Batman:Revenge - Excerpt

Excerpt from Chapter 11 of

   
   

Batman: Revenge

                                                                               

by

    George R. Lasher

Needing to laugh a little, on the way home the Commissioner picked up a DVD he'd been meaning to watch for quite a while, As Good as it Gets. The leading lady, Helen Hunt, reminded him of his ex-wife. They had shared so many good times, but she divorced him claiming he seemed more committed to Gotham City than to her and their daughter. The phrase "spilt milk" came to mind, but the choices he made, the pain he caused, and the pain he continued to feel, amounted to a hell of a lot more than "spilt milk."
        Sitting in his driveway, Gordon removed the keys from the ignition and shook his head one last time at the disturbing memories. He grunted with disapproval at the squawk emitted by the creaky door of his department-provided Ford as it swung open. The darned thing could wake the dead. He'd been meaning to requisition a new car for some time. Heading for his front door he promised himself that he would fill out the necessary paperwork, tomorrow, for sure...if he had time.
        He dropped his keys at the front door and cursed as he fumbled for them in the dim streetlamp light filtering through the branches of the old trees. Looking up at the burned-out bulb that should have brightened the entryway at his front door, he felt betrayed. It had been on last night. Why had it burned out? It didn’t stay on that long; just overnight, every night, except when he accidentally left it on for a week or two at a time. Finally, without enough light to see, he recognized the shape of his house key and began to search for the keyhole, feeling like a blind man using the Braille system.
        Once inside, his autopilot took over, steering him straight to the bar without needing to turn on the lights. The keys and the rented DVD were tossed onto the couch as he passed. Now, according to his tastebuds and salivary glands, it was high time for that special drink. Yes, indeed! He picked up the decanter, pulled the stopper out, and carefully placed it on the silver tray. Soon, a couple of ice cubes clinked into a glass and floated in a four-ounce pool of cognac.
        He couldn't be sure, but the decanter seemed less full than he remembered. Did he have a third drink last night? Sometimes he became forgetful after a second. As he plugged the stopper back into the decanter, something esle bothered him. One of his "special" glasses was missing. How could one be missing? He shook his head as he picked up his glass and took an experimental sip, "Ahhhh, delicious." Maybe he left the other glass in the kitchen. 
        The Commissioner walked around the side of the couch and set his drink on one of the two absorbent sandstone coasters he kept on his coffee table. After sitting, he untied his shoes and kicked them off. He lifted his glass off the coaster, leaned back, and put his feet on the table.
        Wiggling his toes, he closed his eyes and started to unwind. A vague recollection from childhood surfaced of his mother scolding him for putting his feet on her coffee table. He smiled and opened his heavy eyes to take another sip. Rich and satisfying, the expensive cognac provided a fitting reward at the end of a long day.
        "Don't smack your lips, James," his mother used to say.
        Sorry Mom, he thought and took great pleasure in smacking them out loud, followed by a grand yawn. The moonlight filtering in through the thin, lace curtains, combined with the street lamp outside, provided just enough illumination to identify the shapes of his familiar surroundings. But something wasn't right.
        Planting his feet back on the floor, Gordon leaned forward and tensed up. His breath quickened as he realized something didn't belong in the room. In the darkest part, sitting quietly and so very, very still in the chair on the other side of the coffee table, he saw someone, or something.
        As the seconds dragged by it became chillingly evident that whoever or whatever it might be, wasn’t breathing. Could it be a corpse? Commissioner Gordon leaned further forward to get a better look.
        “Who, who, who’s there?” the Commissioner asked - his throat tightening, his voice becoming hoarse.
        He jerked backward involuntarily as a hand rose out of the shroud of darkness, spiraling, in a grand, ceremonial gesture of greeting. For a brief moment, the hand caught enough of the full moon and the street lamps outside for Gordon to distinguish eerily green nails on the fingertips of a deathly bone-white hand.
        Breaking the silence, the previously lifeless intruder sucked in a long, deep breath and replied almost in a whisper as he expelled the sweet, delicious air. “An old friend, Commissioner.” Though softly spoken, the ghostly delivery of the answer revealed a barely restrained sense of triumph and  satisfaction.
        Gordon recognized the voice immediately. His heart began to race as the uninvited guest took another sip of air and spoke again, exhibiting a strange, jocular attitude, “Don’t bother offering me a drink, I already poured one for myself. That’s a nice cognac you have there, but be careful now, a man could get addicted to that stuff. You know, I used to enjoy a stiff drink from time to time, maybe a little too often come to think of it, but then I also used to enjoy breathing - couldn’t go through so much as a day without doing it. Booze and breathing, you might say I was addicted to both. But, thanks to the little intervention party you and Batman put together, I kicked those habits. Gave them both up, cold turkey. Talk about your withdrawal symptoms!” 
        The bizarre figure slapped his thigh and laughed out loud, seeming to almost lose control for a moment, before settling down and shaking his head. He pulled an orange handkerchief from the breast pocket of his purple Edwardian jacket, wiped his brow and then stuffed it back in before continuing, “Now I find that I can partake of them again and, although the good people at the Betty Ford clinic might preach abstinence, I think moderation is the key. I do enjoy both, but I can exist without them, as well.” 
        Deathly silence enveloped the room once more, except for the rapid, shallow, breathing of the Commissioner and the clinking of ice cubes in his glass as his hand began to shake.
        The hideous facial disfigurement that resembled a permanent grin became visible as the visitor leaned forward slightly and apologized, “I know, I should have phoned to tell you I was coming over. I hope you don’t think me rude, but I thought you‘d be tickled to death to see me again. Please, please,” he waved a pale hand encouragingly, “go ahead and finish your drink, then we can get down to business.”
        The Commissioner glanced at his glass and swallowed the remainder of his cognac in one gulp. Straining to see through the veil of darkness, he set the glass down and said, “It can’t be you, I was there when you were buried. You’re dead.”
        A low, rumbling chuckle came from the other side of the coffee table, after which the intruder replied, “Dead? Yes, I am. But I'm far less dead than you're going to be in another minute or two. You see, James, I poured a small amount of a powerful, tasteless poison into your glass. Some of my boys have been looking in on you recently and they noticed you rarely ever turn your lights on right away when you get home. If you had turned on your lights tonight, you might possibly have seen your glass wasn’t completely empty and I'm certain you would’ve seen me. That’s what I like about you, Commissioner, you’re the kind of guy people can count on. In fact I’d like to make a little toast in your honor, if I may.”
        Lifting the glass, which twinkled as it caught the faint light of the moon, the pale hand rose once again in a macabre, final salute to an old adversary, “Over the lips, over the gums, look out graveyard, here he comes!” Relishing his revenge, the Joker tilted the fine, cut crystal towards his abnormally red lips and downed the glass of cognac in a single gulp. "Ahhhhhhh."
        The Commissioner coughed, gasped, and began to choke. He reached for his throat, which constricted to the point where he wasn‘t getting any oxygen. As he gasped, the world spun, became blurry, and faded to black. He slumped over onto the arm of the couch and raggedly exhaled for the last time, his eyes open in a horrified stare. A tomb-like atmosphere enveloped the room, undisturbed by so much as a single breath from either occupant.
        A maven of the moribund, the Joker closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the ambiance of retribution. The bouquet of cognac and the Commissioner's last breath floated on the air, lingering in his nose and throat. He sighed with satisfaction and regret, savoring the moment as if it were the last drop of a rare, exquisite wine at the end of a gourmet meal. When he reopened his eyes, he gazed fondly at his victim and said, “Well, I hate to drink and run, Commissioner, but I have places to go and people to kill.” 
        The Joker set his glass down on the sandstone coaster that sat on his side of the coffee table, stood, and walked around to the couch where the Commissioner lay. He leaned over, picked up the DVD case and inspected it with amused curiosity. Seeing a picture of the leading actor on the cover, he nodded with approval. “Jack Nicholson, huh? Now there’s a great actor. Commissioner, you had good taste, I’ll grant you that. I promise to get this back to the video store on time, so you don’t get hit with late fees.” He chuckled, wickedly. Then the chuckle became a laugh. As he headed for the door, the laugh escalated into the chilling, uncontrollable howls of a crazed lunatic. “So you don’t get hit with late fees, Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha...Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha..."   

Batman: Revenge - Chapter 1 & 2  (13+) A serious sequel to the 1989 film, starring Jack Nicholson and Michael Keaton. #1464153 by George R. Lasher