Disclaimer: And God gave this fic unto me and spake thusly, "What I have given thee let no man tear asunder. Let the bitchass lawyers of thine enemies go fucketh their selves."
And it was good.
Author's Note: I'd just like to give props to The Raid and The Raid 2 for inspiring me to rewrite what was once a much more wishy-washy chapter. It's added at least another week to this shit, but it'll be worth it. Also got some thanks for Bruce Has a Problem for a bit of inspiration over the past few chapters, although not as much as might seem obvious. The whole "Gnarley" thing was actually something I came up with in the first hour of this fic coming to me, which was a month or so before I started reading that one. Just a weird coincidence. If you haven't read it then get off your ass and go read it. Actually you should stay on your ass, otherwise it might interfere with your ability to operate your computer.
Addendum to the Author's Note: Well, this is taking me forever and a day. I don't think I've ever rewritten, re-rewritten, and then re-re-rewritten something so many times in my life. So, I'm gonna bitch about it in a way that will be irrelevant when this is posted because it will be in the future when this is already complete. Dude, time travel. It exists. Starlight and the written word. Tell your friends.
And one thing I don't understand is how all of my chapters keep ending up roughly the same length (between 3000 and 4000 words), almost completely accidentally, except for Chapter 2, which was almost twice as long. WTF? I must have been huffing jenkem.
P.S. If anyone sees me refer to "Nightwing" as "Mightwing", then just know that I shake my fist at the world and the QWERTY keyboard.
What If Batman Was a Dirtbag?
Chapter 4
The world was green in the eyes of the hired goon. Armed with night vision goggles and an M249 SAW light machine gun he patrolled the shadowy grounds around Wayne Manor, alert for any sign of the Batman.
"Fuck me," he grumbled, "Ol' Woodchip and the other guys are in there roundin' up hot, naked bitches and I'm out here waitin' for a batarang up the ass. Who the fuck even came up with that dumb name? 'Batarang'? Seriously? I mean it's not like it even flies back to him. He just throws 'em at motherfuckers and they're gone.
"And does he go back and pick 'em up? Or is there some big box full of those things in the evidence locker back at Gordon's precinct? But that wouldn't make any sense. After all these years I'll bet at least one of 'em had a finger print.
"You know I'll bet Batman is bald. It'd be pretty fucking stupid to go around with a head full of hair what with all that CSI shit they got these days. What the fuck is Superman thinking? He's got hair and he don't even wear a mask to hold that shit in. It's a miracle the cops didn't figure out his identity years ago. Fuck, they got facial recognition too. I guess maybe the Fuzz just leave him alone cause he's Superman, but Lex Luthor's got more money than God. Why hasn't he done any of that shit?"
Suddenly, the night exploded with deafening bursts of gunfire from inside the manor.
Swinging around in alarm he surveyed the house, but other than the terrified captives cowering on the lawn he could see nothing.
"All units, this is Red 5!" cried a voice from inside his ear, "Report in! Does anybody see what's going on inside the mansion?"
"'Red 5'?" asked the criminal non-mastermind in confusion, "Who the fuck is 'Red 5'?"
"Red 5, Red 5! You know who I am, you retard!"
"Uh..."
A sigh.
"Rogue 2, is that you?"
"Uh..."
"God damn it, Rico, this is Tony! Do you fucking see anything in the god damn mansion?"
"Nah. I still hear shots, but I don't see shit."
The rest of the patrols all reported in the negative as well.
"Should we go in?" asked Rico/Rogue 2.
"Scarface told us to keep an eye out for Batman outside, so... we stay outside."
"But what if that's Batman inside?"
"And what if it ain't? You wanna explain to the boss why we left our posts and let Batman get by us?"
"... No."
"Then shut up and forget about it. Get back to watchin' out for the Bat, Rogue 2."
"Who?"
A sigh.
"Hello? Hello? Tony? You there? Shit."
Heaving a sigh of his own Rico/Rogue 2 turned back around to resume his thankless patrol only to see a black shadow rise up from the green to envelope him.
He could swear the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was, "Apple sauce, bitch."
The neon blue skeleton crumpled wordlessly to the ground with a broken wrist and a shiny new concussion, and Dick Grayson, the newly christened "Nightwing", thought to himself, 'Cold, hard, fucking damn it! I told myself I was never coming back to Gotham. I was done with Bruce fucking Wayne and Batman and Robin and... every-fucking-thing else.'
Nightwing flowed seamlessly to the next of Scarface's smoke-blinded henchmen with an instinctual grace born of years of intense training as if it had been only yesterday that he had last donned a mask rather than an entire year.
The excessive use of force however was a rather new addition to his arsenal.
The "detective vision" in his mask allowed him to see an x-ray outline of the panicked gangster, and his noiseless footwork gave no warning to the unsuspecting man as Nightwing delivered a cruel chop to the wrist that sent his gun clattering to the marble floor. Before he could even cry out the newly returned vigilante seized the thug by the hair and viciously slammed his face into a nearby table, shattering a beer glass into countless jagged shards that lacerated his cheeks, his forehead, his chin, and his mouth.
The man screamed in agony, but Dick showed no mercy as he lifted his head back into the air and drove his face once more into the table, grinding powdered glass into his wounds and staining the formerly pristine, white tablecloth a bright red.
'I was clean!'
Each bitter condemnation was punctuated by another blow.
'Sober!'
'Married to the woman of my dreams!'
Shaking with vaguely suppressed rage he released the mutilated man to collapse to the floor and clutch at his ruined face.
'And now I'm about to fuck it up. Because of him.'
Nightwing was interrupted mid-thought by a burst of wild gunfire from his left.
One of Scarface's henchmen blazed away with an Uzi in Nightwing's direction, though he was unable to see him clearly through the obscuring veil of smoke, and Dick agilely dove out of the way, only half a second ahead of jets of marble chips blown into the air from the automatic fire at his heels. Circling around behind the disoriented gunman Nightwing seized the man's wrist and drove his palm through his elbow, shattering the radial head with a sickening "crunch!"
At the sight of his bloody humerus jutting out of his skin the man promptly pooped himself and fainted.
'So then why do I feel alive for the first time in over a year?'
Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye Nightwing whirled to find, rearing from a break in the smoke, Scarface's top enforcer, a hulking giant of a man by the apt moniker of Rhino.
Even Nightwing hesitated for a moment under the glare of this towering ogre before him.
Bellowing a thunderous challenge the man-mountain lunged for him with the unbridled force of a collapsing skyscraper. Dick dodged to the right, barely escaping the full brunt of Rhino's charge as he passed by battering aside tables and chairs like unfortunate toys in his wake.
Dick came up in a roll, only to be faced down by another headlong charge. He again tried to evade, but Rhino's bulk belied his speed and he seized Nightwing by the ankle, sending them both crashing to the ground.
"Gotcha, freak! Looks like this ain't your lucky day, Batbrains!"
"Do you see my underwear on the outside of my pants, shrivel-nuts? The name's Nightwing. Remember it."
Reaching amidst a pile of newly fallen debris next to him the black-clad crime fighter snagged a still burning cigar, leaned over, and ground it out between Rhino's eyes.
*cue that gif of the black kid going "DAAAAAMN!"*
The behemoth howled and released Nightwing, bringing his hands to his sizzling brow as Dick rolled away and sprang to his feet.
'Jesus Christ. I don't even think I know how to be normal. After a year of being boring I think violence is actually comforting. It feels like... home.'
Dick sensed rather than heard the man with the knife rushing up behind him and pivoted aside at the last moment to face him, using his momentum to deliver a powerful elbow to the criminal's face.
The stunned man sailed past, barely managing to keep his footing and spun around, holding his wicked-looking bowie knife before him with an expression of fury.
"You think I'm scared o' some fucking faggot in a mask? I'm gonna show ya your fucking liver!"
Nightwing only smirked and took up a seemingly lazy combat stance, daring him to come forward.
He was obliged.
Dumb guy.
Dick dodged backward at the first two wild slashes, but at the third struck at the man's wrist, sending the knife spinning through the air to land on a table over twenty feet away.
The goon grabbed his wrist in pain and took one look at Nightwing, glanced to the distant knife, and then back to Nightwing.
"Fuck this," he declared and bolted for the knife.
Dick was only a moment behind, leaping over obstacles strewn about the entrance hall, and came around the other side of the table from Scarface's henchman.
The mobster made a desperate grab for the knife, but slapped his hand down on the table a split second before Nightwing seized it, flipped it around, and plunged it deep into the table. Through the man's hand.
He shrieked and frantically tried to free himself, once, before trying very hard not to move his hand at all.
Bravado replaced by terror, the criminal gaped at Nightwing, "Holy fuck, what the hell?! I thought you was supposed to be some kinda good guy or somethin'! Take tha knife out, man, c'mon!"
Dick shrugged, "Hey, if that's what you really want."
He planted his foot on a chair, vaulted over the table, and delivered a savage kick right in the center of the crook's stunned face.
The poor sumbitch flew back through the air like a shot, ripping his hand open down the middle on the dull edge edge of the knife, and smashed into the ground unconscious, blood gushing into a crimson pool around his torn hand.
'Still got it.'
But Dick had no time to revel in his victory. The back of his costume was seized and he was hoisted off of his feet to dangle high in the air. Reaching behind him to grab at the arm holding him he was met only with an overlarge titanium-steel alloy metal rod masquerading as a limb.
"Hey, Nightwing," snarled Rhino, "See dis table I'm holdin' ya over? Da one wit' da knife wit' my buddy's blood all over it? Remember it."
"I get the feeling I'm not gonna remember much of the next ten seconds."
And then the table rose up to meet him.
When Dick came to somewhere between nine and eleven seconds later he found himself lying on a white tablecloth sticky with blood and surrounded by the shattered remains of a table. Luckily since his suit was mostly black it wouldn't stain, but that was Alfred's problem anyway.
He was also rather convinced that he was in a substantial amount of pain. Most of the aches were notable, but the growing bruise caused by the handle of the knife sticking up out of the table top directly under what Dick believed to be his spleen was particularly unpleasant.
'Yep. Shoulda listened to Barbara.'
With a groan Dick tried to get up but was crushed back down by a gargantuan foot planted none too gently in his back.
"Stay down, Birdboy. You get up when da boss says ya can get up. Unless o' course he lets me squash ya like a bug right now."
Rhino's cruel laugh left little doubt as to his preference.
"Hey, big guy, I have to ask. Do they have to make your shoes special or do you just beat up Shaq and take his?"
Nightwing cried out as Rhino ground his O'Neal-like foot into his back.
"Keep talkin', freak."
"Looky what we got here!"
Nightwing had to crane his neck to see the owner of the voice in front of him, but that amusingly cliched accent could only belong to Rhino's lord and master: Scarface.
He had to say, it was kind of weird to be looking up at the bizarre puppet.
"I got 'im, boss! Well, uh... not him him, but I got this guy."
"Thank you, Rhino. As ya can see my eyes have been eaten by termites. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you here ta point out the fuckin' obvious."
"No problem, boss."
"Shaddup!"
"Uh... y-yes, Mr. Scarface, sir."
Ignoring his lackey Scarface leered at Nightwing.
The smoke had largely dissipated so the once-upon-a-Boy-Wonder was able to survey his surroundings without detective vision.
More than half the tables and chairs in the cavernous entrance hall of Wayne Manor were either overturned or reduced to splinters, and the majority of Scarface's remaining thugs lay broken and bleeding amongst them. Nightwing could only see two still on their feet, but he heard another behind him. And of course there was still Rhino.
The air was thick with the acrid reek of smoke, spilt alcohol, and gasoline (thankfully that whole thing about gasoline blowing up when hit by bullets is Hollywood bullshit).
Scarface stood, figuratively speaking, blocking the doorway with the Ventriloquist standing, literally this time, behind him.
And over him too I suppose.
Not to mention under him.
Scarface is a pretty small dude.
"Could I be mistaken," continued the puppet, "Or is da little Tweety Bird all grown-"
Scarface was cut off by a hacking cough from the Ventriloquist and it was several moments before he could get a word in edgewise.
"God damn it, dummy! I thought I told ya never ta interr-"
Scarface was now cut short by the Ventriloquist's inhaler.
"Ya stupid fuckwit! What'd I just say?!"
"Sorry, Mr. Scarface, but my asthma..."
"Shaddup! I don't wanna hear another word comin' outta your stupid mouth!"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Scarface."
"I said, SHADDUP!" and Scarface delivered a vicious backhand (for a puppet).
The Ventriloquist meekly bowed his head, rubbing his vaguely stinging cheek, and Scarface "harrumph'd" in satisfaction.
Cretins in hand the püppét turned back to his prisoner.
"Now if all these FUCKING INTERRUPTIONS are ova I can get back ta gloatin'. A-hem. I figured ya was dead, bird boy. Or maybe ya just got too old and the Batfag got bored. I'd ask ya where ya been, but I can't say as I really give a fuck since you're gonna be Swiss cheese in a few seconds anyway."
"And I'd ask you where you get your shoes but I'm assuming Mickey Mouse is probably wearing a pair of cement ones of his own somewhere in Gotham Bay."
Nightwing stifled another cry as Rhino dug his heel even deeper into his spine.
"Everbody's a comedian," mocked Scarface, "I wouldn't go insultin' me, boy. My boy Rhino here already wants ta crush da life outta ya for' dat shiner ya gave 'im."
Rhino's malevolent chuckle was interrupted when a bottle of Jack Daniel's bounced off of his head with a loud "thunk!"
"Ow! Who da fuck did dat?!"
It would have taken the truck the bottle came in to hurt that glorified brick wall, so Dick wasn't given any kind of opening as Rhino's gaze tore across the hall, only to settle on a certain English butler who was unsteadily standing up from behind the bar and looking rather worse for the wear with a nearly empty bottle of fifty-year-old, eleven-thousand-dollar Scotch in one hand that he was waving around in a decidedly belligerent manner.
"Put him down, you pillock or you'll get what's coming to you!"
"Al, get down, ya moron!" called the voice of Gnarley Quinn from under the bar and he was yanked down with a yelp of protest.
Scarface's remaining thugs converged on the pair while suppressing ungangster-like giggles and grins with varying degrees of success.
"I want dose mooks alive, boys!" ordered their boss/puppet master, "I got unfinished business wit' 'em."
"Leave them alone!"demanded Nightwing from his spot on the marble floor, "Your fight is with me! Ah!"
Rhino's foot silenced any further protests.
"Don't worry, Tweety Bird," assured Scarface, "I ain't forgot about'cha."
Nightwing's attention was dragged away by the vehemently inebriated objections of his childhood butler and his companion of ill repute.
"Unhand me, you bloody wankers or I'll thrash- urp!"
Gnarley's protests were less audible but no less insistent.
"Ow! She bit me!"
Struggling against their captors they were brought before Scarface.
"Lemme go, ya doucherockets!" demanded Gnarley, "I got rights! Ya're gonna hear from my lawya!"
"Yeah, good luck wi' dat, toots. Ya can't prosecute a puppet."
A raspberry was his response.
"Scarface, if you hurt them..."growled the unoriginally-dubbed Boy Blunder (so obvious an insult that the first person who said it should have been beaten to death).
"Ya'll what? Shit on my car? Now den, enough fun and games. Dummy, carry me over ta da butla, and if ya get so much as a tickle in ya throat..."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Scarface."
"Now," continued the anti-Pinocchio as he pointed his adorable little gun between the unfocused eyes of Alfred Pennyworth, "I wanna know if da Bat's got any more surprises."
"Oh, I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve," replied a disembodied voice.
Before Scarface's eyelids could even operate the men holding Alfred and Gnarley hostage were taken down by a barrage of Batarangs.
And before the hulking halfwit's jaw could so much as drop Nightwing rolled out from under his foot, tumbling him to the floor with a dull thud and an "Oof!"
Dick managed to make it to his feet and evade Rhino's enraged hands with a series of back flips and handsprings, hurdling the tables and chairs of the vast hall. But Rhino was fast on his trail leaving yet another trail of demolished furniture behind him, too enraged even to notice.
With a leap to make his long dead parents, the Flying Graysons, proud Nightwing vaulted onto the "tip" of the phallic stage. At a sprint he wrapped both, thankfully gloved, hands around the smooth metal of the front-most stripper pole, using his momentum to carry him off his feet and whip around to land a devastating, two-footed kick to the chest of Rhino, who was just heaving his bulk over the edge of the stage.
The force of the impact lifted him off of his feet to send him sailing back over to the edge and crash onto a most displeased table. The gargantuan thug lived up to his thick-skinned namesake however and struggled to his feet with a weak groan, all the air forced out of his lungs.
By the time he had made it unsteadily to his feet he found Nightwing before him patting himself down as if searching for something.
"I don't seem to have a wad of hundreds on me, but don't worry, I can still make it rain."
With that awful joke he unleashed a rapid-fire flurry of open-palmed strikes, the technique learned in the slums of Shaolin, upon Rhino's vital points, each hit violently jolting him with alternating pain and numbness.
His opponent on his last legs (two specifically) Nightwing reared back for one more powerful blow, drawing his open right hand all the way to his side before thrusting forward with all his might to connect with the center of the goliath's chest with a sharp crack as his sternum shattered.
Broken down and defeated Scarface's most deadly enforcer finally toppled to the ground unconscious.
'Yeah, there's no way in Oa any of this is gonna end copacetic, but... whatever... I guess... fuck me. Or Bruce. Definitely fuck Bruce.'
Fucking to Be Continued...
The Bands: Virgin Steele (power metal is generally a European thing, but since there are so few American ones the ones you stumble upon tend to be more unique than their overseas brethren, and Virgin Steele are like no other), Exodus (they have problems with consistency, but man do they rule when they're firing on all cylinders), Pantera (perfect for writing a bit of violence), Machine Head (first album even better for some hateness), After the Burial (maybe all deathcore isn't so bad... maybe), Dying Fetus (not my fav death metal band by any stretch of the imagination, but they have their place and time), Can (they're probably weirder than what you're listening to now), Kraftwerk (Fahren fahren fahren auf der Autobahn!), Amon Duul II (apparently it's a kraut rock day today), the Fall (I'm not really arty and/or pretentious enough to listen to a lot of post punk, but so long as it's not boring I can dig pretentious), Stratovarius (I don't care what anybody says, power metal is one of the greatest forms of music on the planet), Sex Pistols (there's something magical about just how shitty the Pistols were), Iggy Pop and the Stooges (I think this is the third time I've mentioned them, and for good reason), Immortal (I love that Immortal introduced trad metal into their sound while keeping the blast beats. It's like they said, "We want to headbang in a more traditional manner, but we don't want to be whiny little pussybitch cunts about it."),and I have to give an extra special shoutout to Hatebreed's Perseverance album, which I've pretty much had on repeat for the last week. It's not something I listen to every day, but when I need to write a chapter about Nightwing slamming some poor fucker's face into a pile of broken glass then that's pretty much my go-to record.