"So, where did the general keep his armies? Give up, give up? In his sleevies!" The whole room erupted into polite laughter, all but one individual, who burst into the hearty Irish chuckle he was so well known for.

"Ahh, Brucie lad, that was a good one", Mr. Tibbles said, wiping the tears from his eyes and twisting his luxurious curly red mustache, a gesture he often partook of when he was amused. "Your little ten year old is quite witty, isn't he?" Bruce Wayne, C.E.O. of Wayne enterprises, nodded, deciding not to mention that the son who had told the joke was not ten, but twenty seven; better Tibbles thought Damian had a sense of humor, and gave everyone his characteristic "I'm about to land another business deal" smirk.

Although Bruce was really not much of a businessman at heart, the rigors of the corporate world could be rather exciting at times and the deal he was now sure he had in the bag had taken him over six months to land. "So", said Bruce, "shall we get to the final arrangements?"

At those words, the board members, who had been awkwardly staring at each other for the time from which the joke had been told to that time (none of them had gotten it) all jumped into action, readying the documents they had in preparation for the deal of the decade.

"Not so fast", Mr. Tibbles said, placing his hands on the table in front of him and interlacing his fingers.

"I thought we had finished all negotiations", Bruce said slowly, gritting his teeth and holding back all his annoyance behind a barely pleasant tone. The vein in his forehead throbbed. hat stupid CEO had all but worn his patience completely through with his constant delays and endless maneuvers to get the best deal possible. Bruce Wayne was absolutely sick of it. He stared at the Irishman's receding hairline, imagining a large knife sticking out of it. He shook his head. Damian must be getting to him.

"Well", Mr. Tibbles continued, "You seem like such a family man Mr. Wayne, I would love to meet your merry charges. How many do you have? Four boys if I remember correctly, Richard, Timothy, Damian and ohh yes Jason."

"Actually Mr. Tibbles, about Jason…"

"What about him?" Mr. Tibbles asked suspiciously.

'What am I supposed to tell him', Bruce thought frantically, 'I can't exactly say I killed him and then he came back to life.' Suddenly, the businessman regretted milking the family angle so much.

If there was one thing Mr. Tibbles valued even more than money, it was family and, because Bruce just so happened to have raised three boys and was in the process of raising a fourth, he had assumed that would help along the proceedings. It had, but now it seemed to have made things worse.

"He's uhh, he's…he's on a business trip."

"Well, fly 'em in me lad, you have plenty of funds at your disposal."

"But I…"

"No, no, no, I won't take no for an answer. He will be coming to this dinner."

"Di…di…dinner", Bruce stammered frantically, "I'm not sure dinner is such a good idea. How about we go somewhere else, like to a zoo. I think my family would fit in much better in, I mean, at a zoo. So, zoo it is, I'll make the preparations."

"No, no, no, Mr. Wayne", Mr. Tibbles said, "not a zoo. I want to see them at a dinner. My four sons are coming in as well and I believe they're about the same ages. I want us all to meet up at the Sunbird at six o' clock. I've already made reservations." Bruce gulped. The Sunbird, probably the fanciest restaurant in the city. Just perfect.

"Well, I'm sorry, but that's past Damian's bedtime and the little guy gets so cranky if he doesn't get into bed on time."

"Make an exception, I simply won't take no for an answer me lad."

Bruce, knowing he was defeated, heaved a great sigh and said, "Ohh alright, what day."

"Two days from now laddie, you won't be sorry. Ohh we'll have just such a gay old time."

"Yea, yea, gay old time. I guess I better get home." Mr. Tibbles nodded and watched as Bruce slowly picked up his things, walking out of the conference room. It might have been just his imagination, but he swore he could hear bells tolling, the kind that signaled a particularly nasty execution.

0000000000000000

Bruce walked into the manor, feet dragging across the carpet. "YOU KNOW WHAT DAMIAN RHYMES WITH? IT RYHMES WITH LAMIAN, BECAUSE YOU'RE SO LAME."

"YEA WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT TIM RHYMES WITH. TIM RHYMES WITH FUCK, BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT YOU AND CONNER DO."

"Tim does not rhyme with fuck."

"It does if I say it does. Tim and Conner sitting in a tree, F. U. C. K. I. N. G."

"Quit it Damian, me and Conner are just friends and you know it."

"Conner doesn't." Tim Drake gave a mighty roar, much like a charging elephant might make, and dove at Damian, landing on top of him at pulling on the younger boy's hair until he screamed. Bruce gave them a dour look and walked through the living room.

Damian quickly overpowered Tim and started gnawing on his arm. "Bruce", Tim screamed, "help!" But, Bruce paid him no heed. He walked right through to where Alfred was cleaning the kitchen.

Bruce glanced at the television, which the aging butler had on, and watching with a sinking heart as his second eldest son blew up an office building. Dick was chattering loudly on his cell phone, sitting at the table, which was covered in tiny multicolored shot glasses, most of them empty.

He hiccupped and said, "Wally, I'm on my sixteenth!"

"Father", Damian screamed from the other room, "Drake's trying to MURDER me!"

"Alfred", Bruce moaned, collapsing at the bar, "What am I gonna do?"

"About what sir?" Alfred asked.

"Mr. Tibbles wants me to go to dinner with him and he wants me to take my boys to meet his boys."

"What's wrong with that sir?" Alfred asked, wiping down the counter before putting a tall glass of orange juice in front of Bruce. The master of the house took it gratefully. He had taken a liking to orange juice over the past year, something Dick had gotten him into.

"Well", Bruce continued, wiping his mouth, "his sons are so cultured and refined and mine are…well…just look at them." He gesture vaguely around the kitchen, where Damian and Tim had just rolled in, clawing at each other like alley cats, Dick chattering and downing another shot glass and Jason grinning into the camera like the homicidal manic he was before darting away into the night. Alfred shrugged.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Die", Bruce replied. Then, deciding he'd had enough of the ruckus Damian and Tim were making, leaned down and grabbed them both by their collars. "Rooms now", he roared.

"I don't even live here anymore", Tim whimpered.

"I don't care, go!" Bruce replied. Tim and Damian cast each other murderous looks before stalking out of the kitchen.

"You showed them Bruce", Dick hiccupped. Bruce turned his angry glare on his drunken eldest, who was gazing blankly in his direction.

"You too", he said, "Out!" Dick shrugged and staggered up, swaying back and forth.

"We'll finish this, hic, tomorrow Wally. Night, night, don't let the bed bugs, hic, bite." He hung up the phone and it slipped from his shaking fingers, hitting the ground with a thud. "Bruce", he giggled, "Bruuuuuce, you're my best friend Bruuuuuuce, I love you so much." He slumped against Bruce's chest, giggling and hiccupping. Bruce rolled his eyes and threw Dick over one shoulder.

"Alfred", he moaned, "I'm gonna die."

"Of course sir, I'll order yellow daffodils for your funeral. I know how much you love the color yellow." Bruce cast him a dark look, and dragged Dick up the stairs.

"Puppies, I love Puppies, Puppies, Puppies, Puppies. Bruce, will you buy me a puppy, a little puppy with fluffy, hic, paws."

"Shut up Dick."