#practical jokes

The Batcave was quiet. Not serene, not peaceful—just quiet in that exhausted, overtaxed way that came only when Batman was on patrol alone and everyone else knew better than to linger too long in his shadow. The smell of metal and ozone, the flickering blue glow from the computer monitors, the ever-present hum of machines made it feel like the belly of something ancient and cold.

Tim Drake had been watching the pattern for weeks. Every third Thursday, like clockwork, another envelope would be sitting on the Batcomputer’s keyboard. Plain manila, sealed with duct tape. Bruce never said anything out loud—he just stared, picked it up with gloved fingers, opened it, and then either left the room or smashed something within the next three minutes. There was never an in-between.

Tonight, Tim was done pretending he hadn’t noticed. Bruce had already stormed off after viewing the latest one, his jaw tight enough to crack. Once the platform elevator whirred into motion and disappeared up into the manor, Tim made his move.

The envelope was still warm.

Inside was a glossy 8x10 photograph—studio lit, deep red backdrop, dramatic shadows. Jason, in full Red Hood armor, crouched behind a stiff, grinning Joker corpse dressed like a prom queen. The tiara glittered under perfect lighting. The bouquet of dead roses cradled in rigor-stiff hands was a nice touch.

“Jesus Christ,” Tim muttered.

“You say that every time,” came a voice from above.

Tim didn’t even jump. He just turned, slowly, and saw Jason Todd hanging upside-down from one of the cave’s overhead support beams. He was lounging like a very smug vampire bat, sans cape, mask pushed up onto his forehead and eyes glittering with amusement.

“I should’ve known it was you,” Tim sighed.

“You say that every time too.”

Jason flipped down, boots slamming into the floor with a theatrical thud. He looked good. Suspiciously good. The kind of good that only came from causing long-term psychological damage to someone you hated but were also deeply, hopelessly tangled up in emotionally.

Tim eyed him. “How the hell are you getting in here?”

Jason just grinned. “That’s a secret.”

“You do know this is actually insane, right?”

“Oh, for sure. But it’s also hilarious.”

Tim held up the photo. “He was wearing a tiara.”

“Miss Gotham 1983,” Jason said proudly. “Found it in a thrift store. Whole outfit cost me eight bucks.”

Tim stared at him for a long moment. “Shouldn’t he be… rotting?”

“Nah.” Jason wandered over, snatched the photo back, brushed a smudge off Joker’s cheek with his thumb like a proud dad at a dance recital. “I took like 400 pictures in advance. Went all out—different props, costumes, backgrounds. Even got a fog machine for the Halloween shoot. Cremated the bastard after. So I’ve got enough content to keep this up for years.”

Tim blinked. “You made a posthumous Joker photoshoot content calendar?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Jason said, mock-wounded. “Makes it sound petty.”

“It is petty.”

“And yet, it’s art.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tim repeated.

Jason threw himself into one of the swivel chairs, arms spread, legs kicked up on the table. “You have to admit, it’s the only thing that’s kept B on his toes in months. He gets one of my love letters, he gets all broody, and then he does something reckless like punch a window or jump off a building without a grapple. It’s like cardio, but for his emotions.”

“You’re seriously unhinged.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

Tim hesitated. “You kept the body for how long?”

“Five days. Had to keep him fresh for the Santa shoot.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m telling Alfred.”

“He already knows,” Jason said gleefully. “Told me the snow globe prop was too cliché. Suggested mistletoe and a string of lights instead.”

Tim swore softly, wondering how he ever believed he was the sane one in this family.

Jason leaned in, suddenly serious. “But you have to admit, the photography’s pretty damn good.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. He’d been avoiding that part. But he couldn’t deny it—each photo was perfectly composed. The lighting, the posing, the technical skill…

“…Did you hire a photographer?”

Jason snorted. “No. Took a night class. Stole a camera. Did some reading. I had time.”

Tim crossed his arms. “You know, I am a photographer.”

Jason’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“I could take better ones.”

“You did not just challenge me to a petty corpse photoshoot war.”

“No,” Tim said, already smiling like a demon. “I’m thinking escalation. You’re all about theater, right? Let’s flip the script.”

Jason leaned in, interested. “Go on.”

Tim walked over to one of the sealed storage lockers in the cave’s lower level. Entered a code. Waited for the hiss of air and the metallic click. Inside: Jason’s old suit. Red and green, bloodstained. Preserved. Sacred. A relic Bruce had refused to let go of.

“I hate that thing,” Jason muttered, voice low.

“That’s why it’ll work.”

Jason stared at him. “You want to dress me like a twelve-year-old zombie Christmas ornament and take post-mortem photos of me to mess with Bruce?”

Tim shrugged. “He’s already seeing Joker’s stiff corpse in ball gowns every other week. Might as well complete the tableau. Little Robin, tragically returned from the grave. Very Victorian.”

Jason let out a slow, long breath. “God, you are darker than me.”

“I just hide it better.”

Jason was quiet for a minute. Then he stood. “Alright. But if I’m wearing that thing, I’m also getting a sword.”

“You don’t get a sword.”

“I died, Tim. I get a fucking sword.”

“I’ll give you a slingshot.”

“Slingshot and sword. Final offer.”

Tim sighed. “Fine.”

Within an hour, the Batcave had been transformed into a gothic nightmare. Candelabras flickered from hidden corners. Tim had set up the lighting rig, testing shadow filters and camera angles with a level of detached professionalism that unnerved even Jason.

The suit was too small, tight across the shoulders and arms, but Jason bore it with grim theatricality. His hair slicked back, the domino mask painted on, and an antique sword across his lap as he sat in the overstuffed armchair from Alfred’s collection, stiff and perfect.

Tim adjusted the lighting. “Tilt your head a little. Look more… lifeless.”

“I am lifeless, Replacement.”

“Okay, less sass, more dead.”

Click. Flash. Jason’s blank face was chilling in the first few shots. Then Tim started posing him.

One arm over a teddy bear. Head cocked at a weird angle. A fake blood trail drawn under his nose. Flowers in his lap. A torn comic in one limp hand.

Jason didn’t laugh—but his mouth twitched more than once.

The final shot was staged in front of the massive penny, with Jason posed on a pile of bat-shaped paper cutouts, eyes wide open, looking accusingly toward the camera like a ghost caught in the act of haunting.

“You’re really good at this,” Jason said, impressed.

“I’m a genius,” Tim replied.

They left the first photo for Bruce the next morning—Jason posed like a saint in stained glass, hands folded over his chest, a cracked Robin ‘R’ badge on his tunic, and a halo made from repurposed Batarangs.

Bruce didn’t speak for a full two days.

Then the punching bag in the training room turned up shredded, the Batmobile vanished for twelve hours, and the emergency alert system registered no less than six unauthorized cave entries, all traced to Jason’s apartment.

Tim and Jason just waited. Quietly. Patiently.

Round two would involve a rocking horse and a eulogy read by a ventriloquist dummy in a Batman cowl.