1.

Moments after I ended writing the previous entry, Borris asked me if I wanted to join him at the pub again. He added that it was going to be a different one, and that this one allegedly had a lot of Wayne fans in it. I would've been fine with any old pub, but this one sounded different. It sounded like I was going to particularly enjoy this one.

So I was definitely in. Unfortunately, Alfred couldn't join us because he had been busy last night with his first meeting with a new client. We are, of course, still his clients as well, but he was recently summoned by another person for training, so he will be training both Borris and I and the new client. This means that he won't be spending as much time being our butler, which, and I won't admit this to any living soul ever, I'm actually a little bit melancholy about.

"And that is why," I said to the absolutely lovely person at the bar, "the perfume "Moia Krasavitza" is the worst Russian perfume in existence."

I took a sip of my beer, satisfied that I had not stuffed up my explanation of the poor quality of the "Moia Krasavitza" this time around.

"That's very interesting, Mr Wayne," said the person.

"Call me Bruce," I interrupted.

"Mr Bruce," the person corrected, "But may I now have your autograph?"

"Hang on, hang on, I haven't told you about the "Deosebire" yet. Very interesting Romanian perfume. It has its good qualities, sure, but these are so well mixed in with the bad qualities that it's really difficult to determine whether or not to like the perfume in general. That's what makes it so fascinating, I think. And, of course, if you actually wear the perfume in public, you will definitely meet those who will be affronted by the smell, but there will be those who will respect you for your bold choice, and those people, my friend, are the ones you know you can trust. So there are definitely advantages to wearing the perfume. However, I would not recommend wearing it to formal events, such as the Annual Mayor Celebration (which I'm really excited for this year, by the way)..."

"Mr Wayne?"

I looked around irritably at the person who had interrupted me. It was a woman, her hair neatly done up, her suit gleaming with professionalism. On her chest she wore the pin worn by all employees of "Wayne Enterprises". Her face was very familiar. It was a face from the past, from happier days, when my parents were still around.

"Rachel?" I said, "What are you doing here?"

"Mr Wayne," she said, "Your presence is required at "Wayne Enterprises" Gotham Centre immediately."

I had been dreading hearing those words for some time now.

"Rachel," I said, "You know my parents died, right? It's been a very trying past few months. I need some time to relax."

I took another sip of my beer. The person next to me watched our conversation with interest.

"Bruce," said Rachel, "I don't know what's been going on with you, and I don't really want to know, but I'm doing my job now and I'm telling you that you are needed in "Wayne Enterprises" Gotham Centre. I'm sorry your parents died, Bruce, but you need to start doing some work soon. You can't just lie around in pubs doing nothing forever."

I shook my head. I couldn't blame her. She didn't know, couldn't know, that I had been doing far more important work than whatever awaited me at "Wayne Enterprises" since the very day my parents had died.

Borris was nowhere to be seen, so he couldn't save me from this. I sighed.

"Fine," I said, "I'll be there in ten minutes."

Rachel nodded and walked out. I took another sip of my beer.

"So anyway," I said to the person next to me, "The "Deosebire"."

Ten minutes passed. I finished my glass of beer. Asked for another one. I finished explaining about the "Deosebire". Started talking about the overall phenomenal quality of French perfumes. What can I say? Time slipped by.

"Mr Wayne!" Rachel said.

I looked around hurriedly for Borris. Nowhere to be seen, dammit!

"Sorry, sorry," I said, "I got distracted. But I'll be there in ten more minutes. Promise."

"No, Bruce," said Rachel, "You're coming with me now. We've got a car waiting outside for you."

"But what about my own car?"

"You'll be driven back here after the meeting is over."

"Rachel, whatever this is, I don't care about it, okay? Get someone else to sort it out. I shouldn't have to deal with this."

Rachel sat down next to me.

"Look, Bruce," she said, "Just cooperate with me here, okay? I don't know why you're needed. I'm just the messenger. But you can say all of what you just said to me to my boss instead, okay? It won't take up too much of your time. You can get back to whatever you're doing here that's making you so busy soon."

"Fine," I said, "But I just bought this glass of beer. Can't let it go to waste."

I gulped it all down in one go.

"M'kay," I said, "Let's do this."

I was escorted to the car waiting for me. Rachel and I sat in the back together, with the driver at the front. It's been a while since I've seen Rachel. I never had a chance to catch up with her today, to see how she's doing.

I checked my phone on the ride to the building. I had a text from Alfred that said, "Sorry, Master Wayne, but I had no choice but to reveal your location."

I sighed irritably.

"We'll be there soon, rich kid," said Rachel, misreading the source of my annoyance.

I sent a text back to Alfred saying, "That's fine, Alfred, but don't do it again or you'll be in big trouble, you naughty butler."

He probably enjoyed that text.

I sent another text to Borris explaining what was happening. Then I sat back in the car and rested my head on my comfortable chair. The alcohol I had drunk minutes ago was starting to kick in. I suddenly remembered that I was sitting in a car my father had in some way paid for, whether it was directly or indirectly. I was hit again with how much I missed him. A brief image of him lying dead on the floor outside the cinema flashed through my eyes. His story had ended at the place where stories began.

I was escorted to the building. A short, wily-looking man awaited me at the entrance. He, too, was dressed as if un-professionalism was illegal, with that Wayne Enterprises badge on his chest. My father knew how to advertise. That badge is iconic.

"Ah, Mr Wayne," said the man, "Thank goodness you've finally arrived. My name is Bob Schnied. I was a very close personal friend of your father, and I am honoured to serve his son."

"Me too," I said.

Bob smiled thinly.

"If you would come with me, Mr Wayne," he said, "We have much to discuss."

I followed him into the elevator and was led to his office, where I sat in yet again another comfortable chair that my father had in some way (directly or indirectly) paid for. Bob's office was decorated with cat pictures. One of them showed a Maine Coon with its paws held up to camera. Above it were the words, "A-paw-rable."

I scoffed.

"That would work better with a dog picture," I said.

"So you're a dog person, Mr Wayne?" said Bob, "Well, I guess you and your father really do have some similarities after all."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Your father was also a dog person."

"Really?"

"Take a seat, Mr Wayne."

I did so.

"'Destiny'?" I said, sniffing the air.

"Yes, 'Destiny', Mr Wayne. Something wrong?"

"No, no, nothing wrong. Just that any fool knows that American perfumes are cheap rip-offs of the French ones!"

"That's very good, Mr Wayne, but I'm here to talk with you about Wayne Enterprises..."

"Wayne Enterprises can go smell a chicken!"

"Excuse me?"

"Wayne Enterprises..."

"Mr Wayne..."

"Can go smell a chicken."

"Are you being serious right now, Mr Wayne?"

He looked at me suspiciously.

"Wait a minute..."

Bob leaned in and sniffed.

"Are you drunk?"

"I'm tipsy. Tipsy, not drunk."

"Oh, dear," said Bob, "Mr Wayne..." he sighed, "I know that the death of your parents... has probably given you a lot of stress. I lost a very good friend with the death of your father, but I could not possibly imagine what you're going through right now."

"Oh my God, why does everyone assume that I'm still grieving over my parents' deaths? That's over now! I'm having fun now! I'm laying back!"

"Well, that's very good to hear," said Bob, "But maybe it's time for you to go back to work."

"I have been working, Bob! What do you think I've been doing for the past eight months?"

"Mr Wayne, you have not shown up to a single day of work since your parents died. You are, now that your father has unfortunately passed away, the sole CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and I regret to inform you that you have not been taking that position seriously! Now, I understand you needed to take some time to grieve over the loss of your parents, but it has been eight months now, Mr Wayne! If you're not going to start working now, then when will you, may I ask?

Because, I regret to tell you this, but the company is in very bad shape right now. We've lost some very big clients over the past eight months because of your absence, and we've had to fire over fifty employees in that time. It's only going to progressively get worse. This is all your fault, Mr Wayne! You are the CEO of the biggest company in Gotham, so start acting like it. The Board commands you to do your job and start earning us back our money. Starting from today, you need to get your lower region into that very spacious office and do some paperwork!"

"Those are some very interesting points," I said, "But..." and then leapt up onto the table.

"Very impressive, right?" I said.

I fell off.

"Oh, goodness!" said Bob, "Mr Wayne, are you alright?"

"Yup. Perfectly fine," I grumbled.

"You know what, Mr Wayne? You can take a bit of time to have a nap, wear some of that alcohol off," said Bob, "But you really do need to start working soon."

"Nope," I said, still on the floor, "I'm not working."

"Mr Wayne! Did you listen to anything I said before? Thousands of people's livelihoods are at stake here! You can't allow us to fall into bankruptcy!"

"I'm not working."

"Mr Wayne, I cannot stress this enough. Thousands of people could lose their jobs. Show some empathy!"

I remained silent. My head was feeling a bit muddy.

"Do you think your father would've wanted that, Mr Wayne? Do you think your father would've wanted you to, through your laziness, fire over fifty employees and put thousands more at risk of losing their jobs? And if you let the company fall into disarray, do you know what would happen to your father's legacy? It would be absolutely tarnished! What do you think of that, Mr Wayne? Completely tarnished!

Do you want to ruin what your father worked so hard to build? Do you want to burn it into ashes, until all that remains is unrecognisable from its former self? Do you want the Wayne name to be associated with betrayal and failure? Worse of all, do you want, after your father's vast humanitarian efforts, to add unnecessary misery to your employee's lives when it could be so easily prevented? Is that what you want, Mr Wayne? Because that's what's going to happen if you don't step up. You may have suffered from the loss of your father, yet you seem to think his legacy to be nothing. You could ruin it, Bruce. Do you want that to happen?"

Silence.

"I asked you a question, Mr Wayne. Do you want that to happen!?"

I paused.

"No," I finally said.

"I thought not. In that case, you'd better go back home, take a nap, sleep off your alcoholic habits, and then show up tomorrow, dressed up nicely, with a Wayne Enterprises badge on your chest and thousands of people's livelihoods off your conscience. Make your father proud, Bruce. Make him look down at you from the heavens and smile at his son."

I stood up carefully.

"My father's already proud of me, Mr Schnied."

"Are you sure about that, Mr Wayne?"

I paused again, then sighed.

"I don't know, Mr Schnied. I don't know whether or not my father, or my mother, are proud of me. And I do care about the employees, of course, and I definitely don't want them to lose their jobs. I know I have a responsibility to be the CEO of this company, and I know I may have come across as uncaring and ungrateful today, but, truth is, I don't know who I am or what I want to be. The death of my parents left such a big hole in my life, and, now that I have... moved on from their deaths, I don't know what I want anymore. I just know that I'm not going to be the next CEO of this company. That's my father's position, and it would feel wrong to take it. I could never feel that my father is watching from the heavens and smiling on me if I was sitting in the seat he used to sit in."

"I'm sorry, Mr Wayne," said Bob, "But you have no choice."

"Well... what if I found a replacement?"

Bob thought it over.

"I mean, I suppose that could work," said Bob, "But, Mr Wayne, I advise you to choose wisely. If you throw away the position of CEO of this company and give it to someone else, you could be making a grave mistake. You are the owner of what could yet again become an extremely prosperous and wealthy company. Are you sure you want to throw that opportunity away?"

"Yes, Mr Schnied," I said, "I'm sorry, but yes."

"Very well then, sir, but maybe you should decide this life-altering decision when you are more... sober?"

"No," I replied, "I am very confident in my decision. I give the ownership and management of this company to the hands of my dear, loyal cousin... Borris Wayne."

Bob Schnied shrugged.

"Well... if that's what you truly want, then I guess I'll go get the paperwork."