Disclaimer: Disclaim this, bitch.

Author's Note: Fuck me. As I'm starting this I'm sure even now that this will be late as shit. Saint's Row IV has my life by the gonads and there is nothing I can do about it. I'm sure all my loyal fan will be devastated, but fear not. I don't like you anyway so I will not be affected in the least, which is all that's really important. My saliva in your eye should have sufficed to keep you content in my absence. If not then I will find you and you shall suffer for your insolence. Oh yes, you shall suffer.

So sayeth The Batlord.

Addendum to the Author's Note: Holy fuck nuggets! First it was Saint's Row 4, then it was Saint's Row 4 again, then it was Mass Effect again, and now it's Resident Evil 6 (fuck the fanboys, RE6 is a bitchin' third-person shooter). The video games is taking up all my times. Luckily for me I've now realized that what was going to be this chapter needs (possibly) to be broken up into two chapters. So that'll save the god-knows-how-many extra hours I would have undoubtedly needed to put into this.

P.S. I suggest you never read Wikipedia's article on the "List of films considered the worst" when working on fanfiction. It will make you paranoid. On a related note I must now see Plan 9 from Outer Space, The Room, and Santa Claus Conquers the Martians as soon as possible.

What If Batman Was a Dirtbag?

Chapter 2

"Don't worry, everything's going as planned," said Bobby Gustavo into his Bluetooth as he cruised in a mid-sized tractor trailer down the lazy twists of the road leading to Wayne manor. He was following his orders to the letter and was confident that Scarface would have nothing to complain about.

"No, I promise you I'll be there on time. I already told you I couldn't help last time. The job went on longer than it was supposed to. It wasn't my fault. Yes I know I'm missing another recital. Look-...Hey, that isn't fair! You know I'd be there if I could, but I can't screw up this job. My boss would kill me. I'll make it up to her, and I swear I'll be home soon-...That's bullshit! You know I love-"

Bobby was cut off when his truck was hurled into the air by a deafening explosion that sent it careening over the side of the road where it crashed on its passenger side before finally skidding to a crunching halt thirty feet from the site of the blast.

Bobby was cut off when the ground underneath the left side of the truck erupted, sending it careening over the side of the road to crash on its passenger side before finally skidding to a crunching halt thirty feet from the site of the blast.

Bobby woke to groggy half-consciousness to a painful ringing in his ears. He could see, but the weightless spinning of the world around him made comprehension nearly impossible. Combined with the stabbing pain lacerating the insides of his skull he was having trouble keeping from vomiting.

In a daze he looked around him.

He found himself still inside the cab of the truck, but was hanging from his seat belt. The passenger door seemed to have determined that it was the ground.

Bobby wasn't quite sure what to make of this.

All of the glass in the windows and windshield had apparently staged their own revolt, but the individual pieces obviously couldn't agree on where to go after attaining freedom so they had seceded from one another as well. A fair few had decided to take up residence in his face. His blood was not pleased at these refugees and was in the process of immigrating to the passenger door.

Bobby was slowly coming to a conclusion on what to make of this. He was seriously leaning toward disapproval.

Just to add insult to injury he was becoming increasingly distracted from his ruminations by a sound other than the ringing. It was quite insistent. For some reason this sound seemed rather familiar...and was associated with great annoyance.

"Bobby?! Bobby?! What the hell was that?! Are you okay?! Bobby, answer me! Should I call the police?! I'm calling the police!"

"I'll have to call you back," and Bobby switched off his Bluetooth. He wasn't sure why, but this felt strangely satisfying.

As if all of this wasn't upsetting enough, now the driver side door had decided upon revolution and even went so far as to tear itself from its traitorous hinges to go sailing off into the night.

A ruthless military crackdown was in order before the radio started getting ideas.

But before visions of tank treads rolling over unarmed protesters and public denials of chemical weapon attacks on civilians could start dancing through his head a black-gloved hand materialized out of the darkness and seized Bobby by the shirt collar. Following the hand appeared what the addled driver could only describe as Black Satan.

As in the color black. Otherwise it would just be racist.

Black Satan seemed to be dealing with his own domestic policy woes if his ill-tempered shouting was any indication.

"Where's Scarface?!"

Black Satan was upsetting Bobby's headache, making it even harder to form coherent thoughts, but he figured he'd try his best at answering if only to get the weird, demony jerk to leave him to his insurrection.

"Buh."

Bobby hoped this would be sufficient.

"Answer me! He's not in the truck!"

No dice.

"Abuh. Buh. Uh..."

Bobby mentally crossed his fingers.

Success! Black Satan let him go and disappeared, but he was evidently nearby since Bobby could still hear him. Quite an agitated fellow.

"Robin, I-... What? ...'Nightwing'? ...No, no, it's fine. It's really...great...and all. Very original. It's just...well, it's kinda faggy isn't it? ...What's wrong with 'Batman'? ...Hey, hey! Truce!

"But anyway, I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is the field test of the BatIED was an unqualified success... Well I care. But the bad news is that this truck was a decoy. I'm sure-yep, here he comes...and there he goes. So I guess you're up... What are you talking about? My plan accounts for this... What do you mean 'How?' That's what you're here for... That does too count as a plan... Fine. You want a new plan? Here it is: replace your bloody tampon, quit being a bitch, and do your fucking job."

From the "click" Bobby assumed that Black Satan had hung up on "Nightwing". He wondered idly if that had felt as satisfying for Black Satan too.

"Batman?! Batman! Did he...? He fucking hung up on me!" screamed an incredulous Nightwing. "I knew this was bullshit! I knew I should have just said fuck all of this shit and turned right back around! But do I listen to myself? No! I let myself get dragged into a big pile of shit up to my neck and now I get to fight a puppet! A puppet! Why the fuck is one of the Batman's greatest adversaries a fucking puppet?! Clowns?! Plant ladies?! A midget bird guy?! And now puppets?! Why can't we have some guy with magnetic powers or robot octopus arms?! If we've gotta have ludicrous enemies why can't they at least be non-retarded?! 'Oh, hey, Nightwing, guess what.' 'What's up, Spider-Man?' 'Today I got to fight an alien suit that takes over the mind of its host and turns him into a super-powered, homicidal maniac with multiple personalities who refers to himself in the third person plural. So who did you fight?' 'A puppet.' 'Oh...that's cool too.' Fuck this shit!"

And with that slightly unhinged monologue that should probably have been internal Nightwing prepared for the coming battle with a maximum of grumbling.

It did not seem that it was going to be Alfred Pennyworth's night. Any evening where it was his duty to stand by the doors of the hall leading to the entrance to the manor and greet the "guests" to Wayne's House of... Ass tended to be a low point in the storied career of the butler/secret agent/co-conspirator to a caped vigilante, but tonight was proving to be exceptionally trying.

Alfred's station was regrettably just inside the "entertainment floor" where Bruce Wayne's ladies of the evening enticed potential clients with alluring, quasi-clothed dances, all set to music that, as far as the butler was concerned, barely qualified as such.

He wasn't entirely sure what "getting low" was supposed to be, but he was coming to suspect that he didn't want to know.

But the offenses of the Ying Yang Twins were the least of Alfred's worries. A "member of the staff" seemed to have developed an unfortunate infatuation with him and was winking at him with ever more alarming frequency, and to make matters worse she had just taken to the "main stage".

The stage was of the sort to be found in any number of gentlemen's clubs across the world, but far larger. It accommodated nine ceiling-length poles, all occupied by ladies who Alfred was forced to admit had certain charms.

And standing before the pole at the front of the stage, dead center in the middle of the vast space of the entertainment floor, with every lecherous eye on her appallingly curvaceous form was a woman by the nom de guerre of "Vixen".

Besides a pair of sky-high, black, open-toed heels and a black thong the only clothing that she wore was a lacy black bra.

But not for long.

Having slipped the straps from off of her shoulders the only thing still keeping it up were Vixen's hands cupped over breasts almost too ample to be restrained by such meager obstacles.

Not that she seemed overly concerned. In fact if her teasing smile was any indication she was rather enjoying being so exposed.

Still holding back her tenuous modesty the wanton woman strutted to the very edge of the stage, her long, lustrous brown hair swinging to and fro with every step, and regarded the raucous crowd of drunken men before her with a lewd smirk on her captivating face.

And then Vixen's eyes fastened upon Alfred.

If possible her smile became even more lurid.

Alfred's face could have been made of stone but for the slight twitch to his right eye.

Her playful gaze never left him as she stretched her right arm to cover both of her breasts and with frustrating slowness removed her skimpy bra with her left.

For a moment she lazily dangled it from her finger as if to offer it to the stoic manservant across the sea of men before casually flicking the undergarment into the now roaring crowd where it became lost in a knot of patrons who nearly got into a brawl over its new ownership.

Running her tongue across her upper lip she dragged her right hand over her breasts, both revealing and caressing them at the same time.

Alfred most certainly did not look at her, luscious, oh so luscious, pink nipples. It would have been ungentlemanly.

The catcalls of the horndog throng became almost deafening.

Now Vixen spun around on her deadly heels, showing off her round, flawless backside which threatened to engulf her flimsy thong, and swaggered back to the pole. With a backward glance toward Alfred she wrapped her hands around it and, with surprising strength and agility, hauled herself up hand-over-hand until she was halfway up the tall pole while the awed crowd of men, now silent, gazed up at her.

Wrapping a leg around the pole she threw her other one out for balance and slowly leaned out over the crowd, bare chest pointed to the ceiling. As she became horizontal her breasts gradually flowed down her chest and down to her chin.

Her eyes once more found Alfred and she smirked. She again cupped her breasts and sensually ran her tongue over the right, circling her nipple. She then switched to the left and lightly sucked the swollen areola.

Alfred most certainly did not look at the saliva glistening on her luscious, oh so luscious pink nipples. It would have been ungentlemanly.

To the crowd's vocal disappointment Vixen eventually released her now slickened breasts and grasped the pole, gently and with great flourish lowering herself back down to the stage.

With a hand on her hip she held the other out to the crowd, waving her index finger back and forth. Whether to admonish or assure them that the show was not over it wan't clear, but they resumed cheering nonetheless.

Either way the show was not over.

While Vixen, who was now clad only in her thong and shoes, stood facing the mob, and Alfred, with her legs held a little more than shoulder-width apart, another woman, only vaguely more clothed than her companion, sauntered onto stage to even greater uproar.

The woman was only slightly less ravishing than Vixen, though similarly proportioned, and blonde as the day is long. With a filthy leer she came up behind Vixen and reached around to lay her hands on the topless brunette's hips, sensually caressing them up her sides.

Vixen closed her eyes and tilted her head back ever so slightly, lips parted in a soft gasp. She seemed to shiver.

Her eyes shot open when the blonde reached her breasts and squeezed. Vixen's mouth formed an "O" as her nipples were softly pinched.

The crowd had again lapsed into breathless anticipation, some even literally sitting on the edges of their seats.

Vixen turned her head to gaze into the blonde's eyes for a long moment before reaching back to grasp the back of her head and bring her into a passionate kiss.

So deeply was the crowd enthralled that they'd forgotten even to cheer. One man hit the floor, his chair upended. The throbbing music was the only accompaniment as the women's tongues intertwined.

After an all too short eternity they parted, panting from desire and lack of oxygen.

Or at least lack of oxygen.

Now the blonde lowered herself to her knees behind Vixen, lovingly running her fingers back down the brunette's trembling skin until reaching her hips.

Lightly nibbling the flesh just above the side strap to Vixen's thong the other woman slipped her fingers underneath the thin strip of fabric and began to pull Vixen's underwear down her legs with painful deliberateness until they were stretched taut around her knees, revealing to all the world that she was a natural brunette.

Alright maybe Alfred looked.

The blonde stood and walked around until she was directly in front of Vixen staring into her eyes. The woman slowly lowered herself back down to her knees, never breaking eye contact until her face was level with Vixen's hips, now hidden from view from the crowd who had reached a crescendo of silence.

Her chest heaving with excitement Vixen entwined her fingers in the blonde woman's hair and at the last moment raised her eyes to meet Alfred's own with an expression of pure lust.

Alfred Pennyworth nearly jumped out of his skin at the sharp jab in his shoulder.

"Hey, Al! Al!" yelled Gnarley Quinn, Bruce's Harley Quinn-themed "assistant", in a thick Brooklyn accent as she waved her hand in front of his eyes. "Helloooooo! Anybody home?!"

"Oh, excuse me, Miss Quinn," replied a slightly flustered Alfred, "I was...distracted. Do forgive me."

A slightly absent expression on her white-covered face she consoled him, "Hey, happens to the best of us. I remember I was standin' in Macy's one day starin' at the same pair o' shoes for ten-..."

Suddenly she cut off, narrowing her eyes, and regarded him with suspicion, turned to look at the stage, turned back to Alfred. Her expression turned sly.

"You dirty ol' man! I knew Pattie's been eyein' you. She's got this thing for older guys. But I didn't know you been eyein' her back. That's so cute!"

Gnarley covered her mouth with her hands and shook with barely restrained mirth. The lack of any kind of mean-spiritedness in her eyes as they sparkled up at him somehow made it even more infuriating.

The faux villainess's boundless cheer could actually be quite disarming. Other times...not so much.

Alfred cleared his throat and refused to meet her gaze. "Miss Quinn, really. I have nothing but distaste for that...spectacle on stage. Not to mention I am more than old enough to be her grandfather. What on Earth would I do with a girl that young?"

Gnarley pointed downward and her eyes looked ready to sparkle right out of her head.

"Well it looks like Little Al has a few ideas..."

Were he not a trained Englishman Alfred would have spluttered. As it was, custom dictated that...certain things...should never be acknowledged no matter the circumstances.

"Miss Quinn I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," he primly replied.

"I mean it looks like you have a raging bon-"

"That will do, Miss Quinn."

With the barest hint of mean-spiritedness Gnarley sidled up to him and lightly elbowed him in the ribs.

"Aw c'mon, Al. You know if you hurry I bet I can get you squeezed in for an appointment before her show is done. But you're gonna have to tell me now cause she's probably not gonna have two minutes free the rest of the night after she's done. And then she's probably gonna go right home after work to catch forty winks before class."

Alfred's eyebrows rose at this.

"She's in school?"

"Yeah. Well, no. She teaches."

"...Teaches?"

"Yeah, she teaches particle physics over at Gotham University."

Years of dealing with the Joker had not prepared Alfred for this statement.

"I'm sorry, but...isn't a PhD required to teach at a university?"

"She's got one."

"But...she's..."

In an instant Gnarley's boundless cheer turned dangerous.

"She's what?"

"She's...far too young to have a doctorate?"

And the boundless cheer returned as quickly as it had gone.

"Yeah she's one o' those child prodigies. She's got an IQ of like 160 or somethin'."

"Indeed?"

"Yup."

"Then why...?"

"Does she work here? She's kinda one o' those eccentric geniuses, ya know. Gets off on doin' shitty jobs nobody wants to do. She actually worked drive-thru at Burger King before she came here. Then once this place opened up she applied the first day. Said it was much less degrading."

"Is that so?"

"Of course not. She's a hooker. But you shoulda seen your face light up when you thought I was serious! I gotta say, Al, you sure got some weird standards."

Only an Englishman could look so dignified yet so indignant at the same time.

But before Alfred could respond to such malicious slander he was interrupted by a loud crash from the entrance hall to the mansion from behind the door that Alfred stood guard beside. Less than two seconds later that door exploded, showering Gnarley and the butler with plaster and wooden splinters.

Acting on instinct Alfred tackled the stunned girl to the ground, protecting her body with his own.

After a few moments the debris settled and the only sound was the throbbing of the brothers Ying Yang. Alfred and Gnarley cautiously lifted their heads and found themselves being towered over by a mountain of a man who was brushing dust from his shoulders.

And stepping through the recently widened doorway behind him was a small, balding man of considerable nervousness. Cradled in his arms was a puppet.

It did not seem that it was going to be Alfred Pennyworth's night.

To Fucking Be Continued...

Booyaka!: Take that, Qatar!

By the Way: I worked drive-thru at Burger King years ago, and yes, I would rather suck dick for money than go back there.

More Inane Self-Indulgence About All the Different Bands that Have Gotten Me Through the Grueling Process of Actually Doing Something Vaguely Productive: Dio (RIP), Judas Priest (Rob Halford + Glenn Tipton + K.K. Downing = Metal fucking Gods), Def Leppard (I imagine not many people know that Def Leppard actually came from the same musical movement as Iron Maiden and...well if you don't know that then you probably don't know any of their other contemporaries), the Sonics (I'll be honest, I care enough about mentioning these dudes that I just added a sub-par bit that I've been too lazy to do for days now just so I could justify including them. I'm sure I'll fix it sometime in the future, but for now the Sonics are responsible for a big pile of butt in the middle of my fic. Was still worth it), the Clash (overrated but still bitchin'), Suffocation (your anus is now obliterated), Alice In Chains (Layne Staley's tragic death pwns Kurt Cobain's tragic death), Blind Guardian (anybody who doesn't like Blind Guardian or power metal is no friend of mine), Venom (so awful they rule |m| |m|), Flipper (perfect soundtrack to hating the world and everybody in it), Ke$ha ("Tik Tok" might just be the best pop song of the past decade), Amon Amarth (Viking are quite simply the shit. I've already written one story that spoofed Norse mythology and it probably won't be the last. Sigurd 4 life!), Britney Spears (I once decided listen to and review her entire discography as a joke for a music forum and to my complete bafflement realized that I fucking loved her), Tygers of Pan Tang ("Euthanasia" is just one of those songs that can give you a shot of adrenaline no matter how many times you listen to it. Also one of those Def Leppard/Iron Maiden contemporaries I was talking about), GWAR (if there's one band that would be most appropriate for working on this fic it would have to be GWAR. RIP Oderus Urungus)and last but certainly not least, Manowar. Hail and kill, motherfuckers.