Disclaimer: If you're a lawyer who's job it is to troll through fan fiction sites looking for copyright violations, then please sue me. This is my gift to you just to give you some kind of a break from your hollow, meaningless existence. I'd suggest introducing the roof of your mouth to the barrel of a .357 Magnum, but if you're not quite there yet then this will have to do.

Author's Note: I'd just like to say that I'm mostly familiar with Batman through the nineties cartoon, so I'm sure that'll come through, but I consider this set in its own generic, nondescript Batman universe. A stock Batman world if you will, with no particular history or continuity associated with it. I'd call it AU, but AU is an overused term that annoys me for no particular reason. So fuck AU.

P.S. "The Batlord" has nothing at all to do with Batman. That would be totally lame and require the forfeiture of all lands and titles and immediate seppuku. It's a Bathory reference and I've had it for over a decade. If you don't get it then you probably wouldn't care anyway. Loser.

P.P.S. That dude who whacked off in your bushes and left the used tissues on your windowsill? That wasn't me.

What If Batman Was a Dirtbag?

Prologue

The city was almost quiet tonight. The screams, normally only interrupted by the gunshots, were nowhere to be heard. The accompanying blaring wails of police sirens seemed to be elsewhere. Even the demented laughter of some of the more colorful denizens of this corrupt metropolis had taken the night off.

The city, usually coated in a thick layer of filth and overhung by a foul haze of smog, had been washed clean by a soft rain so that every surface glittered under the dim glow of the street lights.

Gotham City was positively tranquil.

But on one rooftop, one silent figure was unsilent.

"Fuck this shit!" said the Batman as he adjusted what looked vaguely like hi-tech aviator goggles on his cowled face, "What's the point of x-ray vision if you can't spy on people fucking? They just look like a bunch of skeletons boning."

He chuckled at that, "Heh, boning."

In his cowl's radio earpiece someone cleared their throat, "Master Bruce," said Alfred from the cavernous depths of the Batcave, "Far be it for me to intrude upon your...surveillance, but perhaps your attention would be better served by searching for your actual quarry?"

"Alfred, I don't tell you how to make a fucking Monte Cristo, so don't tell me how to catch fucking criminals."

A sigh. "Very good, Master Bruce. Perhaps you would be so kind as to refresh my memory, but whom exactly is it that we are so professionally waiting for?"

"There's a new crime boss in town. Roberto Costanza. Or Constanza Roberto. I forget. I'm not really a details kinda crime fighter."

"Very good, sir."

"Fuck off. He's a minor player in the New York/New Jersey sex trade and now he's trying to get the edge on his competition back home by expanding into Gotham."

"Because the one thing this city is short on is criminal masterminds."

"In-fucking-deed. Left alone I'm sure he'd wind up face down in Gotham Bay courtesy of the Joker or Two-Face, but in the meantime he's got a clearance sale on underage girls."

"Delicately put, sir."

"Eat dick. And now I've managed to track down his new base of operations: a formerly abandoned apartment complex in the Bowery converted into a brothel."

"And a most reputable part of the city he has chosen I might add. But I don't suppose very many Mafia bosses decide to locate their houses of ill repute in Gotham Heights."

"You'd be surprised, Alfred."

"I'm not even going to ask how you know that, Master Bruce."

"Infiltration, Alfred. Infiltration."

A sigh.

"Unfortunately there's no way to connect him to this place short of catching him red handed, so here I am, sitting my black ass on this fucking rooftop with nothing to do until he decides to show up but stare at some shithole building across the street and watch a bunch of skeletons make the beast with two backs.

"Son of a bitch!" exclaimed the Caped Crusader, "That all sounded an awful lot like fucking exposition. God damn bullshit is what it is. And it's pretty suspicious that you, my manservant, someone who has been briefed on this operation twice tonight alone, and been instrumental in helping my investigation for the past two months, would forget the entire reason we're even here. I think you need to get checked for Alzheimer's, old man."

"Charming, sir. Forgive me, but didn't you mention that Mr. Costanza deals in children?"

"Yeah."

"And would these children be those same unfortunate women that you are attempting to 'surveil'?"

"Uh...yeah."

"..."

"Well...I guess it's a lucky thing these goggles are only good for their intended purpose."

"Very good, sir."

"I swear to fucking god, Alfred, one of these days."

"Indeed, Master Bruce," said Alfred stifling a yawn, "But as stimulating as this conversation is it doesn't appear that Mr. Costanza will be gracing us with his presence tonight, and since it is well past this 'old man's' bed time, I believe I shall be turning in for the night."

"It's always nice to see such dedication in one's retainers."

"I would remind Master Bruce that I am currently performing duties usually reserved for Master Dick. If you are in need of assistance then perhaps you should contact him..."

"Fuck him. He's the one who quit. He's the one who abandoned all of his responsibilities. And he's the one who ran off like a fucking pussy."

"You must forgive this senile old man's memory, but whom was it who laid hands upon Ms. Gordon's posterior?"

"I was drunk! And you saw that skirt. No jury in the world would have convicted me."

"And I suppose she was simply asking for it by leaning forward to show Ms. Vreeland the diamond engagement ring that Master Dick had so recently given to her?"

"What's your point?"

"My point is, good night and good luck with Mr. Costanza, Master Bruce."

And with that Alfred clicked off, leaving the Batman to fume alone on the rooftop.

"Smartass old Limey bastard. Fuck it," he exclaimed, stifling a yawn of his own, "Time for a bump."

The crime fighter reached down to his belt and removed a small capsule. Popping the top he put it up to his right nostril and put a finger over his left. With a mighty snort he inhaled half the contents of the capsule before repeating the process with his left nostril. The Batman sniffed a few times and wiped away some stray cocaine residue.

"Fuck yeah!" he said, stretching his arms over his cowled head, "Nothing like a little bit of the Aunt Nora to unclear the sinuses."

For the life of him the Batman couldn't understand how a masked vigilante could live a full, normal life by day and then stay up all night dodging bullets without a little chemical assistance. He couldn't prove it yet but he suspected Superman was hooked on crystal meth (there was no way he could afford to be a cokehead on a reporter's salary after all). Still, it seemed like half the Bat Budget went to the booger sugar these days. But fuck it.

Coked up and rejuvenated the Batman resumed his watch.

"Hello, what's this?"

From a side street pulled up a nondescript sedan. It rolled to a halt at the curb by the brothel and out stepped none other than Roberto Costanza himself with two powerfully built body guards. Their expensive Armani suits stood out like neon lights in the seedy surroundings of the Bowery. Quickly they sauntered into the apartment building and the Batman prepared...

"Did you know the Amish are running drugs for the Hell's Angels?" asked Costanza's bodyguard from where he stood guarding the door of the mobster's small but well-appointed office on the ground floor of the brothel.

"Joey...what?" replied his fellow bodyguard by the window as he kept watch on the street.

"I said the Amish are running-"

"Yeah, I heard you, but what the fuck are you talking about?"

"What? I heard it on the news a while back."

"What news?"

"I don't know. The News."

"Joey, that is literally, literally, the dumbest thing I have ever heard in my life."

"Hey, how do you know it isn't true?"

"Cause they're the fucking Amish. Why the fuck would they be running drugs?"

"What, just cause they're the Amish they can't be corrupt? Maybe some of 'em got tired of selling cabbages at the Farmer's Market."

"But...they're the Amish. How would they even know any Hell's Angels?"

"You know they do actually interact with the outside world. Maybe some young Amish guy was sick of raising barns and felt like catchin' a sneaky beer at some dive bar and then some Hell's Angel motherfucker saw him."

"What? No. You're stupid. Why would any Hell's Angel think to get some Amish guy to run drugs?"

"Are you kidding? It's the perfect crime. Who'd ever suspect the Amish?"

"Only a moron apparently."

"Hey, fuck you. Just you wait, Vinnie. It's only a matter of time till the DEA raids Amish country and then I'll be there to say I told you so."

"Why do you talk?"

"Both of you shut the fuck up!" yelled Roberto Costanza from behind his desk, various papers laid out before him, "I can't even hear myself-"

With a flash and the pop of exploding light bulbs the room was plunged into darkness.

"What the fuck?"

"A fuse?"

"Must be. All the rest of the block still has power."

"God damn it. One of you assholes go check the-"

The window exploded inward, showering the mobsters with broken glass, but nothing could be seen in the blackened room.

"Jesus fucking Christ!"

"Shit, it's the-"

A crack. A thud.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

The deafening explosions of three gunshots. Static images of violence flashed across the walls of the office.

After a moment of dumb confusion Costanza stumbled around his desk and bolted for where he prayed the door was. He fumbled for the doorknob for several desperate moments.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

Finally he threw open the door and dove into the claustrophobic nothingness of the hallway.

With hands stretched out in front of him Costanza blindly fumbled around for a wall to guide him to an exit. He heard doors opening all around him and hookers and patrons alike in various states of dress and undress blindly fled into the pitch black corridor shrieking in terror. Costanza was suddenly buffeted along by a seething mass of humanity dragging him to who knows where.

In his panic to escape his office he hadn't even thought to draw his gun, but now he drew his Beretta 9mm from its shoulder holster and pointed it at the ceiling.

Three shots rang out, thunderous in the enclosed space of the hallway, and Costanza screamed into the mob, "Outta my fucking way! Get the fuck outta my way!"

But the wails only multiplied and the crush surged all around him. Costanza was knocked violently to the ground and could only curl into the fetal position while he was trampled by the panicked mob.

After an agonizing eternity he was left alone, battered and bruised but miraculously with nothing broken, in the hallway, now lightless and silent as death. The mob boss struggled painfully to his feet, leaning against a wall to support his throbbing left leg. After taking a second to recover his wits Costanza cautiously staggered forward, groaning at his leg and myriad other cuts and bruises, but stopped short when something intangible behind him raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Apprehensively he turned around and peered into the blackness from whence he had come.

"Joey? Vince?"

Silence.

Shit, shit, shit.

"You...you're there aren't you? I know you're there. You're...you're him. Aren't you?"

Long seconds passed with no sound except Costanza's labored breathing in the murky darkness of the hallway.

"Answer me! Answer me god damn it! You're fucking dead, do you hear me! Nobody does this to me! Nobody!"

Costanza reached for his gun, only to realize that it had been lost when he fell.

"Fuck! No, no, no, no, no!"

He desperately dropped to his knees and blindly groped for the gun on the cold, dirty, concrete floor. He was hyperventilating by the time his hand finally brushed the weapon. With a hysterical laugh Costanza snatched it up and swung it around to point into the gloom.

His only warning was a glint of metal before his Beretta was ripped from his hand to clatter to the ground behind him. No sooner had he cried out in shock than he was seized and slammed against a cracked plaster wall. His teeth snapped shut on his tongue and he yelped as blood trickled unnoticed down his chin to fall onto the black, gloved hands pinning him to the wall by his suit lapels.

Thrust hard against the wall, skull screaming from the blow, Roberto Costanza came face-to-face with the Batman. The darkness was nearly absolute, but a silhouette, wreathed in shadow, could just be seen: black-gloved hands with a grip of iron met powerful arms of chiseled muscle; broad, powerful shoulders from which hung a cape fashioned in the shape of the wings of a monstrous bat; the mask, a face from the depths of every criminal's nightmares, ending in the twin horns of a devil; but most of all he saw the eyes: white, triangular slits hovering at arms' length in front of him, boring into him, their gaze cold and merciless.

Costanza's bladder emptied into his three-hundred dollar Armani pants.

"What's wrong, Costanza?" asked the figure before him, its voice cold stone, "No bluster? No threats? Would you prefer if I was a fifteen-year old girl, you slime?"

They were interrupted by a thump from directly to the Batman's left.

Dropping Costanza unceremoniously to the floor the Batman whirled to face this new threat.

"Who's there? Show yourself!"

With his trained night vision the Batman could see relatively well in the gloom, but he was still startled when out of the room next to him sprang a naked woman, her body trussed up by ropes in a complex series of knots so that her arms were crossed at the wrists behind her back with her legs bound together, forcing her to awkwardly hop forward, breasts bouncing to and fro with every up-and-down motion. In terror she blindly pogoed straight for the Batman, muffled screams coming from around what appeared to be a dirty sock.

"Hey, wait, stop!"

Too late. The girl careened right into him, bowling him over, and they both crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Mostly his.

"Aw what the fuck-get off me, bitch!"

The impact knocked loose the sock and the prostitute screamed directly into the Batman's face.

"Jesus fucking Christ, shut-oomph!"

A generous rack thrust directly into his face in the girl's panicked struggles momentarily silenced him. When he could again speak he exclaimed, "God damn it, calm the fuck down...hey, how old are you?"

"What?!"

"How. Old. Are you?"

"Twenty-one?"

"Try again."

"...Sixteen?"

"Aw shit, you gotta get the fuck off me!" and he heaved her to the side.

Standing up he used a batarang to cut her free before helping to her feet.

"Are you alright?"

"Uh, yeah. Wait, so...are you...are you, you know...him?"

"Him?"

"You know...the Batman," this last was barely above a whisper.

"And if I am?"

"Uh..."

"Would I ever see you in a place like this again?"

"No! I swear! You'd never, ever, ever see me again!"

And with that she stumbled as quickly as the darkness would allow away from the Batman and hopefully toward an exit.

"Hey, you, girl."

"Wh-what?"

"Why don't you rob a bank in a couple years and I'll show you how to use a pair of handcuffs."

"O...okay?" she mumbled, scurrying ever quicker away from this most surreal of situations.

When she had finally gone the Batman turned back to Costanza who was now slumped on the floor against the wall, staring wide-eyed up at the vigilante, dazed and only half-conscious.

"Nice girl," said the Batman, "Bit of a whore though."

As if on cue Costanza's eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted.

"Must be a feminist."

As soon as he had handcuffed Costanza the Dark Knight finally heard the approaching sirens of the police.

"That's my cue to skidoo."

Wasting no time he opened a window into an alleyway and leapt out into the night...

...And into a dumpster full of used condoms.

"Oh god no! No, no, no, no, no!"

The Caped Crusader scrambled out of the foul heap, frantically swatting at the soiled prophylactics clinging to his suit like sticky, latex leeches. Any passersby could have perhaps been forgiven for assuming that he had just walked into a spider web.

"Why are these even here?! Wouldn't all these condoms attract the wrong kind of attention?! And why aren't they even in trash bags?! Who just puts giant piles of used condoms in a dumpster?! Who?! I oughta go back and kick that dago motherfucker's ass!"

Once free of the revolting rubbers the Batman gazed over the vile refuse surrounding him and shuddered, "I fucking hate these whorehouses. There's always something that means Alfred's going to have to break out the color-safe bleach. They need to legalize this shit already so I don't have to deal with it."

With that thought the Batman stopped. And considered...

Six Months Later...

Down the freeway on the outskirts of Gotham City cruised a cherry-red 2012 Corvette. It was the middle of the night and the few other cars on the road only served to emphasize that feeling of sweet loneliness that only exists in the silent interior of a car in the early hours of the morning. The solitude soothed the nerves of Dick Grayson to an extent as he drew near to Gotham for the first time in over a year, but even with the calming effect of the road a sinking feeling was settling in the pit of his stomach.

He'd spent the last year on a long honeymoon touring the islands of the South Pacific with Barbara. The sojourn had been necessary, not just for his marriage, but as a way to purge the preceding few years from his system. (It was also a convenient plot device for one lazyass writer. Hey, at least I'm honest. Fourth wall humor FTW!) For quite possibly the first time in his life Grayson felt like his head was on somewhere in the general direction of straight. But the specter of Gotham was giving his hands just the slightest tremor.

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

Honestly, if Bruce hadn't contacted him out of the blue for the first time since Dick had stormed out of Wayne Manor he'd probably have never returned. But his adopted father had called and against his better judgement he'd come. Bruce had claimed to have something very important to speak with him about, but Dick couldn't help but be suspicious. There was always something important, and it always led to the same thing. Still, even if this all turned out to be a waste of his time Dick had some things to do and say that he realized he needed to get off his chest before he finally left Gotham in his rearview mirror for good.

Dick absently flicked his gaze to an approaching billboard and then returned his attention to the dull yellow lines on either side of his car. After another moment he snapped back to the sign which proclaimed something that instantly shattered whatever tranquility he'd been holding on to.

On either side of the billboard stood two rather voluptuous young women in tight-fitting lingerie that left rather little to the imagination. On each of their faces were matching expressions of languid pleasure that promised all the carnal delights one could imagine and more. And with a hand on the waist of either woman, with a grin both friendly and lewd was Bruce Wayne.

Above their heads, in glaring red letters taller than a man, four words seared themselves into the night...

WAYNE'S HOUSE OF ASS

Dick Grayson had about three seconds to process this before his car slammed into the back of the car in front of him.

To Be Fucking Continued...

One Last Thing Before You Fuck Off to Go Smoke a Cigarette or Masturbate: I'm a shameless attention whore, so I'd just like to add a few acknowledgements to a few bands that you don't care about who have gotten me through this process: Motley Crue (first two albums are legitimately, non-ironically great), Method Man (if I still smoked weed Tical would be one of my go to albums), Machine Head (they kinda suck but they kinda rule at the same time), Warlord (criminally underrated gods of eighties power metal), Exodus (to this day the opening riff to "Bonded By Blood" gives me a shot of adrenaline), Britney Spears (everything from Oops! I Did It Again to Blackout was fantastic), Michael Schenker Group (kinda meh, but "Armed and Ready" is fucking badass), Crimson Glory (another criminally underrated eighties power metal band), Pantera (not a big fan but Far Beyond Driven is quite possibly the most brutal album ever to receive serious airplay), Kvelertak (they had that song during the credits of Trollhunter, but their other shit is fantastic as well), the Replacements (they just hit that sweet spot between originality and familiarity), the Modern Lovers (so ahead of their time they sounded like an eighties indie rock band in 1971), Tyler the Creator (new to him, but his philosophy speaks to my hatred of all humanity), and last but certainly not least, Manowar. Hail and kill, motherfuckers.

I don't know what I'd do without all of you. Do something with my life I imagine. Fuck. That.