Disclaimer: I didn't shoot the sheriff, or the deputy for that matter, but if they show up at my front door to arrest me for copyright infringement then I can't be held responsible for my actions.

P.S. All this video game shit isn't working. Took me almost a month to get out thirty-eight hundred words. If I keep up at this pace any momentum I've built up is gonna go down the drain and I'm gonna lose interest. So yesterday I said "Fuck it" and locked myself away in the library down the street to bang out as much of the next chapter as I could. Worked a charm. I think I actually almost finished it in three hours. Can't remember the last time I did that much that quick. I guess Satan is with me.

Coolness Plus Non-Coolness: Recently got Arkham Asylum (game) and Arkham City, the animated adaptation of The Dark Knight Returns (which came with several episodes of Batman: The Animated Series), and got The Killing Joke a while back. It's becoming easier and easier to immerse myself in Batman for long periods of time. This is good for my writing. Probably. Only problem is that the comic book shop a few miles away that I finally got off my ass and rode my bike too is now gone and there are no book stores in the general vicinity. Fuck me. And the closest one is a fucking hike. I'm considering figuring out how to ride the bus, or possibly just biking my ass off in the legit (I don't think "in the legit" is a thing, but I'm coining it and will now push it until I see Kim Kardashian say it on TMZ, after which I will drop it like a turd).

Pray for me.

Oh, and the blonde chick with the big tits on TMZ should call me.

Ultra Coolness!: Fuck, fuck, fuck! Not ten minutes after I wrote that ^^^ I found a new comic shop on Google that's not even a five minute bike ride from my house. Immediately went to check it out and it kind of rules. Unfortunately I'm cash poor so I had to leave empty-handed, but it's about to be so fucking on! The Long Halloween and Arkham Asylum shall soon be mine. A library, a used book store, a Gamestop, and now a comic book shop all in close proximity? This little shithole I live in is starting to be alright. Now if only there was a music store everything would be cookies and cream.

What If Batman Was a Dirtbag?

Chapter 3

"Alright, youse rich, deviant sons-o'-bitches!" blared Scarface, mobster/ventriloquist puppet extraordinaire, over the throbbing bass of the Ying Yang Twins' "Get Low".

"Go down on the floor and shut the fuck up!"

He cackled to himself for a bit until he noticed that nobody else was laughing.

"Whassa matter? Ain't none o' you fancy pants faggots ever heard a joke before?"

The blank, frightened stares of the patrons and prostitutes may have been due to the cadre of 9mm and Uzi-toting thugs following him into Wayne Manor.

Or maybe oral sex jokes had just lost their charm about halfway through opening night of Wayne's House of Ass.

Either way, swing and a miss.

"I tell ya," Scarface grumbled to himself, "No respect. No respect at- WHAT DA FUCK?! WHO TURNED OUT DA LIGHTS?! I CAN'T FUCKIN' SEE, BOYS! BATS, I KNOW YOU'RE HERE! SHOW YOURSELF!"

The puppet fired off several rounds from his adorable little teeny-tiny Tommy gun into the ceiling of the suddenly pitch black main hall.

"If you don't show yourself in da next thirty seconds I'm gonna start shootin' indimiscriminantly (sic)!" he continued, but the music and the panicked screams of the crowd drowned him out.

"SHUT UP!" roared Scarface's right-hand goon, a towering behemoth with the suitable alias of Rhino. The mob was understandably quieted.

Scarface resumed his threats.

"As I was say- Hey wait a minute! Dummy! Get your fuckin' hand out from in front o' your eyes! I can't see, ya idjit!"

"But, Mr. Scarface," replied the nervous little man in a tuxedo who was "operating" the puppet, "All these n-naked women. It's just scandalous. What would their mothers think?"

"I figure dey'll be more concerned wit' cleanin' your brains offa deir titties if ya don't get your fuckin' hand outta your eyes!"

"Y-yes, sir, Mr. Scarface," he meekly replied before uncovering his eyes.

"Oh, dear! Those are- and that- and- Mr. Scarface this really isn't my kind of place."

"I always knew you were a stone cold queer, dummy. Don't worry, we'll find you a nice little slut and she can fuck da fag right outta ya. Sound good?"

"Uh... if you say so, Mr. Scarface..."

"Fan-fuckin'-tastic."

Turning back to the bemused crowd he bellowed, "Now! Alla youse rich folks are gonna, in an orderly fuckin' fashion, file outta dis dump, makin' sure ta give alla your cell phones over ta my boys on da way out. Den you're gonna sit your asses down on da front lawn and watch while we burn dis fuckin' shit heap ta da ground as a lesson to alla youse for fuckin' wit' my business model! Den if nobody pisses me off and gives me a itchy trigger finger, maybe I'll let you go back ta your fat, ugly wives!"

"And ta da skanks, you're gonna get in our truck, and we're gonna sell ya ta whatever godforsaken, third-world, America-hatin', laundry hat-wearin', Muzzie sand heap wants ta buy ya first. Capiche?

"And don't nobody think o' makin' a run for it, cause I got my boys out dere wit' night vision goggles and bigass fuckin' machine guns and rocket launchers and all kinds o' shit ta kill da Bat, but dey won't hesitate ta turn youse into hamburga."

Scarface looked out at them expectantly, but they only stared back at him in confusion.

"What da fuck's wrong wit' you retards?! Move!"

Their confusion only deepened.

"Uh, boss," said Rhino, "I don't think dey can hear you over da music."

"Oh for da love o' fuck! Will somebody turn dat damn nigger music off already?!"

He turned to his assembled goons, "Youse four, start gettin' all dese fucks up and outta here. Youse two, make sure you get deir cellphones. Youse three, get all da dames in da truck. Youse mugs, make wit' da gasoline. All da rest o' youse who ain't parta my personal retinal o' bodyguards make sure ta round up all da rest o' da richies squirreled away in da mansion fuckin' deir money away.

"And make it fuckin' snappy! I wanna be outta here in ten minutes! Anyone left in da house afta dat gets ta make like a pizza, and dat includes youse!"

In short order the captives were being rounded up and led outside, the entertainment floor was doused with gasoline, and the nig- uh, the music was turned off.

Scarface watched the procession hurriedly trudging its way out of the manor, occasionally shouting orders or hurling threats. Not to mention more than a few lewd remarks to some of Bruce Wayne's choicest employees.

"Hey, toots! I gotta piece o' wood for ya!"

"Oh, baby baby, I'm 'bout to make sawdust in my pants ova here!"

"And who is this fine little broad? Why don't ya let me apply a coat o' varnish ta dat ass?"

But one face in particular made his mouth operate open.

"Hold da phone! Hold da fuckin' phone! Hold da muthafuckin', piece o' shit, rotary phone! As I live and breathe! Harley fuckin' Quinn?! Do mine eyes bereave me? Get your sweet clown ass ova here!"

Gnarley Quinn "Eep!"'d and froze in the middle of the crowd, now studiously looking anywhere but at her.

Pointing her finger to her chest she replied in a somewhat high-pitched voice, with an amusingly similar accent, "Ya- ya mean me?"

"No, I mean da slutty clown standin' right behind ya! Yeah, I mean you, ya dumb broad! Now get ova here before I start shootin' indima-india..."

"Indiscriminately?" offered the Ventriloquist.

"Shaddup, dummy! I don't need you puttin' words in my mouth!"

"S-sorry, Mr. Scarface."

"Yeah, you're gonna be sorry. Now, skank, get ova here before I start shootin' indiscriminately."

The Ventriloquist sheepishly bowed his head at the scowl from Scarface.

"Uh... yeah, sure thing," replied Gnarley.

Gathering her courage, she stood up straight and strode through the crowd with as much dignity as a suggestively-dressed clown with blonde pig tails could muster.

She glared down at the wooden gangster in defiance.

"Gnarley Quinn, 176-53-2470."

Scarface blinked.

"...Huh?"

"My name and Social Security number. That's the only thing you're supposed ta give ta your captors so that's all you're gonna get."

She screwed up her face in confusion. "Ya know, maybe I shouldn't be givin' out my Social Security number. Okay forget what I said. 'Gnarley Quinn' is all you're gettin outta me."

With that she crossed her arms and glared at the puppet with contempt.

Scarface blinked. He looked at the Ventriloquist. The Ventriloquist shrugged. Scarface turned back to Gnarley. Scarface blinked.

"What da fuck? Are you drunk?"

"Nah, I ain't drunk. I'm usually too busy makin' sure Mistah B doesn't choke on his own vomit ta get drunk."

Scarface blinked.

"'Mistah B'? Ya mean 'Mistah J'?"

"Nah. 'Mistah B'. Ya know. Bruce Wayne?"

"Hold da phone. You workin' for Bruce Wayne now? Why da fuck would you be..."

Scarface suddenly looked thunderstuck and burst out laughing.

"Bahahahahahaha! You're a- ahahahahahaha- you're a- ahahahahahahaha- oh shit, I can't even get it out!"

Scarface wiped a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye and composed himself.

"You're a fuckin' hooker now?!"

And he erupted with laughter once again.

Gnarley stuck her nose in the air with offended dignity.

"I am a sex worker. A proud profession that brings pleasure and happiness ta tha world. And we certainly provide a more useful service than a misogynist creep like you."

Scarface only guffawed even louder.

"Garglin' balls for quarters ain't no 'useful service', ya dumb cunt. Does da Jokah know you're takin' it in da can from alla dese rich fucks?"

"How tha hell should I know? I neva met tha Jokah. I ain't Harley Quinn. I'm Gnarley Quinn."

Scarface stopped laughing. Scarface blinked.

"...Huh?"

Gnarley rolled her eyes and sighed in annoyance.

"I am not the heretofore mentioned criminal mastermind known as Harley Quinn. I neva even met her either. She's just my inspiration. Capiche?"

"Wait a minute. You mean you're a im-im-"

"Imposter?"

"Ya got one more time, dummy! Den dey'll be hauling your ass back ta Arkham wit' a shovel."

"Sorry, Mr. Scarface."

Scarface turned back to Gnarley but started at something behind her.

"Hey, who da fuck is dis geezer? If ya don't wanna be Swiss cheese den ya betta get da fuck outta my face!"

Gnarley turned her head in confusion. The mansion was now almost deserted of all save Scarface and his crew, but standing behind her like a protective father was one Alfred Pennyworth.

"I think not Mr. Scarface," he replied with disdain, "I would be neglecting my duties if I allowed you to harm a single hair on Miss Quinn's head."

Gnarley beamed up at him.

"Aw, thanks, Al. I knew ya had a thing for younga women."

Alfred cleared his throat.

Scarface's anger had turned cold and menacing as he pointed his gun at the butler's face, who was rather unimpressed.

"I don't know who da fuck you think I am, but Imma 'bout ta show ya, ya ol' Limey fuck!"

"Hey, don't you talk ta Al like that! He was a secret agent, ya know. James Bond and MI6 and Moneypenny and everythin'. He could prob'ly kill you six times before ya even hit tha ground," retorted Gnarley while making hand motions suggesting kung fu.

Scarface swung his gun back around to Gnarley, who "Eep!"'d yet again.

"I've had just about enough outta you, clown. I think it's time I taught you some respect."

He leered down at her body and gestured with the cutesy little Tommy gun.

"Ya got thirty seconds to get outta those clothes before I have Rhino take 'em off for ya. And den you and me are gonna get... acquainted. We only got five minutes, but dat's all I need."

Gnarley glanced at the Ventriloquist, looking not so much scared as worried.

"Look, buddy, I don't know what kinda weird stuff you're into, but I am not fucking a puppet."

Were he not made of wood Scarface's face would have been crimson with rage.

"Oh ya done fucked up now, bitch!"

But before he could start firing indi-india... randomly, several somethings clattered along the floor around them. With a sharp hiss grey clouds of smoke billowed up from the ground, surrounding Scarface and his minions, and within moments the main hall of Wayne Manor was flooded with an impenetrable fog.

Smoke choked Alfred Pennyworth and left him hopelessly disoriented. Holding his arm over his face he groped desperately around for Gnarley. All around him he heard surprised exclamations and sporadic gunfire from Scarface's men, but the strange echoes caused by the smoke made it impossible to tell where they were coming from. Somewhere to the left Scarface was bellowing orders and hurling obscenities at the Batman, but Gnarley had vanished.

"Miss Quinn? Miss Quinn where are you?"

He flinched when his wrist was seized by the grip of what felt like a man's hand.

"Unhand me, you-"

But he cut off when the smaller wrist of a woman was shoved into his hand.

"Alfred."

The whisper came from next to the butler's ear, but it's owner was still obscured by smoke.

"Master Dick?"

"No time. They're covering the entrance. The bar is to your right. Take Gnarley and hide behind it."

Alfred nodded and, wasting no time, dragged the alleged Gnarley Quinn in the alleged direction of the bar.

"Heyaitwho'reyouwhere'reyatakin'mewhat'sgoin'onsavemeMistahB!"

Alleged no longer.

Too intent on his awkward, headlong flight Alfred ignored her. Thankfully after only a few moments a small break in the smoke revealed the bar.

Alfred pulled Gnarley in front of him and, grabbing her by the waist, hoisted her onto the counter in a seated position.

"Hey what the- Al? Whaddaya doin'?"

"Please excuse me, Miss Quinn, but this is an emergency."

She opened her mouth but whatever she was about to say became a squeal when Alfred shoved her over the side of the bar sending her head-over-heels to land in a heap on the other side.

"...ouch..."

Splinters from the counter and glass shards from liquor bottles on the wall exploded all around Alfred as bullets whizzed by his head.

He hurled himself over the bar and crashed on the other side in a similar heap.

"...bugger..."

With a groan and a twinge of protest from his back Alfred twisted himself into a sitting position. He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the overwhelming smell of alcohol coming from his jacket. All of the color-safe bleach on Earth wasn't going to save it from the triple threat of smoke, gasoline, and Grey Goose.

On the bright side the bar protected them from most of the smoke.

"Ya know ya could warn a girl first next time."

Alfred glanced over to see Gnarley also pulling herself up off the floor.

"My apologies, but as I said, it was an emergency."

"A likely excuse. I'll bet you just like takin' any opportunity ya can to feel up a young, innocent flowa like myself. Sorry, Al, but I'm a one John kinda gal. Besides, I bet Pattie'd be none too happy if I tried movin' in on her territory."

Alfred sighed in exasperation.

"Miss Quinn is this really the time or the place?"

Her reply was interrupted by another hail of gunfire and debris.

"You're right, Al," she said when the barrage had subsided, and she grabbed a rather expensive looking bottle of Scotch from under the bar. "It's the time and place for this!"

And with that she removed the glass stopper, hurled it into the ether, and took a long swig...

"BLEEEECH!

Looking more than a little green she clapped a hand to her mouth.

Her violent gurgling and ballooning cheeks made Alfred fear the worst.

After a few moments and some rather distasteful swallowing sounds she recovered herself.

"Are you alright, Miss Quinn?"

"Yeah... I think so," she replied weakly.

Then she took another swig.

Alfred sighed.

"Ya know, that's actually not half bad," she declared when she'd brought it from her lips.

Then she offered it to him, "Wanna swig?"

Alfred was appalled.

"Miss Quinn... that is an eleven thousand dollar bottle of fifty year old Scotch. One does not 'swig' an eleven thousand dollar bottle of fifty year old Scotch."

"Well, more for me."

In mid-swig there was a cry and she shrieked as a gangster sailed over the bar to crash in a third heap in-between them.

He groaned and sat up, groggily glancing from Alfred to Gnarley and then down to the bottle in her hand.

"Mind if I get summa dat?"

Gnarley wordlessly handed him the bottle and he took a long swallow before sighing in satisfaction.

"Thanks."

"Uh... no problem."

The goon handed her the bottle, climbed back over the bar, and leapt once more into the fray.

Gnarley looked at Alfred.

Alfred looked at Gnarley.

"Oh sod it," he said and grabbed the bottle.

To Be the Fuck Continued...

The Muzak that I Couldn't "Write" Without. Read and Know that Your Taste Is Inferior: Van Halen (haven't given much of a fuck about them for years, but I'm rediscovering how awesome they were), Motley Crue (there's no particular reason I can figure out why they are one of my all-time favorite bands, but there it is), Warlord (I've never been this in love with a Christian metal band before and I don't care who knows it), Black Sabbath (if I was living in 1970 and put their self-titled debut on the turn table, and heard that rain storm intro and then that three-chord, tritone riff kick in, I would have been done. That album would have been worn out in a year. Too bad Ozzy jumped the shark when he went solo), Iggy Pop and the Stooges (if you've never seen the video of Iggy performing on American Idol and getting right into Jennifer Lopez's face then you totally should. Only time that show was ever watchable), Aerosmith (eighties Aerosmith is duller than dishwater, but they fucking ripped in the seventies when they were still on drugs), Manowar (I've mentioned them every chapter, but this is actually the first time I've been listening to them while working on this. I just love them. Joey DeMaio for Prez. Eric Adams for Speaker of the House), Overkill (holy shit! I've never had an overwhelming need to buy a live album before, but Wrecking Everything is wrecking my ass right now), Nailbomb (hardcore in general bores the snot outta me, but some late eighties/early nineties New York hardcore is pretty fantastic, even if these guys are ripping off Chaos AD-era Sepultura), Sick of It All (NYHC at its finest), Agnostic Front (don't think I was ever that big a fan of this band, but perhaps I'm coming around to more and more NYHC), Killing Time (already looking like another good NYHC find), and Bad Brains (never much liked these dudes either, but in my current mood I am not hating them).

BTW: If anyone is wondering why, with such uber-badass villains as the Joker, Poison Ivy, and Scarecrow to choose from, I've decided to start out with Scarface, the answer is simple. Puppet jokes. If anyone has any good ones then please send them to me and I'll steal them without giving you any credit. On a semi-related note, apparently I like using the word "youse". I don't know why, cause I'd die before using it in real life. I'm a "ya'll" kinda guy through and through. I guess I just like to use and abuse bits that amuse me till they become stale. I also worry that I'm going overboard with Alfred and the Britishisms, but I just can't help myself. YOLO.