1.
Borris was, of course, shocked when I told him the good news. Then, having recovered from this shock, he hugged me tightly.
"Thank you, Bruce," he said.
Letting go of the embrace, he looked at me, and an anxious look passed over his face.
"Bruce," he said, "Are you sure you want this? This company is, of course, rightfully yours. I don't want to take it from you if you truly don't want me to. Once you sign the papers, there's no turning back."
"I know what I'm doing, Borris," I replied, "You helped me get through the past eight months. You were always there for me, and I could always talk to you whenever I wanted to, and you would always listen. You supported me and helped me get through my revenge plan, and then you consoled me when it wasn't what I had expected it to be. You're not only a damn good cousin, but you're also a good friend. You deserve this, man."
"Are you sure, Bruce? This is your father's company, after all."
"Then he would be proud that you became in charge of it. I couldn't ever be the owner of this company. I would always feel like I was stealing from my father and from what he's built. Being the CEO of Wayne Enterprises isn't the future for me, and I think I'm leaving it in good hands with you, Borris."
Borris hugged me again.
"Thank you so much," he whispered.
I smiled. It felt good to make someone else happy.
The papers were signed soon after. The ownership of Wayne Enterprises officially passed to Borris Wayne.
2.
"Your tea, Master," said Alfred the next morning, as he was bringing in breakfast in bed.
I had only woken up a minute before.
"Tea?" I said.
"Yes, Master. Tea."
"I've only ever tasted that once in my entire life," I said, wide-eyed.
I paused.
"Wait a minute," I said, "Isn't tea illegal in Gotham!?"
Alfred sighed.
"Yes, Master."
"So where on Earth did you get it from?"
"Well, my old colleague, Bob Dyle, smuggled it in for me, Master," said Alfred, "I can't possibly live without it, you know, and I thought you'd like a try."
I looked thirstily at the tea.
"But it's illegal," I said.
"Yes, and why? Because of the Boston Tea Party. What an absurd notion! Do you even know what you people in Gotham are missing out on? Come on, Master Wayne. Have a little sip. It's nice and warm."
I looked at the tea again.
"Yes, Alfred," I said, "It is dumb that tea's illegal in Gotham. But I'm not going to break another law if I don't have to."
"Suit yourself, Master," said Alfred, and took a sip.
"Delicious," he commented.
I pointedly ate my omelette.
After breakfast, I walked around Gotham Manor. Alfred said he had to leave for a training session with his new client, so I was all alone. I realised again, for the first time in a while, how big and silent Gotham Manor was. I was alone, left with the sound of the ticking, centuries-old Grandfather clock and the vast space of the house. It was infinite and I was merely a small speck of dust.
I sat down on my luxurious sofa.
"What am I going to do with my life?" I wondered.
I took a glance at the large portrait of two of my loved ones opposite me. They were smiling. Both of them were holding one arm on the figure in the middle of them, a nicely-dressed, happy boy. Me.
I had gotten my revenge. And, despite all of the visits to pubs, all of the $200 ice-cream, despite reassuring Borris' concerns hundreds of times, things still didn't feel right. It wasn't that I still missed my parents, even though I definitely did. It was that I still had dreams of my parents' deaths. It was that in those dreams, I still heard that evil laughter. The laughter that seemed to come from deep inside.
I was happier than I had been eight months ago. Definitely more peaceful, knowing the fact that justice had been brought upon the killer of my parents. But I still wasn't happy. As I looked upon the painting of my parents and I, I realised that I needed to find out who I was and what I wanted to do with myself. I couldn't visit pubs and beaches forever. I needed to do something.
I phoned Alfred.
"Yes, Master? Make this quick, please. I'm in the middle of a training session with my client."
He whispered, "His feet are abnormally large."
"Sorry, Alfred," I said, "I just wanted to come to you for some advice. You're a wise guy, right?"
"Of course, Master."
"Well, then, could you tell me how to find out who you are?"
"Why, certainly!"
I breathed a sigh of relief.
"Sometimes," Alfred said, "One needs to journey along the path in order to find out what is on it."
I tried to wrap this around my head.
"You're welcome!" said Alfred cheerfully, "Please feel free to come to me if you need any further advice. Bye."
"Wait!" I said, but then Alfred hung up.
I wondered on his advice.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I wondered.
I decided to phone Alfred back. Unfortunately, he wouldn't pick up.
"Well, shit," I said.
I decided to call Borris for some advice.
"Bruce?" said Borris.
"Hello, Borris! I was just wondering..."
"I'm working, Bruce!"
He hung up.
"Huh," I said, "I guess I shouldn't call people when they're working."
I sighed. Went to make myself some froiled eggs with caviar. It's another comfort food of mine. I made the eggs, and, while they weren't as good as the froiled eggs Alfred makes, they were still pretty good. I sat back down on my sofa and turned on my 8-K TV. It's got over 700 different channels, including ones classified by the CIA. My father was a powerful man.
I turned on the morning news.
"...have no clue who murdered Mr Jeremy Fox and billionaire Bruce Wayne's parents. The ones who love these people still don't have answers..."
An idea popped into my mind. Quickly, I dressed up, grabbed a bottle of orange juice and some flowers, went into the Tank-Lamborghini, and drove once again to the street where a man had met his rightful fate: Boone Avenue.
There, I knocked on 9 Boone Avenue, the house next to the murderer of my parents' house. Mr Jeremy Fox's house still had yellow tape around it, although the tape definitely looked like it had been there for over a week. A police officer recognised me and nodded.
"Good day, Mr Wayne," he said.
I smiled and nodded back.
Out of the house came a frail old lady. She was wearing purple-framed glasses which enclosed around eyes that seemed to have been grieving a few moments before my arrival. A pang of guilt crossed my chest. I handed the woman the flowers.
"Good morning, Ms FkFillet," I said.
"Mr Wayne? Why, what a surprise!" said Ms FkFillet, taking my flowers, "I remember what your parents did for this city, Mr Wayne. They were one of the few honourable souls who actually tried to change it. But it's a city polluted with infection, Mr Wayne, as well as the inability to change. I'm sure you've heard about the horrible murder of my good friend Mr Jeremy Fox. I lost all faith in Gotham when I found that he'd been murdered. Who would do such a thing to such a kind, old man? And why on Earth would anyone want to murder your parents, Mr Wayne? It's as if this city wants to get rid of all the nice people who could possibly change it."
Throughout this speech, my chest panged like an earthquake, and I had to remind myself of what kind old Mr Jeremy Fox had actually done.
"Well, Ms FkFillet," I said at the end of her speech, "I'm here because I saw you on the news and I felt sorry for you, especially because my own parents died a few months ago. Since we share something in common, I was hoping to drink some orange juice with you, maybe talk a bit about our experiences. Maybe we could find comfort in ourselves."
Ms FkFillet smiled.
"Come on in then, Mr Wayne."
I did. The orange juice tasted good, and we had a good chat about the loved ones we had lost. Mr Fox may have been a terrible person, and he may have deserved his fate, but he sure knew how to make a good friend.
