Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins for Him. 7.

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When I first heard there was a masked vigilante in town I was overjoyed. No more stringing along this rinky-dink corrupt and uninspired P.D. And when I heard he was going by “The Bat Man?” Fell down and wept on a fresh kill. Thank God, somebody campy as shit. A foil I could sink my teeth into.

He was after me within a week. Not me specifically – he thought I was four different criminals. I’m a professional and modus operendi isn’t that hard to fake at this level. Slew a newlywed couple near the harbor, like this particular serial killer was doing that summer. Even posed them on a cot, tastefully. Then I waited in the attic, with my gun and a view through the air vent.

He came in the window, floor length black cape draping behind him, and I drooped. His mask had devil horns, and he didn’t talk! No cavalier monologue, no procedural chatter. He was silent and grim and didn’t even smile as he stepped around my work. Why was his mouth the only exposed part of him if he wasn’t going to smile? The hero is bright, witty, handsome – he’s supposed to be good incarnate. This was an affront to all those Green Lanterns and Wonder Women. What worthwhile chase was I going to get out of this guy?

I almost shot him. Not only because he was trying to bring me to justice. Not only because he was dumb enough to wear body armor everywhere except his face. No, no, no. Because there are some things that are so wrong you can’t correct them straightforward. You’ve got to shake them. Agitate them. If his neck breaks while you’re trying to slap sense into him, at least you tried.

Had to do it myself. If the hero was going to be in black, I was going to be in Technicolor. If he was going to have a spooky bat on his chest, I’d wear a flower on my lapel. If he was going to glower, I’d wear the biggest smile he’d ever seen. I’d show him what he was doing wrong, become the light and laughter of this city while thinning its numbers.

A couple of wild cards at the scene of a crime, a couple of judges asphyxiated with laughing gas – I may have played it too strong. He was on me in three days. I let him chase me, my brooding foil, and made a discovery on the ledge of a building. He was very good at hand-to-hand – had his hand on my neck, my feet over a sheer drop. I had a gun to his chin and he wouldn’t let me go. The big, scary hero didn’t like killing! That’s the extent to which he wouldn’t steal the villain’s act.

That’s hypocrisy. Either he goes White Knight, or he joins my side. Doesn’t matter how many sidekicks I have to beat with a crowbar. He will either kill me and take my place, or he will get on his side of the line.



The Possible Origins for Him Archive.