Batman: A Dark Knight in the Life.
Just past midnight, three stories up, nestled in a recess near a shattered window of the former Gotham City East End Lumber and Steel Co., the bat roosted, rabid, not by condition but by ferociously disciplined choice; rabid for blood, the blood of criminals, the diseased blood that perpetually infested the city, his city, the diseased blood of Gotham only he and a small few others could consume without shriveling into nothingness. He roosted in the abandoned warehouse he knew well in Gotham's filthy, crime infested East End, invisible in the pitch black building in the near pitch black area he had, in the recent past, tried to save, not as Batman, but as Bruce Wayne. He stayed alert, repeatedly scanning the area with his night vision tech and waited. Three years earlier, he had, as Bruce Wayne, founded the business he greatly hoped would help end poverty in the East End, a business that began with such promise, attracting new workers and their families to the area and providing an instant boost to Gotham's economy in that sector. But crime had won out, despite Bruce Wayne's best efforts. The local street gangs grew instead of faltered, the violence increased instead of abated, and the recently arrived families left the area in droves. All that remained were a lot of young, single, predominately male workers who were easily eaten up by the gangs, joining in bunches, swelling their ranks to new levels and driving away all of Bruce Wayne’s partners until he remained, alone, forced to scrap the idea he had so greatly hoped would succeed, the idea he hoped would make Batman less necessary.
He had been too ambitious; too much too soon. That was his positive view of the situation, even though, in truth, it had come way too late. That was Bruce Wayne's view. But Bruce Wayne had failed and now it was Batman's responsibility to pick up the pieces. Not only had he inadvertently swelled the ranks of the local gangs, he had provided them with a meeting place, this cleared out, partially demolished warehouse complex. Most street lamps busted and lightless, the poorly lit area had seen covert business transactions from local gangs rise dramatically in the last few months. Busy with the Justice League, Batman had left the matter largely to Gordon but was recently informed by the Commissioner that a new gang element, a group boldly calling themselves the Young Dictators, had arrived in Gotham and were looking to make a big mark, a big bang, in their new environment. Through Gotham PD infiltration, they had learned that the newcomers were being recruited by Roman Sionis's False Face Society and that an arms deal with some of the strongest muscle not associated with Black Mask or the Falcone Crime Family, the Gotham City Killers, was in the works. Expecting fireworks beyond the average meetup, Gordon and the Dark Knight agreed it was time for the Batman to get involved and that's why we was there, just past midnight, roosted three stories up in one of the old warehouses, warehouses he had built with such hope, waiting, the predator of predators, the dictator of dictators, the killer of killers, for his quarry to arrive.
Twenty minutes later, pulling up in a large, no doubt bullet proof black Hummer, the Gotham City Killer's contingent arrived, regurgitating five men, three conspicuously armed with AK-47 assault rifles, two with no visible weapons but with a few certainly tucked away. The Killers had been around for a few years and Batman, knowing them well, recognized their leader, a man named Joe Argento, a tough Italian-American not above getting into fistfights or even the occasional gunfight. He had been arrested several times but no major charges had stuck. The Killers also knew the Batman well, well enough that it was odd they would meet in Gotham at night, anywhere in Gotham at night. Some of the gangs were so punchy about Batman they planned and carried out business in the daytime, much preferring to face Gordon and an army of cops rather than face even the possibility of coming up against the Dark Knight. Batman loved that, loved the fear he instilled in the gangs. It was better for Gotham PD that any gang hits, drug or weapons transactions, or any other organized crime business was carried out in the daytime because Gordon and his men were more than up to the challenge and most of the gangs with less influence and power had taken major hits with high arrest rates, mostly foot soldiers but some in higher ranking positions, as well. That left Batman to his JLA duties in matters of national and worldwide importance. These lower level gangs didn't have the umbrella of protection of Falcone or Sionis and it showed. However, they weren't groups without that strange code of honor certain gangs, seemingly as a matter of pride, preferred to operate under. It had become so cliché that the local gangs had mindlessly taken it on as a duty, like something they’d seen on TV. It’s what gangs did so they did it, too. At various times, Batman had stepped in to collect information from the Killers as only he could, information that Gordon and the cops couldn’t get. They gave Batman information; he didn't crush them into the pavement. That was the only deal the Dark Knight had ever agreed to and ever would.
Joe Argento was the Killer’s go to man when it came to weapons transactions and Batman was sure that was the business, at least the agreed upon business, that he was to see that night. Joe was an asset to the Killers but also somewhat expendable because he was mostly a foot solider uninvolved in the gang’s decision making circle. A night deal…this was no doubt insisted upon by the Young Dictators, the fresh blood the Batman longed to taste, to sink his sharp teeth into. That told him they were an arrogant bunch; no other gang would risk a major arms deal at night unless absolutely necessary or only agreed upon because one side demanded it. No, the Dictators pushed it and the Killers, probably selling to the newcomers, in all likelihood agreed because they needed the money.
Two of the three men armed with the AK-47s took up positions on either side of the Hummer with the third gunman in front. Joe Argento and the fifth man, a probable foot soldier Batman didn’t recognize, stood about ten steps ahead of the third gunman and waited. Ten minutes later, a beat up Mustang entered the compound from the opposite side; five men, two with ancient looking assault rifles that resembled old WWII, obsolete, German produced StG 45s, and two with less than trustworthy AMT AutoMag handguns climbed out. No wonder they wanted to buy weapons. The two men with the 45s took up positions on either side of the Mustang while the two men with the handguns gravitated to the back near the trunk. Five to a side was no doubt agreed upon by the two gangs. Obviously, the Killers, no doubt with some intel on the Dictators, had no problems with the arrangement. If a gunfight ensued, the Dictators would be routed. Batman also deduced that the warehouse was partially agreed upon because of the space and opposite entrances. It was an excellent place to make a deal and get out. He could have punched Bruce Wayne in the face. A perfect situation for criminals built by his own good intentions. The whole meeting place was his fault. All of it.
The fifth Dictator was an unkempt punk oozing arrogance and, probably, a major stench, wearing a wide, toothy grin and with both hands in the pockets of a worn leather jacket. It was the kind of smile Batman had seen hundreds of times. It revolted him the first time he'd seen it and every time since. The Joker had that look right before Joker venom or some other death dealing threat came his way. Barbara Gordon and Jason Todd had no doubt seen that look, too, just before...
The Young Dictators were, literally, young, none of the five looking older than 25 years old; each of the Killers had at least a decade on them. Batman used the ear microphone in his cowl to listen in as Joe Argento and the unkempt leader of the Dictators, a man Batman would come to know as Brian Brannon, joined each other almost exactly in the middle between the two cars, the gun men on both sides confidently eyeing each other. Joe Argento spoke first. It made sense that the more experienced gang in town would speak first.
"Okay, this is how it's going down," he said. Brian Brannon had closed his mouth, though it still wore the kind of grin you'd love to smack off someone's face. He had bent slightly forward with his head a few inches lower than Argento's, implying he was receptive to the commentary.
"Two of your boys are going to come take the weapons out of our car," he said, “in multiple trips if necessary, and move them to yours. Your other boys can keep their guns ready if they choose. My four men will be ready to use their guns at a moment's notice without command. You’re outgunned if you start anything. Now let’s see the money.”
The details made perfect sense. The Killers, the more experienced group, were the prime movers and had the advantages. The leader of the Dictators whistled to one of his men, who produced a large envelope which he tossed to the unkempt thug. Joe Argento recoiled at the lack of professionalism.
"You know, it can go much quicker if you let me use all four of my guys,” Brian Brannon said as he handed Joe Argento the envelope. Argento handed it to the soldier Batman hadn’t seen before and told him to count it. After doing so and informing Joe Argento it was all there, he took it casually back to the Hummer and put it in the front seat. He pulled out a Walther P99 semi-automatic handgun, held it against his chest and took up a position in front of the car next to the third gunman.
"Two of your men. That was the deal. We have tenure here and we’re pulling rank. Now hurry up. We do these deals as fast as possible, doubly so at night.”
Brian Brannon smiled his toothiest smile yet. "You mean 'him'?" the Young Dictator asked with a laugh. "Yeah, we've heard plenty. We ain't afraid of him or no one else. Even if he's as tough as they say, what are the odds he'd catch onto this deal? It's a big city. Besides, we hear he’s out of town. We have feelers, too.”
Joe Argento flinched like remembering a hard shot to his jaw, one that Batman had indeed delivered a few years ago when Argento had gotten overly comfortable during an impromptu questioning from the Dark Knight.
“He’s never out of town,” Joe Argento said hauntingly. That was what Batman had done to the established criminal element. Creeping movements, even occasional business paralysis. Argento started looking left and right at the empty warehouses. "He may be here right now, waiting to pounce on us. He comes out of nowhere, no matter where you are. He's like poisoned wind. Blows in and makes you regret you're breathing." Joe Argento kept looking around, not like he saw a ghost but like he knew one, a living wraith, a solid specter over his shoulder.
"You're fucking punchy," the Young Dictator said with a laugh. "We got ten guys here and all armed. He shoots down two or three of us and the rest take him out."
"He doesn't use guns," Joe Argento replied.
The Young Dictator laughed. "And you're afraid of this guy?! A guy with no gun? It’s lucky we’re here. Gotham needs some new blood." Joe Argento looked at the man with a look of sympathy. If they lasted in Gotham, they'd learn. They all learned, even Falcone and Sionis. He'd learn, too.
Brian Brannon turned and waved his right hand towards the men by the trunk, who nodded, opened the trunk up and began to walk towards the Hummer, their AutoMag handguns visible in their hands.
“Guns away,” Joe Argento told Brian Brannon sternly. “Even if they’re crap.”
The leader of the Dictators seemed to be playing Joe Argento for all he could get, a little game of push/pull between newly meeting gang representatives. Nodding pleasantly, he motioned again to the two men who put their guns in their weather beaten jacket pockets. The Dictators seemed like homeless men at a shelter in desperate need of everything. It took the two men several trips, gingerly carrying two guns at a time. It was an impressive array of rifles and handguns, not as up to date as the Killers’ weapons but a drastic upgrade from the Dictator’s own mess. No machine guns were included.
Upon the first passing, the Dictator’s leader asked, “Can I inspect them?”
“No,” Joe Argento said dourly.
Yes, he was in a big hurry. Batman watched and listened to all this with a mixture of pride and disinterest. Perhaps the recent JLA business had spoiled him to the kind of low level thuggery he was witnessing. No. He was as hungry as ever. Even when physically burned out, his mission burned deeper, that burning in his gut that would never die, that had him out every night, even if not in Gotham. He’d forgotten what a bed was at night, what a sleep cycle was. In the end, national problems, worldwide problems, universal problems…none compared to his city, none were as important as his city. No, his disinterest came from the routine flavor of the deal. No fireworks, possibly none coming, either. He was going to wait for the guns to be loaded, for the deal to be completely transacted, before striking. He was armed with his usual array of weaponry for situations like this: Multiple batarangs, two loaded with tear gas, one resonating an ear shattering sonic pulse when activated, two programmable batarangs capable of locking onto whatever heat signatures Batman chose, two ninja throwing star batarangs and two hard plastic ones for concussive actions. At the Hall of Justice, he had recently been working on a revolutionary cutting fluid and electrical delivery system that could shrink and expand metal instantly. Among other uses, such technology would greatly affect his weaponry, making it possible to store more material on his utility belt. That was for the near future, though. Tonight, he had his usual array including his grappling gun and Batline. He did opt for one deviance from the usual: Due to the decent sized distance between warehouses, he opted to use a heavy weighted drone he had stored in the nearby Batmobile. The programmable drone could link up with the Bathook from his grappling gun, allowing him to use the Batline to swing down in areas where nothing to connect the Bathook to like a rooftop or fire escape was available. The drone also allowed for much greater freedom of movement with his aerial attacks and, utilizing 3-D visual technology, could instantly adapt and camouflage itself in any environment. Using the coordinating touchpad on his left gauntlet, he activated and steered the black drone, perfectly camouflaged in the night, over the area, close enough for his own use but out of sight of the two gang contingents.
As he readied himself, one of the Dictators loading the weapons dropped a handgun on his last trip. Though no damage was done, it got under the skin of Joe Argento.
"Hurry it up!" the leader of the Killers shouted at him. Irritated, the leader of the Young Dictators moved within a foot of Argento's face.
"You don't say shit to my men,” Brian Brannon snarled. “I talk to my men. Understand?"
Unwilling to get into it with this young punk and still edgy and nervous about unseen potentialities, Joe Argento smirked impatiently. However, his comment had had its desired result and the two men with the last load of weapons shuffled towards their Mustang with more alacrity than before. Soon, they were finished and both groups stood at strength again by their respective vehicles.
"We'll be paying attention to you," Joe Argento firmly told Brian Brannon. We're always open to deal if it fits our purpose. If you fuck with us, you’ll wish you never left Central City and you don’t have the muscle to stop us. Understand?”
Brian Brannon smiled, shrugged his shoulders and walked back towards the Dictator’s car, sitting calmly on the edge of the hood, hands in his pockets. Taking that as a ‘yes,’ Joe Argento turned and walked back towards the Killer’s Hummer. His men made motions that they were ready to get in the car and leave.
"One more thing, Joe!” Brian Brannon shouted at Joe Argento, who turned towards him with irritation. more. "I forgot to tell you something!”
The instant his last word was uttered, machine gunfire from the first floors of both warehouses sprayed like horizontal rain in the direction of Joe Argento and his men, joined immediately by gunfire from all four armed members by the Dictator's car. Caught unaware, Joe and his men were finished in seconds. Batman tensed, right hand on a tear gas batarang, but it was over before he could intervene. Once it was clear all the Killers were dead, two men, members of the Young Dictators, came out from each warehouse's first floor on either side. Batman had been there for two hours. The Dictators had planned this well, both ambushers planted silently, undetectably, before he got there. He felt a little sorry for Joe Argento. Though part of the trash polluting his city, Joe had been one of the easier thugs to work with and was nearly always forthcoming with any information he needed, though once a right hand had been needed to set him straight.
Brian Brannon had watched it all smiling, his rear end never leaving the hood of the car, his hands never leaving his jacket pockets. That look of joy at men being killed in bunches…Batman had seen that look so many times. Brian Brannon wore it, not with pride, but with excitement. Batman now believed the rumors of the False Face Society’s recruitment of the Dictators. Brian Brannon’s face told the story. These guys weren’t interested in business. They were interested in killing. That attitude paid big dividends for Roman Sionis. He ruled by terror and here, clearly, were more monsters for his flock.
Brian Brannon coolly detached from the Mustang and walked casually towards the dead men. One of the thugs by the trunk, his just fired AutoMag in his right hand, pulled a large burlap sack from the back seat with his left hand and joined Brian Brannon by the bullet riddled corpse of Joe Argento while one of the warehouse gunmen relieved the Hummer of the envelope stuffed with cash and took it back to the Mustang where he put it in the passenger seat. He then joined the other warehouse gunman in between both vehicles. The mood was light now, the two gunmen joking and congratulating each other on how easy and efficient the attack had been. Batman sat tight, waiting for what Brian Brannon would do next, a final drama to play out. The Dark Knight wanted to study as much of this new pestilence in Gotham as possible. Squatting down next to Joe Argento’s body, Brian Brannon reached out his hand. Receiving a large butcher knife from his lackey, he stared into Joe Argento’s dead eyes, eerily chatting with him like he was still alive.
"What I forgot to tell you, Joe, was we don't bend over for nobody. Yeah, we're new in town but we got connections. Unlike you, we're hungry. We're out to make a name. Ain’t nobody going to get in our way. Nobody. See, we got a special request from a special person to fuck you up and bring back proof, Joe, so that's what we're going to do. Our special person is going to be one happy mother fucker when I show him what he wants."
With that, using the butcher knife, Brian Brannon quickly and savagely sawed off the right hand of Joe Argento, easily identifiable by a large, crooked scar on the palm, and put it casually in the bag. That was all the Dark Knight needed to see. Quickly readying the two programmable batarangs, he attached both on either side of his utility belt then moved the drone silently to the position he wanted it, high up almost exactly between the two vehicles, the drone partly shading black for the night and soft yellow from where the few street lamps hit it. Ready for his assault, he withdrew his sonic batarang and hurled it at Brian Brannon and his man holding the burlap sack, a sharp corner sticking firm in the impacted dirt. Upon contact, an earsplitting audio wave sounded that froze both men as well as the two warehouse gunmen, holding their ears in agonized paralysis. A thrown tear gas batarang slammed into the hood of the Mustang and exploded, spraying the vehicle and the three gunmen surrounding it with the noxious powder, sending them to their knees in coughing fits. Shooting his grappling gun, the Bathook connected with the drone. He then connected the grappling gun to the front of his utility belt, leaving both arms free and, with one massive movement, swooped down onto the two warehouse gunmen, felling the first with a left boot to the face and the second with a right boot to the face. Working the touchpad while in midair with his free hands, Batman maneuvered it sharply over the Dictator’s car, creating a whiplash effect that propelled him in that direction. Swinging towards the Mustang, he disconnected himself from the grappling gun and Batline while lifting his legs, landing back first on the car’s top and sliding smoothly, feet first, from the top to the back while ejecting the programmable batarangs from his utility belt, sending them hurtling into the foreheads of the two side gunmen still staggered by the tear gas, knocking both men down and out. Sliding down the trunk, he planted his feet on the end of the car and snapped his body forward head over heels into a perfect somersault, the weighted bottom of his cape slamming into the face of the final gunman, also knocking him out flat. The Dark Knight completed the somersault perfectly and landed upright with his feet straddling the final gunman's unconscious body. The whole thing had taken less than 30 seconds. Brian Brannon, still shocked by the pain of the sonic batarang and holding his ears, managed to rise and look towards the action, greeted by the awesome sight of Batman stomping over the top and hood of the Mustang towards him in small plumes of lingering tear gas, his cape spread and flowing like a nightmarish vampire. The two warehouse gunmen Batman had kicked had risen shakily, still influenced by the sonic batarang. Batman, impervious to the pulse because of his cowl’s ability to mute sound, knocked one silly with an uppercut then hurled him into the second gunman, putting them both down. Batman then put the lackey that had held the burlap sack down with a hard batarang to the forehead, a strong metal base in the batarang instantly recoiling it back into the magnetized hand of the Dark Knight, who reattached it to his utility belt. Six down and only Brian Brannon tenuously on his feet. Batman picked up the sonic batarang and disarmed it, putting it also back onto his utility belt. Free of the paralyzing sound, Brian Brannon immediately went for and grabbed his unconscious lackey’s fallen AutoMag from where the man had dropped it and tried aiming it at his adversary, who smacked it out of the gang leader’s hands with ease. Grabbing him by the jacket collar, Batman yanked him into the air and carried him to the Gotham City Killer’s Hummer, Brian Brannon’s feet never touching the ground the whole way. Slamming the now freshly educated gang leader’s back into the car’s grill sent him to the ground on his ass. Batman, towering over him, spoke, his voice a little more threatening and aggressive than usual as this was the first time he’d had the displeasure of meeting the man.
“I want all information you know about your gang; who’s in charge, how many men you have, and why you’ve come to Gotham. Then I want all information and contacts you’ve had with Black Mask and his False Face Society.”
“What the fuck is a Black Mask?” Brian Brannon said with defiance, a broad smile on his face.
“How about the False Face Society?” Batman asked.
“Man, you’re fucked in the head!” Brian Brannon cracked with that smile; that smile was now finished. Batman slowly positioned his right index finger level with the man’s mouth and pointed it at that intolerable smile. Brian Brannon seemed to hypnotically enjoy the motion, like Batman was some weirdo who liked pointless hand gestures. That was his last enjoyment. Suddenly, the Dark Knight’s finger jabbed into Brian Brannon’s front teeth like a lightning bolt, knocking one of them out and into his throat, sending the man into a coughing fit that eventually regurgitated the tooth in a spew of blood, easily swatted out of the way by the Dark Knight. Rabid for blood, he had drawn it, the diseased blood of Gotham’s freshest disease, the Young Dictators. Blood began to spurt from the wound onto Brian Brannon’s lips and chin. Shocked into insensibility, he had a look of stunned disbelief. Batman cocked his index finger again like he was aiming a missile.
“Care for an eyeball?” he asked casually. Brian Brannon broke like a cardboard dam and babbled like a terrified child.
“We’re new, man! We’ve only got 12 guys right now, man! We’re just doing what we need to do, you know?! We’re from Central City. We started in Central City. We just…we did some shit, you know, then we came here. We’re just here for some business, man!”
“You ‘came’ from Central City? You mean the Flash ran you out of town,” Batman said coolly. “He’s a good friend of mine. Nice guy. Has compassion.” Batman gripped Brian Brannon’s collar hard at the neck, almost cutting off his breathing. “I’m not a nice guy.”
“Yeah, whatever the fuck!” the thug sputtered. “Whatever! Yeah, we had a run in with the guy. We got a few guys in jail there but who gives a shit?! We were approached by this guy saying he was a member of a False Face gang or whatever the fuck. Said they’d been watching us and we had potential and his boss liked our style and would we want to come to Gotham. Anything was better than having that Flash guy around so we took him up on it. Hey, it’s a fucking job, right? You’d do it if you were in our place.”
Batman ignored the man’s attempt to gain his empathy or sympathy.
“So Black Mask wants a bloodbath and you bring him back Joe Argento’s hand as proof,” Batman said. Not being able to fit seven guys in the Mustang, Batman also concluded they planned on stealing the Killer’s Hummer, too.
“They wanted proof that we rolled these fuckers, yeah. They wanted us to show we could be vicious. Fuckers are dead, right?! Who cares if we take trophies?! It’s what Black Mask wanted. We arrange a deal and jack the guys and roll them. Bring back trophies and work your way into a better gang. That’s business.”
Brian Brannon was whimpering now, the pain of his dislodged tooth clearly agonizing. Batman let that pain sink in more and more as the conversation continued. More pain meant more revelation.
“Now who runs the show?” Batman asked.
Words choked in Brian Brannon’s throat, though not for physical reasons, as if saying the bosses’ name meant an automatic death sentence. Batman raised his index finger again.
“His name is Slobodon Jovick, alright?!” Brian Brannon spit out, his mind already seeming to leave town like his feet needed to. Batman knew the name. It was from a relatively respected, though smaller time, crime family from Eastern Europe. Slobodon was the family scion. He’d cast off his family ties to go on his own, earning his infamous family’s enmity. So this was where he’d ended up. This was a greater haul than expected. Information about a new gang, their connections to the False Face Society, the arrest of at least one that knew the gang’s activities AND finding the whereabouts of Slobodon Jovick.
“Where and when were you supposed to meet the representative of the False Face Society?”
“Tomorrow at 1 PM in the Brookville building. We’re supposed to meet the guy in a back entrance and into some kind of board room.”
So Sionis and his slime had infiltrated the prestigious Gotham Brookville building. The contact much be someone in a high place because everyone in the Brookville building was a high roller. More high end corruption in his city. Bold, too, considering this punk was going to show up in broad daylight with someone’s severed hand. Now he knew and Gordon would soon know, too.
“Is that all you have to offer?” Batman sneered. “You better tell me everything or I’ll visit you in your soon to be jail cell and leave your mouth to where you’ll have to gum everything you eat for the rest of your life.”
“That’s it man, I swear!” Brian Brannon didn’t fear anything in Gotham a half hour before. Now he would be cowed everywhere he went from then on. “I just know a few things but that’s it! I’m just a soldier, man. I ain’t the boss.”
Satisfied the man had sung the whole song, Batman cuffed Brian Brannon to the grill of the Killer’s car and cuffed the other unconscious gang members to the nearest vehicle. They weren’t going anywhere under their own power. He activated the two way radio in his cowl and connected with Gotham PD. The contact was private between he and James Gordon.
“What have you got?” Gordon asked.
“Arms deal gone bad. Five men killed. Seven gang members ages 20 to 30 apprehended and secured. Location is between the two largest warehouses of the old Gotham East End Lumber and Steel Co.” Saying the name of one of Bruce Wayne’s biggest failures again tugged at his heart.
“What’s their condition?” Gordon asked.
“Poor,” was the reply. A slight chuckle from Gordon was audible through the connection.
“I’ll have some men over shortly with the appropriate measures. About ten minutes,” Gordon said. “Are you going to stay out longer?”
Batman looked at all the dead and apprehended bodies. He wasn’t satisfied. He was never satisfied.
“Yeah. Think I’ll be out all night tonight. Do you have anything interesting?”
“Possible drug deal going down in an hour between the All-Americans and the Free Men in the Bowery near the old football stadium in Crown Point. Doesn’t sound suspicious like you’ve had. We were going to send a team down there but we’ll pull out if you want to take care of it. There are two missing persons reports and a sighting of John Lennon down by the Riverfront Center so that may mean Cornelius Stirk is back. Ask around and I’m sure you’ll get plenty of information. We’ve also found a greenhouse on the West Side of Robinson Park with some wild plant experiments that reek of Poison Ivy. We’ve done the usual work but I’m sure you’d like a look at it. It’s near the intersection of 5th and Mason. We have it blocked off so it’s contained. That’s all we have right now.”
“I’ll handle the drug deal and the missing persons reports,” Batman replied. “I may not make it to the greenhouse until tomorrow night.”
Gordon responded affirmatively. “No problem. It seems clear that Ivy hasn’t been to that greenhouse in at least a month so I doubt it’s pressing. Drop a line if you need us. Good hunting.”
The Dark Knight turned off his radio and headed for the handcuffed Brian Brannon. The separation from Batman as he contacted Gordon had provided the Dictator with a heavenly respite. His young bravado having returned somewhat in the moment, even with one tooth less and blood on his face, he decided to talk tough again, the intention of overcoming his freshly created fear being the reason.
“You can’t be everywhere at once,” Brannon said, using the obvious common sense that had no relevance in Gotham City. Yes, Batman was everywhere at once. He filled every atom of the night and every crevice of every building, street and alleyway. The Dictators would soon learn all about that. Right now, he had a final message to send.
“What you going to do now?” Brannon asked defiantly. The Dark Knight leaned down to within two inches of the thug’s face.
“I forgot to tell you something,” Batman whispered. “I’m in your way.” With that, a right cross smashed hard into Brian Brannon’s jaw, knocking him out upon impact, putting all seven members of the Dictators in dreamland. Once he’d detached from it, the grappling gun and Batline had recoiled up and attached to the drone. Now, utilizing the touch pad on his left gauntlet, Batman maneuvered the hovering drone down to his level and detached the grappling gun into his right hand. Maneuvering the drone back overhead, Batman shot the grappling gun’s Bathook into it, secured the gun to his utility belt as before and, steering with the touch pad, shot into the air and flew towards where he had left the Batmobile. Landing safely, the drone once more stored away, the Batmobile and the Dark Knight sped towards the Bowery and the soon to be drug deal. A very productive evening so far but always more on the plate. More hunting to be done, always more hunting in his city. Every night. Every dark night.
(I obviously lay no claim to Batman or the characters in his world and I do not own their rights in any way. I also lay no claim to any other DC characters I mention in the story and have no intention whatsoever of profiting in any way from what I've written. I'm just a dumb cluck that loves superhero stuff and wanted to write a Batman short story.)
