Dark.
The city is blanketed in night, but it is not half as dark as his mind.
He stands on the precipice overlooking his beloved city, far up on the ledge of a skyscraper. A ledge that normally is only occupied by a vigilant stone gargoyle. His long black cloak shifts in the frigid November breeze, while rain drizzles down the twin points of his mask, fashioned to look similar to the ears of a bat. He barely notices either rain or cold. Those are annoyances for men.
He is Batman.
His annoyances take the form of criminal masterminds like the one he's stalked to the penthouse apartment of the building directly across from where he stands. The lunatic that came to HIS city and dared to defile the priceless works of art in the Gotham Art Institute and then left a calling card challenging the caped crusader to catch him. The thought made him smile, but it didn't hold even a glimmer of humor.
Challenge accepted.
Removing the high powered magnetic grappling gun from his utility belt, he swings silently through the night. His target is easy, the penthouse has a patio the size of a helicopter landing pad. The muscles in his arms burn as he arcs, suspended in the air, thousands of feet above the unforgiving pavement. He welcomes the burn, it makes him feel alive. His feet come in contact with balcony and he rolls silently out of the light that washes down from the building he occupied seconds before, shadow welcomes him with open arms. He is a creature of shadow. He is the night.
He puts a high-tech listening device to the glass leading to the apartment within. One of the thousands of gadgets bought with his father's money, used in a vain attempt to avenge the great Thomas Wayne. That was originally the plan anyway, until it became more than that. Until it became obsession. The little device made it sound like he was sitting inside the room with the four men who were laughing at their latest coup and playing a game of cards. From their dialogue it sounds like hold'em poker. His cold smile spoke of a new ace about to be dealt.
He tests the sliding glass door and finds it unlocked. Sloppy.
Easing the barrier open, he steps onto the spongy carpet. His smile is gone, replaced by a look of grim determination, but it remains on the inside. The carpet will make his movement even more silent than normal, life always seems to favor the just. As long as the just wore a cape and mask.
Creeping to a corner where the hallway led into a room obviously designed as the central living area. Bright light from a gaudy crystal chandler made the room seem almost cheerful. Around a square table sat the four men that were the target of his long search. They were sitting at ease in their dark brown suits, suits cut about 3 sizes too large for each of them. The leader wore his trademark beagle puss despite being in the supposed safety of his own home. That was the extent of his dependence on the 'mask', it was a dependency to which Batman could relate. But he felt no brotherly love for this madman, just a sense of peace in the knowledge that one of them would be getting what they deserved despite the outcome of the impending fight.
With a flick of his wrist the black crescent Batarang took flight toward the chain holding the chandler aloft. The sound as it crashed to the ground was almost musical. He took advantage of the sudden absence of light by dashing into the room and ducking behind a large couch within. The other men probably hadn't seen him enter, but he didn't like to take chances.
Three strong flashlight beams scanned across the room. They settled on the fallen chandler and Batman heard the leader speak for the first time.
"That's what I get for renting such a dump of an apartment. Looks like this fucking place is falling apart around me."
His voice was both high and nasal, like someone pretending to be a nerd in a high school skit, but his came naturally like that. Batman longed to introduce his fists to the face that could intone such a voice.
"Good thing I keep a spare light around!" He rasped.
Batman could hear a long flatulent sound followed by a bright burst of fire. The four men laughed.
Batman made his move.
Jumping from his cover behind the couch he landed on the henchman closest to him. Throwing a quick jab to the man's gut would be enough to incapacitate him until he could deal with the next threat, but his punch was rewarded with a long farting noise.
"Thank God for my Whoopi-Cushion armor!" The man said, pushing to his feet and regrouping with the other three.
Batman could hear his teeth grinding, but he did not care. He hated being caught off guard.
"Your reign of...irritation is over Dirty Sanchez!" his voice had the sound of gravel covered in ice. The effect it produced made him smile.
"We'll see about that Bat-butt! It's nacho typical day when Dirty Sanchez doesn't get away. I'll continue to destroy those fakery-dakery pieces of "art" and replace them with my beautiful image. And to make sure that I do get away, I've retained three of my favorite Mexican dishes." His gaze took in the three goons in the too big suits. "Softstool Taco, Burrito Shitpreme and Nacho Splacho. They'll keep you company while I slip away down the drain."
The goons were laughing at their leaders speech. Batman could see that each one had a patch sewn on the lapel of his suit. One boasted a taco, one a burrito and one a bowl of nachos. The cliché labeling of villains almost made him smile for real. But Batman did not have time to laugh at jokes.
Burrito Shitpreme took a swing at his head, but he was slow and dodging it was easy for the Batman. Countering with a jab to the groin, Burrito went down like a wet wheat wrap. Nacho Splacho was pulling out a box of razor sharp throwing nachos when he was forcefully introduced to the heel of Batman's boots. It only took him about ten seconds to take down Softstool Taco as well. Tacos are always gone too quickly.
He ran down the hall after the escaping Dirty Sanchez. He didn't have far to run, because the mastermind was waiting for him at the end of the long hall in front of the gilded elevator doors.
"Here is where I choose to make my Montezuma's Last Stand Bat-Fart!" That nasal voice was piercing his nerves.
"It ends now Sanchez!" he almost growled.
"Right you are Bat-Crap!" Dirty Sanchez was giggling like a school girl that had just seen her first penis.
His hand was tracing the ornate carvings on the elevator door. Finding what he'd been looking for, he pressed hard on the hidden catch and a small section of the wall swung open. He grabbed a long barreled gun with what looked like a French horn bell at the end. Leveling the weapon at Batman and pulled the trigger.
A stream of green gas burst from the muzzle and surrounded him. Coughing he grabbed the gas mask from his utility belt, but, before he could get it on, he realized that the gas he was breathing smelled like farts. His adversary was rolled on the floor laughing. Tears streaming from his eyes.
Batman grabbed this man by the collar, pulling him eye to eye with himself.
"So you think it's funny do you? Well you won't think prison is quite so funny Dirty Sanchez!"
"Oh I highly doubt I'll be going to prison Batman." Sanchez was smiling like he had just made a great joke.
"Of course you will. You put shit mustaches on priceless works of art. They don't take vandalism of paintings that can never be replaced lightly in Gotham."
Batman was still longing to punch this man until he bled, but he wasn't fighting back and there was no cause for it.
Dirty Sanchez shook his head, still laughing. His ponytail bobbing up and down with each chuckle.
"They were fakes. The real paintings are hidden inside a crate down in the Art Institute basement. I never even took them off the grounds."
Gasping Batman dropped the man unceremoniously to the ground. It took little time to tie him and his goons up together and phone Commissioner Gordon. Ten minutes later Gordon confirmed that every painting that had been destroyed was a fake and his men had recovered the real paintings from the basement crate. They were all as good as new.
"WHY!" He demanded of Dirty Sanchez pulling the insipid beagle puss off his face.
He was looking at the face of Kenny Bolas, one of Gotham's richest men. Almost as rich as Bruce Wayne.
"Boredom mostly and it was funny. How many men can say they've gone toe to toe with the Batman? And how many less can say they shot him with a fart gun!"
His smile seemed to take up his whole face, but Batman had no choice. No crime had been committed, this was not a place for justice.
Leaving the man on the floor laughing, he swung into the cold and rain that he could no longer ignore. A rich playboy had momentarily shattered his self-image. A costumed Bruce Wayne made his way quickly home and there he sat brooding.
He hated when people made him look un-cool.
He is Batman.
Tonight he smells of farts.