Category: adventure(s)/romance
Rating: PG
Continuity: TAS (do I write any other kind?!)

Disclaimer: Not mine.  Never will be.  Money made from this: zero dollars.

***

Elementals
by Sarah Stella (stellas@kenyon.edu)

***

Heart of Earth

earth stirred
from core to cover--
spring songs

-- Richard MacDonald

Five to 10 tons of animal life can live in an acre of soil.

***

You never know what's beneath the surface.  Spring comes to Gotham each year 
just like anyplace else.  As much as certain people pretend that it never 
happens, because it's easier to think of the city as the eternal dark.  The 
seasons change differently, that's all.  Light seeps down into the canyons 
between buildings in a gray wash.  Slippery and snakelike, the city sheds its 
skin and inches toward the light.

I used to wait anxiously for the transformation and I was rewarded with the 
transformation of myself as well.  My mistake was to try to mold myself before 
it was my time to be renewed.  I realize this until I catch sight of my face in 
a mirror.  All I need is a bit of reflection--a sliver of my face trapped 
against a mirror's silver surface--and the anger comes back.  It was never my 
fate to be so ugly.

In the time before the accident, I could have had my pick of any woman I wanted.  
They fell for me so easily it was just like knocking down dominoes.  I lost 
myself in the tangles of their hair fanned out across the pillows on my bed or 
in the curve where their hips met their waists.  I was the king of a narrow 
kingdom, but that never bothered me before.  I can see that smallness now, but 
my heart still breaks for it and for the realization that I'd do anything to 
bury myself in it again.

Tonight I might have killed a woman.  She was a beautiful slip of a thing with 
great, blue eyes that seemed wiser than she did.  I was hidden in the deep 
shadows at the end of an alley, so she didn't see me as she passed.  Maybe it 
was the way her breasts pressed into her soft sweater, or the way she swung her 
hips in her navy wool pants or the snatch of honeysuckle perfume.  It was a lot 
of things.  I compressed myself into a shape I thought she might like--that was 
intimate, trying to imagine the flow of desire inside her pretty head--and 
followed her into a coffee shop.

My forehead was sweating from the effort of holding myself in shape.  I wiped it 
and little clods of flesh colored mud fell away.  I slid into the booth behind 
the woman.  She didn't notice me at first; she was engrossed in a textbook.

"Excuse me," I said, "could I get a few packets of sugar from you?  I'm all out 
over here."

Her eyes flicked to my face, registering approval.  She also saw my full 
container of sugar and a small wrinkle appeared on her forehead.

"Why don't you just come and sit with me?" she suggested.  Her voice was a 
lovely, mid-range alto.  She didn't have to ask me twice.  "Your face looks 
familiar," she mused as I was settling myself.

"I think I'd remember if we'd met before," I said, falling into the rhythm 
easily.  There's a knack to talking with women--witty but not overbearing.  "You 
are...?"

She shook her head and strands of her hair fell across her face.  "I'm sure you 
seem familiar.  Aren't you that actor?"

I started back.  I was out of practice making faces.  It was possible that I'd 
reverted to my old face.  After all, it's the one I'd been most accustomed to.  
"My name's Joe," I said, trying to sound confused.  "Look, I'll be right back, 
okay?"  I got up and headed for the back of the restaurant.  My idea was to 
pretend I was going to the bathroom and then slip out the back door.

The woman was waiting for me in the alley.  "I wouldn't go anywhere just yet, 
Clayface."  Her voice was harder now and her legs were braced in a fighting 
stance.

I laughed a little and relaxed.  My body expanded into its normal shape and then 
it happened.  I saw it in her eyes, just an instant and then it was gone, but it 
was enough: revulsion.  All I'd meant to do was knock her out and leave her in 
the alley, but when I saw that disgust in her face I couldn't stop myself.

She was quick and landed a few hits that stung.  My body reached out and wrapped 
itself around her, crushing her into my chest.  I could feel her there.  She was 
closed up inside me, her lungs choked on my flesh.  Just as I'd had Batman there 
in the past, I could feel her heartbeat slowing.

When I came right up against it, I couldn't kill her.  It's as if I fell back 
into myself at some point and felt the horror of what I had been doing.  I spit 
her out, dripping, and fled.  My footsteps made squishy sounds in the alley.  
There were shouts in the distance.  A distressed male voice calling, "Barbara!"

***

Heart of Flesh

Sake for flesh, haiku for soul:
Sake is the haiku of the flesh
Haiku is the sake of the soul.

-- Santoka Taneda

Every 24 hours, the surface of the skin sheds a layer of dead cells, constantly 
renewing about every 28 days.

***

In springtime, my hearing becomes more acute, my senses sharper.  My body wakes 
from its winter hibernation.  How often, when I was a little girl, did I wish 
for super powers like the man in Metropolis?  How often, when I sold my body to 
survive, did I wish for those powers again?  My body would become strong to hurt 
those who hurt me and the people I cared about.  Today I want to go back and 
tell those two former selves that super powers don't make you strong, they only 
make you lazy.

I leapt off the neighboring building, stretching my body in the warm spring air.  
My whip snagged a flagpole at the right moment and I landed securely on a window 
ledge.  It was a matter of seconds before I was inside.  I'd gone to case the 
place in the daylight hours, asking lots of questions.  It's harder for men to 
remember an inquisitive woman.  They think we're programmed to ask idle 
questions when we can't think of anything else to say.  The guard I'd talked to 
hadn't known what to do with his hands, he kept kneading them together and then 
shoving them in the direction of his pockets only to realize that his uniform 
didn't have pockets at all.  I smiled at that memory even as I removed part of 
the windowpane, careful not to set off the alarm.  The diamond was in a case 
across the room.  I could see it shining even in the dim light.

"I thought I might find you here, Catwoman," the voice rumbled in my ear.  A 
ripple of excitement ran along my arms.  Batman and I danced on either side of a 
mirror, but some nights we almost touched and that was invariably exciting.

"The night just got interesting," I murmured.  I looked at him.  "Oh, it's only 
you."

Robin's lips tightened fractionally.  "Sorry to disappoint."

"Where is he?"

"You don't have the right to ask."

I considered him for a moment.  He was a strange accompaniment to Batman's 
unrelieved black.  I had always figured that he kept Robin around as some kind 
of wisecracking, brightly-colored decoy.  More pertinent to my situation, he was 
an unknown quantity.  "So Batman's letting you take the car out on your own 
these days?"

"Why don't you try me?" he replied tightly.

"Where's your little girlfriend?"

"I'm not her keeper."

I looked him up and down; making sure my appraisal was obvious.  "No.  You never 
will be either."  The whole time we'd been talking, I'd adjusted my angle ever 
so slightly.  I silently added things up.  All I needed was for him to be a 
little off-balance, which he was, but I wasn't sure if it was enough.

"Are you gonna come quietly, or do I have to do this the hard way?"

I fixed him with a stare and licked my lips slowly.  "Hmmm, hard or soft--isn't 
that your choice?"  I was practically purring at him.  He didn't react, but 
blinked twice.  That's when I knew I had him.  I put my hand on the middle of 
his chest and shoved.  He stumbled backwards into a display case, breaking it 
and falling to the ground in a shower of glass.  The alarm blared.  I raced 
across the room, barely feeling my feet hit the ground, smashed the case and 
grabbed the diamond.  I dropped it into my hip pouch where it nestled in the 
hollow of my thigh, banging softly as I ran.  By that time, Robin had regained 
his footing.  He came at me, but I swiped at him, scratching his face without 
breaking my stride.  Two more steps and I was out the window, flying through the 
night air as if I'd been born there.

Once I'd put several rooftops between me and the jewelry store, I relaxed.  The 
rest of the trip home was a breeze.  I dawdled on fire escapes as the first 
slivers of light peeked down through the buildings.

***

Heart of Fire

no oil in the lamp-- 
after a year's flickering,
the flame slowly dies.

-- anonymous

The hottest flames known to science are made by burning a mixture of oxygen and 
acetylene. The flame of an oxyacetylene torch can reach a temperature of more 
than 5972 degrees Fahrenheit, hot enough to melt metal even underwater or in the 
extreme cold of Antarctica.

***

I watch him as he watches her.  The expression is partially obstructed by the 
mask he wears, but I can see it just the same.  If ever I saw that look on my 
Beloved's face I would tear his heart out and leave it for the buzzards, but 
only if it were not directed at me.  The interesting thing is: he doesn't know 
how to show her that look I see so plainly.  His body is awkward around hers--
acting as a shield, but in the same moment drawing away.

I drape my legs over the arm of the chair and concoct wild stories to explain 
his behavior.  She moves gingerly at times, then forgets herself in feats of 
daring.  The outer defenses are still holding against them.  The sun will be 
fully risen soon; the desert will lose its purplish cast.  Nothing survives long 
under the weight of Saharan sunlight.  In my idle moments, I wonder if there is 
a way to concoct a device to focus the power of that light.  Weapons of mass 
destruction were never really my strength, only Father's.

"They're persistent," I say to the man on the table.

"They know better than to give up," he mumbles through lips cracked with thirst.

"It'll be the death of them."

"It's their choice."

"Is it?"  I look at him intently.  He is stripped of everything but the cowl.  I 
was particularly careful to remove anything he might use to escape, including 
some subcutaneous lock picks.  I found them in his wrists, to the left of the 
rope of veins running there.  They looked like track marks.  He didn't cry out 
when I took them out of him.  He didn't even twitch.  I think in some perverse 
way he likes the pain.  It's penance for some awful thing I can't begin to 
imagine.  

He closes his eyes then, but not before I see them muddy with uncertainty.

Outside, the two fight on.  Their movements are slower now and he is less 
conscious of her presence.  That's when the most interesting thing happens.  
They come together like two fitted puzzle pieces.  Side-by-side they are as 
graceful as synchronized swimmers.  I catch a flicker of movement out of the 
corner of my eye and I whip my head around.  My Beloved is...smiling.  That 
smile chills me more than anything because there is no joy in it, just 
satisfaction at a job well done.

"Wind them up and they will go," I say to him, surprising myself with the bitter 
note that emerges.

"You don't understand."

"Do *they*?"

"Well enough."

I don't know how he can be so sure.  On the monitor they look young and fragile.  
I close one eye and hold out my thumb and index finger, crushing them.  "How can 
you tell?"

"I know them."

On the monitor, they have finished with the first wave of defenses.  I watch him 
as he watches her.  He touches her hand briefly.  Their fingers make arcing 
wings before they part.  "*I* wouldn't be so sure."

His face settles back into its familiar, grim lines.  Silence sinks on top of 
us, heavy and burning like sand.

***

Heart of Water

the gift of water 
lies within itself running 
fresh and always new 

--Peter S. Quinn

One mathematician has calculated that if Columbus spilled a glass of water into 
the sea back in 1492 and if that glass of water was by now thoroughly mixed in 
all the oceans and rivers of the world, then every glass of water drawn from 
every faucet in the world would contain as many as 250 molecules from the 
original water Columbus spilled.

***

People often ask me: "Oswald, do you miss the villainy?"  To which, I always 
reply, with a magnanimous air: "As Penguin, I risked becoming a caricature of 
myself.  As Oswald, no one thinks of risk."  This invariably elicits a polite 
twittering of laughter.  As much as I covet a position with the movers and 
shakers of Gotham, as much as their patronage sustains the Iceberg Lounge, 
giving me the necessary funds to hire accomplished ice sculptors and gelato-
makers and whatnot, their senses of humor often seem underdeveloped.

Indeed, no one has worked harder than I to make the nightclub a success.  It is 
my precious, precocious child--all gleaming stainless steel and artfully placed 
mirrors.  Glitter reflects inside its silver surface, making everyone appear 
more glamorous than they truly are.

The police often ask me: "What are your dealings with Rupert Thorne?"  To which, 
I always reply: "Few and aboveboard, gentlemen.  Would you care for a martini?"  
Truly, it would be rude of them to reject such a gentlemanly offer and, as yet, 
none of them have.

Business is slow in the middle of the week and Wednesday night was no exception.  
I counted only three and a half celebrities.  That half belonged to Richard 
Grayson--I do not consider him much more than a glorified hanger-on, but he is 
ward to one of the world's richest men.

I greeted him with the proper measure of respect.  "Mr. Grayson!  What a 
pleasure to see you!  You and your lovely companion.  Miss...?"

"*Ms.* Gordon.  Barbara."  She flashed me a quick smile.

"Ah, Gordon.  Of course.  You wouldn't, by chance, be any relation to..."

"My father."

I considered it wiser to keep the couple moving.  "Right this way, please.  It's 
always such a pleasure to see you here, Mr. Grayson," I said, leading them 
around tables, across the empty dance floor.  "And your guardian?  How is he?  
*He* hasn't been in here for nearly four months.  The last time was with Ms. 
Kyle, I believe."  I let my nose wrinkle just a bit at that.  It was the worst 
kept secret in town that Selina Kyle doubled as Catwoman in her copious spare 
time; a lesser known secret was what she used to do to earn money before 
burglary turned her into a philanthropist.  She lacked an essential class.

"Bruce is out of town on business," Dick said cheerfully.  "I hope he comes back 
soon.  Alfred and I are knocking around the mansion without much of anything to 
do."

"I'm sure you have the lovely, Ms. Gordon to keep you company."

Only Dick blushed at that.  Barbara regarded me steadily.  I suppose I hadn't 
won any points for the "Miss."  Damn women's lib.

"Ah.  Well..."

"Forget I said anything."  I pulled out their chairs for them and backed away.  
"Enjoy."

If you want to succeed in the restaurant business, you learn to perfect the art 
of hovering--not in some obvious or intrusive way, just remaining at the fringes 
of conversation, senses twitching to anticipate the customer's every need before 
he knows he has it.

As soon as they thought I was safely out of earshot, Barbara hit Dick's shoulder 
lightly.

"What was that for?" he complained.

"All-purpose," she murmured.  "He gives me the creeps.  It gives me the creeps 
to be out on the town when Bruce is...I mean..."

He covered her hand with his.  I think she had her other hand on his knee under 
the table.  Young love can't stop caressing itself, even in the depths of some 
unspecified personal crisis.  The evening was becoming very interesting indeed.

"Don't worry, Babs."

"I'm not that worried.  Not really.  He'll come back in due time.  But *you* 
seem almost too calm."  She stopped and considered him.  I knew the look: gently 
probing, the kind that leaves one feeling as if he has just been smoothly 
stripped of all affectations and bravado.  She rested her cheek on her palm 
before continuing.  "You're so like him sometimes.  Hard to read."

"I don't know if I'd put it that way myself," Dick replied.  There was an odd 
edge to his voice that I couldn't quite place.  I assumed they were talking 
about Wayne and I wondered if Dick resented the comparison to the empty-headed 
playboy.

Barbara shook her head, strands of red hair falling across her cheeks in a most 
becoming manner.  The effect was not lost on Dick.  "I don't want to talk about 
him anymore tonight, okay?"

"What would you like to talk about instead?"

"Isn't that a bit 'Monty Python' of you?"  His response was a puzzled look.  
"That sketch where the couple go into the restaurant and the server brings them 
a topic to talk about?"

"'Meaning of Life' wasn't it?"

"I think so."

"I see you have brought the machine that goes 'ping'!" he quoted neatly.  
Barbara chuckled and I drifted back into the room.

***

Heart of Air

At the candle's light,
I look, and yes,
There is a wind.

-- Hester Hamilton

Chinook -- Refers to the warm downslope wind in the Rocky Mountains that may 
occur after an intense cold spell when the temperature could rise by 20 to 40 
degrees Fahrenheit in a matter of minutes. Also known as the Snow Eater. 

***

Last night I met, upon the stair, a little man who wasn't there.  He wasn't 
there again today, oh how I wish he'd go away.  

I am stalked by that man, only he isn't little at all.  He's as broad as the 
night and twice as fearsome.  The Batman.  Lately he has turned into that man--
he isn't here.  He hasn't been here for weeks as far as I can tell.  I test him 
every night, trying to see how far I can poke my hollow head out of the ground 
before a bit of my hair is sliced off.

The rope around my neck swung gently and the heavy hangman's knot banged into my 
arm.  Things were changing around this place, now that the Batman was gone.  And 
the kids he hung out with...no sign of them either.  My heart was light in my 
chest.  This was better than Christmas.

Each night was a new possibility.  Thus far, I had conducted experiments at the 
docks (two subjects drowned, one by his own hand) and along the fringes of the 
red light district (four subjects).  Tonight was icing--the subway at midnight.  
Anything can happen there, they'd say, without really expecting anything to 
happen at all.

"But what if something *did* happen, my lovelies?  What would you do then?  You 
would choke in your own fear until it drowned you right there in the plain air."

I plunged the hypodermic into the vial, drawing out the exact amount of liquid I 
needed.  I didn't need much.  The agent was airborne.  Truthfully, a few 
molecules would have done, but I was eager to see what a more intense dosage 
would accomplish.  I stumbled across the formula one evening when I was trying 
to make a double-strength batch of my standard fear serum.  What was most 
fascinating about this particular mixture--apart from its potency--was that its 
effect was negation.  Neither the increase nor decrease of fear as I'd studied 
in the past, only the simple, powerful impression that the subject was alone in 
the world.  It was enough, I'd discovered, to make even the most confirmed 
misanthrope teeter over that knife's edge into screaming terror.  Deny the world 
as much as you like, but what if there suddenly isn't anyone in the world to 
deny?

Several well-placed bombs did the trick.  There was something satisfying about 
seeing the canisters strapped in place with neatly cut bands of tape.  Midnight 
seemed as good a time as any for the test, but it could have just as well been 
11:21 or 8:46 or 9:17.  As long as everything was recorded neatly for posterity, 
who was I to quibble over the precise timing of the thing?  That's for 
obsessive-compulsive control freaks like the Clock King.  Those things didn't 
bother me.

11:48 PM: last test subjects boarded the train at Willow Avenue stop; eight of 
them--five men and three women all between the ages of 20 and 45
11:55 PM: assistants sealed door between last two cars and rest of train to 
prevent gas leakage (NOTE: end door and all windows sealed prior to this)
11:58 PM: two subjects appeared suspicious; one (Caucasian male, dark hair, 22) 
discovered one of the canisters, his companion (Caucasian female, red hair, 22) 
attempted to open the windows (NOTE: fear in their faces--delicious)
11:59 PM: all six canisters discovered, subjects in uproar; original discoverers 
attempt to break windows; cracks appear in door between my car and theirs
12:00 AM: experiment initiated; gas leakage into my car

Oh.  God.

My head was hollow and the wind screamed through it.  After all, I was the straw 
man.  The hollow man.  The man and the woman stood over me, but then they 
disappeared and I was alone.

Sometimes, I'm still alone.  Figures come and go; sometimes through doors, 
sometimes fading like ghosts into the walls.

***

Heart of Ice

ice crackles
beneath booted feet
walking home

--Frank A. Hayden

Water, being a liquid, is a disordered phase, while ice is an ordered phase - 
the molecules are arranged in close packed layers (a lattice) not unlike a box 
full of Ping-Pong balls

***

Human times are a spring thaw to me--when compassion brings me close to the man 
I once was.  He is the man I want to be, for Nora's sake.  When she wakes up, I 
want everything to be comfortable and familiar to her.  I want everything as it 
was, not evil or cruel or hard.  If I could just have a moment to myself at 
these times, I believe that I might be able to crack the thinned ice.  

She got in three quick kicks before I managed to toss her off.  Funny how it's 
never really occurred to me that the Batman might have trained her.  There's 
something about her movements that's always seemed too different from his--a joy 
in motion that he lacks.  She flew backwards, turning as she did so, landed on 
her feet.  "Bravo," I wanted to say, because something in her tenacity always 
reminded me a bit of Nora, but the words froze in shards inside my mouth.  
Instead, I pointed my ice gun at her and fired.  She dodged, but not easily.  

Cold makes even the best of athletes sluggish.  I tried to remember what that 
felt like--the air burning spreading channels in my lungs or the way I used to 
gasp to take in oxygen.  Her breath steamed fast from her mouth.

"You were doing so well, Victor," she told me.  "Your doctors said you were 
responding beautifully to their treatments.  Why throw that away?"

I shook my head.  "You couldn't understand."  I fired again.

"What couldn't I understand?"  That last shot had thrown off her rhythm.  She 
was teetering at the edge of exhaustion, but I found that I wanted to keep her 
there a little longer.  Stretches in Arkham didn't do any favors for my 
conversational skills.

"How I need Nora like breathing," I might have said once.  The ice had thinned 
and I stretched out my hand to push against it.  "Nora is my life.  If she 
dies...  If I can't save her..."

"You think I don't know how to care for anyone?"

"Look at you."  My voice had an edge that she recoiled from.  "Look at what you 
do every night.  Who can understand that?"  She did her best to look impassive, 
but I saw her hands clench.  "You have a secret from everyone you'll ever meet."

"That's not true...I..."

My finger slipped easily onto the trigger and I fired again.  She rolled; the 
beam glanced over her heel.  She staggered to her feet.  "Why don't I just put 
you out of your misery?"  The words slid unbidden from my mouth.  I wanted to 
apologize for their cruelty.  I felt the apology welling up inside me--
deliciously warm.  I pushed and the ice cracked a bit, but stayed intact.  Her 
good foot came into contact with my stomach and the air went out of me.  I fell 
hard on one knee, spikes of pain running up my thigh.  She punched me in the 
neck and I saw white spots dancing.

I managed to raise a foot and get her bad leg.  She cried out once, a sharp 
sound that wasn't quite a scream.  I lurched upright, aimed and fired.  Her 
right arm was trapped under a dome of ice.  

That's when I was hit from behind.  He'd come in fast and silent, faster and 
almost as silent as his mentor.  Pain exploded in the small of my back.  My gun 
flew out of my hand.  The spots multiplied until they became a blizzard.  
Through the storm I saw him kneel and stroke her face with a tenderness that was 
almost too painful to watch.  Perspiration beaded and froze on her forehead.  He 
brushed it off with one gloved fingertip.

***

Heart of Wood

The tree's branches sway
The leaves ripple in the wind
The trunk sits quite still

--Derrick Charles

Wood is light and strong--softwoods are 16 times less dense than steel and 5 
times less dense than concrete. As a result of wood's strength-to-weight ratio, 
buildings made of wood can weigh an eighth as much as similar buildings made of 
brick or concrete.

***

I ain't immune to romance.  The charms of the fairer sex ain't lost on me.  In 
my line of work, you don't meet stand-up dames every day, but that doesn't mean 
that I don't think how nice it might be to have a gun moll watchin' my back.  
When the most eligible chick you've meet in the past three years is the bat-
chick, well...

We was pullin' a job down by the docks last Wednesday night.  Little-known fact: 
Gotham's boys in blue got their hands full with hump-day revelers come 
Wednesdays.  DUIs, DWIs, public nudity, general lewdness, they got no reason to 
bust up my little operations then.  I've pulled some great jobs on Wednesday 
night.  That particular night, me and the boys were nosin' in on some of Rupert 
Thorne's action.  I try not to lock horns with Thorne straight on, at least not 
until the organization gets bigger.  No sense biting off more than you can chew.  
We just take a job here and there.  Thorne's got deep pockets; he can eat it.

Someone musta got wind of our plans I guess, 'cause before you can say Jim 
Gordon, bat-chick and bird-boy are all over us like a cheap suit.  I winged him 
in the shoulder with the Tommy gun, but he just kept coming.  Then she looks 
over and sees the blood and I know she wants to stop right then and fix him up 
okay and I say to Dummy, "I didn't know bat-chick was sweet on him."  He says 
something back that I don't catch, except for the "Mr. Scarface" part.  He's 
gotten real good at pronouncin' it ever since I clocked him one for forgettin' 
it.

So then the only thing to do is shoot him for real.  I figure I get him, I take 
them both down.  As much of a pain in the ass as she is, the bat-chick is a real 
stand up babe.  She won't abandon her man for the small-time like me an' Dummy.  
Meanwhile, the boys had beat a hasty retreat.  Ya just can't keep thugs around 
when the bat-guys show up.

Anyways, so bird-boy's up and running and I let him get real close before I 
decked him one real good and he went down like he was filled with lead or 
somethin'.  From where I was standin' the shoulder looks real bad, all dark and 
bloody.  I figure he don't have long till he passes out from the blood alone.  I 
shot him in the thigh for good measure.

I ain't no killer.  In certain circumstances, yeah.  If it'd been the Batman I'd 
have helped him with his dirt nap no problem, but the kid?  He was young an' 
like I said I ain't immune to romance.  If he and the bat-chick were sweet on 
each other who was I to stand in their way?  Killing Robin ain't no feat.  
Killing Batgirl ain't no feat.  But maybe them alive and together that's some 
kinda miracle.

He yelled to beat the band when I shot him.  "You ain't dyin', ya big baby," I 
snarled.  He sucked a breath in through his teeth and glared at me.  "I could 
still kill ya."

"Come on, Mr. Scarface.  We better be going."  I hated to admit it, but Dummy 
was right.

But I misjudged the bat-chick.  I guess I always figgered she was more chick 
than bat.  She came after me, harder than if I hadn't shot bird-boy.  Dummy went 
down and took me with him.  My chin bounced into the concrete and I blacked out 
for awhile.  I heard handcuffs snap.

"You okay, Robin?" she asked.  Her voice was a little shaky.

"Yeah."  He was tired, dog tired and I think she was too; either way she yanked 
me to my feet.

"Hospital?"

"Nah."

"Pizza?"

Like the man says: it ain't what they said, just how they said it.  I resolved 
to get myself a right hand gal, just as soon as that shylock, Reggie sprung me 
from the slammer.

THE END