Well, well, well...
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Allow me to take this opportunity to thank you for graciously choosing to spend your evening reading my words. Really, I am flattered, and I do hope I provide an interesting read. I hope that amidst the random tangents, flurried pen strokes and simple riddles, you can divine one single thing. This is your task, dear reader, as you skim my pages: Why am I who I am? A simple question, really. A simple... riddle. Ponder it as you read.
Shall I begin like Charles Dickens? "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." Or shall I begin in the more widely accepted fashion. "I was a boy, I grew up, I had a family, I had a home..." Yes, I suppose I could, couldn't I? I could choose either approach and the piece would be all the same in the long run, but that's all rather cut and dry. If you word anything correctly, the meaning becomes clear, so for the sake of your intellectuality, let's take this in a more Grecian fashion. Let us make Socrates proud as I leave the question to you: How did I begin? Consider my crimes and my tactics, my mind and my style... how did it all begin? As this is paper and I am, most likely, not in your presence, I'll go ahead and fill in the blanks. Keep in mind, dear reader, that I do not often answer my own riddles for nothing, so you should feel quite privileged. I began as a cliche. My mother, she who was supposed to be the prime number of womanhood, was not present in my young life, or any other time for that matter. I don't know or care where she was, but the fact remains that she wasn't there holding my hand. As for my father, he... well, let us say he liked to make me experience my life to the fullest. Of course, he thought the easiest way to accomplish that goal was through force. Through pain. Oh yes, I remember it well. The constant barrage of confidence shattering verbal assaults, followed so deftly by the well placed kick or slap. If my father had taken the time to coordinate an argument as well as he coordinate my rough upbringing, I have no doubt that his rhetoric would far outweigh my own. However, this was not the path he chose in life, and I rather like to believe I have him to thank for my own choices. So strong was my resolve to... Ha ha. Well look at that. I nearly answered my own question, didn't I? Let us return to the subject of my father, the only parental unit present in my young life. The reason behind his rather strong hand was obvious to me quite early on: I confused him. I baffled him because I was, to put it simply, smarter than he was. He didn't understand me, and so he vented his frustrations through his fists. He was a mature man, my father. Remember the riddle.
The rest, as they say, is history. My life is, (and I realize I am at the mercy of the pun), one big Riddle. The life of the tortured, isolated genius was the life I lived throughout childhood and adolescence. Of course, I managed to find my outlets. In puzzles. Crosswords, word finds, Riddles... their complexities mimicked my own in ways I could never have imagined, and so I gravitated towards them. Of course, flexing my obvious intellect was an additional bonus. I suppose you can fill in the blanks from what I'm -not- telling you about my life as a teenage genius, and anyone in Gotham who can read a paper knows about my escapades as an adult. And so we come back to the beginning. Why am I who I am? Have you figured it out, dear reader? If you have managed to take form these few measly paragraphs the meaning behind my existence, I truly do applaude you, and trust me, I have heard all the theories tumbling through your head.
The lack of a mother in my life has left me devoid of the ability to feel, and thus my mind causes me to lash out in ways to manifest the emotions I have never experienced. Her absence left me without the basic human capacity to love, simply because I'd never experienced it. An educated hypothesis, to say the least. Or perhaps my father's abuse left me broken and scarred, and since the only example I ever knew was the palm of his hand, I am more prone to violence and crime. In other words, perpetual anger drives me. Once again, an educated theorem. But, when you look at it, am I not an affectionate person? Do I not show the same love and compassion to my puzzles that a mother shows to her child? And, though many of my crimes end in a fatal result, nothing I have ever done substantiates the claim that I am hopelessly violent. Unlike my good friend Harvey Dent, my crimes denote intellect, not testosterone. My victims could have survived, should they have used their minds, while Mr. Dent's merely... well, to be honest, they often explode. My lack of brutality undercuts the second theory, and my affection for certain things undercuts the first. So what is the true answer? I suggest you think quickly, dear reader, lest the Riddle catch up with you.
You know that irritating, never ending little scratch you get in the center of your forehead when you think too hard? I suspect you'll be developing it right about now. I am that itch. I am the pounding headache you'll develop several minutes from now, and until you solve this riddle, I'll never go away. I am the Prince of Puzzles, the Quizmaster and the Crowned King of Conundrums.
I... am the Riddler...
The Magic 8-Ball.
