It's raining buckets in Gotham, like God left the water running in the cold bath where he slit his wrists, and his death throes are making the rain come down in blue-black sheets, drenching the buildings that are his tub's marble-clawed feet.
Stabbing into the sky like a mile-long phosphorescent penis is the Bat-Signal, my emblem embossed across the clouds like a serial killer's trophy mark. "Fetishistic" isn't the right word, but it's the closest that comes to mind.
I am Bruce's rampaging ego.
The Batmobile rips through Gotham's steel canyons, belching smoke as thick as my rage and and black as my mood, my foot permanently against the firewall. More speed, more power, more penetration of the murky streets. I have an erection as hard as iron and I can't satisfy it, so my Batmobile becomes my penis, plowing through moist and cloying alleys like a turbine-powered dildo.
It's always "a" dildo, though. Never "my" dildo. Have to watch how I think, or that mind-reading freak J'onn will narc me out to Clark, and then he'll have to spend several hours talking about "feelings" and "rage" and "psycho-sexual impulses" while I fantasize about bending Diana over that giant penny in the Batcave and taking her roughly from behind.
See also: Amazonian Bondage Fetish.
See also: Diana's recurring rape fantasy.
To get semen stains out, I have to soak my cape in cold salt water, then wash as usual. Same with blood. Anything organic, really.
I arrive at Police Headquarters, propelled to the roof by rage and a Batline. I expect to see Commissioner Gordon there, in a rumpled overcoat, but instead it's Renee Montoya. I appear behind her, my breath on the back of her neck her only clue to my arrival. She whips around, latino eyes blazing a mixture of fear and lust.
I am Bruce's psychological warfare.
She gives me some story about some scum somewhere that need cleaning in a non-police sanctioned way. But I'm not listening. I know where all the scum in this town live. I have a model of Gotham in the Batcave. Some days, when it all gets too much, I take off my shoes and stomp on Crime Alley.
I stomp and I stomp and I stomp until the headless miniature of Joe Chill is firmly embedded in the flesh of my heel.
To get bloodstains out of a fur coat, use cornmeal and brush the coat the wrong way.
To get crime out of Gotham, use Batman.
She tries to show me a file. I don't need it, I say.
How will you know who to bring in, she says.
I'll know them by my hate, I say.
You have to know who you hate, she says.
I know who I hate, and it's myself. But I love my hate, and I love to spread it. I spread it all over the faces of criminals.
"Bukkake" isn't the right word, but it's the first that comes to mind.
I am Bruce's Bukkake of Justice.
The Fine Print
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