AN: I have no sympathy for any moron that buys drugs from the Scarecrow. Um, HELLO! Do you not watch the news or anything? Even if you're completely oblivious, he's wearing a glorified potato sack. I don't know about you, but I don't want to buy anything from that guy. Not new, by the way. But I expect you know that by now.
Sometimes Jonathan Crane wishes he was still employed at Arkham. He doesn't wish for it very often, but right now he's tired and more than a little grouchy.
"Look what your drugs did to my customers!"
You're buying from a man with a sack over his head and a nasty criminal history, cretin.
"Buyer beware. I told you my compound would take you places. I never said they'd be places you wanted to go."
The men he brought with him crack their knuckles and scowl. Is it so hard to get semi-educated help in this town? Really?
"Repeat customers!"
He shrugs and glances at his watch. The man's dogs growl at him and he narrows his eyes. He likes dogs, but not these ones. They tore his sofa apart and knocked over his tea. Ill-behaved little monsters.
"If you don't like what I have to offer, you can buy from someone else. Assuming the Batman left anyone to buy from." Idiot. The first chance he gets, he's gassing both him and his dogs.
His little dogs, too? Jonny, Jonny…
If you quote that movie one more time, just one…
"My dogs are hon-gray!"
Oh, he's incapable of pronouncing 'hungry'? Dear god…he'll never work with mob members again.
He catches sight of something that may or may not be the Batman. Fantastic. He's beginning to develop a sinus headache.
Gunfire rings out and he ducks behind the hired help. That's not Batman. Batman doesn't shoot at people. Time to leave.
Not-Batman makes the mistake of grabbing him and he sprays them in the face, allowing himself a small smirk when they go down shrieking.
Vroom!
Oh, yes. That's the real Batman, make no mistake. How he got up here is, of course, another matter.
Real Batman or not, he's not sticking around for this.
He hits something but shakes it off just as quickly. Just a few more turns…
Fwam!
What the…drat.
Batman has landed on his van. The van was ugly, but still. No vehicle should have to suffer a flying rodent landing on its hood.
His mask is yanked off and he is dropped with the imposters in the garage. He'll only be here for a few minutes, but Batman doesn't need to know that.
"I don't need help!"
"Not my diagnosis."
All right, maybe that wasn't the smartest idea, but he couldn't resist.
He sits there for ten minutes or so, listening to the complaining Not-Batmen, before the sound of a car reaches his ears. Ah. His ride is here.
"Aw, shit, it's the cops."
Oh, they'll only wish it was the cops.
The black car parks in front of them and opens up.
"Hot cop." one of them breathes. He makes a mental note to give this one an extra dose of toxin.
"O-officer…"
"Shut up, you." Kitty Richardson gives him a peck on the cheek and takes a bobby pin to his handcuffs. "Batman?"
"Of course."
"Typical…there."
He stretches and puts his glasses on. Much better.
"Aw, shit." a Not-Batman whimpers. It's the cheeky one that has to ogle. He won't make that mistake again.
He gasses them and walks away, listening to the horrified wails.
"Sorry I'm late, traffic was a mess."
He takes the keys and slides into the driver's seat, more than ready to go home and take a nice, hot shower.
THE END