Batman threw his remote controlled batarang. He never could aim properly. But he tried. He always tried. We love a trier. Not a Bruce, but a Mark. All the same, oh so valiant. His vigilante efforts were always that, an effort. "Where is he?" became a frequent exclamation through the space the cowl left. Licking his lips, in the hope he could reach his final target. Thugs.
Bang. Splat. Boom. Zap.
Often overrun, he questioned had he messed it up? He asked this question again and again. No one was able to answer. Who had stolen his recipe of skill? He'd be forever lost without it. The holes grew in his tattered cape. Can he come back from this downward spiral? You are a hero, Mr Mark. Hold on. Fight another day.
He repeats his remote controlled batarang cycle once more. This could be it. "There he is!" he mumbles. Pursing his lips, he zones in on the task at hand: Justice. Scan sir, please scan, begs Alfred. Batman feels invigorated. He grapples with himself to finish what he recklessly began. The Riddler taunts him, wishing for him to feel such shame. Batman throws many a batarang at balloons in a fit of rage. "Cool it", he squeals to himself and falls to fight some rabid thugs. The task's not yet complete, though Batman gets a sense of fulfilment from beating down on those not wearing a costume. "I am superior," he roars as he swings his beefed-up arms. "I am Batman, hear me rang," he attempts a rare funny for those thugs getting beaten to a pulp. Oh no, he does not kill, but he can hurt them so they are an inch close to death.
Batman spies another Riddler taunt. He has blazing rage that he just lamely puts back into the remote-controlled batarang. What a loser. OH BUT WOW. He has at least located the Riddler's victim. Joyous times, he moves along to try and diffuse what The Riddler has in store.
We know that Mr Batman has to improve in many ways. But remember he's a trier. For real, though the gliding skills leave a lot to be desired.
Run, Bats, run.
Back to square one.
ARGH RATS.