"Of Gotham City's 30 million residents, 5 million have directly or indirectly participated in first-degree murder."
This was an underground safe house in Gotham City—the Riddler's lair, the safest and most secretive kind.
It had been arranged to look like an ordinary study. Killer Croc, sitting on the sofa, pulled a copy of Kant's Critique of Pure Reason from the bookshelf beside him. After flipping through it for a while and realizing he couldn't understand a single word, he angrily threw it onto the floor.
The Ventriloquist picked it up and shoved it back onto the shelf.
"About 15 million people have committed crimes at some point. Of the remaining 10 million who have never committed a crime, it isn't because they're good, ordinary citizens. It's because they're all hypocrites, gamblers, and prostitutes from the red-light districts."
The Riddler's voice echoed through the room. Jim Gordon was tied tightly to a chair, blindfolded, with a wad of cloth stuffed in his mouth.
"And the reason they haven't joined the criminal army isn't because of any noble qualities. It's because they haven't been driven into a corner."
The television was broadcasting footage. The Riddler confirmed that it was a live broadcast. Batman was there, just as he had planned. He continued:
"So, do you understand now? There are no good people in Gotham. The only ones who could be called good are addicts and gamblers, because they won't hurt anyone except themselves."
"I'm too tired. Year after year, day after day. Living among piles of garbage, committing crimes without end."
"If committing crimes is so exhausting, why not stop?" Movie Freak said. "You can stop committing crimes, can't you?"
"No. You don't understand at all."
The Riddler stood up somewhat frantically, then climbed onto the sofa and crouched there, hugging his