"Don't look at me like that. They'd stuffed themselves fat on meat and fish; making them throw up once in a while was good for their health," Schiller said, ignoring Batman's disapproving gaze.
"So that was your reason for poisoning people?"
"What poisoning? Don't make it sound so awful!" Schiller raised his voice slightly, but apparently worried about drawing the attention of those nearby, he lowered it again. "It didn't have to be chemical poison. If someone ate poisonous mushrooms and got poisoned, wasn't that still poisoning?"
"But every one of them was a gourmet. Wouldn't they be able to tell different kinds of mushrooms apart?"
"Then put chemical poison on nonpoisonous mushrooms. After they'd gone through all the trouble of identifying them, they'd still be poisoned."
Batman was left speechless. He could only say, "Just tell me what you wanted to do."
"I couldn't tell you yet. You'd know soon enough."
When Schiller said "soon," it was usually even sooner than soon. Batman understood that the moment he got home, because he found a letter in his mailbox.
Gotham's largest casino, Phil's East Coast Paradise, had sent every member an invitation to place bets. The wager was on which criminal would be the next to escape from Arkham Asylum.
Batman's head buzzed when he saw the letter. The world had finally gone completely insane.
An odds sheet was even enclosed. Bane currently had the lowest odds. Everyone thought he would successfully escape because he was indeed incredibly strong and had played a central role in nearly every criminal operation. He was bound to be involved in the next breakout.
Those with higher odds were criminals without any particular special traits, such as Riddler. Riddles might have been fun, but he himself was a skinny man. His chances of escaping