Batman 2 - Batman Returns (18 page)

Alfred frowned at the TV. “I’m less worried about this ghastly, grotesque—more concerned about repairing the Batmobile. It’s not as though we can simply bring it to Joe’s Body Shop. Is it, sir?”

Bruce glanced up at the butler. Look who was worried about security.

“Hey, who let Vicki Vale into the Batcave?” he asked with a smile and a shake of his head. “I’m sitting there working, I turn around, it’s like, ‘Oh, hi, Vick. C’mon in.’ ”

The butler did nothing more than raise an eyebrow. Sometimes, Bruce wondered who exactly was in charge around here.

But there were other, more interesting things to wonder about. “Selina,” Bruce mused as he shook the water off his wrist. “More facets than Vicki, huh?” He walked over to an Iron Maiden in another corner of the room. “Funny, but sort of mysterious—”

Alfred nodded curtly. “That’s your own affair, sir.”

Was it really? Whenever Alfred allowed his employer to have an opinion—rather than curtly commenting upon his mistakes—it meant the butler actually approved of Bruce’s latest interest.

And Bruce Wayne always held Alfred’s opinions in the highest regard.

“Affair,” he murmured. “Yes, maybe—if she—”

He let the rest of the sentence hang as he placed the key in the maiden’s lock and turned. It sprang open to reveal its deadly spikes. Bruce stepped inside.

“I believe I’ll take the stairs,” Alfred commented dryly.

The spikes retreated and the bottom dropped out from under Bruce.

He was on his way to the Batcave.

And The Penguin was on his way to a surprise.

Bruce jumped from the chute that had brought him from the mansion above. He pulled out the recordable CD that he had taken from the Batmobile, and inserted it into his specially modified player.

Alfred came puffing down the stairs behind him. The Penguin was displayed in all his glory on the large monitor that dominated this corner of the cave. He droned on with his never-ending speech.

“You ask, am I up here for personal glory?” The Penguin asked.

That was it, Bruce thought. Keep on talking until I can get the equipment set up properly and Alfred can determine the frequency. He flipped a whole bank of switches.

“Ha!” Cobblepot barked. “I toiled for many years in happy obscurity, beneath your boulevards.”

In the meantime, Alfred toiled as well. He sat down at his own console, and punched up the
FIND FREQUENCY
command. The computers only took a few seconds to respond with
FREQUENCY FOUND
. They had the signal. Now, all they needed was to make a few minor adjustments, and those modifications Batman had made to the Gotham Plaza public address system should soon become apparent.

“No,” The Penguin continued, oblivious to the fun that was to come, “the glory I yearn to recapture is the glory of Gotham!”

Alfred punched in another command,
JAM FREQUENCY
.

“How can this be accomplished?” The Penguin continued grandly. “I know you’re all concerned.”

FREQUENCY JAMMED
. That’s what it said on Alfred’s computer.

It was time to play.

The Penguin was on a roll. He had all the birds and babes in Gotham in the palm of his flipper!

“—the glory of Gotham!” he shouted.

Everybody cheered.

“How can this be accomplished?” he called.

“Tell us!” they called back. “We want to know, Oswald!”

“I know you’re all concerned,” he continued, “and I’ll tell you!”

There was no response. His microphone had gone dead.

Certainly, it was only a momentary glitch in the communications system. Max’s people would have it fixed in a jiffy. The Penguin decided to repeat the last sentence, just to see if he’d get any results.

“I know—” he began.

His voice boomed back at him: “Hey, just relax and I’ll take care of the squealing, wretched, pinhead puppets of Gotham!”

The Penguin stared at the microphone.

“Wait a sec—” he sputtered. “I didn’t say that!”

At least, he hadn’t said it since last night, when he was talking to Batman.

Last night? Batman?

But nobody could hear his real voice anymore. Instead, his recorded voice boomed on.

“You gotta admit, I’ve played this stinking city like a harp from hell!”

But those remarks were strictly off the record! Not, of course, that he didn’t mean them, but not in front of the babes!

The crowd was booing now, and throwing things! His campaign workers were backing away from him. The Penguin turned and glared at Max. How could he allow something like this to happen?

Perhaps it was time to rethink his campaign.

Bruce Wayne allowed himself a smile.

The crowd was reacting just as he’d hoped they would, angry that The Penguin had deceived them. And The Penguin, not the most stable of individuals, was getting angry right back at them!

What could Bruce do now but raise the stakes?

He punched a series of buttons and placed his palm on the CD, letting the computer single out that special phrase. Here it was.

“This stinking city—” and again, “stinking city—stinking city—stink-stink-stinking city—” Just like a DJ at one of those downtown clubs. Penguin, how do you like that rap?

“—stink-stink—”

Hey, it had a beat. And who said Batman wasn’t up-to-date?

The Penguin fell back from the microphone, spinning around, almost losing his balance.

“—stink-stink—stinking city—”

Somebody hit him with a snowball, lettuce, tomatoes.

And the performance went on.

“—stink—stinking—stink—”

It was music to Bruce’s ears.

The Penguin had to get out of this place.

He grabbed his umbrella. Now, if he could get the rotor motor working.

But wait! He’d brought the wrong umbrella for escape. Why, after all, would he have to escape from his adoring crowd? The Penguin squawked bitterly. Say something bad about Gotham, belittle the populace a little, and how soon things change!

This black number The Penguin held now had another function entirely.

People threw more things at the stage. And, even worse, some of the missiles were finding The Penguin. Rotten fruit, vegetables, eggs?

“Why is there always someone who brings eggs and tomatoes to a speech?” he cried aloud.

He guessed it was just a part of the American Way. Well, he carried another part of that inalienable dream in his umbrella: the right to bear arms.

He lifted his bumbershoot and sprayed bullets into the crowd.

Turn on me, will you, Gotham City?

Somehow, this just seemed to make the audience more upset. The Penguin decided it was time to head for cooler climes.

He jumped from the stage, heading out of the plaza and toward the park. A number of the good citizens gave chase.

Oh, dear. He didn’t want to encourage a mob scene. He managed to leap a park bench, but the Gothamites were gaining. He turned and gave them another taste of lead.

Still, his machine umbrella didn’t have a limitless amount of ammunition. And cops were showing up, returning his fire!

He had to get out of here.

That bridge, ahead, looked awfully familiar. Almost like it was out of a storybook someplace, a quaint stone bridge nestled in the woods above a rushing stream. Except the Penguin thought this particular story was much more personal: He had visions of a baby carriage, and another fall, a long time ago.

The Penguin jumped, losing himself in the icy waters of the river below, and the sewer beyond that he called home.

So much for politics.

Now it was time to get down to his real business.

T
he Penguin trudged out of the sewer pipe. He was wet, bedraggled, and humiliated, but he was home. He kept his eyes low, partially perhaps from dejection, but also from self-preservation. You never knew quite what the sewers held.

He banged into something. He looked up. It was his rubber-duck boat. Yes, he could use this in his plans, too, those same plans he’d let Max and his own foolishness lead him away from. What did he care about babes? When the time came, The Penguin would take all the babes he wanted, and there would be no one to stop him!

He jumped into the boat and revved it over the sewage lagoon to his arctic island. There, ahead, were the penguins, his penguins, squawking and playing.

The Penguin smiled despite his pain.

“My babies,” he murmured. “Did you miss me?”

The penguins seemed to squawk in reply. He drove his duck up to the dock as he saw the first few members of the Red Triangle Circus Gang enter his lair through the main tunnel. He guessed things got a little bit too hot for them, too, after his speech. Or the speech that Batman made for him.

There were debts to be paid, when the time came.

The clown waved and bounded over to The Penguin as he climbed from his craft.

“Great speech, Oswald!” his grease-painted crony said with a laugh. “The way you told those rubes the score!”

Penguin smacked the clown on the head with his umbrella.

“My name’s not Oswald,” he barked, “it’s The Penguin!” Yeah, he thought. That was more like it. “I am not a human being!” he continued. “I’m an animal! Cold blooded! Crank the A.C.!”

He pulled off his tuxedo coat and those damned gloves. Ah, how good it felt for his flippers to be free! It was time to get cold.

“Where’s my list?” he demanded. “Bring me the names!”

With that, the Knife Lady entered the lair, carrying a great stack of yellow legal pads with all the information he’d gathered, courtesy of the Hall of Records and the Gotham City phone book.

“It’s time!” He chortled with glee, hopping from one foot to the other. For this was the night of Max’s party, the social event of the season, and all his victims would be unprotected. Yes, indeed. “Gotham will
never
forget.”

He tore off the top page and handed it to the first of his minions, then the second page to another.

“Evan Black,” read an acrobat who’d taken a page, “181 Shepard’s Lane?”

“Thomas Frankel?” the clown chimed in from the page he now held, “273 Carlton Avenue?”

The Penguin decided he’d better spell it out for all of them.

“These are the firstborn sons of Gotham City!” he cried to the assembled gang. “Like I was! And just like me, a terrible fate waits for them! Tonight, while their parents party, they’ll be dreaming away in their safe cribs, their soft beds, and we will snatch them”—he closed his flippers into an approximation of fists—“carry them into the sewer”—he danced merrily over to the water’s edge—“and toss them into a deep, dark, watery
grave
!”

Some of the gang members muttered at that. A few even exchanged looks. The acrobat who’d taken the first yellow page looked to his boss.

“Ummm, Penguin?” he said hesitantly. “I mean—kids? Sleeping? Isn’t that a little—”

The Penguin lofted his sleek black umbrella and shot the acrobat dead. Not to mention to pieces.

“No,” he finished the other’s sentence dryly, “it’s a
lot
.”

The rest of the Red Triangle Circus Gang managed a hasty cheer. Good. Showed just what a little well-placed discipline could do.

Not to mention a few well-placed bullets.

There were certain duties a butler never approved of. Still, a duty was a duty, and could not be forgotten until it was fulfilled. So it was that Alfred took the invitation down to the Batcave to remind his employer.

Master Bruce was hard at work on the undercarriage of the Batmobile, which still looked like a total shambles. Alfred would not be surprised if it took weeks to get the vehicle in proper working order.

Alfred cleared his throat. Bruce looked up from his work, and the butler proffered the invitation. He held it as far away from himself as possible. He wished he didn’t have to hold it at all.

“Mr. Wayne,” Alfred managed. “A reminder. Tonight is that loathsome party, hosted by that failed kingmaker, Max Shreck. May we RSVP in the resounding negative?”

His employer paused for a moment before responding. “I’m tempted, but”—he frowned—“well, it is an occasion for celebration, and—ummmm”—his frown changed to the slightest of smiles—“Selina will probably be there.”

Oh, dear. There were certain more important things, then, than snubbing kingmakers.

“Ah,” Alfred replied. He regarded his employer for an instant. “Who, may I ask, are you going as?”

But Bruce only smiled enigmatically.

“You’ll never guess.”