Junkyard Batman

Chapter 1

 I was eleven, and even then I was starting to see the man I was growing into. I was a weed, my pants too short and my sneakers too tight. Though I hadn't grown any facial hair like I was desperate to, I still had the eyes of an adult. Through the mirror, I could see maturity there. Harsh maturity.

It was the first year anniversary of losing Mom and Dad. I was supposed to be asleep, but I snuck out of the master bedroom of the empty family trailer to spy on Al and Uncle Lu.

At night they always shared a beer and chatted about the new junk in the yard, or even shared salacious stories of their youth. But tonight I heard nothing. No chatter. No jokes. It worried me, so I snuck out of bed and peeked through the yellowing plastic blinds to see them sitting in miss-matched lawn chairs, an industrial spool between them serving as a table.

After a few moments, Al broke the silence.

"Chill got away with it, then. That what yer sayin?"

Uncle Lu took a long swig from his beer. He preferred fancier stuff, beer from Europe, whereas Al drank the cheapest thing he could find.

But Uncle Lu didn't answer. He just stared out into the yard, surveying our Wayne Junk's trove of piled cars, gutted refrigerators, bent bed frames, and old computers. Our junkyard kingdom spans eighteen acres at the south end of Gotham, on the outskirts. And one year ago our kingdom had lost our king and queen.

And here I was, the scrawny prince, unable to sleep in the massive bed his parents left cold.

Taking a final, aggressive swig of his beer, Uncle Lu politely suppressed a burp and said "Yes and no. He's detained, but because of the meth he was on and whatnot, he won't get life. And he got moved to a facility for addiction, not actual prison."

I could hear the sorrow in Uncle Lu's voice. His sister, my mother, had been dear to him. When he heard the news, he left his teaching job in London and moved out here to look after me. He wanted to buy a home, but since the junkyard was the only means of income, he stayed here. Besides, the Waynes could never sell Wayne Junk. Al's lived here through three owners prior. It would have been wrong to make Al suffer a fourth.

"That good enough for yeh?" Al asked pointedly.

Folding his hands, Uncle Lu stared into his lap. "You know it isn't. But he's off the street. And Bruce is my priority."

"Our priority," Al injected. "Watched him grow. Want to see that done right." He finished the cheap beer and crushed the can in his hand. "Hate that they blamed the drugs Chill was on an' not the mind steering them into his veins..."

I was almost eleven, damnit. I should be a part of this conversation.

Banging through the screen door, I stomped down the wooden steps. Barefoot, I stood in the gravel and faced them.

Al snickered as Uncle Lu stood to usher me back inside. "School tomorrow, Bruce. Your last day of in-school suspension. You've got to stay awake."

"I've got to do something," I said, holding my ground. I likely appeared absurd in my racecar pajamas that barely fit. "I've got to stop drugs. Stop murder. Stop the hurt!" My eyes were blurring now. Yet again, I was going to cry. As always.

And as usual, Uncle Lu reached to hold me.

I shrugged him away.

"I need to do something!" I shouted.

"You did so much already, Bruce," Uncle Lu consoled me. "You took the witness stand, pointed him out, you did everything that could be asked."

"But what about what isn't asked?" I snapped. "What about justice? Real justice?"