get SPIT on!"
A small woman's high-pitched voice in the crowd asked timidly, "They can spit on us in there?" She didn't wait for an answer, quickly stepping out of line and walking toward the street. Four other women followed her, along with a married couple who realized this was more than they had bargained for.
The announcer continued his tirade in Troy's face. "THAT is what the waiver is for, you uppity little PRICK! It says that you ACKNOWLEDGE that it's going to be a terrifying EXPERIENCE, because it's INTERACTIVE! Our players don't just act FOR the guests, they act WITH the guests. Now, are you gonna man-up and sign the waiver, or are you gonna run AWAY like a little BITCH?" He roughly released Troy's collar and stood up, but extended a hand to help Troy to his feet.
Troy swallowed, humiliated that everyone was looking at him. "No, I'm not leaving." He grabbed Morris' hand, who pulled him up to his feet in one swift yank.
As Troy brushed himself off, the announcer brought the bullhorn back up to his mouth to address the crowd. "When you sign the WAIVER, you will see that there is a SAFE word mentioned. If you YELL that safe word, we will STOP whatever is happening to you and we will ESCORT you OUT. You do NOT get to complete the tour!"
Right on cue, one of the female employees at the table made a dramatic show by shouting over to him. "Hey, Morris! What's the safe word tonight?"
Morris took a dramatic pause as he locked eyes with Troy, tilting his head back so the projected bullhorn's sound would reach everyone. "The SAFE word of the night is 'BITCH'!"
That was met with whoops of laughter and cheering throughout the crowd. Morris dropped the bullhorn down at his side, and clamped a hand on Troy's shoulder, just as Troy had done to Elway. Elway instantly recognized the parallels of karma. Morris winked at Troy. "You have a good time in there, boy. We'll make sure you get extra special treatment."
As Morris walked away, Troy stood frozen. If he backed out of line now, he wouldn't live it down and it would be all over campus that he'd chickened out. He had to go through with it. Elway felt a palpable satisfaction at watching Troy's embarrassment. Clearly, he had pissed off the wrong guy, and the haunted house players would be dishing out something special for him. As the line inched closer to the front table, players dressed as ghouls and maniacs ran through the crowd, randomly grabbing people, screaming in their faces or shouting obscenities at them.
When Morris was back up at the table, he assessed the crowd's reaction to being harassed before even stepping inside the building. "You need to THINK about this, GOTHAM! Whatever you're AFRAID of might be WAITING for you INSIDE!"
The man in line behind Elway scoffed. "Try meeeeeeeeee."
The sound of the voice made the hair on Elway's neck stand on end. He didn't dare look back, as he didn't want to seem confrontational.
Elway couldn't wait for the experience to be over.
Steven Curtis couldn't wait for the experience to start.
Getting to dress up as a player at a no holds barred haunted house was the best thing that had come his way in years. The pay wasn't the best, but he could live with that. It was the potential opportunities for mayhem that thrilled him. While he was exposed to danger occasionally while in the Joker's employ as a henchman, this gig promised a steady source of fun that was less hit-or-miss.
There had been no background checks, no contingencies that otherwise would have barred him from employment, as was the case with legitimate businesses. Therefore, no one knew of his multiple convictions for aggravated assault and rape.
Once he put his costume on, he would be invincible.
Curtis was being handed carte blanche to do whatever he wanted to terrorize people. He would be wearing a mask – legally, as required for his job. He couldn't help but laugh at the irony. He was a career criminal, and now he had a job where he was being paid to hide his identity. He was expected to hide his identity, while engaging in activities that were right up his alley... a particular type of horror scene that no other player would partake in, for its particular level of depravity. Inside the haunted house, all anyone would see would be his costume and mask. No one would know who he actually was. Not even the other players. He would be unidentifiable when he was doing to the guests… what he planned on doing.
And he planned on doing a lot. He could, after all. That's what the waivers were for.
Back in the makeup trailer, Jasmine clamped a hand over her own mouth. "Jesus Christ, that looks real!"
One of the makeup artists swatted her hand away. "You're going to smear the blood! Don't touch your mouth."
Jasmine couldn't even blink, nor could the rest of the players in the trailer. They all stared slack-jawed at three of their colleagues who had been made up fastidiously to look like the most notorious criminal in this history of the city. In the entire country, really. The lead artist dabbed some glue on the side of one of the Joker player's face. "Try not to move your face too much for about ten minutes so the scars can set." The other two men dressed as the Joker were admiring their reflections in the mirror, impressed with how they had been transformed.
Jasmine leaned over to a player dressed as a psychotic nurse. "Is this legal? I mean, can we get in trouble for having people dressed like the Joker? Isn't it, like, I don't know… insensitive?"
The psychotic nurse shrugged. "I guess it's okay. People want scary. Ain't nothin' much scarier than him."
It had been just about a year since the incident when the Joker had rigged two ferries to detonate. It also had been barely six months since the Joker had escaped from Arkham, his whereabouts completely unknown. The three Joker players had debuted two nights earlier on opening night at Chambers of Doom, but were being kept a secret, their presence even kept quiet from most of the other players, to help perpetuate the shock and the mystery. Each of them had a specific version of the Joker to play, but all guests would interact with one of the three actors, provided they made it far enough into the tour without using the safe word. Management knew that there would be strong reactions from some guests to portraying a very real psychopath, but that was part of the shock value they wanted to capitalize on.
An alarm clock's buzzer went off on the makeup vanity. Showtime. They all had to be ready for a steady stream of guests. Two hundred forty guests per hour, times five hours. Twelve hundred guests a night required a tremendous amount of energy and focus.
Jasmine and the others kept their eyes on the Joker players as they walked out. The striking resemblance to the actual Joker was unnerving.
Elway watched keenly as the first group of six people entered the building, guided by a player dressed as a witch doctor. He visually counted out three more groups of six ahead of him. Fortunately, Troy and his three friends would be grouped with the couple ahead of them in line. While he wanted as much distance from Troy as possible, concurrently, Elway also was darkly curious to witness first-hand what the players would end up doing to Troy as comeuppance for his insolence with the announcer.
The second group of six entered the building, with some young women in the group screaming even before the doors closed behind them.
"Here you go, sign and date." A harsh-looking woman wearing too much eyeliner and blush handed Elway a pen and a waiver form. Elway scanned the document, which was surprisingly brief in content. No lengthy legalese, just a statement acknowledging that the term "interactive" meant that the players had the right to touch the guests occasionally, but the guests did not have the right to grab or touch the players back. It stated that everyone who entered would have a sticker placed behind their left shoulder that they couldn't remove until after the tour concluded. It stated clearly that invoking the safe word would bring an immediate end to all activity. All warnings that Morris had read to the crowd were included, and the fine print along the bottom stated no refunds were possible after tickets were presented. Elway nervously signed his name and pushed the form back across the table along with his ticket. The woman absently scribbled her name on the "Witness" line, then put it in a basket. She ripped his ticket in half, and returned the stub to him.
Elway kept his eyes on his signed waiver, second-guessing his decision when another waiver was laid on top of his. There was only one signature on it, from the witness. It looked like a smiley face had been drawn where the guest name was required. It was only visible for a second before it was hidden by another waiver form. The crowd advanced forward collectively as the third group of six entered the building.
At the foot of the entry stairs, a female voice piped up. The woman stood five people ahead in line from Elway, in front of Troy. "I changed my mind." She began furiously shaking her head from side to side. "I—I can't do this. I'm sorry, Ben, I just can't."
Her boyfriend silently cursed. "C'mon, don't do this. We came all this way!"
"I'm sorry, but I changed my mind. I'm not going in! I won't!" She darted out of the line for the street.
Her boyfriend tilted his head back, threw his arms up in exasperation, and yelled at the sky, "Are you fucking kidding me?" He reluctantly stepped out of line after her. The woman stationed at the table yelled a reminder after them. "No refunds!" One of the other guests in line offered a condolence to the man was he walked away. The man shook his head, and replied, "Three hours. We drove three hours from Metropolis for this, and then she goes and backs out right at the entrance."
Back up at the Chambers of Doom entrance, there stood an usher dressed like a murderous clown. "Next group of six!" He motioned with his hand for them to step forward.
In horror, Elway processed what the couple's departure meant. The usher counted out loud as he pointed at the next people in line. "One, two, three, four, five, six! You guys are next up, let's go!" Elway and the man behind him were being pulled forward to enter with Troy and his friends.
Morris looked over and shouted at the usher. "Hey!"
The murderous clown answered back. "Yeah?"
Morris smiled darkly. "Make sure THAT group gets treated to extra SPECIAL hospitality!"
Elway's heart stopped. Group?! He felt his stomach start to turn over. Wait! I didn't do anything! This isn't fair! Are they going to punish all of us for Troy's behavior? His protests caught in his throat, as the usher pulled them forward. Elway felt dizzy. He reminded himself that this whole endeavor was for a chance that he'd see Jasmine, and the chance that she'd touch him. But it's only a chance, not a guarantee, he reminded himself. It had seemed like a good idea when he thought of it, albeit pathetically desperate.
Now he felt like he'd made a grave mistake.
The clown usher pressed a sticker with the number "5" onto the back of Elway's left shoulder.
"Why do we need stickers?"
"That's so we can account for everyone coming out. We don't want anyone getting lost or trying to stay inside after the tour ends."
Elway blanched. "Do people get lost in there?"
The usher saw the terror on the young man's face as he stepped forward to enter the building. "Don't worry, kid. Have fun in there. You remember what the safety word is?"
Elway nodded, but he couldn't find his voice.
The tall man behind him answered, speaking directly to the murderous clown usher. "Bitch-ah!" The word was spoken with staccato venom. Both the usher and Elway turned to look at the man's face. It was mostly hidden by the hood of his gray sweatshirt, and his head was tilted downward. Only a hint of a smile was visible above the chin. His hands were tucked into the central torso pocket.
As the clown usher pushed Elway through the door and into Chambers of Doom, he glared at the man in the sweatshirt, affronted by the insinuation that the safe word was directed at him, personally. "You got something against clowns? If you're afraid of clowns, buddy, you're gonna have one hell of a tough time in there." He nodded toward the haunted house.
The man's smile faded, as he raised his face just enough to show the usher his dark eyes behind stringy hair. His voice was so low that it was barely audible above the cacophony of noise from the speakers. "Clowns can be quite… menacing. Can't they?"
The usher had a visceral reaction, feeling the blood drain from his face, though he didn't know what it was precisely about the guest that gave him such a fright: maybe it was the dark eyes that seemed soulless, the pale uneven skin, the scowling mouth or the timbre of the man's voice when he answered. Perhaps it was everything in concert. Whatever it was, something about the man was just… off. He didn't reply, instead peeling a sticker of a sheet with the number "6" on it, and applying it to the back of the guest's left shoulder.
The clown usher quickly made eye contact with Morris, as the guest turned to step inside. Morris saw the usher wink at him twice, then flash two sets of digits with his hands. It was a signal: Group Four, Guest Six. Morris nodded, then picked up a walkie talkie. "Heads up in the crow's nest. Group four, number six. Grey sweatshirt with a hood. We've got a problem."
The crow's nest was the name for the surveillance room where all haunted house activity was monitored via closed circuit cameras. Every group of six guests who entered Chambers of Doom had to pass through twenty rooms, or chambers, assuming none of the participants shouted the safe word. Each chamber was monitored by a single director, who watched from the crow's nest via video. The director communicated through a one-way earpiece to the players in their assigned chamber, to let them know when a new group of guests was entering their vicinity. It allowed the director to notify the players of which guests needed a little extra "attention" in their experience, by referring to the reflective sticker number on each guest's shoulder. It also allowed the director to warn the players of potential issues with unpredictable guests. Each director wore a headset that fed the chamber's audio back to them.
After passing through four chambers together as a sextet, each group of guests would be split up when it was time to go to their fifth chamber, before being reunited on the other side in the sixth chamber. And so it went for the tenth chamber, the fifteenth, and the final twentieth chamber. These four points at which a group was split up were referred to as the "judgment gauntlets", and they packed an extra thrill-punch with a recognizable pop-culture monster. Each judgment gauntlet point branched out into three chambers. All six guests never ended up in the same judgment gauntlet chamber. Which gauntlet chamber a guest was pushed into was completely at the discretion of the director. How they were pushed in was at the discretion of the player.
These judgment gauntlet chambers were what necessitated multiple players dressing as the same character: at the point of the judgment gauntlet, all six guests would experience the same monster, but how the monster interacted with the guests depended on the room they were pushed into. In Chamber A, the guests experienced the most tepid of a frightening encounter, with Chamber B being worse, and C being horrible. What actually happened inside was all a result of whatever the actor improvised. Within reason, that was always the caveat.
The chronology of the gauntlet monsters changed each night. On this night, the first gauntlet monster was Jason Voorhees. The second judgment gauntlet monster that guests would encounter was Leatherface. The third judgment gauntlet monster was Mike Myers. At the end of the tour and the fourth judgment gauntlet, guests would come face to face with one of the three players dressed as Gotham's own Joker. Though not a horror movie icon, he was well enough known to everyone to put one hell of a scare into guests.
As each of the three players portraying a single gauntlet monster was trained to provide a different level of intensity in their performance, management needed to determine which guest got which treatment. To that end, they devised three classifications of guests. However a director classified a guest determined the severity of the judgment gauntlet chamber they went through. The classification was simple: Person, Prick, or Problem.
A "Person" was just a regular, cooperative guest, looking to get some kicks in a haunted house. They usually got to pass through the easiest of the judgment gauntlet rooms. Any cocky or bawdy guests were flagged as "Pricks". Pricks were treated to a host of very unpleasant surprises inside the haunted house. Not the most dangerous, but decidedly awful, to make sure they came out of the experience with a hell of a lot more humility than what they entered with. It was usually boastful young men, or the occasional stuck up young woman, who received the prick treatment. That was the brand of hospitality planned for Troy. They usually went through the middle-level intensity judgment gauntlet chamber.
The final classification required a more serious level of attention. Those guests were classified as "Problems". Every so often, a male guest would arrive who clearly had a chip on his shoulder, out to prove what tough guy he was. That necessitated a more aggressive type of handling inside Chambers of Doom. Problematic male guests were the ones most likely to show up drunk and angry, posing the greatest threat to take the interactive play too seriously, and too far. Problem guests were always sent through the most intense of the four judgment gauntlet experiences. All four actors who portrayed the most intense versions of each monster understood that they could be dealing with a highly unpredictable and potentially dangerous man. As such, all four actors had years of martial arts training, should the "problem" guest try to engage too violently in the fantasy play.
All activity directors sat up and took note of Morris' warning. Group four, guest six.
The guests' numbers were identified by the reflective stickers on each person's left shoulder, easily visible to the overhead cameras. The doors to each successive chamber only opened in one direction, and they couldn't be opened again once a group passed through. This prevented guests from doubling back and also allowed for an accurate accounting of which group was where in the building. Each time a chamber's entrance door closed, the counter increased, displaying a number at the bottom of each chamber's main camera.
Group four, guest six. The man in the gray hooded sweatshirt had been flagged as a problem.
Camouflaged as a regular citizen in street clothes of dark jeans and a gray sweatshirt, the Joker's smile returned as the main door closed behind him. One of his crew had attended two days earlier on opening night, dutifully informing him thereafter that costumed players were impersonating him in Chambers of Doom. The Joker wanted to see it for himself. He had an issue with being imitated. He didn't see it as a sincere form of flattery. He saw it as a mockery.
He didn't like being mocked.
Ominous strobe lights flashed ahead. The five university students in front of him were moving very slowly, cautious to a fault. The Joker cleared his throat. "It's funny, isn't it?"
The lacrosse players exchanged glances, not sure whom the tail end of their group was talking to. Elway didn't know how to respond, so he kept facing forward.
The Joker continued: "Before they let us in here, they made all of us sign waivers." He licked his lips. "For safety purposes, allegedly. Yet none of us… had to go through… a metal detector to enter."
One of the guys yelled back. "So?"
"Sooooooooo… without a metal detector, metal gets in."
Troy yelled back at him. "What are you saying? You think someone brought a gun with them?"
The Joker scanned the surroundings. "I don't know for sure, but I guess it could be possible, right?"
Elway tried to laugh off his apprehension, but instead his voice sounded shaky. "Well, if you brought a gun, please shoot anything that tries to grab me." It didn't sound as much of a joke as he had hoped it would.
"No, I didn't bring a gun." The Joker was telling the truth. He had no concealed firearms on him. He was, however, carrying seven switchblades, a butterfly knife, a hunting knife and a pack of mint-flavored shred-resistant dental floss. "I'm just here to have some fun."
The group inched forward into Chamber One. Gotham's most unhinged psychopath sauntered a few steps behind Elway in the darkened foyer: cloaked in anonymity, hidden in the darkness, and far more dangerous than anything else in the haunted house.
They had identified him as a problem. He wasn't a problem. He was something much worse.
. . . . . . .
Author's Notes for "No Entry Without Waiver"
. . . . . . .
Part 1 of 2. To bring a little levity to this story, there are a few tie-ins to some others already published.
When the Joker was pronouncing the "Doom" sign with a burned out "o" as "Dom", it was a nod to "Not Playing with a Full Deck", wherein one of the worst characters in the story is a man named Domenic, who is a sex club dominator, earning him the moniker "Dom dom".
Also from "NPWAFD", Mistress Femke was the head dominatrix who worked at Flesh For Fantasy, owned by Mob boss Vincent Maroni.
Another character from "NPWAFD" is the purely loathsome Steven Curtis, one of the Joker's crew who tracks his serial rapes on his own body in a garish tattoo with tally marks.
-4ofCups, 2018.10.31