I had deathly bad writer's block on this story for a month. In the meantime, I started a new story I should finish in about two weeks. I do intend to complete this fic. This is either the second or third to last chapter. It's the final stretch, either way.
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"Paul, I'm hungry." John said.
"John, I'm in blinding agony. Who would have thought an umbrella could hurt so much? If Kevorkian walked up to me right now, I'd kiss his feet. Adrenaline doesn't last nearly long enough. I think the waddling bastard punctured something. Feels like a kidney, maybe my spleen." Paul moaned.
"Nah, it can't be your spleen. When that baby ruptures, it really ruptures. You'd be feeling the internal bleeding by now. Hell, you'd probably be dead by now." A cop said.
"How do you know so much about spleens?" John asked.
"My dad's a doctor, my mom's a vet. I know about human, dog, cat, iguana, horse, and guinea pig spleens. I'm the resident Spleen Expert. Gordon, you hear that? I am Spleen Man! You gotta pay me more for my services." The cop said.
The Commissioner turned, his moustache bristling. "You're lucky to still have a job, Harrison. Why did you feel the need to provoke Dent into a shooting rampage? Those new windshields should be coming out of your paycheck."
Officer Harrison shrugged. "Spleen Man is misunderstood and criticized everywhere he travels. Maybe he should head to Chicago, or Butte."
"Spleen Man, I'll respect you if you find me 50 Extra-Strength Tylenol." Paul said.
Harrison, Spleen Man's mild-mannered alter ego, replied, "Buddy, you're a little pathetic. We've got an ambulance on the way. I'm sure Spleen Man can convince the EMT to slip you some morphine, or something."
With the ambulance still some way off, the only thing Paul could do was sit and moan. In the back of a police car, hand-cuffed and bereft of umbrella, top hat, and monocle, the Penguin was doing the exact same thing. He'd fallen quite some way, and, despite his round shape, he did not bounce.
When the ambulance finally did arrive, Paul was greeted with a familiar face. It was the same young paramedic who kept ticking Two-Face off and had nearly been shot to death over his stupidity. It was funny, how fate seemed to circle around.
"Small world, huh? Jesus, did you get in a fight with a bear?" the EMT asked.
"No, a penguin. Can you just anesthetize me right now? Everything hurts. I'll swear it before the throne of God, even my hair hurts, and that's impossible." Paul said.
Spleen Man rolled his eyes. "Yeah, go ahead and gas this dude. He's had a rough day and he's all ready for sleepy time."
The paramedic laughed. "No way. This guy saved my life. I was going to get absolutely murdered, right in front of a packed ER. We've got to catch up."
"Hell, then. Forget sleepy time. It's story time." Harrison said.
Since Harrison was a newcomer, John and Paul started from the beginning. They gave an abridged version, avoiding any details that were unnecessary. Somehow, the fact that crocodiles kept their genitals inside their bodies most of the time was deemed too important, or weird, to exclude.
By the time they finished, Spleen Man and the paramedic were wearing twin looks of shock. All this story-telling made John wonder if there might not be a book or movie deal in this whole mess somewhere. He'd give all the proceeds to UNICEF, or something, but he wouldn't mind seeing some stud Hollywood star sweep a busty red-headed actress off her feet and kiss her among the tulips and lilies.
"You two must have been Hitler and Stalin in past lives. That is the only explanation for this run of luck. That, or God just hates you." Harrison said.
"If I was you, I'd get out of Gotham and head straight to Metropolis. I'd tape myself to Superman's ass, so I'd be under constant protection." The paramedic said. He didn't bother to explain why Superman was supposed to allow two men to tape themselves to his butt, or how he'd fight with such a hindrance.
"We're actually going to get a chance to plead our case to Batman, tonight. The Commissioner said he'd turn on the Bat Signal, once it got dark." John said.
"Cool. You know, I saw Batman once. He was standing on the roof of this warehouse, and he had this pair of Bat binoculars. Anyway, he's intense. And sort of creepy. I got nervous because I didn't want him swooping down and pummeling me, so I ran the hell out of there." The EMT said.
Spleen Man, being a cop, naturally had his own experiences. "You guys got on the Scarecrow's bad side, yeah? Well, I can sympathize. Last Halloween, me, my partner, and two guys in another squad car all got gassed. They had their windows down, so they got it worse. I don't know what they saw, but I had snakes coming out of my radio. It sucked mucho."
The Witnesses, the cop, and the paramedic might have swapped stories all day if Gordon hadn't demanded Harrison get back to work. With an exasperated sigh, the cop walked off to interview a few more strippers.
"So, I take it you need some place to be for the next six hours, until it gets dark?" The EMT asked.
"No, they don't. They're staying at Police Headquarters, under close guard. I've got enough to worry about all ready." The Commissioner said.
"Damn. I was going to invite you guys to lounge around Gotham General. The police station's probably a lot cooler, anyway. They'll give you guys free donuts and stuff." The paramedic said.
The Penguin started squawking from the back of the police car. "If he doesn't get attention right now, he'll probably sue his way out of any charges. I'll get you some Tylenol, Paul." The EMT said.
As it ended up, Oswald Cobblepot moaned and whined his way into a free trip to the hospital. Gordon ordered Harrison to ride in the back of the ambulance with him. The cop was still muttering about how little respect Spleen Man got when the ambulance drove off.
Paul popped the six Tylenol the paramedic had given him. In John's opinion, his friend was getting a little too good at taking pills. It would be one serious fall from grace, to go from a Jehovah's Witness to a back alley drug addict. Not to mention how little cred a Tylenol addiction would get him in rehab.
After all the strippers had been interviewed and sent about their business, Commissioner Gordon collected Paul and John. He stuck Paul in the back seat, behind the metal mesh that separated the cops from the arrested. John got to ride shotgun.
"Uh, Commissioner, are we really safe at the police station? I mean, is there going to be someone with a gun standing next to us the whole time?" John asked.
"Do you two watch the news?" Gordon asked. "If you did, you'd know I don't have one man to spare. Between the Joker, Hatter, and now Dent, I'm going to be busy until retirement. Even if we could get the Batman signed on permanently, we'd be rounding up the rogues until Christmas."
"Have you noticed any unusual behavior with the villains, lately?" John said. He tried to sound nonchalant. He failed.
"Asides from the Joker parading around in pink lingerie, Harley threatening news anchors, the Mad Hatter getting drunk and trying to brain-wash a fire hydrant, and Harvey Dent visiting a strip club, no. Why?" Gordon asked.
"We may have some information." Paul said.
"I'm listening." The Commissioner said.
"It's Clayface. He's transforming into the villains and ruining their names." John said.
The squad car abruptly jerked. "What?!"
"It's a long story. A very long story." Paul said.
"It's full of adventure, pain, villains, more pain, and some fire." John said.
"Talk."
"Uh, sure thing, Commissioner. It all started with the Joker. I bet a lot of your problems start that way, huh?" John said.
The furrow that appeared on Gordon's forehead confirmed this. If not for the Joker, he would have half the gray hair he did. That clown was going to be the death of him, and likely many other people in Gotham. What the Commissioner didn't understand was how these two, who looked like a pair of schmucks, had survived without so much as a bruise. They certainly made a case that a divine being was watching over folks, and occasionally, between world wars and firestorms, tossed a few lucky bastards some bones.
"Harley, she really wasn't so bad, you know, for a woman living in sexual sin with a lunatic clown. She was friendly, I guess." Paul said.
"But the Joker was a nightmare! He took this hammer and smashed all our literature with it. And then he claimed he was superior to the Word of God, because he could hammer it." John added.
"And then he took the mallet, and killed my car. That car was precious to me. I ate bologna sandwiches and lived on a Third World budget for months to afford it! I will die being offended over my car's untimely death." Paul said.
By the time Gordon pulled the police car into his reserved parking spot at the downtown station, John and Paul had gotten all the way to the encounter on the bus with the shape shifting Clayface. John, since he was the idiot who had convinced Clayface to run around shaming the other villains and pissing them off mightily as a side effect, told most of the story. He was careful to mention how profusely sorry he was for causing the city and the cops that protected it so much grief and woe.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to press charges. There's not a man alive who wouldn't be shocked to discover his fellow transit rider was actually a wanted villain." Gordon assured him.
"That's great. Hey, your officers aren't going to be angry at me, are they? I mean, they're all working overtime and it's sort of my fault." John said.
The Commissioner winced. Yes, the Gotham PD was in an uproar over the sudden spike in crime and weird behavior. The three officers who had been called to retrieve a thoroughly plastered Jervis Tetch and had received numerous injuries from flying tea cups certainly weren't too happy. The motorcycle cop who had been run off the road by Harley Quinn in a speeding stolen news van wasn't exactly the happiest fellow, either. Gordon didn't think any of the cops would react too violently, but Officer Daniels, the unlucky motorcyclist, had road rash where nobody wanted it. He might be looking to smash some teeth in.
"Play it close to the chest. If anyone asks, tell them the Joker has threatened to kill you. I'm going to assume it was you that Ms. Quinn was talking about with her little art exhibit last night." Gordon said.
"That was definitely us. I almost cried when I saw that picture with the bulldozer." Paul said.
"All right then, so it won't be a lie. I cop can smell lies like a shark can smell blood. Don't bullshit up, all right?" Gordon advised.
John and Paul nodded in agreement. They all ready had Gotham's worst on their butts; they didn't need to add Gotham's finest, too.
After the Commissioner delivered his message, he and John exited the car. The doors in the back could only be opened from the outside, like doors with child locks engaged, so criminals could not open them and roll out into the street. Paul was stuck in his seat, looking perfectly forlorn, until Commissioner Gordon pulled the door handle and released him.
The police station was as chaotic as it had been earlier in the morning. Officer Stark was still located at the front desk, but he was wearing a smile that suggested he had taken a little trip to the evidence locker and snorted everything he could get his hands on. Paul wondered just how often drug tests were performed, and decided it probably wasn't often enough.
"Commissioner! We're glad you're back, and alive. We got radio contact from a couple cruisers. They said Two-Face split, but you caught the Penguin. So, you think the 245 will stick?" A cop asked.
"What's a 245?" John asked.
"Police-speak for assault with a deadly weapon. Yes, I think it will stick. These two are Jehovah's Witnesses. They'll be excellent, reliable witnesses in court, I'm sure." Gordon replied.
"Kick ass." The officer said.
"Hey, Commissioner, are we going to have to babysit those two guys? I don't mean to be a nuisance, but we're a little too busy to watch a pair of John Q's." A Hispanic cop said.
"Mendez, these two have been directly threatened by the Joker. I'm sure you saw the news report last night. It was directed at these two. If they die, we have officially failed them and the public at large, and should all turn in our badges. Understand?" Gordon replied sharply.
"What I meant, sir, it that, uh, I personally volunteer to keep these men safe! I will guard them with my life. If anyone starts shooting, I will put my physical body between them and certain death." Mendez said hastily.
"It looks like you'll get a guard, after all. Mendez, I still want your paperwork on the prostitution ring completed by the time you clock out, all right?" Gordon asked.
Mendez saluted the Commissioner, and promptly took hold of John and Paul's arms. He dragged them from the lobby, through a series of doors, and finally took them to a stairwell.
"You two can come up to my office. It's on the third floor. Anybody tries to get to you, they'll have to go through three floors of cops. No way, no how is anything going to get you. Not unless it flies through the window with a jetpack or something." Mendez promised.
Paul, despite the Tylenol, eyed the stairs with dismay. He was too tired and achy to climb anything.
"Can't we take the elevator?" he asked.
"No. Stairs are good for your cardiac muscles. Strong heart, long life, don't get killed by the damned Joker." Mendez replied.
By the time the cop and Jehovah's Witnesses had climbed the stairs, Paul was drooping like a dying lily. The cop grunted. "Jeez, buddy. You might not stand a chance against that psycho if some stairs do you in."
"I got beat up. You know that assault with a deadly weapon? I was the one getting assaulted! I have bruises the size of Volkswagens, and I think my left kidney is bruised." Paul said.
"Oh, sorry. Why didn't you tell me?" The cop asked.
"Because I couldn't breathe."
"Oops. Well, way to soldier on, then. Come on over to my office. I've got a chair for you, and a pretty damn nice view. You'll be able to watch the sunset in five and a half hours." Mendez said.
The cop had chairs, all right, but they were of the steel folding variety. As for his nice view, it consisted of a dying tree, a lamppost, and a crowded sidewalk. If Paul titled his head, he could see a crack of sky between two buildings.
Those five hours were some of the absolute slowest of John and Paul's lives. The only excitement was when a female detective, Renee Montoya, brought them cans of soda and Chinese food at three o'clock. The Witnesses' story had apparently spread with the virulence of Ebola, and every cop in the department heard one version or another. Montoya claimed to feel so sorry for them she even sprung for extra fortune cookies. John's fortune advised him to be generous with his money. Paul's slip of paper predicted he would have good luck. Apparently, Chinese fortune cookies were not omnipresent.
The sun finally began to set and the lamp across the street flickered on. Mendez stretched in his chair and yawned. "Man, I want to go home. Only another hour, and then it's beer, beer, and a nice ham sandwich."
"Drinking's no good for you, body or spirit. Right John?" Paul said.
John wasn't paying attention. Something across the street had drawn his gaze. In the gathering gloom that never quite became true night due to all the city lights that never shut off, a large shape was fluttering around. It weaved in and out of the circle of light cast by the streetlamp.
"Uh, John? You still think drinking is an offense to God, right?" Paul asked.
"I think I just saw Boba Fett." John said.
"Who?" Mendez asked.
"What?" Paul said.
"Boba Fett. From Star Wars. There's something out there in some kind of crazy suit and helmet, and it looks like Boba Fett." John insisted.
Paul and Mendez both glued themselves to the window. After a minute, they gasped simultaneously and backed away from the glass.
"Holy shit, there's an alien flying around out there." Mendez said.
"No. You know what that is? It's Mothman! He's the same guy who tore that woman's hair out. John, when we were at the hospital because of the Scarecrow's poison, the nurse said Mothman attacked a patient. That's the Mothman!" Paul exclaimed.
Sure enough, Killer Moth, often misidentified as Mothman, buzzed into the light, again. His orange wings revealed that he was neither Boba Fett nor an alien. He was simply a villain who had no respect because he liked to dress up as a bug and was attracted to bright lights.
Mendez approached the window again. He watched as Killer Moth circled the light, occasionally revealing himself fully. The cop didn't know whether to call for backup, call an exterminator, or just watch the costumed freak bounce off the lamppost like the other bugs that had been lured by its siren light.
"I don't mean to offend, because that costume took a lot of engineering I'm sure, but he's pretty lame." John said.
"Yeah. Hey, I'm going to call the guys downstairs. They're going to want to see this. Maybe someone's got a camera on them." Mendez said. He pulled a cell phone from his pants pocket.
Officer Mendez must have had the cell phone numbers for the entire GPD stored in his address book. He spent the next ten minutes calling on-duty officers and demanding they find a window to look out of.
Killer Moth bumped his green helmeted head against the light bulb a little too hard. It went out, instantly ending the attraction he had for it. Looking for something else to play with, he spotted Mendez's well-lit office. He took off for the new light source.
"Jesus! He's coming right for us!" Paul cried.
Mendez, instead of un-holstering his gun, grabbed his written report on the 28 hookers who had been arrested in a serious of prostitution busts. He rolled it up as one would do a newspaper. While the freak in the moth flight suit buzzed for the window, Mendez tapped the rolled paper against his palm. He had swatted enough flies, bees, spiders and mosquitoes in his life to know how to deal with buggies.
Killer Moth struck the window, but lacked the force to break it. Instead, he ricocheted off and dropped a few feet in altitude. A detective on the second floor got the shock of her life when a pair of legs appeared in her window and hovered there.
"Wow, he is lame." John said. Compared to the other villains, i.e. the ones that posed a threat to the city, Killer Moth was a joke.
Lame he might be, but the Moth was persistent. He flew at the window again. This time, he backed up and took a running start.
The window shattered and glass rained down on Mendez's carpet. Killer Moth wasn't shaken by the impact, and immediately tried to molest the florescent bulbs in the ceiling.
"Asshole, you broke my window!" Mendez yelled. He began to beat at any part of Killer Moth's body that he could reach. The room had a relatively low ceiling, so everything below the shoulders was fair game for Mendez's fist and rolled up hooker report.
Other cops had heard the sound of breaking glass, and of Mendez cursing. Three officers burst into the cramped office, and they had their guns drawn. Upon seeing how good of a job Mendez was doing, armed with only his paper, they relaxed.
"Stop, man! Hey, I just want some light. Ouch, that's Spandex, not armor." Killer Moth exclaimed.
"He can talk? Huh, how about that." One of the newly arrived cops mused.
"Yeah, I can. If it's that important, I'll go buzz someplace else. Enough with the freaking whacking!" Moth snapped.
"Can you wait until we get pictures?"
Three cops withdrew cell phone cameras and clicked photographs of the fluttering villain. One of them recorded a video that would take YouTube by storm and earn him television interviews and short-lived fame in Gotham.
"How humiliating." Killer Moth muttered. He tried to fly out the hole that had previously been occupied by a pane of glass. He misjudged his angle, however, and knocked his skull off the wall. His flight system was jarred by the impact and he veered into Mendez's desk.
Before he could recover, or fix the ominous whir his wings were making, Mendez tackled him. "Buddy, you broke the property of a police officer. You are going no place fast. Damn, that's one big dent you put in the plaster."
"Would one of you damn rubberneckers kindly get the Commissioner up here? I don't care if he's on break, on the crapper, or what. He's calling the Bat right now. I want the Mothman out of here, pronto." Mendez said.
Five minutes later, Commissioner Gordon, along with half the curious police force, was standing in the hall outside. More photos were taken of Killer Moth. The tabloids would be supplied with material to write lurid tales about women having sex with giant bugs from Skull Island, or wherever, for the rest of the year.
Gordon quietly escorted John and Paul from the room. Once they were out of earshot and heading for the roof, he asked, "Killer Moth wasn't after you, was he?"
"No. I think he was just after Officer Mendez's light. I really didn't feel threatened by Mothman at all, really." Paul said.
"If only all the villains were like that." John said wistfully.
"If all the villains were like him, we wouldn't need the Batman's help." Paul reminded him. "Speaking of which, how long does it take him to respond to the signal?"
"It depends. Sometimes he shows up in five minutes, sometimes it takes a little longer." Gordon replied. "After all, he's the Dark Knight, not a pizza delivery."
"I suppose that's true. The Batmobile would be one superfluous delivery car." John said.
"John, do yourself a favor and don't accidentally insult Batman, all right?" Paul asked.
"Of course. My mouth only gets me in trouble with villains."
"So far."
"So far." John agreed.
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If Killer Moth has any fans insulted by his portrayal as a dork, I apologize. I do it only in jest. I realize that he's now a great Mothra-type thing, but for my purposes, he's in a flight suit.
