By TheWitchingHour 2 Comments
Trust your nose Alfred. It's gotten you this far.
The city is quiet tonight. And in the Batman's white hot impotence he refuses to retire for the night until one nefarious skull is cracked. He's halfway to Blüdhaven and I'm busy tending to the car. Well, one of them anyway.
And there it is. That unfamiliar tickle wafts through the air for the umpteenth time tonight. I half expect a spectral hook to drag me off to a pie on a window sill. Knowing Gotham it would be the work of some nefarious twin terrors... The Bakers Squared.
The Bakers Squared. I'll have to write that one down.
Where on earth is the fragrance coming from? I daresay that this hollow slab of rock and metal hasn't smelled of anything but blood and guano since Master Bruce first decided to build his treehouse. And yet...
I tramp down the cavernous staircase in Italian loafers against my better judgement. I cannot seem to shake the siren call that lingers just above my mustache. As a precaution I bring along torchlight and the Weatherby. All the while I have a nagging feeling that the rifle will do me little good. Perhaps a bouquet of flowers and box of chocolates would be more appropriate. Any lady below would certainly be more appreciative if...
Get a hold of yourself Alfie. There are pubescent boarding school boys who wouldn't have those thoughts.
Lilac. It smells of Lilac.
I don't know why I find that so troubling.
I have never proclaimed myself to be a botanist, but every gardener ought to know which plants are suited for his garden. And I certainly don't remember Lilac being suited to cool and dry cave walls that receive little to no sunlight.
And having racked my brain I fail to remember any instance of the plant growling. And yet...
Perspective is an odd bedfellow. By all accounts this should be considerably more difficult. I am a man in the twilight of my years, serving a dissociative man-child and his questionably clothed underage acquaintance. My goal to lead each of them to some sort of cathartic salvation whilst simultaneously fighting alongside in their Sisyphean crusade against a city more corrupt than the devil's backside seems less possible with each tick of the clock. The responsibility of sweeping their titanic struggles against all that is evil under the rug falls to a geriatric slave of the 21st century whose libido was recently and quite shockingly reawakened. You would think the stress alone would cause the occasional cramp in the leg.
I however am bounding up the stairs with a zeal that would put Bambi to shame.
The giant carnivorous plant nipping at my heel may have something to do with this, but I'd argue that the Yoga is beginning to pay off.
How overly loquacious of me. Let me explain. Upon reaching the base of the cave I encountered a monster that can only be described as a greenhouse mixed with a dogfight. Fortunately my wits stayed about me. Instead of using the torchlight to study the creature or my surroundings in an effort to assess the situation like some sort of fool, I bravely threw my single source of light at the beast in an effort to blind the thing. Stunned, the beast thrashed it's tentacles towards me, which I daresay resembled vines. However I managed to block the beast's attack with my head, protecting my loins with a ferocity that would make Alexander proud.
I managed to escape, fooling the creature with a shot from the Weatherby. And what a crack shot! I hit myself square in the foot.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't pause bask in the glory for just a moment.
It seems my earlier euphoria is beginning to wear off. I am slowly realizing that I indeed have shot my foot while being chased by a rather chuffed flower bed and fantasizing of nubile red-headed women. As the fog clears it seems chased was perhaps a poor choice of words. Caught would be more accurate, seeing as how I am hanging downside-up over an underground canyon. I would be concerned with the nubile redhead below me, were she not kissing me whilst being completely naked. In fact I would say I am somewhat beyond apprehension at the moment.
She is wonderfully easy to talk to. Her name is Pamela Isley. She loves flowers and plants. I seem to have butterflies in my stomach. I should ask her to marry me.
Pamela often kisses me. Sometimes she asks me to smell the flowers that she grows. My head feels....
A complete ass is harassing Pamela. We'll just see about that...
Well it was worth a try.
I'm told by Master Bruce that Ms. Isley was a botanist of some repute before she turned to a life of crime. Her modus operandi seems to involve toxins and pheromones in varying doses. As I was drugged I had little chance of acting of my own free will, according to Master Bruce.
I'll have to bite my tongue on this matter. I am far too proud to admit it that my downfall came at the hands of a self sustained gunshot wound and a susceptibility to hallucinogens. Nevertheless I am indebted to him. The Batman has saved me from the drug fueled carnal orgy with the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Instead I am once again free to live out the rest of my days as a servant to a billionaire playboy that is overly fond of bats.