UnHolyPimpHand
Not LitShark
- Joined
- Jul 12, 2010
- Posts
- 539
“Everything seems to be in order,” Lex Luthor nodded, flipping through pages of a rather dense contract before nodding his bald head at Roulette, his employee, lover and sometimes lawyer who slid a leather bound folder across the conference table, into the eager hands of Roman Sionis, who was joined on his side of the table by Dinah Lance, better known to most as Black Canary, “I swear, if you’d told me a year ago that I’d be investing in anything in Gotham—much less a nightclub, I’d have slapped you for the audacity.”
Roman leaned back in his chair, itching for the compliment part of this aside from the universe’s richest and most dangerous human.
“But you’ve demonstrated enormous potential for this establishment as a laundry and I’ve got lots of dirty money that needs a way to get clean.”
“Well, I’m just glad you decided to see reason!” Roman chimed in, hastily extracting the cashier’s cheque from within the leather-bound folder, “you almost let this opportunity pass you by over a puny five million.”
Luther’s face gave no hint of a reaction.
“Besides! Gotham’s not so bad—sure we’ve got a pest problem with bats, birds and clowns—but at least we’re not infested with journalists like that home city of yours. I mean, what kind of newspaper needs an entire skyscraper to operate out of—the damn thing’s not even in color!”
Lex sighed, it seemed pretty clear to him that Roman was coked up. The very idea that someone would sit in on a business meeting with him while on drugs made him sick to his stomach.
“The Daily Planet is a predictable nuisance, but because it’s predictable it can occasionally be useful. Metropolis might be the perfect city if not for literal goddamn aliens, not bound by the laws of science or physics.”
“Oh right—the Kryptonians! Boo hoo over the big bad aliens!”
“Didn’t you get your ass kicked recently by a hundred-pound clown bimbo with no powers?”
“Look! The crime-fighters and the criminals in this city are all basket cases. I’d take an alien who’s allergic to green rocks over that loony fucking clown troupe any day. Isn’t one of those big-bad Kryptonians a little girl also? Didn’t she kick seven shades of shit out of you?”
“Don’t mistake it for a girl. The only thing those… monsters have in common with us are the shapes we take. Far as I know she’s got teeth down there—”
Roulette chuckled a bit at this behind her gloved hand.
“And even without teeth, she’s got the strength to snap your cock off like a celery stalk using nothing but her Kegel strength.”
Roulette like that one too.
“Gentlemen, please. I believe we were just about to conclude,” Mercy Graves, Lex's driver, assistant and personal valet, tilted her head to seek out Lex’s eyes as she picked his pen back up and pressed it into his hand, “let’s just finish the business we came to do. Both cities are toilets—alright? The worst city in France tops them both, okay? Who cares who has the worst hero problem?”
“Well I’ll tell you this, blondie!” Roman was sweating, his cocaine breakfast was turning on him, “if I had your boss’ wealth and power, I’d be rid of those flying fucks inside of a month!”
“Roman… your blood pressure…” Black Canary was tugging on his sleeve to keep him in his seat.
“You idiot. You’re over here getting your ass handed to you so bad you’re hemorrhaging assets just to stay afloat! And you have the audacity to question my response? I built the greatest unified organization against paranormal threats ever devised—the Legion of Doom—all on my own dime, while also growing my business enough to effectively absorb the bulk of yours—or have you forgotten why we’re here?”
“You son of a bitch!” Roman stood up, kicking his chair back.
“A wager!” Roulette exclaimed, clapping her hands together, “it’s a wager! A wager!”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s that foolish…” Lex hesitated.
“You have no fucking idea how foolish I can be!” Roman, unlike some, did not do his best thinking on his feet.
“It’s perfect, since you’ve both got something that you agree is of equal value. Lex’s money, Roman’s club… instead of a sale, make it a wager—winner takes all. I’ll draw it up!”
Roulette wasn’t exactly a real lawyer, but her law degree was real enough for her to draw and enforce contracts. He hastily scribbled on the back of the original contract that was so nearly already signed.
“Whoever more effectively deals with the heroes in the other’s home city will effectively win the twenty-five million and the Black Mask Club in Gotham. Special emphasis on Batgirl and Supergirl—since both of you seemed so convinced that they were just some ‘little girls.’ But all heroes are in play.”
“I’m going to change the name of that club as soon as the deed’s in my name. If that isn’t the stupidest fucking name for a nightclub. Sounds like some Eyes Wide Shut bullshit.”
“I knew I couldn’t be in business with your bald, fucking ass! I’ll have that little blonde whore sucking my cock inside of a week!”
“I wish you could hear how stupid you sound.”
“In the interest of fair competition, you should each give the other access to your local contacts and assets.”
“Not a problem.” both said in unison.
“Then we’re agreed! It’s a wager. I’ll serve as executor.” Roulette smiled.
“That’s not fair, you’re in Luthor’s pocket. I want Victor to also officiate.”
“I have no objection to that.” Luther chuckled.
“Very well,” Roulette used her bootlegged notary stamp to notarize the hand-written wager, “signatures, gentlemen.”
Both men signed, each convinced that he’d duped the other.
*-*-*
“Yahtzee!” James Gordon exclaimed, raising his hands in the air, still holding the cup he’d used to roll the dice, “I can’t believe it! I might actually beat you for once.”
Family Game Night was a long-standing tradition in the Gordon household. The tradition of Barbara beating James’ pants off at whatever game they played was almost as long standing. Poker, Monopoly, Stratego—it didn’t matter. Barbara just seemed to pick up anything she touched almost immediately and master it even faster.
It was that way with school. It had been the same with gymnastics, and now her college education at GCU was falling under her spell. He sometimes wondered how a habitual loser like him could have made such a winner of a daughter. She must have taken after her mother in that department.
But now, Jim had his chance to win one game in a row after a streak of ten years of lopsided defeats. It was then that he glanced out the window… damnit.
The bat signal.
It was calling him as much as it was calling for Batman. The GCPD couldn’t carry its own water for even one night in a row, they needed their commissioner. He wouldn’t be beating his daughter at dice tonight…
“Barbara, I’m sorry…” Jim went to the window and pulled it open, the smell of smoke was in the air and the wings of the lit beacon seemed almost to flap as amber, glowing smoke passed through the light. “It looks like we’ve got a fire bug. I’m sorry sweetheart, I’ve got to go after that.”
He cradled her cheek in his hand and kissed her cheek while he shrugged into his gun holsters. His fingertips gently passed through her red hair.
“Don’t wait up, honey. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Jim slipped his duster on and slid his hat onto his head, “I really am sorry.”
He was gone again. Was he missing out on his little girl becoming a woman?
*-*-*
When Batman’s fist struck the Joker’s forearm—or what ought to have been a forearm, there came a loud clank and the teeth of a miniature bear trap slapped shut on Batman’s wrist. Joker wailed with laughter as he pulled away, the sleeve of his coat tearing away to reveal the bear trap built into a false arm—it was painted like a “Chain Chomp” from Mario Bros.
“Oopsie Daisy! Looks like your aggression came back to bite you! HA! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” Joker wailed, poking his real arm out to wave at Batman with his sleeve torn away, “if only you weren’t so dreadfully predictable. Maybe you wouldn’t be trapped on the roof of a burning chuckle hut!”
Pogo’s Comedy Club was a fixture in Gotham city for decades—but that ended tonight as flames lapped up the side of the building and orange tongues lolled from windows and doorways. The tar of the roof was melting under Batman’s boots, making his footing uncertain—slipping when he wanted to be stable and sticking as he tried to move.
“You’re not going to get—”
“…away with this, Joker!” Joker stepped on Batman’s line, saying it at the same time and louder, he pantomimed a dramatic yawn, “you’re so boring, Bats! That’s probably why you could never burn the house down!”
The heat was becoming unbearable, the roof was beginning to crack, spewing smoke into the night sky, making it harder to see and to breathe. Batman’s gauntlet probably saved him from having a broken forearm, but the damage to his equipment meant he wouldn’t be grappling out of here. Blood was dripping from his fingertips and hissing when it landed on the roof, boiling itself dry in an instant.
“If you had even a little bit of sense about you, Batman you’d recognize that as hilarious as it is that I burned the house down with a few jokes—it’s only the setup! You being here means that the punchline is going smoothly across town! Haa—HA! Ha ha ha ha!”
“Across town… the Picasso exhibit!” realization came like a bucket of ice water down his spine, the Gotham History Museum was having an exhibition on Picasso’s rose period—the central exhibit being “Acrobat and Young Harlequin,” a painting worth easily $40 million if it were auctioned off, but realistically it was priceless.
“The world’s greatest detective ladies and gentlemen!” Joker gave a sarcastic slow clap, “it’s too late to stop me anyway—hell, it may be too late to even save yourself.”
From inside his coat, Joker produced a propeller hat with telescoping handle-bars. As soon as he set the rainbow patterned cap touched his head the propeller began to spin at incredible speeds, enough speed to create lift and steadily levitate Joker up off of the roof.
“Ta-ta for now, Batsy! I’ve got a hot date with a newly rich art collector—Ha ha! Don’t suppose you know much about that, do you? Dating women? Oh well—you’ll live forever in my heart, beloved nemesis! A token, before dying!”
Joker dropped a handful of what looked like flowers that he produced out of thin air in a flourish, dropping them around Batman as he hovered away laughing. Batman raised his carbon fiber cape defensively, expecting the flowers to explode, fire gas or spray acid when they landed—but they did none of the above. When they struck the roof, however, the weighted roses tore through the roof like wet tissue paper—they were heavy—heavy enough to break the ground out from underneath him.
Batman tried to spring away, but the tar stalled him long enough for him to fall through the roof—tumbling in freefall into the rolling, orange maw of flames.
At the very last second, a tether coiled around his injured forearm, tangling up with the trap and halting his fall effectively, albeit uncomfortably. He let out a cry, unsure who to attribute his timely rescue to until he saw the bat insignia at the end of the tether that saved his life.
Batgirl?
He hoped this wouldn’t mean that both of them would meet their demise on the roof of a comedy club.
Roman leaned back in his chair, itching for the compliment part of this aside from the universe’s richest and most dangerous human.
“But you’ve demonstrated enormous potential for this establishment as a laundry and I’ve got lots of dirty money that needs a way to get clean.”
“Well, I’m just glad you decided to see reason!” Roman chimed in, hastily extracting the cashier’s cheque from within the leather-bound folder, “you almost let this opportunity pass you by over a puny five million.”
Luther’s face gave no hint of a reaction.
“Besides! Gotham’s not so bad—sure we’ve got a pest problem with bats, birds and clowns—but at least we’re not infested with journalists like that home city of yours. I mean, what kind of newspaper needs an entire skyscraper to operate out of—the damn thing’s not even in color!”
Lex sighed, it seemed pretty clear to him that Roman was coked up. The very idea that someone would sit in on a business meeting with him while on drugs made him sick to his stomach.
“The Daily Planet is a predictable nuisance, but because it’s predictable it can occasionally be useful. Metropolis might be the perfect city if not for literal goddamn aliens, not bound by the laws of science or physics.”
“Oh right—the Kryptonians! Boo hoo over the big bad aliens!”
“Didn’t you get your ass kicked recently by a hundred-pound clown bimbo with no powers?”
“Look! The crime-fighters and the criminals in this city are all basket cases. I’d take an alien who’s allergic to green rocks over that loony fucking clown troupe any day. Isn’t one of those big-bad Kryptonians a little girl also? Didn’t she kick seven shades of shit out of you?”
“Don’t mistake it for a girl. The only thing those… monsters have in common with us are the shapes we take. Far as I know she’s got teeth down there—”
Roulette chuckled a bit at this behind her gloved hand.
“And even without teeth, she’s got the strength to snap your cock off like a celery stalk using nothing but her Kegel strength.”
Roulette like that one too.
“Gentlemen, please. I believe we were just about to conclude,” Mercy Graves, Lex's driver, assistant and personal valet, tilted her head to seek out Lex’s eyes as she picked his pen back up and pressed it into his hand, “let’s just finish the business we came to do. Both cities are toilets—alright? The worst city in France tops them both, okay? Who cares who has the worst hero problem?”
“Well I’ll tell you this, blondie!” Roman was sweating, his cocaine breakfast was turning on him, “if I had your boss’ wealth and power, I’d be rid of those flying fucks inside of a month!”
“Roman… your blood pressure…” Black Canary was tugging on his sleeve to keep him in his seat.
“You idiot. You’re over here getting your ass handed to you so bad you’re hemorrhaging assets just to stay afloat! And you have the audacity to question my response? I built the greatest unified organization against paranormal threats ever devised—the Legion of Doom—all on my own dime, while also growing my business enough to effectively absorb the bulk of yours—or have you forgotten why we’re here?”
“You son of a bitch!” Roman stood up, kicking his chair back.
“A wager!” Roulette exclaimed, clapping her hands together, “it’s a wager! A wager!”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s that foolish…” Lex hesitated.
“You have no fucking idea how foolish I can be!” Roman, unlike some, did not do his best thinking on his feet.
“It’s perfect, since you’ve both got something that you agree is of equal value. Lex’s money, Roman’s club… instead of a sale, make it a wager—winner takes all. I’ll draw it up!”
Roulette wasn’t exactly a real lawyer, but her law degree was real enough for her to draw and enforce contracts. He hastily scribbled on the back of the original contract that was so nearly already signed.
“Whoever more effectively deals with the heroes in the other’s home city will effectively win the twenty-five million and the Black Mask Club in Gotham. Special emphasis on Batgirl and Supergirl—since both of you seemed so convinced that they were just some ‘little girls.’ But all heroes are in play.”
“I’m going to change the name of that club as soon as the deed’s in my name. If that isn’t the stupidest fucking name for a nightclub. Sounds like some Eyes Wide Shut bullshit.”
“I knew I couldn’t be in business with your bald, fucking ass! I’ll have that little blonde whore sucking my cock inside of a week!”
“I wish you could hear how stupid you sound.”
“In the interest of fair competition, you should each give the other access to your local contacts and assets.”
“Not a problem.” both said in unison.
“Then we’re agreed! It’s a wager. I’ll serve as executor.” Roulette smiled.
“That’s not fair, you’re in Luthor’s pocket. I want Victor to also officiate.”
“I have no objection to that.” Luther chuckled.
“Very well,” Roulette used her bootlegged notary stamp to notarize the hand-written wager, “signatures, gentlemen.”
Both men signed, each convinced that he’d duped the other.
*-*-*
“Yahtzee!” James Gordon exclaimed, raising his hands in the air, still holding the cup he’d used to roll the dice, “I can’t believe it! I might actually beat you for once.”
Family Game Night was a long-standing tradition in the Gordon household. The tradition of Barbara beating James’ pants off at whatever game they played was almost as long standing. Poker, Monopoly, Stratego—it didn’t matter. Barbara just seemed to pick up anything she touched almost immediately and master it even faster.
It was that way with school. It had been the same with gymnastics, and now her college education at GCU was falling under her spell. He sometimes wondered how a habitual loser like him could have made such a winner of a daughter. She must have taken after her mother in that department.
But now, Jim had his chance to win one game in a row after a streak of ten years of lopsided defeats. It was then that he glanced out the window… damnit.
The bat signal.
It was calling him as much as it was calling for Batman. The GCPD couldn’t carry its own water for even one night in a row, they needed their commissioner. He wouldn’t be beating his daughter at dice tonight…
“Barbara, I’m sorry…” Jim went to the window and pulled it open, the smell of smoke was in the air and the wings of the lit beacon seemed almost to flap as amber, glowing smoke passed through the light. “It looks like we’ve got a fire bug. I’m sorry sweetheart, I’ve got to go after that.”
He cradled her cheek in his hand and kissed her cheek while he shrugged into his gun holsters. His fingertips gently passed through her red hair.
“Don’t wait up, honey. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Jim slipped his duster on and slid his hat onto his head, “I really am sorry.”
He was gone again. Was he missing out on his little girl becoming a woman?
*-*-*
When Batman’s fist struck the Joker’s forearm—or what ought to have been a forearm, there came a loud clank and the teeth of a miniature bear trap slapped shut on Batman’s wrist. Joker wailed with laughter as he pulled away, the sleeve of his coat tearing away to reveal the bear trap built into a false arm—it was painted like a “Chain Chomp” from Mario Bros.
“Oopsie Daisy! Looks like your aggression came back to bite you! HA! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” Joker wailed, poking his real arm out to wave at Batman with his sleeve torn away, “if only you weren’t so dreadfully predictable. Maybe you wouldn’t be trapped on the roof of a burning chuckle hut!”
Pogo’s Comedy Club was a fixture in Gotham city for decades—but that ended tonight as flames lapped up the side of the building and orange tongues lolled from windows and doorways. The tar of the roof was melting under Batman’s boots, making his footing uncertain—slipping when he wanted to be stable and sticking as he tried to move.
“You’re not going to get—”
“…away with this, Joker!” Joker stepped on Batman’s line, saying it at the same time and louder, he pantomimed a dramatic yawn, “you’re so boring, Bats! That’s probably why you could never burn the house down!”
The heat was becoming unbearable, the roof was beginning to crack, spewing smoke into the night sky, making it harder to see and to breathe. Batman’s gauntlet probably saved him from having a broken forearm, but the damage to his equipment meant he wouldn’t be grappling out of here. Blood was dripping from his fingertips and hissing when it landed on the roof, boiling itself dry in an instant.
“If you had even a little bit of sense about you, Batman you’d recognize that as hilarious as it is that I burned the house down with a few jokes—it’s only the setup! You being here means that the punchline is going smoothly across town! Haa—HA! Ha ha ha ha!”
“Across town… the Picasso exhibit!” realization came like a bucket of ice water down his spine, the Gotham History Museum was having an exhibition on Picasso’s rose period—the central exhibit being “Acrobat and Young Harlequin,” a painting worth easily $40 million if it were auctioned off, but realistically it was priceless.
“The world’s greatest detective ladies and gentlemen!” Joker gave a sarcastic slow clap, “it’s too late to stop me anyway—hell, it may be too late to even save yourself.”
From inside his coat, Joker produced a propeller hat with telescoping handle-bars. As soon as he set the rainbow patterned cap touched his head the propeller began to spin at incredible speeds, enough speed to create lift and steadily levitate Joker up off of the roof.
“Ta-ta for now, Batsy! I’ve got a hot date with a newly rich art collector—Ha ha! Don’t suppose you know much about that, do you? Dating women? Oh well—you’ll live forever in my heart, beloved nemesis! A token, before dying!”
Joker dropped a handful of what looked like flowers that he produced out of thin air in a flourish, dropping them around Batman as he hovered away laughing. Batman raised his carbon fiber cape defensively, expecting the flowers to explode, fire gas or spray acid when they landed—but they did none of the above. When they struck the roof, however, the weighted roses tore through the roof like wet tissue paper—they were heavy—heavy enough to break the ground out from underneath him.
Batman tried to spring away, but the tar stalled him long enough for him to fall through the roof—tumbling in freefall into the rolling, orange maw of flames.
At the very last second, a tether coiled around his injured forearm, tangling up with the trap and halting his fall effectively, albeit uncomfortably. He let out a cry, unsure who to attribute his timely rescue to until he saw the bat insignia at the end of the tether that saved his life.
Batgirl?
He hoped this wouldn’t mean that both of them would meet their demise on the roof of a comedy club.
