I'm looking at 2 or 3 more chapters, so the end is in sight.
To my reviewer BrocktreeJustLeft: Thanks for sticking with me. I appreciate it greatly.
1111111111111111111
"Now I know what St. George felt, facing down the dragon." John said.
Paul, his wallet safely tucked in the back pocket of his jeans, could only nod in agreement. The rental clerk had definitely chosen the wrong career; with a voice and scowl like that, she should have been a drill sergeant.
"I'm never going to be able to rent another car. My insurance is going to sky-rocket all because of one stupid accident. If Killer Croc owned anything more than a ratty pair of shorts, I'd sue him." John said.
"I thought you wanted him killed, smoked, and turned into gator jerky." Paul said.
"Right. I'd sue him before all that."
"You'd sue an eight foot tall crocodile, who nearly reduced you to nibbles? Are you sure that's wise? I mean, defendants in civil court aren't normally hand-cuffed. I've watched Judge Judy enough times to know." Paul said.
"This is all hypothetical and designed to make me feel just a little bit better. Can't you just let me have my glorious day in court? I can imagine some alligator wrestler is there to keep Croc under control, all right?" John asked.
"Sure. You can imagine anything you want. I won't call the Thought Police. I hope you don't mind the regular police, though." Paul replied.
"So we really are going to get police protection? I mean, do you think they'll believe we're in mortal danger? I doubt if they have any spare cops to just lend out." John asked.
Paul said, "I don't intend to take up any cop's time. I just want five minutes with Commissioner Gordon."
"Why? Are you planning on giving him to the villains as a peace offering?"
"What? No! John, you're developing a psychopathic mind. We're going to ask him to get us a meeting with Batman. This is more his line of work, anyway. If anyone can save our sorry cases, it'll be the Batman." Paul said.
"Fantastic! Only one problem. It's a hell of a long walk to the police station." John pointed out.
"We've got money, at least a little of it. Let's take the bus."
Compared to their last bus trip, this one was much more pleasant. None of the passengers turned into mud monsters, no one played any head-games with John, and the driver was a happy, shiny person. Paul and John gave up their custom of sitting in the back, and took the closest available seats to the door. There wasn't any copy of the Gotham Times kindly left behind, but Paul amused himself by playing with the holes in his jeans. John fiddled with the buttons on his vivid shirt.
The bus driver, asides from being composed entirely of smiles and rainbows, loved to play with the intercom. At every bus stop of any import, she would announce, like a tour guide, what fun things could be done in the area. Three stops ago, she had informed the entire bus that "Miguel's Casa de Tacos has the best burritos this side of Guadalajara". Three people disembarked to test this claim.
"Ok, folks. Anyone needing to confess to murder, meet his parole officer, or just try to cage free donuts from our boys and girls in blue, this is your stop." The driver announced cheerfully.
John and Paul departed. The ebullient bus driver wished them good luck, unless they were one of those murderers she had just been talking about. Then she wished them much shanking and many uncomfortable showers.
Police headquarters was swarming with activity. Officers ran back and forth, most carrying either paperwork or Styrofoam cups of coffee. In a corner, two officers were wrestling with a heavily tattooed man who did not like being hand-cuffed in the least.
A tormented officer, seated at a desk and behind a pane of glass, ushered John and Paul forward. They were standing in the middle of the chaotic lobby, and were becoming quite the roadblock to the flow of traffic. If they weren't removed in about six seconds, at least two officers were going to break out the pepper spray.
"Can I help you two?" The officer asked.
Paul looked at his badge and discovered the cop's name was Stark. Officer Stark looked about one complaint away from going stark-raving mad, so the name fit.
"We need to see Commissioner Gordon." Paul said.
"Can't help you." Officer Stark replied. "Now, would you mind moving?"
"No, we need to see the Commissioner. If we don't, we're going to die terrible deaths. Do you want our mutilated bodies on your conscience?" John asked.
"Homicide is over there."
"Honest to God, and we're Jehovah's Witnesses, so it counts double, we have absolutely got to see Gordon." Paul said.
"The Commissioner's not here."
"Then where is he? Please don't say on vacation in Tahiti." John begged.
"Gordon hasn't taken a vacation in like three decades. If not knowing will kill you, he's down at Pink Flamingos."
"He's at the zoo? Why in the hell is he at the zoo?" Paul demanded.
"Are you a little, uh, simple? Pink Flamingos isn't a zoo exhibit. It's a strip club. And before you start jawing 'why is he at a strip club, he has a kid, woe to the moral fabric of America', I'll tell you. He's there for hostage negotiations. You guys have heard of Two-Face, right? Old Half and Half? He's got a beef with the joint." Stark said.
So Clayface had been very busy. Paul could just imagine the horror at Flamingos when Two-Face strolled in. Nearly-naked women in thongs running everywhere. Cleavage flapping in the breeze. Strippers falling on top of one another. Oh the humanity!
"I can't believe I'm asking this, but where is Pink Flamingos?" John asked.
Paul's mouth fell open. "No! John, we are not going to a strip club, no matter what! I would rather walk right up to that diseased maniac and hand myself over."
John sighed. "Paul, you've got to get your priorities straight."
Paul walked away, tugging at his hair. John asked the cop for directions to the club.
"All right. Since I can see you're insistent, and won't leave me alone until I either lock you up or talk, I'll tell you. You ever heard of a place called the Iceberg Lounge? That's where I tell my girlfriend I'm going when I pay Sweet Mindy a visit. She's got the hottest damn... Sorry. Flamingos is on the other end of the block. You can't miss it; it's painted hot pink. And I do mean hot." Officer Stark said.
"The Iceberg Lounge? I've heard of it. Never been there, of course! But, yeah, I may have a general idea as to where its general location may be, generally." John said.
The cop grinned. "I won't tell if you won't. Now, go gather up your friend. He's impeding the flow of traffic."
With Paul muttering darkly beside him, John left the police station. The last thing he heard before the door swung shut was, "Beaumont, don't you dare let him spit on the floor!" Apparently, the tattooed thug wasn't only ugly, he was unhygienic, too.
"We're really going to do it, then? Why can't we just wait for Gordon to come back?" Paul asked.
"Who knows how long he'll be down there. Does Two-Face seem like the kind of guy who's suddenly going to see the light? He's got strippers as hostages; there's no way he's letting them go. I'm not going to sit around and twiddle my thumbs while Gordon yells at Two-Face through a megaphone." John replied.
"Fine. You better die before I do so you can explain to God why we went to a strip club." Paul muttered.
John shrugged. He really doubted if omnipotent God would have to ask anyone the reason for his or her actions. Shouldn't He, by virtue of being omnipotent God, all ready know? Surely, there had to be a few clauses, a loophole or two in the rules, for men in mortal danger. In John's humble opinion, not even God would want the Joker standing too close to Him.
"Let's get back on the bus. What line do we take?" John asked. He told Paul the street address for the Iceberg Lounge.
"Give me a second. That wasn't exactly a part of town I frequented. It's not the Black Line, or the Red. I'm decently sure the best route is the Yellow Line." Paul replied.
It took them a while to hunt down a stop on the Yellow Line. When they finally did, they discovered the bus driver was about as friendly as a rabid porcupine. John silently nicknamed him the Bus Nazi, both because he was blond, and because he looked like he'd have no trouble shooting anyone who misbehaved on his bus and dumping their corpse in a hole.
This bus was crowded, mostly with people on their lunch breaks. Several people had coffee or bottles of water, but no one dared to drink. The photocopied warning, "No Food or Drink", that had been taped to the front of the bus didn't justify it. Most buses had that sign, but Paul had seen open containers of beer being passed around on certain routes. It had to be the aura of murder that radiated off the driver. Everyone would rather cold Starbucks over whatever bodily harm the driver might commit.
"Hey, did you hear about what's going down at Flamingos? I was gonna go there last night, but my girl dragged me to a chick flick. I'm kind of glad she did. I hope Sarasota's all right. I think she only works on weekends."
"You know Virginia, right? The chick with the patriotic panties? I think she might have given Two-Face a lap-dance."
"Uh, does he need like, two strippers? I mean, does one half like, like fat chicks and the other like blondes, or something?"
Paul wanted to cover his ears. Was there anyone on this bus who didn't frequent Flamingos? Why was the world so full of people who couldn't just keep it in their pants?
The bus ride was absolute hell for Paul. John, despite the descriptions of various skillful strippers, wasn't in anywhere near as much distress. He supposed it was because women wearing pasties and nothing else were nowhere near as bad as furious Harley and her precious long, tall, and clownish.
"Paul, if you don't stop biting your lip, you're going to cut it off. I know you have the sexual drive of the dead. Calm down. We won't be on this bus much longer." John said.
They were on the bus even shorter than they anticipated. The police had cordoned off the block around Flamingos, preventing any traffic from entering or leaving. Yellow tape was hung everywhere, and a cruiser was parked in the middle of the road.
"Hang tight. Detour." The bus driver announced.
"Wait! Can you let us off here? We have business to take care of." John said.
The Bus Nazi shrugged. "Whatever."
With John and Paul standing on the sidewalk, the driver made an impossibly tight U-turn. If asked beforehand if a bus could possibly make such a turn on the narrow street, every one of the passengers would have laughed. Asides from being the Bus Nazi, the driver was also the Bus Harry Potter.
"All right. Let's go and see if these cops will let us pass." John said.
"Thank Jehovah we're off that bus! Did you hear those two behind us? Jesus, God, and Mary!" Paul said.
John and Paul ducked under the yellow police tape. They approached the cop car parked in the road. No cop emerged to ask them just what in the hell they were doing. That was because the car was empty.
Exactly why the fuzz-mobile was empty became apparent. The windshield bore three holes, each surrounded by a network of spider web cracks. If TV cop dramas had taught John anything, it was what bullet holes looked like. When the bullets started flying, the police had obviously sought better cover.
"Hey, retards! Get out of the road!" Someone yelled.
"Yeah, man! Get over here!"
Two college-age men were waving frantically from a doorway. A few of their curious friends were also peeking out, though they weren't exposing so much of their vulnerable bits.
A gunshot rang out, followed by a loud, high-pitched scream. For one dreadful moment, it appeared a woman had been shot. Then, to the relief of everyone, the same woman yelled "Why in the hell didn't you tell me you were gonna start shooting? I would have covered my ears! See if I ever give you another lap dance, you two-faced freak!"
By the time Two-Face and the shrill woman were done yelling at each other, John and Paul were safely inside. They hardly had time to take in the polar ambience before a short, round, finely dressed fellow waddled up to them. Despite the fact he was indoors, and the roof looked in perfect order, he carried a black umbrella at his side. Maybe he thought it made him looked distinguished; maybe he was deathly afraid of getting wet and never left home without it.
"Two more, eh? You want to stay, you've got to buy something to drink." The man said.
"We, uh, don't drink. We're Jehovah's Witnesses so alcohol and smoking are out." Paul said.
"You don't want to buy, you can scurry across the street to the Peacock. You look like you'd be right a home there." The rotund aristocrat said, pointing at John.
John took a stab in the dark. "Is, uh, the Peacock, you know, a gay bar?"
The titters from the crowd confirmed this. Paul put a hand over his eyes and groaned. John sighed. He didn't think any gay man would wear something so piteously tacky.
"No, we'll go get a drink. I could really use one. Paul can go and throw his in that pond." John said.
The umbrella obviously wasn't just for show and for keeping off the wet, wet rain. It also served as a fine club. John discovered this when he was whapped on the head, shoulder, and foot all in a mere second. For a chubby guy in a tux, this man could administer a beat down.
"Pond? It isn't a pond! I'll give you pond!" The man squawked.
"Uh, Ozzy, aren't you supposed to avoid assaulting the customers? I mean, after the cops came last week, you had to pay that guy like 200 dollars so he'd drop charges- I should shut up now, right?" A waiter, dressed in white and black, said.
"Get back to the kitchen before I throw you out on the street!"
"I take it back! Ow, damn it. That's going to leave a mark. It's not a pond, it's a beautiful reflecting pool. Ow. That foot's never going to be right again. I apologize profusely. Why did you start with the head? I really want that drink now." John said. He hobbled off to the bar.
John limped off, but Paul was in such a foul mood from the bus ride he wasn't going to give any moral ground. Shoving the umbrella aside, ignoring the indignant squeaks, Paul intended to show this rolly-polly pushover what a disgustingly rotten day he was having.
"Listen to me. I don't care if you run this place or not. I don't care if you're richer than Bruce Wayne and have women throwing themselves on you. I don't care that you're four and a half feet tall and as round as a baseball. That doesn't matter to me. What matters is that you're a bully with a Napoleon complex, and if you whack anyone else with that umbrella, I'll jam it up your beak, understand, Ozzy?" Paul warned.
The pure wrath rolling off of Paul like some carcinogenic radiation would have turned back a villain with a fainter heart. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot was afraid of neither glaring eyes nor red auras. He did not like being threatened, he hated being compared to Bruce Wayne, and he ultimately detested having his nose referred to as a 'beak'.
Thwack! The lethal umbrella struck Paul soundly across the forehead. He had seen it coming at the last second, and had just enough time to activate a tiny portion of his oft-unused reflexes to duck. He hadn't managed to avoid getting hit entirely, but he saved himself a broken nose.
That did it. Paul could only stand being assaulted by one little man in a top hat per day. Today was the Mad Hatter's turn. The Penguin had pushed Paul over the brink. It was time to see what years piled on years of repressed anger looked like.
Paul threw himself on top of the Penguin, knocking them both to the floor. He sustained a severe jab to the guts from the umbrella. In return, he punched Ozzy in the beak. The umbrella came again, this time to the side of his head. Paul's hearing was suddenly gone on one side. The only sound was a constant buzz, like an empty phone line or a killer bee intent on stinging in the most painful place possible. Paul found that dry buzz infuriating.
They traded blow for blow, the Penguin keeping up admirably for a man of his fitness level. With the umbrella, he was as skilled as a samurai with a sword. He knew the best places for poking and jabbing, and exploited them perfectly. A particularly strong stab to the ribs finally dislodged Paul.
Clutching his side, feeling like someone had just slid a knife into his lung, Paul stumbled away. He could not believe this. Yes, he was a peaceful servant of God, not a Crusader, but even he should be capable of whacking a chubby geek wearing a monocle. You didn't have to be Jackie Chan to take down a man a full head shorter and twice as heavy. It should have been a cakewalk, not the Tet Offensive!
"One last chance before I thrash you. Get out." Oswald said. He was back on his feet, and grinning. Despite the exertion, he was hardly panting. In fact, he looked more ready for the second round than Paul did.
"Right, exactly! Let's go, Paul. I don't care if Peacock's is run by Adolph Hitler. I'll take my chances." John said.
"Piss off, John!"
John shrunk back. Paul had never talked to him so bluntly, not even on the bus just after Clayface's departure. For that matter, he didn't think he'd ever seen Paul so ready to kill. The weeks of being every villain's prey must have finally snapped him. John couldn't entirely blame him, but he couldn't let Paul get involved in a death match with the Penguin. An umbrella was not worth a murder rap.
By now, the brawl had drawn the Penguin's goons. Each dressed in a black-and-white tuxedo, much like the waiters, they stood ready to assist. Oswald waved them off. He didn't need a task-force to take down one spirited Holy Roller.
"This is a sin. Wrath! He isn't worth it. The cops can deal with him after they deal with Two-Face. I know you're frustrated, but you can't hit him." John said.
"Weren't you paying attention? I hit him plenty all ready. Give me a minute, and you'll see a hell of a lot more hitting." Paul replied.
The Penguin smirked. "We'll see, won't we? Have at it, then!"
Paul took the invitation with gusto. He threw himself back into the fray, heedless of any of the numerous contusions he had all ready sustained. Tomorrow, he'd likely discover a bruise the shape of Kazakhstan on his back, but right now adrenaline blocked his nerves.
"Hell fire." John muttered. He could not allow this to go on, not if he wanted to have any self respect. There was nothing verbal that he could do to separate the combatants, but he did know a trick for breaking up fights. When two dogs went at it, the best thing to do was get the hose and spray them down. There wasn't any hose handy, but an icy pitcher of beer might be just as good. If a bottle of whiskey could save them from mind control, some beer might prevent Paul from ending up as pulp.
Since everyone in the lounge was watching the fight, plenty of alcohol had been left unattended. John shoved his way through the gathered crowd and meandered around the tables until he found a full pitcher. It certainly was cold enough to quell any violent thoughts, at least in John's opinion.
By the time John had forced his way back to the front of the crowd, Paul and the Penguin were at it again. Their fight had turned decidedly one-sided. Paul was retreating quicker than the French army from Russia, and clutching his left hand in a way that suggested it had been smashed by Penguin's umbrella. Things were looking rather desperate for the Witness.
John heaved roughly half the pitcher on the Penguin. He gave a very bird-like squawk when he was doused. The other half landed on Paul, who gave a very sailor-like swear.
"Enough is enough. Don't make me go back and get another pitcher." John warned.
With cold beer dripping off his clothes, Paul lost all interest in fighting. Oswald wasn't dissuaded; as the Penguin he didn't mind cold or wet. However, he did mind having beer thrown all over his dry-clean only, extremely expensive, hand-tailored tuxedo. He also minded having his immaculately clean floor covered in cheap liquor. He minded most of all being denied the chance to beat the impudent dog into the ground.
"I'm so sorry, John. I don't know what came over me." Paul said.
"It's Freudian, my dear sir." John replied.
A jet of fire interrupted the happy reconciliation. Upon seeing that the Penguin's umbrella was far more than just a bludgeon, the crowd parted faster than the Red Sea. People took cover under tables, behind the bar, and a few jumped into the decorative pool. Those folks found the water chilled to the same temperature as the North Sea, and promptly began to cry about it.
"Jesus Christ on a picket fence! He's got a flamethrower!" John exclaimed.
The Penguin pointed his smoking umbrella at John and Paul. He uttered a laugh that sounded very much like his namesake's call.
Before they were both reduced to cinders, John and Paul broke for the door. With everyone, including the Penguin's goons, hunkering down, they didn't have any problems. They threw open the glass doors and prayed for the best.
Both the Witnesses and the Penguin had obviously forgotten all about Two-Face and his gun. John and Paul ran down the street, towards Flamingos. Oswald pursued them, his umbrella emitting a stream of fire whenever he got in range.
Two-Face, accompanied by an exotic dancer, emerged from the strip club. Unless he was losing his mind, something very bizarre was happening just up the street. A fat man with a flamethrower was chasing two poorly dressed suckers straight toward him. That fat man bore a striking resemblance to the Penguin. It was! Who would have thought that waddling Ozzy could move so damn fast?
The cops, who had taken cover behind their cars when Dent lost his temper and started shooting, also peered out like curious prairie dogs. Even for Gotham officers, who had seen it all at least twice, this was something new. It was relatively common to be called to defuse one rogue, but odd to have another wander onto the scene.
By virtue of being born with longer legs and feet that weren't flat, John and Paul managed to reach the three cop cars parked in front of Flamingos before the Penguin could roast them. John ended up scrabbling across the hood of a cruiser and falling to the pavement. He nearly landed on the officer who had taken shelter there. Paul, not possessing such monkey agility, just ran around the car before ducking down.
"What in the hell is this about? Who are you, and why has that guy got a torch?" One of the officers asked.
"Penguin...Pissed off...Threw beer on him" John panted.
"Knew...this...idea sucked." Paul added.
"Cobblepot, drop the umbrella!"
John and Paul both turned toward the voice of authority. Commissioner Gordon, megaphone in hand, was standing tall. He apparently had great faith that Two-Face wouldn't shoot him while his back was turned and his attention was diverted. Paul didn't think he had that kind of faith in God, let alone in a convicted felon.
The Penguin came to a slow stop. Like a big rig truck coming down a hill, he needed a while to counteract the momentum he built up.
"The cavalry's all ready arrived, eh? Time for this bird to fly the coop." The Penguin said. He pressed a concealed button on the handle of his umbrella. With a whirl of torn fabric, the umbrella transformed into a portable rotor. Powered by his umbrella, the Penguin flew.
"I flunked physics, twice, but how in the hell does that thing create enough lift? I mean, Penguin's got to weigh like 400 pounds." A cop muttered.
With precision only years of practice could bring, Gordon dropped the megaphone, drew his gun, and shot the spinning blades of Penguin's umbrella. Like the flightless bird he was, Oswald dropped from the sky. He landed with all the grace of a dead, frozen chicken.
"Down goes Tubby." Two-Face said. The stripper at his arm laughed. For her, this was much better than her average work day. Her clientele weren't all 65 years old, and Two-Face showed his appreciation with two dollar bills.
"Nice shot, Commissioner." John said.
Gordon holstered his gun. "I'm getting too old for this nuttiness."
"Uh, then you aren't going to like this. We've got a major problem and we need your help." John said.
"Can it wait until I negotiate the release of 22 hostages?" The Commissioner asked.
"If you knew what we went through to get here, you wouldn't dare to ask that." Paul said.
"Well I don't know, so I'm going to ask. Would you kindly hand me my megaphone?" Gordon replied.
Thankful that Harvey had been decent enough not to shoot him, Gordon turned from Penguin's train wreck and back towards Flamingos. He found the doorway deserted. In the confusion John, Paul, and the Penguin had brought with them, Two-Face had made a run for it. He had taken two strippers with him.
"Uh, Commissioner, do we call this a success or a failure? I mean, Two-Face got away, and took some chicks with him, but he didn't kill anybody. A couple of cruisers are gonna need new windshields, and I think he blew the tires on mine, but everyone's generally fine." One of the officers said.
"Those chicks, Angel and Posh, they wanted to go. I sort of did, too, but I got classes this evening." A recently liberated stripper said.
John, Paul, and the Commissioner exchanged looks. "Why in the name of God did you want to run off with a half-fried lunatic?"
"He's got a bitchin' color scheme going on. And, what can I say, I like bad boys. Robbing banks and car chases, getting my picture in the paper... Can't blame those two." The stripper said wistfully.
"Great. Just beautiful. By tomorrow night, not only will I have Dent to worry about, I'll have his two new side-kicks. I don't want to imagine what they'll be dressed in." Gordon muttered.
"Forget tomorrow night. We need your help, right here, right now." Paul said.
The Commissioner sighed. Everyone always needed help this moment. Honestly, it was police work, not a fast food restaurant. People had to stop expecting instant gratification from every aspect of their lives.
"What is so pressing that you risked your lives to see me?" Gordon asked.
"We need you to turn on the Bat Signal for us. See, we made a mistake. The mother of all mistakes. The only one who can save our bacon is the Batman." Paul said.
"I can't turn on the signal. It won't be of any use." Commissioner Gordon replied.
"Why the hell not? Listen, we're screwed otherwise." Paul said.
"It's noon. The signal's useless during the day. Besides, bats are nocturnal."
"Can I borrow your gun, then?"
"No. "