Disclaimer: Honestly, I know this isn't necessary. Nobody really gives a shit whether or not you claim to own the intellectual property you're writing about. It's like stealing music on the internet. Sure it's illegal, but who's got the time to prosecute that kinda thing? The only reason I'm doing this is because A.) I did one for the last chapter and I'm OCD, so I'd feel weird if I didn't do one for every single chapter afterward. And B.) I like to put forth my words into the brains of unsuspecting youths in order to corrupt them with my nihilistic misanthropy. Or I'm just a narcissist. Or both. Either way (although "either" implies two choices when there are actually three, but whatevs) I think I've taken up enough of your time with my inane diarrhea of the mouth.
P.S. I really like to talk about myself. Tautology is tautology.
P. to the motherfucking P.S.! Dude, I was just taking a gander at the traffic stats of my stories and apparently some guy from Qatar read my other one. Do you know what this means? I have infected the Middle East! All bow before My Omnipotent Power! Feast your eyes upon the Glorious Visage of My Other-Worldliness! Drink deep of the Nectar of My Magnificence! Place your insufficient lips upon the hem of my Divine Robes of Eternality! And know, know that for all time, I am and always will be superior to you, oh mediocre denizens of My Grim Shadow. So may it be. So may it be.
Ph'nglui mglw'nafh The Batlord R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn...
Oh and to whoever the person from Qatar is, as an insensitive foreign devil I checked to see if I have in any way violated Qatari internet laws with my fic, and nothing so far. I hope to change this though. Obviously I can't put porn in this and have no particular desire to write erotica anyway so that's out. Let's see...well I'm an atheist, but am kind of over the whole anti-religious ranting thing, so there probably won't be much content that is openly "offensive to Islam". I don't see how I could provide "dating and escorting services" so I'm gonna have to pass on that. I guess I can have two chicks kiss or something, but other than that there probably won't be much gay stuff on here. I'm too lazy to try educating the kiddies on sexual health so no on that. Oh! Apparently "political criticism of Gulf countries" is frowned upon, and while I could give a shit about Middle Eastern politics I am quite salty over internet censorship. So there, if you're reading this then I have just made you an accessory to a crime. Have fun with that.
What If Batman Was a Dirtbag?
Chapter 1
"So, Mr. Wayne...why on Earth have you opened a brothel in your home?" asked the reporter seated at the press conference being held in Wayne Tower.
"And here I was hoping you were going to ask me about the sex tape," said Wayne from behind the podium at the front of the room, "In all seriousness though this is obviously a rather strange move for a company like Wayne Enterprises, but I firmly believe in this undertaking for three main reasons.
"One: that in America, in the cradle of democracy, a woman may have the right to exercise her freedom of choice when it comes to her reproductive rights, yet her sexual rights are infringed upon without a second thought. Some might see Wayne Enterprise's new venture as an example of decadence and chauvinism, but I see it as a blow for women against an outdated system of morality that oppresses women through shame and an internalized misogyny by equating sexuality, and especially female sexuality, with immorality. Sexual expression isn't 'dirty', or 'wrong', or 'obscene', it is a legitimate and important part of any human being's life and should be cherished, not vilified.
"But there are also practical considerations: self-appointed 'moral watchdogs' claim to be serving a woman's 'best interest' by stigmatizing and marginalizing sex work, but the truth is that the criminalization of prostitution has created an abusive environment where sex workers have little to no legal protection or recourse, leaving them at the mercy of violent criminals who force them into positions of virtual slavery. These women, or often underage girls, are likely to fall victim to sexually transmitted diseases and drug addiction, not to mention the physical and sexual abuse that goes hand in hand with the black market sex trade. Wayne Enterprises now gives, and is proud to give, these women the security and legal protection that any doctor, office worker, or mechanic deserves and is rightfully entitled to."
And the third reason you've opened a brothel?" asked another reporter.
"Well...a man can never be surrounded by too many beautiful women."
The men laughed. The women scowled.
"Mr. Wayne!" shouted a third notepad pusher, "How do you respond to accusations that your company has used bribery and blackmail to railroad though the legislation legalizing prostitution in Gotham? And isn't it rather strange that renovation began on Wayne Manor months before the law was even voted on, and completed not even two weeks after its passage?"
"I would say that that was absurd. To believe that any company, even one such as Wayne Enterprises, could have the influence to 'railroad' through such radical and revolutionary legislation is frankly ridiculous. If that were possible then I promise you the corporate tax codes would be in for a few tweaks."
No laughter.
Wayne cleared his throat, "And as for the renovation of Wayne Manor, I just saw the writing on the wall and decided that I wanted to be at the forefront in leading this new social experiment."
"Mr. Wayne," exclaimed yet another journalist, "Could you please tell the country why you've decided to name your new...undertaking 'Wayne's House of Ass'?"
The billionaire smiled, "Well, I was going to call it 'Wayne's House of Class' but I figured I'd probably get sued for false advertising."
The men laughed. The women scowled.
"Now I'm afraid I only have time for two more-"
"Turn that shit off!"
"Sure thing, boss," responded the hired goon before switching off the television, cutting Bruce Wayne off mid-sentence.
"Bruce fucking Wayne," growled the "boss", "That hoity-toity, conman motherfucker. 'Feminism' my sweet hairy nutsack. That pretty boy faggot is just takin' my business and I won't fucking stand for it!"
"Mr. Scarface, your blood pressure," pleaded a rather pathetic, balding man seated on a couch in front of the TV.
"Shaddup, dummy," replied the ventriloquist's puppet sitting on the man's knee. With the powder-blue, double-breasted suit, matching fedora, miniature tommy gun in hand, and long facial scar Scarface looked every inch the Italian mafia don.
Except for being two feet tall.
And made of wood.
"If I wanted your opinion I'd tug on your skirt," Scarface taunted.
"Oh, you're such a joker, Mr. Scarface," said the ventriloquist with a meek laugh.
"And why are you laughing? Don't you be tryin' to flirt with me, you queer. Hey, Rhino!" said Scarface, turning to the massively built behemoth of a man sitting to his left with remote still in hand.
"Y-yeah, boss?"
"Whaddaya think, maybe the dummy's so happy cause he's thinkin' about ol' Bruce droppin' his nutsack right on his shiny forehead?"
"Huhuhuh, yeah I'll bet that's it, boss," chuckled the man-mountain, "Or maybe he just likes havin' his hand up your ass." Rhino only guffawed louder at his own wit.
But Scarface was still as a block of wood.
"What did you just say?"
Rhino's laughter cut off as abruptly as it had erupted to be replaced with alarm. "Nuh-nuthin', boss! I didn't mean nuthin' by it!"
Scarface's empty, painted eyes never moved from Rhino, never blinked.
"Really. And what didn't you 'mean nuthin' about?"
"Nuthin'! I mean, I never meant that you liked it!"
"Oh, so I wouldn't like getting my ass fisted by the dummy? So who would I like getting fisted by? Maybe your mother? That fat slut."
Rhino clenched his fists into boulders, but though he could have smashed the pint-sized puppet into splinters, his bowed head showed whom it was who danced on strings.
"Come on, boss. There's no need to bring my mother into it. She never done nuthin' to nobody."
Scarface merely laughed scornfully, "She sure never done nuthin' for me." The malicious marionette turned away from the humiliated man as if nothing had happened and addressed the rest of the assembled thugs and hoodlums, who had remained cautiously silent, "Now let's get down to business. I didn't call you degenerates here to watch TV. You saw that bullshit Wayne was spewin'. You know what it means for our business. And you know I ain't gonna stand for it!
"And now it's time to do somethin' about it. Tonight we're gonna strike at the heart of that cocksucker's operations."
For the next several hours Scarface outlined his plan and went over it time and time again until each of his men knew their roles by heart.
"The more things change, the more they stay the same" is a phrase that has probably been said in one form or another by every great mind throughout history since man first developed language. From Plato to Einstein, Caesar to Hawking, Laozi to Hubbard, all have recognized this one simple truth.
So too did Dick Grayson upon his first glimpse of Wayne Manor in over a year. The house itself, eternal and imposing, had not one brick or shingle out of place, nor was a blade of grass out of order. In fact the only real difference was that it would be the owners of the multitude of cars parked along the side of the winding road leading to the mansion fronting the bill for their night of decadence and debauchery inside.
This was what Dick had been afraid of.
And yet rather than listen to his better judgement and go right back the way he'd come he pulled up to the front of the house, stepped out of his rental car, handed the keys to the valet, and gazed up the steps to the double doors beckoning him into the depths of the cavernous manor.
The pounding bass vibrating the earth beneath Dick's feet as he mounted the steps was likewise nothing new, and neither were the flashing, multi-colored strobe lights blazing into the night from the windows of the first floor. Pausing at the top of the landing before the doors, hand poised in mid-air, the former Boy Wonder heaved a sigh of resignation and rang the doorbell.
Not even half a minute later the doors swung soundlessly inward to reveal the first welcome piece of his past since he'd returned to Gotham in the form of an impeccably proper English butler in his immaculately proper attire. Though he was too aged to be considered young he was far too dignified to be called old. Even his age was proper.
"Welcome, good sir, to Wayne's House of...Ass" said a vaguely sincere Alfred Pennyworth, "Come freely, go safely, and leave something of the happiness you-oh, my word! Master Dick. I...I wasn't entirely sure you would come...well, no matter, it's just good to see you home."
Alfred's warm smile was perhaps slightly improper but it served to banish Dick's unease. The moment was marginally tainted by the strains of Mystikal's "Shake Ya Ass" intruding from beyond the second set of doors leading from the entrance hallway, but that was only a minor complaint.
"Alfred...it's good to see you," said Dick returning the smile. He wasn't entirely sure what should come next. Logically speaking a hug would be in order, but Alfred was British. So he awkwardly extended his hand to shake.
Alfred looked similarly uncertain, but after a moment declared, "That simply won't do, Master Dick."
What followed next was the only acceptable form of hug between two adult men. You know the hug: arms go around each other to simulate affection while making only as much physical contact as was absolutely necessary to ensure that neither man might infer an "overabundance" of fondness from the other; elbows extended to prevent any contact with the inside of the elbow; only the top of the chests touching lest certain parts of the body develop an unseemly proximity; not more than three quick thumps on the back of the other man with the right hand and the left held just below to avoid the small of the back; then release and never speak of it again.
If you ladies think I'm being ridiculous then just ask your father/brother/significant other. They'll back me up. It's not overtly homophobic. It's just Man Law. Like the I'm-Not-Gay seat at the movie theater. Say what you want but it means I never have to share an armrest.
And so, after no more than five seconds, they separated, both satisfied that they had expressed their regard for one another without any other hypothetical men in the vicinity coming to any unwelcome conclusions.
"You're a sight for sore eyes, Alfred," said Dick once full masculinity had been restored, "I don't know what all this...this is," he continued while vaguely gesturing to the house in general, "But at least I know one person in this place hasn't lost his mind...right?"
Alfred let out a well-practiced sigh, "Master Bruce is certainly a 'difficult' man to work for, and the manor has indeed acquired a rather blemished reputation over the years, but now I fear I have fallen asleep and woken up in Gomorrah."
With a wry grin Dick asked, "And what do you think the chances are this is going to end any better?"
"Who can say with Master Bruce? Though I swear I can faintly hear the trumpets of Revelations with every rendition of the 'song' 'Girls, Girls, Girls'."
"I think we all can, Alfred."
"Indeed. Well, as much as I would love to discuss how you've been this last year, Master Bruce urgently wishes to speak with you, so if you would be so kind..." and Alfred politely gestured for Dick to follow him, "Master Bruce has made several...renovations to the house, so it would be best if you would follow me."
Dick nodded absently, "So, any idea what this is about?"
"Not to be evasive, Master Dick, but perhaps it would be best if Master Bruce told you himself. I am sure he would prefer to broach the subject in his own way."
"Comforting."
"Indeed."
He'd had a fair idea of what to expect, but the sight that greeted him when the butler opened the doors of the entrance hall still stopped Dick Grayson in his tracks.
"Charming is it not?" Alfred had to raise his voice over the sudden deluge of ribald hip hop, but the rueful tone of his voice was obvious.
Dick was too stunned to nod dumbly. It appeared that several walls in the main hall had turned up missing, leaving a vast space. In their place was the sort of stage familiar to any man who has ever turned twenty-one (at least in the Puritan pit that is America): phallic-shaped and ringed by gaudy lights likely stolen from a gas station bathroom. It was massive enough to accommodate eight ceiling-high polls, four on each side, with a ninth at the "tip". And immodestly undulating on each of these polls was a scantily-clad, or considerably less than scantily-clad, buxom young lady of dubious intentions.
Not content with this level of lewdness there were several identical, though smaller, stages with several identical, though similarly proportioned, women also tragically deprived of clothing. Not to mention the circular stages sporting only a single poll and occupant scattered throughout the room. Or the women dancing sans poll in cages hanging from the ceiling. And this was all set to a soundtrack that rather encouraged such displays.
An arresting scene to say the least.
No less of a spectacle were the numerous, well-dressed men, whose wives presumably believed them to be on a business trip, cheering and jeering the beguiling ladies who in turn encouraged their intentions with lascivious glances and generous amounts of skin-to-skin contact. And when critical mass was reached between a man and at least one woman he was led away to parts unknown...
Truthfully this sight was not particularly new to Dick Grayson. After all one couldn't spend extended time in the presence of Bruce Wayne without becoming accustomed to such displays. What was shocking was seeing such levels of debauchery in his boyhood home. No matter what excesses may have gone on in this house...this was new.
Dick was startled out of his daze when Alfred loudly cleared his throat. Averting his gaze from the "show" the English gentleman implored, "If you would, please, Master Dick, I would prefer to keep moving. Anywhere."
"Right," said Dick faintly, considerably less able to tear his eyes from what was before him.
Alfred led him through the room, taking a circuitous path around tables filled with sweaty, intoxicated patrons, leaving a cautious distance between himself and the entertainers. Cigar smoke and the smell of alcohol formed a thick haze, lit by the flashing strobes to a nearly impenetrable, technicolored fog that permeated the entirety of the massive room. Dick didn't need to see the subtle expression of affronted dignity to know Alfred's thoughts on all that surrounded him.
Soon enough they made their way across the wanton bacchanal and through a door now only mildly familiar to Dick. A rather uncomfortable silence followed.
"You know," ventured Dick after thirty seconds of silent walking, "Aren't these high-end places usually a bit classier than that?"
"I wouldn't know, but I imagine most 'high-end places' are not run by Bruce Wayne," said Alfred who was visibly relieved to have entered a more subdued part of the mansion. If not for the faint but still audible throbbing of the music one could almost forget the new "business" aspect of Wayne Manor as they wandered its stately, tastefully-furnished halls adorned with well-chosen artwork.
Soon Alfred stopped at the end of a hall on the first floor that terminated at yet another door. Gesturing in that formal way only a butler can Alfred beckoned Dick to enter.
"Master Bruce awaits. And now if you don't mind, Master Dick, I still have...duties to perform."
He couldn't be sure it wasn't his imagination but Dick could swear he saw a corner of the old retainer's mouth twitch in an amused smile. Suddenly wary he paused at the threshold before cautiously opening the door and stepping inside.
This part of the house at least Dick recognized completely. This was the small receiving room that led to Bruce's office past a door at the other end.
"Bruce Wayne's office, please hold. Bruce Wayne's office, please hold. Bruce Way-aw crap that's not the hold button! What? No, no, everything's fine, sire. I'm just-...what? Why don't ya professionally cram it up your ass, ya douche-...FUCK OFF!"
The flustered young woman seated at the desk by the wall between Dick and the opposite door slammed the phone down on the receiver. The veritable Christmas tree of blinking lights on its face spoke volumes. As did the mountain of papers lying helter skelter across the desk that she now rifled and clawed her way through as if ransacking her own work space. In her agitation she took no notice of Dick whatsoever.
Dick Grayson saw none of this. He saw only the woman.
Her lower body was hidden under the desk, but above that she wore a tank top that only marginally resembled the name: it seemed to be made out of leather, red on the lower half, black on top, with a red strap connected to the lower red half and running up and around the back of her neck hold the thing up. The dangerously low cut of the "shirt", barely restraining a violently ample chest, left little to reality, let alone the imagination.
If one could bear to look up they they would see a lovely swan-like neck leading up to a captivating, heart-shaped face...that was painted completely white. Crystal blue eyes were ringed by black make-up that covered her entire eye sockets. Her beauty was somehow made sweet rather than purely erotic by a pair of platinum blonde pigtails. (I'm convinced that you have to be a chick to enjoy describing a girl's outfit. Fuck this shit. BTW, to any girl authors out there, I don't give a fuck what color the trim on your character's dress is or what the cut of whatever boring garment she's wearing is. Please just get on with it and spare me the Project Runway BS.)
The shock of the main hall was a pleasant memory.
Dick opened his mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again, closed it, and then contented himself by merely staring wide-eyed. Finally telling himself that he was Dick fucking Grayson and wasn't about to put up with this shit he summoned his courage and spoke with valiant meekness...
"Um...excuse me..."
"WHAT?! WHADDAYA WANT?!" the girl shrieked in a thick Brooklyn accent with an expression that could have curdled powdered milk.
Dick jumped back at her eruption, his courage spent, and stammered, "Um, uh, I'm, uh...here to see...Bruce Wayne...?" His purpose fulfilled he tried not to cower while he regarded her as a deer might an approaching semi.
Like the flick of a switch the girl's wrath became surprise and then chagrin. She lightly rapped on her head with red leather, fingerless gloved hands as if to assure herself of its occupancy and said with a sheepish smile, "Oh yeah, you must be Dick. Nice to meet ya."
"Um...yeah...wait, so are you-"
"Follow mease (sic) if you please, Dick," she said completely oblivious that he had even spoken. In the blink of an eye her embarrassment had been replaced by a bright-eyed peppiness that would have been infectious under different circumstances. "You don't mind if I call you Dick do you?"
"Uh, no that's-"
"Great!"
"But I-"
Without any indication that she was paying any attention she..."bounced" up out of her chair and..."skipped" over to the door to Bruce Wayne's office. She appeared to be wearing spandex pants that alternated between red and black: from the top of her thighs up was black on her left side and red on the right, while below she wore what seemed to be opaque stockings the same colors as her pants but alternating red on the left and black on the right. Whoever was her tailor had obviously underestimated her measurements if the painted-on quality of the trousers was any indication.
With nary a knock or an announcement of her presence the girl threw open the door, planted one foot down on the floor hidden by the door jam with the other held out horizontally, forming a ninety degree angle, and thrust her torso sideways around the edge of the doorway as if to suggest to anyone on the other side that she was somehow defying gravity and standing on the wall, and announced with perky unprofessionalism, "Your next appointment is here, Mistah B!"
"Thank you, Gnarley. Please hold my calls," said Bruce Wayne as if this was perfectly acceptable office behavior. The look of relaxed laziness on his face seemed to reinforce this. Only Bruce Wayne could wear a suit and sit in front of an expensive desk and look any more unreliable. The lack of anything except for a suspicious amount of tiny stems and seeds scattered across said desk may have had something to do with it.
"Sure thing, Mistah B."
Not entirely sure that he hadn't stepped into Alfred's dream Dick entered Bruce's office without a shred of knowing just what the fuck was happening in the world. After the "assistant" closed the door and left them alone Bruce gestured to a chair across from the desk, "Have a seat, Dick, and thanks for coming on such short notice."
"Yeah, um..." said Dick uncertainly taking the proffered chair before jerking his thumb at the door, "Look, don't take this the wrong way...but is your receptionist Harley Quinn?"
"No, that was Gnarely Quinn."
"Gnarley Quinn."
"Yes."
"Care to elaborate on that?"
"Well, one day this random girl, not Harley Quinn, comes in looking for a 'job' if you know what I mean..."
"Yes, Bruce, I know."
"Well she comes in with that accent and a light bulb just came on. I figured, 'Hey, what guy who comes to Gotham City doesn't fantasize about fucking some of the most evil women on the planet? Now we have a Catwoman, a Poison Ivy, and a Mrs. Freeze too."
"Uh huh. So if she's a...prostitute, then why is she answering your phone?"
"What can I say, I kinda took a shine to her when she was shining my knob one day and wanted to have her close by at a moment's notice. I mean she can't file worth shit, but she sure knows how to collate if you know what I mean..."
"Yeah, Bruce. I get it."
"You seem tense. I could call in a girl or two to help you with that."
"I'm good, Bruce."
"Sure?"
"Bruce, I'm married."
"And?"
Dick sighed. "No thanks, Bruce. Alright look, I know I'm going to regret asking this, but I can't move on from this weirdness till I do: 'Gnarley' was the best you could come up with?"
"Hey, you try coming up with a fucking rhyme for 'Harley'. I even looked in a god damn rhyming dictionary and 'gnarly' was the best I could do."
"What about 'Harley Sinn?"
"Do I look like a fucking moron to you? That was the first thing I thought of, but Harley usually goes by her first name so you've gotta change that, and you can't change the second name too or else it gets too far from the original. So yeah, 'Gnarley Quinn'."
"What's wrong with 'Gnarley Sinn'?" It kind of works and it doesn't sound too stupid."
"I thought of that too, but with both names changed there's just too much going on and it sounds clunky. I mean it sounds great at first, but then you wake up the next day and it just sounds like ass. Besides, Gnarley Sinn sounds like a porn star, not a hooker."
"Cause there's such a big difference."
"Why don't you tell that to Sasha Grey. Cause let me tell you she has one hell of a right hook."
Again Dick sighed. "Look, as fun as it is to hear about your adopted father's failed attempt to proposition a porn star, didn't you call me here for a reason?"
"Wanna shot?"
"What?"
"You know, vodka?"
Bruce reached into a desk drawer and produced a bottle of Grey Goose and two shot glasses. Setting the glasses on the desk he filled them both with the clear alcohol and gave Dick an expectant look.
Dick looked long and hard at the glasses before saying, "No, Bruce, I don't want a shot."
"Well, more for me," and Bruce downed first one and then the other and loudly slammed them down on the desk, bottoms up. "Fuck yeah! Dick, you don't know what you're missing."
"Yeah, whatever. So the reason you-"
"Wanna bump?"
"...What?"
From another drawer Bruce presented a notebook paper-sized silver tray with four long, thin lines of white powder. He set it in front of Dick with another expectant expression. "Come on. For old times sake?"
Dick was deceptively calm as he tore his eyes from the cocaine and looked up at Bruce's perpetually adolescent face.
"Are you fucking kidding me, Bruce?"
Bruce threw up his hands in a defensive gesture, "Whoa, hey, what's decaying in your ass?"
"Did you forget why I left in the fucking first place?"
"Dick, it's been over a year. Don't tell me you're still all pissy over that whole ass grabbing thing."
"Fuck off! That's not what this is and you fucking know it!"
"Fuck me, are you still going on about all that sobriety bullshit?"
"'Sobriety bullshit'? Do you have any idea where I've been the past year?"
"Alaska?"
Dick gaped at Bruce in disbelief, "Alaska? Alaska?! You can't even remember where your adopted son was supposed to go after his fucking wedding?"
Seemingly unfazed by anything going on around him, Bruce Wayne said with complete nonchalance, "Well I knew it was either some place cold or some place hot so I took a shot."
"You 'took a shot'? Fuck you! We told everyone we were going to fucking Tahiti so they wouldn't know I was in fucking rehab!"
"Rehab? Are you shitting me?"
"No, Bruce, I am not shitting you. See this?"
Dick reached into his pocket and slapped something small and coin-shaped onto the desk. For a moment it sat between them until Bruce recognized it and recoiled.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Yeah. That's a one year AA chip."
Bruce, with his eyes fixed on the chip like it was a viper, pointed a quivering finger toward the door. "Dick, I don't want that fucking thing in my house."
"Don't worry, Bruce," said Dick, putting the offending item back in his pocket, "I'm sure it won't be here much longer."
"Dick, I know we've had our problems, but are you just trying to hurt me now?"
"Are you on crack?"
"Hey, I've never done crack more than a day in my life."
"You have got to be the world's biggest narcissist!" ranted Dick, now emphatically gesturing with his hands in the air as his agitation grew, "Everything's always about you isn't it? Need someone to help you with your one-man crusade? Give the kid a pair of booty shorts! Need a wingman for Spring Break in Ibiza? Hand the boy an eight-ball! This isn't about you, asshole! This is about me not wanting to be some sad old drunk chasing after brain-dead pussy half my age."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Bruce, I don't even remember my senior year in high school."
"Hey, who was it who woke up one day and said, 'Dude, I heard Ozzy Osbourne doesn't remember a whole year in the seventies cause he dropped so much acid. I wanna do that.'"
"And who was it who bought me the acid and left it under my pillow?"
"I told you, that was the LSD Fairy."
"...What the fuck am I even supposed to say to that?!"
"You act like I'm some kind of bad parent or something. I never even let you touch so much as a joint till you were thirteen."
"Oh, fuck me, my bad! Father of the Fucking Year right here!"
"Damn straight."
They were interrupted by a quiet knock at the door.
"Uh...Mistah B," came Gnarley's tentative interruption from behind the closed doors, "Is everything okay in there? Do I need to call security?"
"Everything's fine, Gnarley. You can stand down."
"Then do you want me to call in some of the girls to, ya know, relieve the tension?"
"I think we're good, Gnarley...on second thought why don't you schedule a few of them in for later."
"Sure thing, Mistah B."
"Can't file worth shit but she's still the best assistant I've ever had," said Bruce turning back to Dick.
"Well it's nice to know you're taking what I've said into serious consideration," said Dick seething as he stood up to leave, "But it looks like this has been a complete waste of my fucking time."
"Dick, sit down. I still haven't told you why I called you here."
Dick crossed his arms and gazed down at him in indifferent contempt, "Thirty seconds."
Bruce leaned forward, lacing his hands together under his chin with his elbows on the desk, and suddenly he was Batman. "I'm sure you've been wondering why I've turned Wayne Manor into a brothel."
"Honestly, at this point the only thing that surprises me is that you still have a functioning liver."
Ignoring him Bruce went on, "One of organized crime's most time-honored cash cows has been prostitution. I'm ending that flow of money."
Still standing Dick raised his eyebrows, "Well now that it's legal shouldn't that happen on its own? What does turning your dead parents' home into a whorehouse accomplish?"
"Since they already have an existing 'work force', not to mention experience in the industry, the crime syndicates would have an edge on cornering the market before any legitimate companies would have the chance to get off the ground. If they had time."
"Wait a minute," interjected an incredulous Dick Grayson as he sat down, "Are you telling me you're doing all this to steal their business?"
"To put it simply, yes. For the past six months I've been putting forth all of Wayne Enterprise's, not to mention Batman's, resources and influence to introduce and pass the legislation legalizing prostitution as quickly as possible in order to give organized crime as little time as possible to react."
"All the while you're setting all this up to catch them with their pants down."
"This and satellite businesses all around Gotham for the less affluent 'customers'."
Dick Grayson was running seriously low on incredulity. "Bruce...what the fuck? Has the syphilis finally made it to your brain?"
"You don't think it'll work?"
"I don't fucking know. All I know is you're a fucking pimp."
"Dick, your prejudice against prostitution is-"
"Don't you dare feed me some bullshit line about 'internalized misogyny'!"
"..."
Dick put his face in his hands, took a deep breath, and let it out. Then he looked up at Bruce, who was still sitting calmly in the same position, hands under his chin, and asked, "Alright, so I guess that's...whatever, but you still haven't told me why I'm here."
Bruce considered him for a moment before he spoke, "Dick, I'm declaring war on one of organized crime's most profitable businesses. Things are going to get violent very soon and I'd like your help."
Dick couldn't help but laugh. "You want me to help you defend your prostitution ring? Has the syphilis finally made it to your brain?"
Bruce was unperturbed. "Forget about me. What about all the innocent people who'll get caught in the crossfire."
"You're Batman. I'm sure you'll think of something. Now if you'll excuse me I have a wife waiting for me at home."
As Dick again stood up Bruce commented offhandedly, "Then I guess I'll give Scarface your regards."
Dick froze halfway out of his chair.
"What?"
"He's coming here tonight. If he's on time, and he always is, then his men should be here within the hour."
"But...how do you know that?"
"I'm fucking Batman."
"Bruce..."
Bruce sighed, "Fine, be lame. Since Scarface controls a sizable portion of Gotham's sex trade I knew I'd have to deal with him eventually, so I've been keeping him under surveillance for months now. Or at least I've been trying to.
"Scarface is far too cagey to let himself be tracked down. He moves from hideout to hideout constantly, with only a select few of his most trusted lieutenants ever knowing where he is at any given time. The rest of his men only ever learn of his location on the day of a job when they are contacted on disposable cellphones which are then immediately destroyed.
"Even his financial records have been a goose chase. Evidence of any kind has been almost nonexistent, and whatever I've managed to uncover has only led to a never ending series of dummy corporations and off-shore accounts. I even spent an entire week following a lead that eventually ended at a website that consisted only of a picture of Mister Rogers giving me the finger. And no, I couldn't get any evidence from it."
"And what about his female 'employees'?" asked Dick as he sat back down in his chair.
"Do I look like a fucking moron to you? After failing to get anything useful from his known associates his prostitution rings were my next target, but apparently none of his pimps or hookers have the slightest idea their boss is made out of mahogany."
"He's made of mahogany?"
"Fuck if I know."
"World's. Greatest. Detective."
"Fuck off."
"Alright, so if you were SOL then how do you know the exact date and time Scarface is going to attack your house?"
"Consistent detective work. I never managed to get his location, but with enough broken teeth I did finally get the target, date, and approximate time of his next operation."
"But how do you know he'll be here within the hour?"
"I had to get you to sit down somehow, didn't I?"
"Cunt. So how long have you known all this?"
"A few days."
"Just long enough to get me here?"
"..."
Dick sighed, "So if you've known this for days, why is this place still open for business?"
"If I'd closed up shop then it might have tipped Scarface off and I would have lost my best shot at him."
Dick barely even had the energy to be appalled at this point, "Bruce, are you insane? You're putting all of these people at risk."
Unflappable as always Bruce casually replied, "With any luck it'll never come to that. I have a plan."
"This should be good."
They were interrupted by another knock, and Gnarley stuck her head through the door, "Uh...Mistah B? Ya know when ya told me to tell ya when that blinky thing started blinkin'? Well, it's blinkin'."
"Thank you, Gnarley. That'll be all."
"Sure thing, Mistah B," and she disappeared as quickly as she'd appeared.
"'Blinky thing'?" asked Dick.
"That would be the proximity alarm. Scarface should be here in the next fifteen minutes. So, are you in?"
Dick was silent for a long moment. Eventually he came to the conclusion that his better judgement couldn't become any more disgusted with him than it already was, so he sighed in final resignation, "Fuck it, what's the plan?"
To Be Con-fucking-tinued
A Semi-Final Note of Utter Gloriousness: I was curious what you called whatever uniform a butler is supposed to wear, so I Googled it. I found this question on Yahoo Answers and I think it bears sharing:
"Mother and father have recently started employing a new butler for the manor. He rudely asked a question during dinner, but anyway he asked about his dress code. Father is considering starched shirt with stiff detachable collar, with tie, waistcoat and tails. Apparently, this is a jolly uncomfertable (sic) uniform, but i think that the butler should look smart at all times. We already enforce the rule that if the butler is seen by me, mother or father without a tie on, then he gets a 50 percent pay reduction that week. Any suggestions about a uniform? Remember, he must wear a tie, and have a stiff uncomfertable (sic) shirt/collar"
They totally need to let you beat children again.
More Bands that Nobody Cares About Who Got Me Through the Endless Hour I Spent Writing This Opus: Alanis Morissette (I love that crazy bitch to death, but I pity any man who dates her), Iggy Pop and the Stooges (after Iggy everyone else is fighting for second place for Punkest Motherfucker of All Time), Velvet Underground (when I don't care I don't care, but when I do they are the fucking truth), Suicide (I've loved Slayer for over a decade, but their entire discography isn't half as creepy as "Frankie Teardrop"), James Chance and the Contortions (calling this "jazz punk" is an insult, but it kind of is), DNA (pretentious art-rock nonsense that I hated, then I kind of didn't hate, and now I kind of like, even though I still think it's nonsense), the Misfits (all praise due to His Supreme Unholiness Glenn Danzig), Danzig (same dude, different band, but both are worthy of your worship), Electric Wizard (doooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom!), the Monks (their only album is from 1966 and still sounds like it was beamed down from space), Iron Maiden (I'm listening to "Killers" right now and there is honest-to-god moisture in my eye at the pure metallic brilliance of this song), Wolf (the kickass Swedish metal band that sounds like a cross between Iron Maiden and Mercyful Fate, not the five million other bands probably named Wolf), Body Count (why the fuck is Ice T on Law and Order?), Absurd (I have a minor obsession with Nazi black metal, and yes that is a thing. Cannibal Corpse can sing about raping, murdering, and dismembering women all they want but in the end they're probably perfectly well-adjusted dudes just venting some aggression and indulging their morbid side, but you don't get much more legitimately subversive than swastika-hugging, Aryan cheerleaders. The fact that Absurd are all convicted murderers is just a bonus. Oh and their music is pretty good too), Grand Belial's Key (More Nazified metal. Never has Antisemitism sounded so good and so wrong at the same time), Cryptopsy (they do it rather well don't you think?), Malevolent Creation (Florida death metal was just the biz), Angel Witch (you're an Angel Witch! You're an Angel witch!), Trouble (it's a crime that doom metal isn't better known. I mean you like Black Sabbath, right? Course you do), Reverend Bizarre (anyone bored enough to still be reading this garbage is going to learn to like doom metal if it kills them. Go and listen to "Doom Over the World". Now. Shoo), Megadeth (their first four albums [five if I'm being honest] are just as important to my childhood as Metallica's first four [five if I'm being honest]), Overkill (Bobby motherfucking "Blitz" Ellsworth is all that needs to be said), Morbid Saint (as far as brutal thrash metal goes it's these dudes, Devastation, and Exhorder as far as I'm concerned), Morbid Angel (I love that Trey Azagthoth always thanks animes and video games in the liner notes to their albums), and last but certainly not least, Manowar. Hail and kill, motherfuckers.
And just in case anybody bored, stupid, crazy, or musically nerdy enough has actually made it this far then I give you a round of applause and a look of withering contempt. Get a life.