“HAHAHAHAHA!”
It was my instant messenger. Riddler
set this system up for the “villain community” to keep in touch. I thought
it was silly then, and I think it’s silly now. But Harvey convinced me to
go along. Every
few months, one of those nutjobs comes up with an idea to do something social.
Usually it’s Harley. Usually it’s bowling.
I never go. I’m not a joiner. Harvey bugs me about
it. He’s probably my best friend among the Rogues Gallery, a big
brother-type, but he can be a real pest sometimes. Several months ago he called me:
..:: You
going to this Karaoke Happy Hour or not? ::.. “Oh yes, I long to hear Eddie Nigma and Ivy singing You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore.”
..:: You’re getting a reputation, Selina. They’re calling you a real prude. ::..
“Harvey,
have you ever SEEN my costume?”
..::
Come, just for an hour. It’ll be fun. ::..
“I don’t
want to. It’s stupid. You just want me to come because you know it will be
stupid and you’re going to have a terrible time. So you want me there to have a
terrible time with you.”
..::
It’ll be fun. If we didn’t think so, why would we be
going? ::..
“‘Cause
the coin came up heads.”
Shit,
why did I say that?, I thought. The line was eerily silent.
“Harvey,
I’m sorry, that was thoughtless and mean. You put me on the defensive—never a
good idea—and I lashed out. I’m really sorry.”
I
waited.
..::
Y’know, Selina, you could make a bit of an effort to at least appear to be one
of us. If there were half the stories about me and Batman as there are about
you, I’d be very worried. ::.. I smiled—I hoped it would come through in my voice as I said,
“Harvey, if there were any of the stories about you and Batman like
there are about me, we’d ALL be worried.”
He laughed. I was forgiven. But I was definitely on
the hook for Karaoke Happy Hour. I went. I’ll admit, it wasn’t that bad. Hugo
Strange was truly creepy. I figure he has a frequent-renter card at
Sleezo-Video. In trying to avoid him, I wound up talking most of the night to
Ed Nigma, who’s actually a fairly interesting guy in his lucid moments.
He doesn’t have many of them, but something about Harley Quinn crooning
Don’t
Cry for Me Argentina brought on a moment of clarity. So it wasn’t
absolutely hell on earth, but it’s nothing I’d want to make a habit of.
That’s why Harvey suggested going along with this IM idea.
..:: If you agree to a few of the little things,::.. he said,
..:: it’s easier to say no when they come up with something really obnoxious.
::..
“More obnoxious than karaoke?”
..:: There was talk of you
hosting Thanksgiving dinner. ::..
“Okay, okay.”
So I had this instant messenger on my desktop now. I knew it was only a matter of time before Batman found out and showed up on the
channel. I dismissed the idea that that’s why I installed it.
Anyway, it was on my desktop and it was cackling:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Joker,
obviously. I opened the dialogue window:
Catty? Babe? Who the hell did he think he’s talking
to?
A second line of text
appeared:
He was talking about Bronwyn Carlton, new reporter
at the Gotham Post. Now the Post is a tabloid scandal sheet. The stories they
print about Batman and the Rogues are completely and utterly false and
everyone in the super-community knows it. 90% of everybody else knows it too. But when one of their libelous flights of fancy is appealing, everybody can
make quite a distasteful show of pretending to believe it. That was the
case when they printed a story that Batman and I were having a torrid affair
(on the roof of police headquarters no less!), when they reported Nightwing was
our love child (How old do these people think I am?) Oh, and my personal
all-time favorite: that the time I helped the JLA with Prometheus, I just
happened to be at the WatchTower because I wanted to try a zero-gravity
three-way with Batman and Black Canary!
I typed…
Pitied by the Joker.
This was serious.
The last time Jack spoke to me, he threatened to
paste one of those deathsmiles on every cat in the city. He had just
found out I had not really killed Batman as I’d told him when I dropped him at
Arkham last year. What can I say; the clown has no sense of humor.
Hee-hee.
And now he pitied me.
And it was all because Bronwyn Carlton and her
chicks-behind-bars editor decided to name some (homely) Jane Doe in the county
jail as “CATWOMAN CAPTURED!” They followed with a perfectly ludicrous series of
articles about her arrest, abuse at the hands of the authorities, brainwashing
by Harley Quinn (Harley Quinn? HARLEY QUINN?!?!?
HARLEY FUCKING
QUINN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!). And finally, a supposed interview with this
fictitious Catwoman, including her confession to a number of robberies that
would have been absolutely beneath my dignity to bother with, for a payoff that
wouldn’t cover my tips.
I had decided to quietly ride out this ridiculous
episode just like all the others. How bad could it be, right? Well, it
wasn’t that bad—until I ran into Batman on the roof of a brokerage house.
Usually old Tall, Dark and Spooky will open with
something grandly pompous. This time he just stood there, staring.
And the side of his mouth twitched in an odd way.
“I thought you were in jail,” he said and his mouth
did that weird twitch again. And I thought:
Oh Jesus, it’s a
SMILE. He’s SMILING. He thinks this IS FUNNY!
I was so stunned I just let him take the bag…
bearer bonds… Didn’t hiss. Didn’t scratch. I know what you’re thinking
and you’re right: I dropped the ball and I’m damn lucky he didn’t slap the
cuffs on me right then…
Shit.
It suddenly occurred to me: Batman
reads the Post.
He’d never made any mention of those
earlier stories and I guess I figured he hadn’t seen them… Ho boy, I’ll worry
about that one tomorrow.
Problem was, after a stunt like CATWOMAN CAPTURED what
do you do for a topper? Ol’ Ms. Carlton and her editor discovered my name sells
papers, so now, so said tonight’s edition, I’d gone and shot Commissioner
Gordon. Yeah, like if I had a loaded gun he’d really be the one lying in a
pool of blood right now.
Jack was right, this Carlton woman did have to be
stopped. I just needed to figure out how…
Like all well-trained butler/valets, Alfred
Pennyworth ran a hot iron over the newspaper he placed each morning on his
employer’s breakfast tray. Laying down the tray on a bedside table, he then
opened the curtains, ran a hot bath, and laid out appropriate clothing for the
day ahead in a small dressing room adjacent to the bath. He then returned to
the bedroom. If Bruce Wayne had arisen, he would wish his employer a good
morning. If he had not, Alfred would pour the coffee and make relentlessly
polite smalltalk until Bruce accepted the inevitable and got out of bed. This
morning, on returning to the bedroom Alfred discovered that Bruce was indeed
awake, had unfolded the aforementioned paper, poured his coffee, and spat a
mouthful of it all over the Entertainment section. Still coughing, he was
simultaneously trying to mop up the puddle with a napkin and read the soggy
words beneath.
The incident was caused by a box labeled Stage
Views right beneath the fold:
CATWOMAN PURRS
Alfred was able to read this much over Bruce’s
shoulder. With the superhuman restraint heaven grants to English butlers,
he resisted the urge to tear the paper from Bruce’s fingers and turn to page
E-5. Bruce looked up at him, seemingly waiting for a comment.
“Quite an unexpected development, sir.”
“Quite,” Bruce muttered sourly.
“Would you know, er, if this lady is who she
claims?”
“How on Earth would I know that, Alfred? We
fight, we wear masks; we don’t exchange business cards.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“I’m sorry I snapped at you, Old Friend, it’s just…
my mind’s juggling a thousand possibilities right now.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Call whatshername—Gretta.”
“Brandi, sir.”
“Brandi. Cancel our date tonight. And get me a
ticket for this thing.”
“Sir, if you’re going to be attending the theatre,
why not bring the young lady along?”
Why indeed, thought Bruce.
“No, break the date,” he answered, then offered an
explanation although none was asked for. “I don’t know what to expect from this
thing, and I don’t want anybody close by gauging my reaction.” He wasn’t sure
if he was telling the truth or not, and it made him uncomfortable. “No, wait—call Dick, see if he’d like to go. Get two tickets if he does.”
Alfred was perhaps the only person on the planet
who could truly challenge the man behind the Bat at these moments, and part of
that particular privilege was knowing when not to question. Much as Bruce’s
logic seemed bizarre and arbitrary, he made the required calls without comment. To be continued… |
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