Bruce's messy body boldly caresses his son, his murderer.
"Such a good boy, Jason. Such a clever boy."
Sobbeth the son.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so…"
Bruce picks up one of his fingers and brings it to his child's lips.
"Shush."
He gathers the little feller into his arms, stands up and starts shaking him in the air. And lo, it is as if the little thing were dancing.
"Are you feeling alright now, sir?"
Bruce drops his son onto the floor and smiles.
"Yes, thank you, Alfred." Even through the blood it is clear his eyebrows are wagging. "If that is indeed who you are."
The butler seems indignant.
"But of course, sir!"
Again the master smiles, his hacked flesh slowly mending, because he's Batman.
"And mother?"
"Dead as a doornail, sir."
Bruce clasps his hands.
"Fantastic."
A moment passes in silence. The master seems to ponder the situation, before throwing his hands up in triumph.
"Praise the Lord!"
Dick taps his leg impatiently.
"Gee, Bruce, you really think God cares about hearing people blather about his creation?"
The now-mended face scrunches up in pleasure.
"Yes, Dick. I am almost certain he would update this little shit-stain of a planet more frequently if people spoke out more, praising him constantly and never questioning his decisions."
"Man, what a douche."
"And how, Robin."
The Penguin is soaking in a bubble bath to end all bubble baths, with scented candles lining the tub and a case of expensive cigarettes at the ready. Atop the foam float all sorts of birds, happy in the company of their benign master. The tub is made of solid gold, and it performs exquisite massage on the royal body of its occupant. "I say, Dominic," he says, "turn on the television." Dominic follows these instructions, turning on said television. It is a lavish thing, with high definition and a superior sound system, the frame being richly adorned and bejeweled. Dominic adjusts the sound. He is a relatively short man, well shaved and mannered, but cursed by a most peculiar body odor. Not that it is truly an odor, mind you, but still such a peculiar smell that people can rarely stop thinking about it, and often identify it afterwards as an "odor." He is sharply dressed in a crisp suit, with a beautiful silk shirt peeking out from under his jacket. This whole ensemble is rather offset by a pair of spongy slippers, meant to save his normal footwear, highly polished Armanis, from the slippery wetness of the rich marble floor. But enough of this. What appeared on the screen was a news anchor, who said the following.
"Good evening, America! In a bizarre turn of events, all the small countries of the world decided to seize the initiative and declared war on the United States earlier today. The vice president urged citizens not to panic, as progress on a Death Star is well under way. In the meantime the masses would simply have to "take one for the team." As usual. The Batman had this to say:"
The camera cuts to a red-eyed but very relaxed Batman, a cigarette burning unheeded betwixt his fingers.
"It's obviously the end of times, people. But that has absolutely no meaning whatsoever. It's all the same. All the same. It will all just start up again tomorrow. So don't worry."
Back to the news anchor.
"In other news, the space time continuum showed signs of decay earlier today as Gothamites were treated to a Mongol invasion. We go live to the city, where the invaders are ransacking the streets."
The news man is right. Mongols ride through the streets, apparently having a heck of a time. Genghis Khan rides in their midst, shouting something angrily.
"But wait, what's this?"
The news man brings our attention to a new arrival. It is the Batman, except not really! The woman earlier known as Catwoman bursts forth, holding up two pairs of boxing gloves. She shouts, issuing a challenge. Genghis shouts something back, which no one understands, as he doesn't speak English for some reason. But they both equip themselves and square off. The news anchor gasps.
"Ladies and gentlemen. It. Is. On."
And it is. The thuds of glove on face action are truly majestic.
ELSEWHERE, IN A NICER PART OF TOWN.
Here is where the business men dwell, dealing dirty day in, day out. But there is no business to be done today, nor deals to be brokered, no siree. The apocalypse has made its way here also.
HERE, A PALE HORSE RIDES.
It trots down the street calmly, ominously. Business men and their servants shiver in hushed silence, terror mounting at a steady pace as the mount steadily paces toward them.
IT RIDES SLOWLY. SLOW-LY.
"Tell my wife I regret every minute."
"She kno-o-o-ws!"
Such is the speech of the damned.
EVER CLOSER COMES THE PALE HORSE.
The business men are getting frustrated, but their fear lingers.
SWEET JESUS, THAT HORSE IS SLOW.
The big boys of business are getting antsy. Time is money, after all.
GET A MOVE ON, PALE HORSE!
Alas, it is too late. The men in shabby suits have given up and are returning to work.
WAIT, YOU GUYS! IT'S ALMOST HERE! JUST A SECOND. GUYS?
Alas.
ALAS!
The pale horse stands awkwardly in the middle of the street, alone.
AND ITS NAME IS DEATH!
Well, its rider's name is. But he seems to have gotten lost somewhere on the way.
MERE THREE HUNDRED FEET BEHIND THE HORSE LIES ITS RIDER!
Oh, there he is. He seems to have suffered a nasty tumble off his horse. Dem streets can be mighty dangerous, especially to the noggin. He's out cold.
AND HIS NAME IS DEATH!
Let's see what else is going on.
The two combatants breathe heavy, their faces bruised and battered, their eyes dulled, but their spirit? Burns strong!
"Ladies and gentlemen, this may very well be the fight of the century. This is fraught with terrifying meaning, what happens now may change the face of the…but wait. What is happening?"
Water is happening. The street slowly dissolves into water, the flow increasing steadily. The fight is over. Both combatants stagger away. A rotund mayor with a silly hat, a grey suit and a ribbon around him points ahead, into the distance.
"Up ahead! It's a boat!"
It is indeed. A mighty boat. It floats leisurely toward the mayor.
"Ahoy! Noah! Is that you?"
A man looks down from the side, looking decidedly non-Noahish.
"No, it's me, Utnapishtim."
The mayor's face scrunches up in anger and he points a mighty finger down the street.
"Den git lawst."
The boat sails away. Batman wades through the knee-high water desperately, her eyes peering dully out from her swollen face.
"Adrian!"
She wades onward, throwing confused glances all around yet barely moving.
"Adrian! Adriaaan!"
Someone, somewhere, is no doubt answering very meekly. The swollen face puffs up even bigger as she takes a deep breath.
"Adriaaaaaan!"