LEGEND of the BATMAN

THE ABYSS

Have you ever had a day when things just don't go your way?

Have you ever looked around you and noticed the happy smiles of those…fortunate people, and wondered…Why don't I feel like that?

Life's pleasures slip through your fingers or fade into dreams and replaced by nightmares.

Have you ever looked at your life and see its foundations crumble upon itself, fallen into a dark abyss of emptiness? Dark and cold, filled with damp, ambiguous-shaped vomit. Vile and repulsive little brutes.

Have you ever just had a very bad day?

I'm not a religious man, never have been, well not since my mother's death. I've never much seen the use of it—faith, religion. What manner of gods hold this spec of a universe in their hands and do absolutely nothing. Useless. God could only be one at once. If He was this All-powerful God, then perhaps He isn't an all good one, and if He is an all good, benevolent God, then He isn't as powerful as He proclaims. No I don't blame gods for when he suddenly decides to sock me in the balls.

But don't let me get ahead of myself.

It all started…maybe on a Tuesday…or was it a Saturday? Funny how when you have absolutely no working obligations, that days seem to blur into each other and a whole week could feel like a whole hour. Even funnier was that that was my problem. I needed money, I needed work…I needed a way to provide for my family.

Well…I did…

For four years, my daughter had been fighting cancer…I can't even remember what kind, but two weeks ago we lost. Two weeks ago we pulled the plug. Healthcare just didn't cover it and for a while we were able to keep it afloat…but it wasn't enough. And my wife, Jeanie blamed me. She always puts the blame on me.

I felt like colour drained from my eyes or perhaps this city was always like that. Work should have tipped me off of how shit the day would go. I mean, working at ACE Chemicals was never a joyride, but that day just...

Waking up at 2:30 am, got fined by the cops for running a red light after two kids tailgated me. Coffee machine broke down and when I put five dollars in the vending machine for some Red Bull, the fucking machine ate it up.

My colleagues were watching me, with their own coffees, one of them probably broke the coffee machine. "The fucking machine ate my money," I explained. I could feel their pity, their eyes full of condescending judgment. "I mean, it shouldn't matter, right…it doesn't matter. It's just…I worked hard for that cash I…I…" I started kicking that metal box as hard as I could, not sure it did any good.

At nine, an announcement came over the radio that Gill, someone working my division was promoted, and I mean, the guy only just started and I've been slaving away for eight years. Not complaining. But then my boss calls me up to his office, I thought, finally, maybe they've notice how hard I work every day, not even asking for a raise or overtime money.

I was a fucking schmuck.

The first thing he brings up is that incident last week with Sherri, a new intern who accused me of sexual assault at Ben's promotion party. They were false but everyone was intoxicated so really, I had no alibi. So they fired me. Sure they acknowledged my work and loyalty, but it wasn't enough and what did they give me for my hard work? A small pocket knife with my name on it. They gave me two days to clear my stuff and afterwards, as my car was company owned, they'd be getting that back too.

To celebrate my new unemployment promotion, I went to a convenient store in the corner for a six pack and a raspberry slushie. Two teenagers, two punks came at me trying to get me to surrender my drinks so I told them they weren't old enough for beer and they took a jab at my slushie, saying I was a little too old for it myself. They knocked my drink out of my hands and it spilt everywhere.

I came home feeling like shit.

Maybe I shouldn't have. The first thing I heard when I came through the door of my house was the sound my wife made in the throes of ecstasy. I kept telling myself that it was just my imagination, or a hallucination or something, even as I walked through the hallway and saw the discarded clothes, only some were hers, I kept this delusion until I opened the door to our bedroom, and there she was, hands on the wall as she rode some stranger in our marital bed. They were sweaty, her beautiful raven hair was glossy, rocking to and fro like she was galloping on a race horse, and she kept screaming his name. 'Frank! Oh Frank!' Oh how I wished I could wring his little neck! He was some Puerto Rican dude, a local detective.

We all remained silent after they were done. I waited in the kitchen, my pocket knife in my hand and when he came out we locked gaze, my grasp on the knife tightened and he put up his hands and backed out of the house.

It was even more quiet when Jeanie came out. She thought those teary eyes would stop me from…well I did nothing. I wanted to shout at her, to hit her, but I did nothing and walked out with her sobbing behind me. It would have just been too easy to blame it on our daughter's death, to admit that this trauma was taking a toll on our lives, and that Jeanie'd grappled longingly for breath out of the muck she left us in.

But that's the thing isnt it. Whether we want to admit it or not, as human beings...we are a selfish, fiendish sort. God's greatest mistake was giving us free will and expecting us to just...behave. Jeanie didnt even wear her guilt on her, poised in with dignation though also pouting like a wounded dog. But I loved her dearly and there's no excuse for me. Besides, she wasnt all that bad; I kept telling myself as I walked down the empty streets, heading out of the Narrows. She was my greatest source of support in my earlier years, in my earliest memories of her...of us.

I spent the rest of the evening at the bar. I still had favours to cash in, at least seven years' worth of alcohol. It was here where I was contracted by a group of men, Mafia folks in all suites and shit, rounded on me and asked if I worked at ACE Chemicals. I said "Sure, well I used to work there, you know. But the place was a drag, depressing, felt like a cemetery only with more colours in the wrong places. I quit like a month or so ago."

"But would you, say, know your way around the place?" one of these thugs asked me.

Again, I just said "Sure. I've got a very good memory."

They wanted me to guide them and their bros through the factory and laboratory and they were willing to pay an exponential amount of money for my services.

One could imagine my response.

Only the other day I had work at a bar, stand-up comedy somewhere in the Narrows for extra cash…Hey, I guess it really was a Saturday then.

My material was really based on masters like Robin Williams, Jerry Seinfeld or Kevin Hart, but not crossing the line to Louis C.K. Maybe that was the problem. The world never seems to know what exactly it is that it wants. Too offensive and the world will rip you to shreds, not offensive enough and you're a pussy little snowflake.

It was a tough crowd. People booed me before I was done and the boss don't pay for unfinished. I returned home to Jeanie with no money, the lab held my pay for ransom, I was half beaten by some hooligans that really, just continued to beat me up once they found I had nothing to steal. Of the two of us, Jeanie was the stable one—a good enough job so a well flowing income, she's hot, head cheerleader at our high school and you know what, sometimes I wonder what it is she sees in me? A broke, failed comedian who had no shred of talent for the life of him.

Sometimes I feel it, her judgements of me, dad's lack of respect for me, it all boils down to one thing…money…

So I said "Yeah, okay, I'll do it." I'll work for the mob for a night or two, get the cash and leave it all behind. I told them as much so they knew there was no issue of trust, I wouldn't give a fuck about what they were doing. My heart and mind was just so into this rage, this hatred, but I just didn't know where it went…well maybe I did.

That night we were outside the barbed wire fence. Usually no one ever really broke into the plant. No one is that stupid to risk dying from fumes or whatever urban legend that passed around the Narrows. They had me dress in this get-up, I was in my wedding tuxedo but they also wanted me to put on a red helmet and cape and told me it was for added anonymity. I didn't question it.

Inside was quiet, no sound whatsoever. The mafia guys told me to lead them to the boss's office, said they were looking for some files about some weird flowers or whatnot. We barely made it to my boss's office when we ran into security. The two Italians failed to tell me that they had tried to get in themselves before, that had the board of directors to ramp up security, I guess.

Anyway, they didn't hesitate to throw me under the bus and told them that I was the mastermind of the operation. Then the cops showed up and who was among them but Frank himself, or more accurately Detective Frank Garcia of the GCPD Major Crimes Unit or so I'm now told.

That was all the egging I needed and snatched a gun from one of the Italians and opened fire, I hit Frank in the arm and then some where close to the dick I think. But I didn't want to kill the guy. That just wasn't me.

So I used the opportunity of them tending to Frank to run up to the roof. I knew there were some long wiring that came from the roof of the facility down to the power box on the other side of the parking lot.

For that I needed to pass over the room with all of the chemical tanks. I myself never really went into that room, it creep me out and I was always afraid of falling into one of the pools of God knows what.

I clanked up the metal steps and toward that large room. I finally felt my heart start to race. A rickety metallic bridge suspended across the room a few feet above the many pools of bubbling chemicals ranging from many different colours and fascinating odours as well.

I was scared shitless, but I had to cross, the cops were marching up to me as I spoke. I began my crossing, slowly first. The smoke and toxins were almost too much to bare even with the helmet I was wearing.

In hindsight, I kinda wished it were. When the clanking stopped and I saw no men in uniform behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief…then as I sprinted across the bridge I bumped into something hard. I gotta tell ya, that helmet made it damn well impossible to see anything with. Everything was bloody red—all except that guy though. I had heard about it, I heard the cops wanted to keep it under wraps, but it ain't something you could just sweep up. Word went out, even to someone who didn't give a shit about it like me.

A black, horned devil standing over me. Its eyes, glowing white and empty, I almost felt a sort of kindred to it, its emptiness. His leathery wings cloaked him and he approached…slowly, torturously and I tried to plead with it, beg for my life with it, told this demon that I was being implicated and that I didn't mean things to get out of hands. I thought it was just some light corporate espionage, only their wallets were going to feel it. But Satan doesn't care for excuses. I sinned and I belong in the fires of hell.

He moved like lightning, disarming me before I could even think and the next thing I knew, I was holding onto the edge of the platform, dangling over the hot bubbles, ACE Chemical's signature product. And the Batman? He didn't do anything, just stood over me, even as I reached out for him. He just backed away into the mists and finally…my hands lost their grip. I don't know what it was…no actually I did, I just started laughing. It wasn't some maniacal laughter, devoid of reason, it was a nervous, hopeless laugh. I wasn't going to make it.

I fell, fell for forever, into a blinding light. And then there was nothing. I fell into the toxic goo and felt like I was burning, like God dragged Dante into the fire, the dark fire, now it was my turn. Memory's so treacherous. My whole life flashed before my eyes. One moment you're lost in a carnival of delights, poignant childhood aromas, the flashing neon of puberty, all that sentimental candyfloss. It was very boring…Hah!

I wasn't dead…or maybe I was?

I clutched and scraped and scratched my way out of the sewer drains. I was dizzy…my head hurt…I'm itchy all over!...

My red helmet, whatever material it was seemed to become irrelevant, it started to peel away as I lifted myself up…at first it was all white. So bright to my eyes I didn't know, I didn't realise my eyes were closed.

Then my sight returned to me, little by little, fickle lights that took shape, but what I saw, while I was on my knees, on all fours and staring down into a puddle of water, staring down into a reflection I no longer recognised…no I finally saw it—a reason to be happy, a reason to smile for…

Memories can be vile, repulsive little brutes. Like children, I suppose. But can we live without them? Memories are what we base our reasons upon. If we can't man up and face them, look into the dark everyday abyss, then we deny reason itself…

Then again…why not?

We aren't contractually tied down to rationality in its horrid ideals and hollow promises. There isn't any sanity clause, not really.

So when you find ourselves trapped in the unpleasant train of thought , heading at sonic speed for places where screaming echoes and rings, screeching in our ears like the tired nag of loved ones, unbearable…just remember, always remember…there's always madness….

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