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Description
BATMAN: SOUTHERN KNIGHT
PART ONE:
“TRAGIC ANNIVERSARY”
Based on the DC Comics Characters created by Bob Kane

Gotham Hill was one of those quiet little small towns that turned into a “big small town” once it caught the eye of optimistic developers.  Now it was one of the fine jewels in the crown of the Southeastern United States, a center for industry, entertainment and, of course, tourism.  In fact, many in the town government had considered renaming it Gotham City, but then decided against it, as it might risk a stain on the attraction of its “rural charm”.
Unfortunately, something had already stained it.  Like any area growing in business and population, it also attracted crime.  Little by little, Gotham Hill was making its way up the “Most Dangerous Cities in America” list.  And that wasn’t just from the rampant street crime.  Various industries were often fronts for organized crime operations, and politicians were making shady deals by the day, some that ended up costing a person their life.  So much for rural charm.
But while crime had only experienced a phenomenal growth in recent years, a second iniquity had corrupted the population for over two centuries: Hate.  Like many Southern cities, the racial bigotry of the Jim Crow era, and before that slavery, had far from been eliminated in the hearts of many.  Despite repeated warnings from the Federal Government, illegal segregation still existed in many restaurants and hotels.  In other words, if someone the owners didn’t deem worthy of patronage entered their establishment, they couldn’t have them arrested (Commissioner James Gordon, a truly just and noble preserver of the peace, would end up having the place closed down), but they would still find other means of having them permanently removed.
The Day n’ Night Diner, a little 24 Hour Café just within the limits of town, was one of these “your skin better be light” establishments.  The owners, Rodney and Sally Dunlip, were hardly a threat to any “trespassers”, but their four corn-fed sons were another story.  And sadly, Lucius Fox, an African-American newcomer to the town, found that out the hard way.  Only moments after he had entered and seated himself at one of the center tables, he was being escorted to the backend of the diner by Henry, Nick, Mel, and Dwayne Dunlip.
“Now we can do this the easy way, buddy,” said Henry.
“Or we can do it OUR way,” chuckled Nick.
“Turn around and get your sorry black ass out of here, and forget you ever heard of this place,” said Mel.
“What exactly did I do wrong, gentlemen… and I use that term very loosely,” said Fox, who showed about as much fear as his intimidators showed intelligence.  “I just came into town, and wanted something to eat.  I assumed from the neon sign out front that the diner was open all night.”
“Oh, he wants somethin’ to eat,” hissed Dwayne.  “Well, let’s go see what we got in the dumpster!”  And with one swift, sudden punch to Fox’s gut by Mel Dunlip, the poor fellow found himself being dragged to a metal buffet full of rotten eggs and half-eaten ham.  But before the four brutes allowed him to indulge, Nick and Dwayne were suddenly grabbed and cast into the darkness.  When Henry and Mel turned to see what had become of their siblings, they almost urinated in their sagging blue jeans.
Another visitor to the diner stood like an intangible phantom before them.  His face was hidden under a black mask with empty eyes and horn-like ears extending from the top.  Occasionally, the wind blew back a flowing cape to reveal the symbol of a gothic bat on dark grey chest armor.  Henry went for the first weapon he could find; a rusty piece of pipe with a sharp, broken end.  He got in one unsuccessful swing before a gloved hand shot out of the cape and grabbed the object.  The next thing Henry knew, he was flying nose first into the dumpster.  Mel, being both the strongest and least-educated of the bunch, tried to match the mysterious figure with fists, only to be upper-cut and slammed into a concrete wall.
To Lucius Fox, the sudden strike of his shadowy savior seemed like a lightning-quick dream.  But there the masked man was, standing over the unconscious bodies of the ignorant thugs that were about to make human garbage out of him.
“Um… thanks,” said Fox with a slight smile.  “I guess things get taken care of a bit differently in this town.”
“They have to,” said an emotionless voice from hidden lips.  “Welcome to Gotham Hill.”  About that time, the obese, apron-baring couple of Rodney and Sally stepped out to see if business was taken care.  They obviously weren’t too happy with what they saw.  But before they could mumble out any swears, they froze stiff at the sight of the approaching caped specter, who stopped only inches away from Rodney’s beet-red face.
“If this happens again, it’ll be your diner that goes into the trash.”  And with that, the creature seemed to fly off into the night, exiting just as quickly as he had entered.  Sally then looked over at Lucius and gave him a nervous grin.
“You want to hear about our special?” she asked.
“No thanks,” said Fox as he walked away.  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

The aging gentleman entering City Hall looked more like an Old Western town sheriff than a police commissioner; boots, brown slacks, red flannel shirt, and a top notch white cowboy hat.  Then again, Jim Gordon was a bit old fashioned himself when it came to justice.  And by that, it meant he couldn’t be bought.  No shady deals or random threats kept him from doing what was right.  He obeyed the law just as much as he enforced it.  And that’s why he despised the man he was marching into the recently renovated government building to meet.
“I’m sorry, Commissioner,” said a scrawny-looking, sky blue suit-clad annoyance who stood by the mayor’s office door.  “Mr. Cobblepot’s in a meeting right now.”
“Well, Mr. Byrd, he can take a rain check,” scoffed the Commissioner to the mayor’s sarcastic personal assistant.  “This is important police business!”  About that time, the office door slowly opened and out stepped a lovely blonde in a red and black business suit.  She ignored Mr. Byrd’s goofy grin, but gave Gordon a flirtatious wave.  Behind her stepped the glorified “King” of Gotham Hill himself, dressed to impress in a black and white tuxedo.  Oswald Cobblepot’s physical appearance didn’t quite live up to the handsomeness of his attire; short, fat, balding, and with a long nose that may as well have been a beak.  He extended his white-gloved hand out to shake the Commissioner’s, and out of good manners, Gordon shook it.
“Well, well, Jimmy Gordon,” he said in his ever-smooth Kentucky accent.  “What a most unexpected surprise.”  He then turned to the lovely blonde, whose eyes had not left Gordon since she had stepped out of the office.  “Jimmy, I don’t believe you’ve met Ms. Quinzel.  She’s overseein’ our much anticipated charity circus spectacular tonight, makin’ sure everything goes accordin’ to plan.  After all, we don’t want to disappoint all those poor lil’ boys and girls at the Wayne Memorial Hospital, do we?”
The Commissioner turned to see that Ms. Quinzel had placed out her own hand for him to kiss it.  Gordon quickly got the message and gave it a small peck.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Quinzel,” he said.
“You can call me, Harleen, sweetie,” said Ms. Quinzel as Gordon released her hand.  By her accent, Gordon was quick to notice that she was not a resident of Gotham Hill, or anywhere else below the Bible Belt for that matter.
“If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from… Harleen?” he asked.
“I help run a traveling circus, Commissioner,” she laughed.  “I’m really not from any place.”
“I understand,”
“Well, Ms. Quinzel,” smiled Cobblepot.  “I think you best run along and make sure everything’s tight ship down at the fairgrounds.  I’m sure Jimmy here’s got another mouthful for me this fine morning.  We’ll see ya later now, hear?”
“Thanks for your time, Mayor,” said Harleen, who think gave Gordon a wink.  “Nice meeting you again… Jimmy.”  The Commissioner tipped his hat to her before he followed Cobblepot into the office.
“With all due respect to Bruce Wayne and the hospital charity, I think we have more important matters regarding this city than a circus,” said Gordon once the door was shut.
“Jimmy,” sighed Cobblepot as he sat at his desk and lit another of his overpriced cigars.  “Don’t tell me you almost interrupted my meeting with that fine slice of peach pie to ramble on about this supposed illegal segregation issue again.  I done told you I ain’t a miracle man.  I can’t change the minds and souls of all those yokels out there who still can’t get over the fact that we lost the damn war.  I could spit out laws and penalties all day, but it ain’t gonna…”
“I’m not here about that,” said Gordon, who had no qualms about interrupting the excessive ramblings of a fast-talking politician like Cobblepot.
“Oh lord,” grumbled the Mayor.  “Please don’t bring up that hogwash about the Bat-Man again.  If I hear one more idle rumor about some spooky, caped Robin Hood rip-off threatening to shut down hotels and greasy spoon diners, I’m gonna…”
“I’m not here about that either,” said the Commissioner.
“Well, then what in the name of Robert E. Lee are you here for, Jimmy?”
“I’m here to see why nothing has been done from this office about this new gang of vultures that call themselves the Night Hawks!  They’ve gone from robbing local banks and intimidating shop owners to plaguing the lives of wealthy socialites and corporate officials.  And the police department hasn’t gotten one damn clue as to the identity of this crime boss who calls himself ‘The Penguin’.”
“Well then I guess ya’ll down at that dusty old police headquarters building ain’t doin’ your job then, are ya?”
“You and I both know that this is bigger than what my department is used to handling!  We need the FBI down here.  These Night Hawks are born killers!”
“Would you kindly lower your volume, Jimmy?” said Cobblepot calmly.  “There’s school children right outside takin’ a tour of this place.  You probably just caused lil’ Suzie Bowden to wet her pants.”  Gordon then got right in Oswald’s face and gritted his teeth in frustration.
“Well, it’s obvious I care a hell of a lot more about those kids and every other innocent in this town than you do.” he whispered.  “If you aren’t going to do something about this, then I’m certainly not going to sit back and watch Gotham Hill burn to the ground.”  Gordon then turned and stormed out of the office, making sure to slam the door behind him on his way out.
“Oh Jimmy,” chuckled Cobblepot.  “Whoever said Gotham was going to go out in a blaze?”

The cruel question continuously resurfaced in Bruce Wayne’s ear, plaguing his mind in a time when he had hoped for serenity, tranquility.  Why?  Why, on today of all days did he agree to have a charity circus held?  Was it the convincing sweet talk of Ms. Quinzel over the phone?  Was it the convenience of a Saturday evening?  Or was it just a bizarre way to honor his late parents?  Even though all he now faced were two marble memorial statues towering over the graves of Thomas and Martha Wayne, he craved their guidance, their wisdom.  And just as he did each year about this time, on this tragic anniversary, he craved their presence again.
The circus was where it all happened… so suddenly, so violently.  The circus was where he was unknowingly handed the darkest of destinies.  In many ways, the circus was where Bruce Wayne became Batman.
He was so young at the time, so full of life and so empty of cares.  Nothing scared him, tormented him, or even worried him.  He had a loving father and mother… he had his own guardians against any inner-demons that might have sought to haunt him.  Even by simply placing his small right hand in his mother’s palm as he held a red, clown-faced balloon in the other one, he felt secure and warm.
As the three of them stepped off the fairgrounds and made their way to Thomas Wayne’s limousine, the handsome father told his son a silly joke about the performing gorillas they had just witnessed in the rainbow-colored big top behind them.  Bruce laughed, a hearty chuckle for one his age.  God, was that the last time he had laughed like that… a real laugh?
“Mr. Wayne!”  The good cheer was interrupted by the muffled bellow of the masked man behind them.  “Mr. Thomas Wayne!”  Thomas, Martha, and Bruce turned to see the man who was now hell-bent on ruining their perfect evening.  He was a large fellow, clad in a black trench coat and matching fedora.  The mask he wore was a blue bandana, reminiscent of the classic outlaw Bruce had seen on a popular kiddy-western just that morning.  But the pistol in the man’s hand was no studio prop.  And it was aimed that Thomas’ chest.
“I don’t know who you are,” said Thomas as calmly as possible.  “But can’t we handle this without involving my family?”
“My employer has tried to deal with you privately on several occasions.  And each time, you refused to play ball.  It’s a damn shame you’re pretty wife and little boy are going to have to watch you die… all because of a few stinkin’ negroes!”  Thomas then bravely smiled and nodded.
“I know what this is all about now,” he said.  “Can’t you people take a hint?  I’m not going to pay for your sins!”
“Then pay for your own,” sneered the gunman as his pistol went off.  Bruce flinched at the combined sound of the shot and his mother’s scream.  As he opened his eyes again, he saw the puddle of blood that now stained his father’s white dress shirt as he collapsed to the pavement.  Then, Bruce heard that viper hiss again.
“Shut up, lady!”  Bruce had never heard anyone speak so disrespectfully to his sainted mother.  What was a woman supposed to do at the sight of the man she loved lying dead in front of herself and her son?  “I said, shut up, lady!”
The “outlaw” didn’t ask again.  A second shot was fired, and soon Martha was at her husband’s side, her soul departing from her body to join his in a place where Bruce could not follow.  The gunman shook his head at the boy, as if to heartlessly say, “your mommy should have listened” before running into the nearby woods.  Bruce was now alone.  Even with those who heard the gun shots from the fairgrounds now crowding up behind him to see what had occurred, he was still alone.  The fear and torment that he had been shielded from for so long now attacked him like a wild beast.  The inner-demons began to slip though the window of his psyche.  The curse that was his destiny had been born.

“I live with few regrets, Bruce,” said another voice, one not pounding in his mind, but belonging to the rose-carrying gentleman behind him.  “But one of them is not making more of an effort to visit my old friends after they moved back to Gotham Hill.”  It had indeed been quite a number of years since Bruce had heard that voice, but he recognized it in a heartbeat.
“You forget those Summers in Maine, Lucius,” said Bruce, a slight hint of Southern charm in his own accent.  He turned and shook his old friend and “adopted uncle’s” hand.  “I used to look forward to those trips every year.  I know my father and mother did too.”
“I certainly did,” said Lucius as he knelt down and placed the rose in between Thomas and Martha’s memorial.  He stopped and looked at the engravings for a moment, a single tear dropping from his right eye.  “But I would have loved to have been there to watch Thomas evolve into the great philanthropist and activist that he became.  I actually heard some call him ‘The Martin Luther King of Gotham Hill’.  Hell of a compliment.”
“Sometimes it wasn’t a compliment,” said Bruce.  Lucius rose and smiled at him.
“I know,” he whispered.  “But I am so proud of you for continuing his work… and it’s an honor that you’ve asked me to head up the new WayneTech division.”
“I couldn’t think of a better man for the job, Lucius.  My father always said you were the most brilliant man he’s ever met.  I have always inclined to agree.”
They were then interrupted by the approach of another fellow that Lucius considered an old friend.  The same elderly fellow that had driven Bruce to the cemetery that afternoon.
“Alfred,” chuckled Lucius.  “You still letting Bruce boss you around?”  Alfred, British servant to Bruce Wayne, and Thomas and Martha Wayne before him, bowed to Lucius and shook his hand.
“When I find it permissible, Sir,” said Alfred with his ever dry wit.  “Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Fox.”  He then turned to Bruce.  “A Mrs. Quinzel is on the phone for you, Sir.”
“Ah yes,” sighed Bruce.  “Tell me, Lucius, do you like the circus?”
“Not particularly,” answered Fox.
“You want to join me and Selina tonight?”  Lucius thought to himself a second, then shrugged.
“Hell, why not… if anything to see what this Selina looks like.”  Bruce cracked a small smile as he waved farewell to Lucius and walked with Alfred back to the sleek, classic town car parked on the lawn adjoining the cemetery.

Quinzel paced back and forth on her cell phone outside her dressing trailer at the Gotham Fairgrounds, seeming just as anxious to get off the phone with Bruce Wayne as he was with her.
“Don’t mention it, Bruce sweetie,” she said with a heap of false enthusiasm.  “Glad to help the kiddies out.  And you couldn’t pick a better circus to put on your show.  Well, gotta go.  We don’t have too much time to kill around here.  Toodles, Bruce sweetie.”
As Harleen entered the trailer, she heard her companion at the vanity table whistle merrily away as he worked frantically on… something.  His back was to her, so she obviously couldn’t see much of his little project.  His whistling ceased when he heard her shut the trailer door.
“Why aren’t you in costume yet, poodle-face?” he growled.  “It’s almost SHOW TIME!”
“Sorry, honey-woo-woo,” said Quinzel in a voice so syrupy-sweet, it was revolting.  “I gotta handle the business end of this little operation too, ya know.”
“You played Wayne like a fiddle to set this fiasco up!  Don’t see why you have to kiss his caboose any further.”
“What can I say, baby?”  Harleen was already in her skin-tight, red and black clown suit, complete with jester’s hood, and was now applying her make-up.  “I love being a flirt.”
“You about ready now, Harley-bear?”  said the man at the table as he appeared to calm down a bit.
“Just about,”
“Good!”  The man then turned to reveal the bone-white face of a human devil; blood-red lips surrounding a grotesque teeth-filled grin, black-laced eyes that served as windows to a hopeless soul, and dark green hair that seemed to want to reach out and strangle someone!  In his right hand he lifted up something that even made his demented accomplice cringe; a freshly deceased rabbit with a hideous clown mask sewn into his face!
“THEN LET’S GO MAKE SOME MAGIC!” he howled, his exclamation followed by an echoing round of blood-chilling laughter.  Outside the trailer, what seemed like an army of ex-cons and escaped asylum inmates dressed as clowns and acrobats were summoned from their own mobile dwellings by said laughter, and slowly made their way to the big top, which would soon be filled with an unsuspecting sold out crowd.

To Be Continued…

Description
BATMAN: SOUTHERN KNIGHT
PART ONE:
“TRAGIC ANNIVERSARY”
Based on the DC Comics Characters created by Bob Kane

Gotham Hill was one of those quiet little small towns that turned into a “big small town” once it caught the eye of optimistic developers.  Now it was one of the fine jewels in the crown of the Southeastern United States, a center for industry, entertainment and, of course, tourism.  In fact, many in the town government had considered renaming it Gotham City, but then decided against it, as it might risk a stain on the attraction of its “rural charm”.
Unfortunately, something had already stained it.  Like any area growing in business and population, it also attracted crime.  Little by little, Gotham Hill was making its way up the “Most Dangerous Cities in America” list.  And that wasn’t just from the rampant street crime.  Various industries were often fronts for organized crime operations, and politicians were making shady deals by the day, some that ended up costing a person their life.  So much for rural charm.
But while crime had only experienced a phenomenal growth in recent years, a second iniquity had corrupted the population for over two centuries: Hate.  Like many Southern cities, the racial bigotry of the Jim Crow era, and before that slavery, had far from been eliminated in the hearts of many.  Despite repeated warnings from the Federal Government, illegal segregation still existed in many restaurants and hotels.  In other words, if someone the owners didn’t deem worthy of patronage entered their establishment, they couldn’t have them arrested (Commissioner James Gordon, a truly just and noble preserver of the peace, would end up having the place closed down), but they would still find other means of having them permanently removed.
The Day n’ Night Diner, a little 24 Hour Café just within the limits of town, was one of these “your skin better be light” establishments.  The owners, Rodney and Sally Dunlip, were hardly a threat to any “trespassers”, but their four corn-fed sons were another story.  And sadly, Lucius Fox, an African-American newcomer to the town, found that out the hard way.  Only moments after he had entered and seated himself at one of the center tables, he was being escorted to the backend of the diner by Henry, Nick, Mel, and Dwayne Dunlip.
“Now we can do this the easy way, buddy,” said Henry.
“Or we can do it OUR way,” chuckled Nick.
“Turn around and get your sorry black ass out of here, and forget you ever heard of this place,” said Mel.
“What exactly did I do wrong, gentlemen… and I use that term very loosely,” said Fox, who showed about as much fear as his intimidators showed intelligence.  “I just came into town, and wanted something to eat.  I assumed from the neon sign out front that the diner was open all night.”
“Oh, he wants somethin’ to eat,” hissed Dwayne.  “Well, let’s go see what we got in the dumpster!”  And with one swift, sudden punch to Fox’s gut by Mel Dunlip, the poor fellow found himself being dragged to a metal buffet full of rotten eggs and half-eaten ham.  But before the four brutes allowed him to indulge, Nick and Dwayne were suddenly grabbed and cast into the darkness.  When Henry and Mel turned to see what had become of their siblings, they almost urinated in their sagging blue jeans.
Another visitor to the diner stood like an intangible phantom before them.  His face was hidden under a black mask with empty eyes and horn-like ears extending from the top.  Occasionally, the wind blew back a flowing cape to reveal the symbol of a gothic bat on dark grey chest armor.  Henry went for the first weapon he could find; a rusty piece of pipe with a sharp, broken end.  He got in one unsuccessful swing before a gloved hand shot out of the cape and grabbed the object.  The next thing Henry knew, he was flying nose first into the dumpster.  Mel, being both the strongest and least-educated of the bunch, tried to match the mysterious figure with fists, only to be upper-cut and slammed into a concrete wall.
To Lucius Fox, the sudden strike of his shadowy savior seemed like a lightning-quick dream.  But there the masked man was, standing over the unconscious bodies of the ignorant thugs that were about to make human garbage out of him.
“Um… thanks,” said Fox with a slight smile.  “I guess things get taken care of a bit differently in this town.”
“They have to,” said an emotionless voice from hidden lips.  “Welcome to Gotham Hill.”  About that time, the obese, apron-baring couple of Rodney and Sally stepped out to see if business was taken care.  They obviously weren’t too happy with what they saw.  But before they could mumble out any swears, they froze stiff at the sight of the approaching caped specter, who stopped only inches away from Rodney’s beet-red face.
“If this happens again, it’ll be your diner that goes into the trash.”  And with that, the creature seemed to fly off into the night, exiting just as quickly as he had entered.  Sally then looked over at Lucius and gave him a nervous grin.
“You want to hear about our special?” she asked.
“No thanks,” said Fox as he walked away.  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

The aging gentleman entering City Hall looked more like an Old Western town sheriff than a police commissioner; boots, brown slacks, red flannel shirt, and a top notch white cowboy hat.  Then again, Jim Gordon was a bit old fashioned himself when it came to justice.  And by that, it meant he couldn’t be bought.  No shady deals or random threats kept him from doing what was right.  He obeyed the law just as much as he enforced it.  And that’s why he despised the man he was marching into the recently renovated government building to meet.
“I’m sorry, Commissioner,” said a scrawny-looking, sky blue suit-clad annoyance who stood by the mayor’s office door.  “Mr. Cobblepot’s in a meeting right now.”
“Well, Mr. Byrd, he can take a rain check,” scoffed the Commissioner to the mayor’s sarcastic personal assistant.  “This is important police business!”  About that time, the office door slowly opened and out stepped a lovely blonde in a red and black business suit.  She ignored Mr. Byrd’s goofy grin, but gave Gordon a flirtatious wave.  Behind her stepped the glorified “King” of Gotham Hill himself, dressed to impress in a black and white tuxedo.  Oswald Cobblepot’s physical appearance didn’t quite live up to the handsomeness of his attire; short, fat, balding, and with a long nose that may as well have been a beak.  He extended his white-gloved hand out to shake the Commissioner’s, and out of good manners, Gordon shook it.
“Well, well, Jimmy Gordon,” he said in his ever-smooth Kentucky accent.  “What a most unexpected surprise.”  He then turned to the lovely blonde, whose eyes had not left Gordon since she had stepped out of the office.  “Jimmy, I don’t believe you’ve met Ms. Quinzel.  She’s overseein’ our much anticipated charity circus spectacular tonight, makin’ sure everything goes accordin’ to plan.  After all, we don’t want to disappoint all those poor lil’ boys and girls at the Wayne Memorial Hospital, do we?”
The Commissioner turned to see that Ms. Quinzel had placed out her own hand for him to kiss it.  Gordon quickly got the message and gave it a small peck.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Quinzel,” he said.
“You can call me, Harleen, sweetie,” said Ms. Quinzel as Gordon released her hand.  By her accent, Gordon was quick to notice that she was not a resident of Gotham Hill, or anywhere else below the Bible Belt for that matter.
“If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from… Harleen?” he asked.
“I help run a traveling circus, Commissioner,” she laughed.  “I’m really not from any place.”
“I understand,”
“Well, Ms. Quinzel,” smiled Cobblepot.  “I think you best run along and make sure everything’s tight ship down at the fairgrounds.  I’m sure Jimmy here’s got another mouthful for me this fine morning.  We’ll see ya later now, hear?”
“Thanks for your time, Mayor,” said Harleen, who think gave Gordon a wink.  “Nice meeting you again… Jimmy.”  The Commissioner tipped his hat to her before he followed Cobblepot into the office.
“With all due respect to Bruce Wayne and the hospital charity, I think we have more important matters regarding this city than a circus,” said Gordon once the door was shut.
“Jimmy,” sighed Cobblepot as he sat at his desk and lit another of his overpriced cigars.  “Don’t tell me you almost interrupted my meeting with that fine slice of peach pie to ramble on about this supposed illegal segregation issue again.  I done told you I ain’t a miracle man.  I can’t change the minds and souls of all those yokels out there who still can’t get over the fact that we lost the damn war.  I could spit out laws and penalties all day, but it ain’t gonna…”
“I’m not here about that,” said Gordon, who had no qualms about interrupting the excessive ramblings of a fast-talking politician like Cobblepot.
“Oh lord,” grumbled the Mayor.  “Please don’t bring up that hogwash about the Bat-Man again.  If I hear one more idle rumor about some spooky, caped Robin Hood rip-off threatening to shut down hotels and greasy spoon diners, I’m gonna…”
“I’m not here about that either,” said the Commissioner.
“Well, then what in the name of Robert E. Lee are you here for, Jimmy?”
“I’m here to see why nothing has been done from this office about this new gang of vultures that call themselves the Night Hawks!  They’ve gone from robbing local banks and intimidating shop owners to plaguing the lives of wealthy socialites and corporate officials.  And the police department hasn’t gotten one damn clue as to the identity of this crime boss who calls himself ‘The Penguin’.”
“Well then I guess ya’ll down at that dusty old police headquarters building ain’t doin’ your job then, are ya?”
“You and I both know that this is bigger than what my department is used to handling!  We need the FBI down here.  These Night Hawks are born killers!”
“Would you kindly lower your volume, Jimmy?” said Cobblepot calmly.  “There’s school children right outside takin’ a tour of this place.  You probably just caused lil’ Suzie Bowden to wet her pants.”  Gordon then got right in Oswald’s face and gritted his teeth in frustration.
“Well, it’s obvious I care a hell of a lot more about those kids and every other innocent in this town than you do.” he whispered.  “If you aren’t going to do something about this, then I’m certainly not going to sit back and watch Gotham Hill burn to the ground.”  Gordon then turned and stormed out of the office, making sure to slam the door behind him on his way out.
“Oh Jimmy,” chuckled Cobblepot.  “Whoever said Gotham was going to go out in a blaze?”

The cruel question continuously resurfaced in Bruce Wayne’s ear, plaguing his mind in a time when he had hoped for serenity, tranquility.  Why?  Why, on today of all days did he agree to have a charity circus held?  Was it the convincing sweet talk of Ms. Quinzel over the phone?  Was it the convenience of a Saturday evening?  Or was it just a bizarre way to honor his late parents?  Even though all he now faced were two marble memorial statues towering over the graves of Thomas and Martha Wayne, he craved their guidance, their wisdom.  And just as he did each year about this time, on this tragic anniversary, he craved their presence again.
The circus was where it all happened… so suddenly, so violently.  The circus was where he was unknowingly handed the darkest of destinies.  In many ways, the circus was where Bruce Wayne became Batman.
He was so young at the time, so full of life and so empty of cares.  Nothing scared him, tormented him, or even worried him.  He had a loving father and mother… he had his own guardians against any inner-demons that might have sought to haunt him.  Even by simply placing his small right hand in his mother’s palm as he held a red, clown-faced balloon in the other one, he felt secure and warm.
As the three of them stepped off the fairgrounds and made their way to Thomas Wayne’s limousine, the handsome father told his son a silly joke about the performing gorillas they had just witnessed in the rainbow-colored big top behind them.  Bruce laughed, a hearty chuckle for one his age.  God, was that the last time he had laughed like that… a real laugh?
“Mr. Wayne!”  The good cheer was interrupted by the muffled bellow of the masked man behind them.  “Mr. Thomas Wayne!”  Thomas, Martha, and Bruce turned to see the man who was now hell-bent on ruining their perfect evening.  He was a large fellow, clad in a black trench coat and matching fedora.  The mask he wore was a blue bandana, reminiscent of the classic outlaw Bruce had seen on a popular kiddy-western just that morning.  But the pistol in the man’s hand was no studio prop.  And it was aimed that Thomas’ chest.
“I don’t know who you are,” said Thomas as calmly as possible.  “But can’t we handle this without involving my family?”
“My employer has tried to deal with you privately on several occasions.  And each time, you refused to play ball.  It’s a damn shame you’re pretty wife and little boy are going to have to watch you die… all because of a few stinkin’ negroes!”  Thomas then bravely smiled and nodded.
“I know what this is all about now,” he said.  “Can’t you people take a hint?  I’m not going to pay for your sins!”
“Then pay for your own,” sneered the gunman as his pistol went off.  Bruce flinched at the combined sound of the shot and his mother’s scream.  As he opened his eyes again, he saw the puddle of blood that now stained his father’s white dress shirt as he collapsed to the pavement.  Then, Bruce heard that viper hiss again.
“Shut up, lady!”  Bruce had never heard anyone speak so disrespectfully to his sainted mother.  What was a woman supposed to do at the sight of the man she loved lying dead in front of herself and her son?  “I said, shut up, lady!”
The “outlaw” didn’t ask again.  A second shot was fired, and soon Martha was at her husband’s side, her soul departing from her body to join his in a place where Bruce could not follow.  The gunman shook his head at the boy, as if to heartlessly say, “your mommy should have listened” before running into the nearby woods.  Bruce was now alone.  Even with those who heard the gun shots from the fairgrounds now crowding up behind him to see what had occurred, he was still alone.  The fear and torment that he had been shielded from for so long now attacked him like a wild beast.  The inner-demons began to slip though the window of his psyche.  The curse that was his destiny had been born.

“I live with few regrets, Bruce,” said another voice, one not pounding in his mind, but belonging to the rose-carrying gentleman behind him.  “But one of them is not making more of an effort to visit my old friends after they moved back to Gotham Hill.”  It had indeed been quite a number of years since Bruce had heard that voice, but he recognized it in a heartbeat.
“You forget those Summers in Maine, Lucius,” said Bruce, a slight hint of Southern charm in his own accent.  He turned and shook his old friend and “adopted uncle’s” hand.  “I used to look forward to those trips every year.  I know my father and mother did too.”
“I certainly did,” said Lucius as he knelt down and placed the rose in between Thomas and Martha’s memorial.  He stopped and looked at the engravings for a moment, a single tear dropping from his right eye.  “But I would have loved to have been there to watch Thomas evolve into the great philanthropist and activist that he became.  I actually heard some call him ‘The Martin Luther King of Gotham Hill’.  Hell of a compliment.”
“Sometimes it wasn’t a compliment,” said Bruce.  Lucius rose and smiled at him.
“I know,” he whispered.  “But I am so proud of you for continuing his work… and it’s an honor that you’ve asked me to head up the new WayneTech division.”
“I couldn’t think of a better man for the job, Lucius.  My father always said you were the most brilliant man he’s ever met.  I have always inclined to agree.”
They were then interrupted by the approach of another fellow that Lucius considered an old friend.  The same elderly fellow that had driven Bruce to the cemetery that afternoon.
“Alfred,” chuckled Lucius.  “You still letting Bruce boss you around?”  Alfred, British servant to Bruce Wayne, and Thomas and Martha Wayne before him, bowed to Lucius and shook his hand.
“When I find it permissible, Sir,” said Alfred with his ever dry wit.  “Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Fox.”  He then turned to Bruce.  “A Mrs. Quinzel is on the phone for you, Sir.”
“Ah yes,” sighed Bruce.  “Tell me, Lucius, do you like the circus?”
“Not particularly,” answered Fox.
“You want to join me and Selina tonight?”  Lucius thought to himself a second, then shrugged.
“Hell, why not… if anything to see what this Selina looks like.”  Bruce cracked a small smile as he waved farewell to Lucius and walked with Alfred back to the sleek, classic town car parked on the lawn adjoining the cemetery.

Quinzel paced back and forth on her cell phone outside her dressing trailer at the Gotham Fairgrounds, seeming just as anxious to get off the phone with Bruce Wayne as he was with her.
“Don’t mention it, Bruce sweetie,” she said with a heap of false enthusiasm.  “Glad to help the kiddies out.  And you couldn’t pick a better circus to put on your show.  Well, gotta go.  We don’t have too much time to kill around here.  Toodles, Bruce sweetie.”
As Harleen entered the trailer, she heard her companion at the vanity table whistle merrily away as he worked frantically on… something.  His back was to her, so she obviously couldn’t see much of his little project.  His whistling ceased when he heard her shut the trailer door.
“Why aren’t you in costume yet, poodle-face?” he growled.  “It’s almost SHOW TIME!”
“Sorry, honey-woo-woo,” said Quinzel in a voice so syrupy-sweet, it was revolting.  “I gotta handle the business end of this little operation too, ya know.”
“You played Wayne like a fiddle to set this fiasco up!  Don’t see why you have to kiss his caboose any further.”
“What can I say, baby?”  Harleen was already in her skin-tight, red and black clown suit, complete with jester’s hood, and was now applying her make-up.  “I love being a flirt.”
“You about ready now, Harley-bear?”  said the man at the table as he appeared to calm down a bit.
“Just about,”
“Good!”  The man then turned to reveal the bone-white face of a human devil; blood-red lips surrounding a grotesque teeth-filled grin, black-laced eyes that served as windows to a hopeless soul, and dark green hair that seemed to want to reach out and strangle someone!  In his right hand he lifted up something that even made his demented accomplice cringe; a freshly deceased rabbit with a hideous clown mask sewn into his face!
“THEN LET’S GO MAKE SOME MAGIC!” he howled, his exclamation followed by an echoing round of blood-chilling laughter.  Outside the trailer, what seemed like an army of ex-cons and escaped asylum inmates dressed as clowns and acrobats were summoned from their own mobile dwellings by said laughter, and slowly made their way to the big top, which would soon be filled with an unsuspecting sold out crowd.

To Be Continued…