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Black Mask Joseph S. Walker Menger was in the back of a van, every breath he drew a knife driven into his chest. The pain was blinding. Two men bent over him, doing things he couldn’t see. He tried to scream and somebody stuffed a wad of cloth in his mouth. The last thing he felt before blackness took over was his body convulsing, every muscle seizing, the crown of his head driving into the metal floor as his back arched. There was a long, confused time. White rooms. Blood. He slipped in and out of the world like the