The challenge for Character Creation Contest #33 was to create a villain for Batman, and very appropriately, Batkevin74, our Bat-fan-at-large, was the winner with Crossbow Man! His story was a quirky tale of a third tier villain, and I liked it enough to write a couple of extra scenes on the contest thread, just because he got my imagination going on it.

Later, I asked Batkev' if I could feature his story and my scenes together, with a possible Part Three. He agreed, but as he had a bit of a scheduling conflict, suggested I write Part Three, as long as...ah, but you'll have to read that, won't you? So without further ado, enjoy.

Sneedville, Tennessee

“You could not!” stated Doyle as he finished off his bottle of Flying Saucer Stout. He shoved the bottle back to his bartender friend Jimmy who grabbed the bottle, flung it spectacularly into the air, and then caught it inches before it hit the bar.

“He’s just a man,” replied Jimmy as he tossed the beer in the recycling and popped the top off another.

“He’s the $#@^ BATMAN!” cried Doyle as he motioned for the beer.

Jimmy looked at the bottle, then his friend, and smiled. “Wanna bet?”

Doyle stopped, slightly confused, as he thought about what was going on. “Back up. You, Jimmy Brown, are going to kill Batman. Is this correct?”

“Yup”

Doyle burst into laughter. The kind of laughter that makes you cry and have a hard time breathing. Jimmy watched his friend have a fit. Doyle wiped his eyes and giggled. “You are going to end up in the hospital, you idiot!”

“So it’s a bet then?”

Doyle tossed his wallet on the bar. “Sure, why not. Whatever I have on me is yours.”

Jimmy opened the wallet. “Sixty-two dollars.”

“We live in Sneedville, not Metropolis,” Doyle replied as he reached for the bottle.

“And your pickup,” Jimmy added, leaning forward.

Doyle looked at his friend. “You’re going to kill Batman for sixty-two dollars and my $#!tt^ blue car? Done! What do I get when you lose?”

“If!”

“WHEN!” corrected Doyle.

Jimmy looked around. “You can have my job.”

“I don’t want your job!” laughed Doyle “I have a crap, dead end job in this dirt poor, boring old town that I hate. Why would I want yours?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Well…how about the key to the museum?” Doyle said suggestively. "Your mom works there."

“You want your great grand uncle’s rifle, don’t you?”

“It’s a family antique that belongs with family,” said Doyle matter of factly. “Not sitting in a two-bit shack in a one-bit town.”

“You’re going to sell it, aren’t you.”

“What do you care? You’re gonna go kill Batman for a car.” Doyle sipped his beer. “So we have a bet or what?”

Jimmy thrust out his hand “Deal! I win, I get your car and sixty-two bucks; you win, and I get you the key so you can steal that gun you want.”

**

“You’re still here?” said Doyle as he wandered into the bar. “Gotham City is a thousand miles thataway!”

Jimmy pulled a face and slid a Flying Saucer Stout down the bar to his friend. “I’m waiting for the internet.”

“Huh?”

Jimmy walked over. “I ordered some stuff on the internet. Hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Did you buy a costume?” asked Doyle. He studied Jimmy’s face which looked like a kid trying to keep a secret. “You bought a costume!”

“I’m gonna look good when I kill Batman,” Jimmy said nonchalantly. “Plus some weapons.”

Doyle paused mid-sip “You bought weapons off the web?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re going to get your head broken,” laughed Doyle. “Seriously, you’re a dead man walking.”

Jimmy sneered. “Just wait, Doyle, you’ll see.”

**

“You can’t let him die of old age and claim it was you!” said Doyle as he entered the bar. Jimmy ignored him and got out a beer for his friend. “What’s the hold up? Was it a ladies costume?”

“The crossbow bolts weren’t pure silver,” Jimmy said.

“What?”

“Batman may be a vampire. So I’m making sure. So I need pure silver tips for my crossbow.”

“Batman’s a vampire?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe a werebat. Not sure, but silver works on both of them.”

“He could be an alien.”

“Don’t be stupid! There’s no such thing!”

Doyle shook his head. “But vampires and were... what’s a werebat anyway?”

“It’s like a werewolf, but a bat.”

Doyle rubbed his nose. “But aliens aren’t real?”

“Just you make sure your truck has a full tank of gas,” Jimmy said. “He’ll be dead by Monday.”

**

“So?” Jimmy stood in the men’s room of the bar in full costume. Doyle burst into laughter and it reverberated through the bathroom like it was Carnegie Hall.

“What does the C stand for?” guffawed Doyle, supporting himself against the hand dryer to prevent falling over.

“Crossbow Man!” Jimmy declared. Doyle shrieked and hit the floor. Jimmy looked in the mirror and thought he looked pretty cool. “Ahh shut up!”

Doyle tried to speak but couldn’t, due to laughter.

**

Bus Terminal, Gotham City

The coach finally pulled into Gotham. It’d been a long, uncomfortable ride from Sneedville, but Jimmy was finally here. He was surprised at the amount of people bustling about the place. The whole population of his hometown was only fifteen hundred, and there seemed to be that many people just here at the bus terminal. Cars, bikes, buses, and taxis raced through the streets, making a terrible sound. Jimmy hefted his bag and headed into the city.

**

Amusement Mile, Gotham City

Jimmy threw off his trenchcoat and hat. “I am the Crossbow Man!”

The Sunday morning crowd of Gothamites barely noticed as the man in black with a white C on his chest started yelling at them. Jimmy was slightly confused at their apathy, which made him angry, and he fired a crossbow bolt into the leg of the closest person.

“I SAID I AM THE CROSSBOW MAN!” roared Jimmy. The crowd responded as any group would when a costumed man fires crossbow bolts into a crowd; they screamed and panicked. Jimmy smiled as he loaded another bolt. “Whenever you’re ready, Batman.”

**

Batman looked down from his vantage point at the man holding eight people hostage. He’d picked up the call via the scanner.

-Male, causcasian, thirties, possibly from Tennessee judging by speech pattern and tone, left handed- Batman checked the sight lines and angles as he watched the man below. –Count seven bolts, carbon fibre, costume shows no sign of upgrades or tech-

“WHERE IS HE?” Crossbow Man yelled. “WHERE’S BATMAN?”

“Right here!” said the cold, grim voice from behind him. Jimmy nearly soiled himself. He began to turn but it was over before it began. A right chop to the neck followed by a left cross to the jaw. As he sailed to the ground he was disarmed, flipped over to his front and driven onto the concrete floor like a nail into wood. The whole “fight” lasted less than six seconds. He tried to get up but a tap to the temple knocked him out cold.

**

Sneedville, Tennessee

Doyle sat at the bar sipping his beer while looking at the front page of the Sneedville Shopper, and smiled. He might have to wait awhile, but he’d soon be getting his hands on his great grand uncle’s Civil War rifle.

**

Arkham Asylum

“I AM NOT INSANE!” Jimmy yelled and spat. He bucked against his restraints as they wheeled him down the corridor towards his cell. Dr Jeremiah Arkham flipped through his chart as he walked along beside him.

“That remains to be seen, Mr Brown,” the doctor said as he signed off on the chart and left for the evening.

Three days later

Detective Harvey Bullock knocked on the door to Doctor Jeremiah Arkham's office. From within, he heard, "Enter!"

Shuffling into the posh, Victorian style office, Bullock closed the door and walked over to the doctor's desk. Looking at the two empty chairs, one on either side of him, Bullock wondered what crazies had sat there. Grimacing slightly, he pulled his grey trenchcoat around him a little more snugly and remained standing.

Without looking up, Arkham said, "One moment, detective, I'll be riiight with you." He finished writing a note, looked over the whole form, then straightened it in the folder, closed it, and sat it neatly in a small pile at the edge of his desk. Finally looking at Harvey, he said, "How can I help you, Detective Bullock?"

"What's the word on Crossbow Man, doc? The Commissioner wants to know if our new skell is crazy or not, so we can know what to tell the D.A.'s office."

"Well, let me see," began the doctor. "James Hunter Brown- aka 'Jimmy,' aka 'Crossbow Man.' Born and raised in Sneedville, Tennessee. Profession: bartender. Made a bet with a friend that he could kill Batman. Spent one hundred twenty-eight dollars and thirty-one cents on twenty-four silver crossbow bolt tips, in case Batman was a vampire, or a 'werebat.' He only wanted twenty, but the bolts 'only came in packs of six, like dey was beer or somethin'.'" Arkham looked over his glasses at Bullock, who just smirked, then continued.

"In addition to the bolts to put the heads on- eighty dollars; a crossbow pistol - thirteen dollars; a bus ticket from Sneedville - one hundred dollars; and a spandex costume - twenty-four dollars plus twenty for customization. The bet was for sixty-two dollars and a blue pickup. Oh yes, detective- he's the very picture of sanity," the doctor said dryly.

"So another nut job. Got it," said Harvey. Turning to go, he said, "You're a funny guy, doc."

Already engrossed in another file, Doctor Arkham said, "The Joker doesn't think so."

"HA!" shouted Harvey. "Now that! THAT'S FUNNY! BWAH-HA-HAAA!" Bullock was still guffawing as he exited. He called back, "Thanks, doc!" just before the door slammed behind him.

Jeremiah twitched with a start at the slamming door, and looked through the blurry glass to see the blobbish outline of Harvey Bullock receding through his office lobby. "How I hate that man," he said quietly, then went back to his paperwork.

Back at the Commissioner's Office

"...So then he says, 'The Joker doesn't think so!' Ha!" laughed Harvey. The commissioner stood bent over his desk, looking at the open folder Harvey had brought with him from Arkham Asylum. He raised an eyebrow in the detective's direction. Bullock summed up, "So yeah, the doc says he's nuttier than a fruitcake."

"I don't know if I agree," Gordon said flatly.

"No offense, boss," said Harvey, "but you suddenly got a shrink certificate we don't know about?"

Gordon's jaw clenched briefly as he looked up at Harvey. "No. Just a lot of years listening to my gut. Brown gave all this detail to Arkham? All those numbers? Spent all that time preparing? Track down this friend of his, and check out the story on the bet. The costume is going to make the insanity plea hard to beat, but it will help if we can corroborate his story. If the friend tells it like he did--"

"Then it's not 'crazy,' it's collusion!" finished Harvey, warming to the idea instantly.

"Right," said Gordon. "And if the friend corroborates the story- that it was a bet- and he knew about it, then we'll see about extraditinghim for accessory." Gordon clenched his jaw again. "I might even suggest to the D.A. that he charge it as domestic terrorism."

Harvey winced. "For these guys, boss? I don't like costumed crazies either, but this is a couple of drunken hicks gone too far."

"Exactly!" growled Gordon, slapping the folder shut on his desk. "Way too far! If he's crazy, we'll lock him away in Arkham with the rest of 'em. If not, then I think it's time to send a message- discourage anyone else from bringing their fool violent ideas to Gotham." Fixing Bullock with a stern look, he said, "Run it down, Harvey."

The detective sighed and turned to leave. "All right, boss. On my way."

Detective Montoya passed by the commissioner's door just then, and Gordon called out, "Take Montoya with you!"

Harvey looked back as Montoya backed the few steps up to the door. Looking in, she said, "Take me where?"

"Sneedville," answered Bullock. "Grab your coat."

"Sneedville?" she asked as she fell in behind Harvey. "What's a Sneedville?"

"Village full of sneeds. Anyone ever tell you that you ask a lot of questions?" asked Harvey.

Jim Gordon watched them move across the detective bullpen, bantering all the way out the door, then tossed the folder to the front of his desk. Slumping into his chair, he sighed to himself and said, "'Crossbow Man.' I'm getting too old for this."

Sneedville, Five Years Later

Doyle pushed the bar door outward and stepped into the night air. As it swung shut behind him, he fumbled with his keys, found the right one, and turned to lock the door. Pulling on the handle to make sure it locked good, he tossed his keys lightly and caught them as he headed for his truck. As he reached the driver’s door of the cab, he realized he still had his bar rag slung over his shoulder. Rolling his eyes at himself and making an only-slightly-disgusted noise, he snatched the rag from his shoulder and tossed it into the bed of the pickup as he went to open the door.

Suddenly someone sat bolt upright in the back of the truck and shouted, “Hey! Watch where you’re throwing that nasty thing!”

Doyle shouted and jumped backwards several steps, before getting a good look at his uninvited passenger, who was now tossing a duffel bag to the ground and climbing out of the back of the truck. “HA HAAAA! Jimmy! How you doin’, brother?” He came up to Jimmy quickly, caught his hand in a greeting that looked like they were about to arm wrestle, and then laughed and hugged him tightly, slapping him on the back several times as he did so. “Oh, God, it has been too damned long, man! It is good to see you! When did you get out? How long have you been back? How are you, man? Oh, wow,” he said as he stepped back a little.

“In reverse order,” started Jimmy, “I’m good, I just got back, I got out last Friday, and yeah, it’s been too long- five years too long.”

Doyle sucked his teeth. “Yeah, man, sorry about that.”

“Nah, man. I did the crime, I did the time, y’know?”

“Yeah,” acknowledged Doyle. “I guess.”

“No guessin’ to it, man. That’s what happened.” He shrugged. “That Batman has a helluva left though.”

Doyle grinned. “Not too many can say they took a punch from Batman, huh?” he chuckled.

“Psht,” countered Jimmy. “Not here, maybe! In Arkham, you were a second class inmate if The Bat didn’t put you there. And God help you if you lied about it to try to get in good with the first class.”

“That right?” Doyle asked in surprise.

“Yeah,” Jimmy answered. “Some of those loonies are a mite particular.” He looked lost for a moment. “Anyway man, you mind giving me a lift?”

“Yeah, man, sure! Hop in. I’m just gettin’ outta here myself.”

Jimmy walked around the truck, tossed his duffel bag back into the bed of the truck, and got into the passenger side of the truck. As he closed the door, he said, “Yeah, what about that? Closing up the bar? Thought this was beneath even your ‘crap, dead end job.’ Changed your mind?”

Doyle grimaced and raised his eyebrows as he pulled out of the lot. “Yeah, well, you tend to reassess what’s crap and what’s not when you lose what you’ve got.” Doyle was quiet a few moments, then continued, “Lexcorp shut down the plant. ‘Not cost efficient,’ they said. Moved the whole operation to Beijing. They already had corporate holdings there though, so they weren’t ‘taking jobs’ they said, just ‘consolidating interests.’ Can you believe that?” He spat out the window. “What a load of crap.” He seemed lost in thought, but then added, “Anyway, man, I hope you don’t mind me taking your old job. The old man had been trying to run it by himself after you went away, but he was struggling. It was a real godsend when he asked me to help out.”

Jimmy sighed deeply and said, “Nah, man, I get it. Just doing what you had to. It’s good.” The two fist bumped and rode on in silence for a few minutes, until Jimmy said, “Hey, man, pull over at that Gas Stop. I wanna grab some beer. Park in the back though- I need to take a leak first.”

“Shoulda come into the bar earlier,” said Doyle as he swung in behind the convenience store. “Could’ve gotten your beer for free.”

Jimmy laughed. “Nah. The surprise on your face was worth it.” He hopped out and stood facing the back of the truck as he handled his business. “Guess I owe you a key to the museum, huh?” he asked, grinning through the passenger window.

Doyle chuckled. “Nope. With so many people out of work after the plant shut down, the town’s revenue dried up quite a bit. They had to cut funding to the museum, and it got shut down. A lot of the stuff got shipped to museums in and around Nashville. Your mom made sure my great gand uncle’s rifle didn’t make it to the capitol though. She’s good people, Jimmy.”

Jimmy did a double take through the window. “What? She gave you the rifle?”

“Yeah, she knew how much I liked the thing,” smiled Doyle. “Plus,” he added a little sheepishly, “She kind of heard about our bet.”

“What the hell, Doyle?!” exclaimed Jimmy. “You didn’t win our bet!”

Doyle laughed. “What are you talkin’ about, man? You went away for five years, and it wasn’t for killing Batman. You didn’t kill him, so you sure didn’t win.”

“I didn’t win yet! Yet!” yelled Jimmy. “I ain’t done with that Batfreak, man! You ain’t won nothin’!” He threw up his hands and reached into the bed for his duffel bag. “I can’t believe this,” he griped as he riffled through its contents.

Doyle was a bit dumbfounded. “Jimmy! C’mon, man! You can’t be serious! It was a stupid, drunken bet, over five years ago! You wanna take on Batman again? Are you nuts?”

Jimmy stepped to the cab and slammed his hand against the passenger door. “I am not crazy!” he shouted. “Do you hear me? I AM NOT CRAZY!”

Doyle threw his hands up. “Okay, man, okay. But jeez, man, the bet’s done. It’s over. Let it go.”

“It’s not done!” shouted Jimmy. “I lost five years to that” he slapped the passenger door again and finished, “freak!” He stalked away to the front of the store, and emerged a few minutes later with a case of beer. He got back into the truck and put the beer in the floor between his feet. He didn’t say anything.

Doyle was quiet for a minute, then said, “Hey, man, you okay now? Let’s blow off some steam. Where you want to go?”

Jimmy jutted his jaw side-to-side a couple of times, then said, “Look, man, I need your truck.”

“What? Well where do you want to go? I’ll get you there, man.”

“I don’t need you to go with me, Doyle. I just need your truck.”

“What do you need it for?” aksed Doyle.

“It’s only fair, Doyle,” said Jimmy. “You got the rifle without winning the bet. I should get the truck without winning the bet.”

Doyle laughed. “HA! No frickin’ way! I’m not givin’ you my truck, man! Are you cracked?”

Rage came over Jimmy’s face as he pulled a handheld crossbow from under his jacket and put it under Doyle’s chin. “I. AM NOT. CRAZY!” he yelled. He was breathing rapidly, and Doyle was no longer laughing. “I got a problem here, Doyle. You see, the Gotham D.A. was looking to put both of us away, but my good friend Doyle was most definitely not in that frickin’ asylum with me.”

Doyle’s face fell. “Jimmy…”

“So I’m askin’ myself how that happens. Only thing I can figure is that my good friend Doyle…my best friend since grade school…ratted me out. Tell me I’m wrong, Doyle. Can you tell me that?”

“For cripes sake, Jimmy! They didn’t put me away because they couldn’t prove collusion! I didn’t even think a Batman was real! I didn’t think that you did either! They couldn’t get me for collaborating on something I didn’t think was real!” Jimmy pressed the tip of the crossbow bolt a little harder to Doyle’s chin, and Doyle whined, “Come on, man!”

Jimmy breathed hard as he stared Doyle in the eyes. Finally, he eased back on the crossbow just a touch, and said, “Alright, Doyle. Still, I need your truck. And I’m not asking. So get out.”

“Okay, man. Alright,” said Doyle as he reached for the door handle. He slid out carefully, afraid that the crossbow might go off if he jostled Jimmy’s arm. Once he was out, Jimmy slid into the driver side, and he and Doyle exchanged angry looks. Doyle finally just shook his head and said, “Damn, man,” and turned to walk away.

“Doyle!”

“What?!” he said as he spun back to face Jimmy.

“You forgettin’ somethin’?” Jimmy asked.

Doyle threw his hands up, because he had no idea what Jimmy meant.

“Your wallet?” said Jimmy, looking at him like he was dumb. “You owe me sixty-two dollars too.”

Doyle seethed as he reached for his wallet. He threw it into the open window where it slapped Jimmy’s hand and fell into his lap. Jimmy picked it up, took out all of the cash, and tossed the wallet on the ground. “See ya, Doyle.”

“You go to hell,” Doyle answered back, and he turned to walk away again.

“Hey, Doyle!” Jimmy called again, as he started the engine.

“WHAT?!” Doyle screamed as he turned back to the truck.

Jimmy was pointing the crossbow out of the window. He said, “You’re five dollars short,” and pulled the trigger. The bolt hit Doyle in the head, and he hit the ground hard. Jimmy tossed the hand bow on the passenger side, broke open the cardboard case, and pulled the tab on a beer can. He took a long swig, sat there for a minute, and looked one last time at Doyle’s body. He drained the rest of the can, tossed it out the window, and put the truck into reverse. He backed up, put it into drive, and peeled out of the parking lot, throwing rocks from the loose gravel behind the store. As he got out onto the street, he rolled his neck from side-to-side, and said to himself, “Gotham, here I come.”

Batkevin's condition for Part 3 was that I had to kill Doyle. Well, there he is- deader-than-dead.