A Cat's Grinning Corpse

AUTHOR PLEA: I LOVE REVIEWS! The good, the bad, AND the ugly. I do read them and respond because I appreciate the time you took to read and write your thoughts. And they serve as constructive criticism for future writing. VERY ESSENTIAL. Sooo…DON'T BE SHY First Fanfic I have done. Enjoy!

Preface

Undulating sheets of torrential rain plummeted down from the purple cloud-choked sky. Thunder and lightning rolled and ripped jagged crevices into the bruised thunderclouds, momentarily illuminating the black membrane above into electrified blues and greens and pinks. Gothic skyscrapers loomed in masses of steel, pock-marked stones, and stained glass; the gridlocked labyrinth of interlocked streets steamed as cold rain slammed down on the black asphalt, and accumulated in the swollen gutters clogged with ungodly filth and garbage.

This city pulsed with life—every window was ablaze with light as if the occupants within were trying to ward off the horrible night, and the everlasting wail of sirens boomeranged up and down the roads, never dying or wavering in presence. It served as the hub of crime, the coveted chance at salvation for wayward criminals, and the primary headquarters for housing the criminally insane. They holed themselves up during the day, hiding from society, but at night the city's scum slithered out of the brickwork to claim the night, saturating it with corruption. The tempting neon glow and sinful flashing lights of clubs, sleazy restaurants, strip joints, and bars kaleidoscoped together and mixed easily with the grit in the pooling water on the streets.

On every route leading into the city, a graffiti-covered sign ensconced on a fragile rusty pole read: WELCOME TO GOTHAM CITY. And not one hundred feet behind one of those signs, yet another neglected sign riddled through with corrosive rust proclaimed: ARKHAM INSANE ASYLUM, NEXT EXIT. A dead man swayed from the light over this second sign, an improvised noose rung taut around his broken neck. A garish grin was plastered to his face and bulging eyes gazed indifferently up into the falling rain. His doctor's uniform was bloodied and cut to shreds. The thin ribbons of material clinging to the suspended form thrashed wildly in the wind, exposing flesh mutilated beyond recognition.

A joker from a deck of cards was later extricated from one of the sixty-six stab wounds the cadaver had received. The Joker had escaped.

Chapter 1: The Good Fight

A large fist clad in thick navy cloth smashed onto the computer keyboard. The soft smoldering lights of various computer screens flickered briefly from the impact, then the central modem whirred to life to save the keyboard from more physical abuse. A bat screeched from far off in the surrounding caverns, prompting the man at the computers to extract his fist, incline his head thoughtfully to one side, and cross massive arms that bulged against reinforced dark gray Kevlar.

"It's another damn power outage," he said into the darkness. "Nearly made the cave's generator give out."

A white gloved hand manifested from the natural dark of the cave, offering a steaming cup of inky black liquid. Connected to this hand was an immaculately dressed middle aged gentleman, his gently receding hairline a metallic silvery white like his delicately trimmed moustache. "What I wouldn't give to be able to sneak up on you just once, sir—I will get on that faulty generator right way…I suppose I can cancel out the more likely cause of nasty weather…"

The cowled man smiled crookedly as he accepted the drink. "Thank you, Alfred, but I'm confident that I controlled myself—I didn't rig it with explosives or anything."

"Of course, of course," the butler agreed quickly, whipping out a bleached white handkerchief to neatly remove the broken and shattered keyboard buttons. He pocketed the mangled remains, and then straightened his cufflinks as his insightful eyes landed on the main monitor. "Is our happy friend out to pay Batman a visit again?" he inquired, silently watching the grainy security tape replay over and over the Joker as he burst free from his glass-paneled cell, effortlessly disposed of a few advancing security details with the glinting shards, and then loped away presumably toward the exit as his fellow inmates cheered him on by beating on their own glass prisons.

The Batman ran a hand over his partially exposed face, causing the glove's material to grate audibly against rough stubble. "Seems as much," he muttered, carefully setting down the mug full of coffee next to tomorrow's edition of the Gotham Newspaper announcing the maniac's escape in bold lettering splashed on the front page. He braced both palms on the edge of the keyboard, and wearily bowed his head. The muted luminosity of the semi-circled Bat-computer cast the pointed ears of his cowl into sharp relief.

"Master Bruce?" The butler gazed with concern upon the legendary superhero, seeing instead the man he helped raise from a young age. He noticed the bruise-like rings peeking out from underneath the slatted eyes of the cowl, and the drawn muscles in Bruce's face; but Alfred also recognized the resolved set to his broad shoulders. He would get the Joker locked up again, away from the general populace—he always did.

"I just put him back in Arkham two nights ago, Alfred. In less than forty-eight hours, he has managed not only to make my effort pointless, but he has also thrown it up in my face."

"How so?"

Batman reached over and tapped a blinking button, pulling up several pictures.

"Oh dear," Alfred whispered, his hand absently rising to clutch his neck. "Did this just happen?"

"Yes. I just came back from documenting evidence and observing the crime scene-I got there before the police did after contacting Gordon to hang back. I knew he would leave a path for me to follow."

"Who was this poor fellow?"

"Just a doctor—an intern, really—working at Arkham. His name was Joseph Mengles. No significance to his death, from what I can see; just another innocent victim." He paused, then picked up the newspaper to hand to Alfred. "Could you give this to the nearest news stand to copy and distribute before dawn? People need to be warned as soon as possible."

Alfred nodded and took it, knowing that he could do nothing but guide him through the darkness he purposefully submerged himself in. "Yes, I will make sure it happens, Master Bruce," he said softly. "But…I know it seems insignificant when what you do is constantly undone, but sometimes when you are fighting the good fight, you may not win every battle; there will be senseless killings, so there will always be casualties. But you are preventing that body count from rising any more than it has to…and I am sure if each of those saved from being a number in that death toll knew this, they would be grateful of you. You are making a difference."

Batman looked at Alfred, amazed at his inexplicable ability to know exactly what to say to him to get him back on the right track. He really looked up to this man. Alfred had become his father, his inspiration, his everything when his parents were taken from him. And as Bruce grew older, so did Alfred; it saddened Bruce as his beloved butler's hair washed to silver, as his small laugh lines cracked into spiderweb exaggeration, as small liver spots began to sprinkle themselves over his arms and neck.

"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce abruptly turned, his long cape snapping as he strode with renewed purpose to the Batmobile.

"Just remember you have another engagement that neither Batman nor Bruce needs to forget tonight," Alfred called after him, his mild voice bouncing around the cave and through Bruce's skull.

He hadn't forgotten, though. He never had from the moment it happened. It was the anniversary of his parent's murders. A familiar cold pain seeped from that empty place Bruce harbored deep within his heart, pumping its vengeful whispers and promises throughout his body like poison as it burned away what little that remained of Bruce Wayne. This one night belonged to him and to him alone. Batman revved the powerful engine to life and peeled off into the storming night to fight the crime that had stolen his childhood and his parents.