So, that's the end of my story. I stayed in the hospital for quite some time. I got a lot of flowers. I still have the ones Poison Ivy sent me. They're a little more talkative than I like my houseplants to be, but it's nothing I can't deal with.

Parker kept eating at Lai Lai while I was away. He had all kinds of neat stories to tell me about those two days before the place burned to the ground.

Some guy who looked like Vincent Price came in and ordered Egg Foo Young. Parker insists that I should be impressed by that. I have no idea why, but he's very insistent, and I just can't argue with him.

They got a couple of very strange guys who called each other Clown and Demon. Parker says I would have liked this Clown. I'm not sure I believe him.

Parker also says the God of Dreams came through, but didn't eat; he was just looking for someone else. Parker says I would have liked this guy, too. I believe him about the liking, but I'm not so sure I believe there is a God of Dreams, much less that he (He?) would have come to a Chinese restaurant, for any reason.

And of course all my regulars came in and asked about me.

The Joker decided to cut me some slack since my little breakdown had been caused by the Scarecrow and not my own lack of humor. I think he liked seeing my giggle even when I was sobbing with grief.

The Scarecrow apologized for having created a substandard toxin. Jerk. I notice there was no apology forthcoming for my pain. But I guess that's to be expected.

To replace me, they re-hired a cashier from before my time. She tried to re-initiate the old Lai Lai Ninja Skills Game, which involved stealth, Sharpies, and bare elbows. This time around, no one reacted very well to having someone constantly trying to sneak up on them to write on their elbows. She got a pan of soup to the face.

They didn't have time to hire another cashier. Lai Lai burned to the ground in the middle of the night. No one was hurt. But Gotham lost the greatest Chinese restaurant ever to grace its dark streets. (Funny story—the ink was barely dry on Mr. Cobblepot's deed and insurance papers. He came off well, even if no one else did.)

When I got out of the hospital, I found myself out of a job. Parker suggested I go back to work at Waffle House.

His words: "You can never escape the Collective, Space Monkey."

My reply: "How do you know about the Collective?!" (Actually, at Waffle House, my name was Sarge. It's…not important why.)

I work at the library now. It's much easier on me. I almost never see any of them. The Mad Hatter comes in every once in a while to read—we have a whole room decorated like the inside of his head, and I think I'm the only one who realizes that he doesn't belong there. The Scarecrow comes here sometimes, too, just to check up on me. He's still interested in the long-term effects of his toxins. He also likes that I'm always able to point him toward whatever book he needs.

Even the Riddler came in once to use the computer lab.

I haven't seen the Joker, so I don't know how he feels about my hair. Maybe he's stopped watching me entirely. Or maybe he doesn't mind that the green has all faded out, leaving me bleach-blonde with three-inch-long dark roots. I might do something else with it, or I might just let it go. I'm not all that interested in looking cool these days. Too much chance I'll end up copying someone by mistake.

You know, the Joker might still be watching me. I can't really be sure. Just last week, one of my professors utterly humiliated me in front of my lit class. He was later found bludgeoned to death in the alley behind what used to be Lai Lai. The murder weapon—a bloodstained bag of sugar—was left nearby. Hey, he wasn't a very nice guy. Maybe it had nothing to do with me.

Yeah.

I haven't found a Chinese restaurant to replace Lai Lai, but I don't really want Chinese food as much as I used to. And that's the real tragedy here.

My dad understands. I make a point of calling him every Saturday, just to talk. He says next time he comes to visit me, he's going to help me find some good Mexican food. And that makes me think of Smallville once again. I did so love eating at Tamale Casa…

Parker's not that into Mexican, but every so often, he takes me back to the Iceberg. No matter how busy they are, there's always a table for the Space Monkeys.

He drives. I ride. And life is good.

Thanks for reading!

Lurve,

3.0