It was The Joker again. A
chase through Gotham, as usual, but
this time before sunset.
Batman in his rocket-powered
super car, a dashboard of buttons for
gadgets galore. As he
reached for the missile trigger, he
noticed the tank on E.
Old Alfred was forgetting things, like
polishing the yellow belt, sharpening the
grapple throwers, wiping down the
damp cave counters. And now
gassing up the batmobile.
In daylight, the Dark Knight could not
lurk in the shadows. He
gripped the pump handle,
growling below his breath, a
grave-faced grimace. His
tight teeth together locked his
brick jaw. Mundane necessities shouldn't
get in the way of Joker chases.
This was his frustration.
Tank finally full, he returned the
pump and cap. Rocket fire, but
before he sped off, a
Fiat driver signaled with vigor.
Batman braked. The roof grazed his
suit ears as it slid back.
"Gas lid's open," the driver said.
Coarse and flem was the response -
"Thanks" - guttural enough to chill the
driver, who left, forgetting to fuel the Fiat.
Batman hopped out, agile until he
nearly stomped on his curved
cape. He closed his gas lid, then
hopped back in again.
The Joker long gone, Batman
headed for the cave. Tire
screeches. Rearview smoke.
Deafening jet propulsion squeals. He
thought about the delicate
dialogue he would have with
Alfred. How age's toll will get
everyone eventually.
Back at the cave…
Alfred was tracking The Joker's
car on the oversized cave computer. His
wide eyes glistened with screen light. A
model of concentration. "Got away
again, sir?"
Batman touched Old
Alfred's shoulder. "My friend," he
said, his mask still on, his
voice still a raspy scar. "I think…"
Water drips splashed on the
cave floor. Corner bats
fluttered. The musk and
suit rubber aroma.
Batman thought of the
Fiat, and how simple it is
to be a hero.
Batman cleared his throat: "I think …
I would like some soup."
writealreadycom.wordpress.com 