Maybe everything was ordained by fate. Poor old Bob had spent his entire life dealing with trashy fast food. Like the beat cops at the bottom of the ladder, his diet consisted of glazed donuts, bacon sandwiches, fried chicken hamburgers, and the like.
Three fast-food meals a day, followed by a cup of hot cocoa. Then he would sit in the office watching surveillance footage, drink some alcohol after getting home from work, and snore away in bed.
It was a lifestyle full of calories.
Naturally, it had brought him plenty of health problems: obesity, difficulty breathing, heart disease, high blood pressure, high blood sugar, high cholesterol, and a whole host of other drawbacks.
But it had also brought him certain benefits. Like today, when someone tried to split him in half from head to crotch, they had only cut through the fat on his chest and abdomen.
Some of his intestines had spilled out, but the wound was not fatal.
He was unconscious, but it was probably only shock. So the ambulance quickly loaded him up and prepared to take him to the hospital.
Arkham had its own doctors and infirmary, but after the flood, the doctors had yet to report for duty. Perhaps they had been taken out by some hero back when they turned into fish.
Fortunately, they still had working vehicles. Wayne Enterprises had sponsored Arkham's full-scale upgrade, strengthening its security measures and providing plenty of logistical equipment.
No one knew why Bruce Wayne was so generous, but he donated money to plenty of places. That playboy was rich, so who could tell him how to spend it? Besides, the guards benefited too. At the very least, fewer patients escaped, which gave them better odds of staying alive.
Inside the speeding ambulance, the engine rumbled while