The bat lost a bet

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪ

Batman had spent the past few nights, cold and wet, on the rooftop of an abandoned five-storey apartment block. The block, with its gaping windows and sagging doorways, was but one of the many dilapidated structures found scattered like forgotten trash in the east end district of Gotham. Batman had found a vantage point within the deep shadows, where the four-foot parapet merged with a squat brick substructure housing the access stairs. A pair of red rusted-shut fire doors stuck out like a sore thumb on the brick wall.

From here, Batman had a clear line of sight to his target – a garishly-lit nightclub with a hot pink neon sign advertising the name, Pink Legend. Muffled music pulsed rhythmically in the night air like the energetic drone of bees, and a row of hot rods gleamed wetly under the light drizzle from one of Gotham’s frequent autumn showers. At irregular intervals, snatches of repetitive techno music blasted out whenever the club’s steel doors swung open to admit or spew out patrons in ones or fews.

Batman scanned another group of arrivals through the night vision lenses in his cowl. He then sighed and dismissed the raucous bunch as harmless drunks. This was the fourth night of the stakeout and Batman had yet to catch a glimpse of his elusive prey - a foreign terrorist cell planning to use the club as a front to stage an attack on Gotham’s downtown. Batman was determined to nip their plans in the bud. Unfortunately, he was not making much headway and the nightly vigil was taking a toil on him. Fatigue hung heavily on him and Batman massaged his temples wearily, feeling the onset of a migraine.

All of a sudden, Batman stiffened in alarm, detecting an unknown presence behind him. He was about to whirl around and fling his batarangs when he recognised the familiar “ki” emanating from the intruder. With an annoyed huff, Batman relaxed slightly and returned his weapons to their hiding places. As the intruder neared, Batman spoke brusquely, “Will you bloody stop hovering like a wraith and drop dead before someone sees you.”

Superman blinked in surprise and hunkered down in a flash, blending into the darkness despite the striking red and blue suit he wore. He had taken all precautions to be extremely silent in his approach, and yet, Batman was always able to pinpoint his location unerringly. Superman wanted to ask Batman how he did it, but on an afterthought, he shrugged dismissively. Batman would never tell him anyway and there was no need to spoil the fun. ‘Sneaking up on Batman’ was a challenging delight that Superman enjoyed very much.

With a quick salute, Superman announced cheerfully, “SuperUber at your service.“

Batman pointed a middle finger at Superman and shot him a dirty look. His face was briefly illuminated by the ambient light from the nightclub, and Superman’s heart wrenched in concern at the ashen hue of his face and the bluish tint of his lips. An impulsive urge to pull Batman into his arms surged within Superman, but he suppressed it ruthlessly. He would be dead meat for sure if he had done that. For Batman hated sympathy or unnecessary physical contact of any sort. He only tolerated the touch of others when acting as playboy Bruce Wayne or when in need of medical attention. His so-called ‘sleeping around with women’ were all a sham, successfully carried out with the help of Alfred and non-toxic hallucinogenic drugs.

“Go away and mind your own business,” growled Batman, his face once more hidden by the shadows as he turned back to stare at the nightclub.

“I can’t. Fare’s all paid up for by Mr Alfred Pennyworth and he has this message for you...”

Superman then cleared his throat and did a pretty good impression of Alfred. “Mr Wayne. I have authorised Mr Kent the right to do anything to you to get you back to the manor a.s.a.p.”

Bruce glowered silently. Clark beamed with pride before he turned solemn and spoke in a flat tone. “It’s time to go home. Mr. Bruce. Wayne.”

Oh, oh!