CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3:

GETTING DOWN TO BAT-BUSINESS

Batman cleared his throat and began:With great fervor, Batman whisked his egg brutally into the strands of his beard, all the while moaning: "My how my old bones do ache."And old his bones were. Older than the great swaths of mossy stone pockmarking the pithy seafloor leagues below the mighty Rag OilBay... The very bay in which his children could be found screaming and shackled near the rough water's surface on any given Easter Day.As a young man, Batman would often clutch fruitlessly at the hood of the decommissioned police car driven by his father, as it tore ass across the cornfields and the plazas of brutalist shopping centres, piloted with great fervor by the drunken hangman which Batman called "daddy". Each time without fail, his grip would slip dutifully, and Batman would go screaming off the hood with glee, tossed beneath the wheels of that great roaring machine. His tiny bones cracking and snapping beneath the wheels, Batman always found himself at these times making silent vows to himself... Vows to never subject his own children to such a filthy delight as he experienced those nights long ago being actively run over by the only father he ever knew. For he did not wish for his children to become weak — as weak as the old Batman had become, suffering from such a long history of broken bones suffered 'neath the hoary rubber of his father's ford and it's rotating tire-machines.Nay, his three children would suffer a degree of discomfort unheard of in these modern times. And suffer those children did. Barry, Wrinky Stinkstack, and Dave — aged thirty, two, and thirty-two, respectively. They would be doomed to spend every Easter weekend gasping at the surface of the bay, tethered just below the surface by great chains, lapping up desperate mouthfuls of air only as the fickle tides and the length of their bindings would allow, which was infrequent at best. And to make matters worse, they would spend every other weekend of the year in addition to Easter doing the same. And every weekday too. From his towering spire on the shoreline, Batman would watch and nod silently, mixing his strange drinks in the flickering lamplight which was augmented by the dancing aurora borealis high above."Yes, I've done it," Batman suddenly shouted to Absolutely Nobody, "I've concocted a potion which will turn one's breath into tiny drawings of their nephews, and every breath will allow a vast array of small portraits which to gaze upon later when one gets home!" He could barely contain his glee. Batman loved his little nephews, though husky boys they were. Certainly not toned organic machines capable of great leverage, as their uncle Batman was in absolutely nobody's eyes... not even the eyes of his dutiful assistant, Mr. Absolutely Nobody, who was right there listening to everything that Batman said. But even Mr. Nobody could see that Batman had veered severely north of overweight and was staring down the speeding train of obesity, which ever come screaming down the timetracks on a collision course with Nobody. And Batman. They were both standing on the tracks, because his assistant was getting fat too. Suddenly, Batman died. The potion must have been poison.And though dead, it would be decades until Batman's cracked and ruined bones turn to dust, and longer still until the great spire he called home would disintegrate and turn to ash. And millennia more before the once-mighty Rag-Oil Bay would dry up, turning into Pomona, CA. And it was on this spot in present-day Pomona upon which Batman's Sandwich Hell would be constructed... inside, the tiny hands of children working late into the night, carrying on the Batman's tradition of whisking eggs and suspiciously flavorful hairs into potent quaffable concoctions... (that means "drinks"). Also, they have ice cream.Batman lowered the paper which he was reading from. Previously he had been holding it directly in front of and just an inch away from his face, like some kind of asshole. "And that's my business proposal," he said nervously, scanning the faces of the men on the panel, searching for any reaction. When there was only silence for a moment longer, Batman became impatient and irritated."C'mon, don't be such a bunch of fucking faggots—" Batman was immediately cut off by several gasps from the darkened sides of the set."Ok, we warned you Batman," came the producer's voice, "we don't allow hate speech on Shark Tank. Shut 'er down, we're done here. You blew it.""No... YOU blew it", Batman whispered as he silently pulled the bat-gun from his bat-waistband. He clumsily leveled it, took aim into the shadows, and squeezed the trigger.

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