“Admiring your handiwork?” Batman asked.
The Penguin shook his head vigorously. How wrong could a masked vigilante be? Hadn’t Batman heard about his new image?
“Touring the riot scene,” he explained soberly. “Gravely assessing the devastation. Upstanding mayor stuff.”
Batman shook his head. “You’re not the Mayor.”
The Penguin shrugged. “Things change.”
But why were they treating each other as adversaries? Two people of their particular sort—two outcasts from society—could do much better when they acted together. The Penguin stuck out one of his new-improved-image gloves to shake hands.
“Hey, good to meet you,” he said in his best soon-to-be-mayor voice. “We’ll be working hand in glove in Gotham’s near and glorious future.”
Batman didn’t shake. Instead, he glanced around at all the lovely fires that had gotten started around the plaza.
“Once you were their freak,” Batman remarked matter-of-factly. “Now these clowns work for you. Must feel pretty good.”
Well, so much for the politician, The Penguin thought.
“Better than you know, Bat-boy,” he replied.
“What are you really after?” Batman asked.
That sounded a little bit like a challenge. The Penguin smiled. “Ah, the direct approach. I admire that in a man with a mask.” He poked his umbrella at Batman. “But you don’t really think you’ll win?”
The man with the mask smiled.
“Things change.”
Oh, The Penguin thought, how droll. He wondered how droll Batman would be once Oswald Cobblepot put his master plan into effect. Now, how would he put that into words?
He stopped when he heard glass smash at the entryway to Shreck’s Department Store. Both he and Batman turned to see a woman in black do a series of back flips across the plaza toward them. She performed a final somersault and came to her feet facing both of them.
Her costume was not only black, it was tight and shapely, and it made her look like a cat. This was one cat The Penguin would like to get to know better.
“Meow,” she remarked.
And Shreck’s Department Store exploded.
The Penguin looked out from under his umbrella. The flying glass seemed to have stopped. Much to his disappointment, the Catwoman seemed to have disappeared as well.
He glanced over at his other adversary.
“I saw her first,” The Penguin remarked.
From the way Batman studied his surroundings, he did not appear amused. Apparently, the time for a polite chat was over. Perhaps it was time for The Penguin’s exit.
“Gotta fly,” he remarked as he hit the appropriate button on his umbrella. The steel rods that supported the fabric began to whirl about, first shredding the black cloth, then spinning free on their own, a compact rotor to send The Penguin into the air. In other words, an umbrella copter.
What a clever idea, huh, Batman? It was this sort of wit that would make The Penguin victorious. Where was Batman, anyway? He was running off someplace, not even waiting to say good-bye.
The Penguin grabbed his hat as he sailed away from danger and toward his destiny.
She had to be up here someplace.
Batman had used the winch and tackle in his utility belt to hoist him most of the way up here, but he’d have to negotiate the last couple of floors’ worth of fire escape with his feet. He vaulted onto the roof of the building he had seen her climb only a minute ago. Now where would a Catwoman hide?
“Where’s the fire?” came a voice behind him.
“Shreck’s,” Batman replied. He turned to see the Catwoman let herself down from a small rooftop shack. Her black costume had been torn in half a dozen places by the explosion, showing patches of pale flesh and a scratch or two.
“You—” he began.
She kicked him in the face. Batman staggered back with the blow, but recovered quickly, slamming her in the chin with one well-aimed blow. She fell backward into a whimpering ball.
“How could you?” she moaned from where she huddled on the rooftop. “I’m a woman—”
What did she mean? Had he hit her too hard? He was so used to fighting men.
“I’m sorry—” he began hesitantly. “I—”
Catwoman caught him in the chest with both her boots, sending him backward. He was headed over the ledge. He reached out his hands, looking for something to stop his fall.
Batman heard the crack of a whip, and felt a coil loop around one of his outstretched wrists. His hand was jerked roughly as he felt himself being pulled back toward the rooftop. This Catwoman had saved him with some sort of whip, and she lashed the other end of that whip to a weathervane, keeping Batman dangling over the edge and a killing drop.
“As I was saying,” she remarked calmly. “I’m a woman and can’t be taken for granted. Are you listening, you Batman, you?”
Was she kidding? Batman grimaced. “Hanging on every word?”
“Good joke,” shereplied. “Want to hear another one?”
Batman nodded cautiously. He didn’t know how much encouragement he should give her.
“The world tells boys to conquer the world, and girls to wear clean panties,” she explained. “A man dressed as a bat is a he-man, but a woman dressed as a cat is a she-devil.” She ran her claws lightly over the whip that kept Batman tied to the roof. “I’m just living down to explanations. Life’s a bitch—and now so am I.”
She seemed done with talking for the moment. Batman quietly used his free arm to reach inside his utility belt to pull out a certain red and blue capsule.
“A he-man?” he replied with a dry laugh. “Sure. They shine that beacon in the sky, then wonder what hole I crawl out of.”
“Wow,” Catwoman remarked, “a real response and you’re not even trying to get into my tights.” She plucked the whip with one of her claws, nicking it ever so slightly. “But explain this to me—if you’re so down on them out there, why bust your bat-buns to protect them?”
Batman shook his head. “I just can’t sleep at night. Exploding department stores keep me up.” He snapped the capsule in his hands, letting the red half flow into the blue. “One—”
“I can’t sleep either, lately,” Catwoman admitted. “A little link between us. But—bottom line, baby, you live to preserve the peace, and I’m dying to disturb it.” She reached her claws forward to cut through the whip. “That could put a strain on our relationship.”
“—four, five,” Batman concluded. The tube in his hand had turned a bright purple and had started to bubble. He lobbed it at her arm as she cut away at the whip.
She screamed as the mixture exploded against her forearm. She lost her balance and fell past him, her claws catching on to a narrow ledge a few feet below. She scraped frantically at the concrete, trying to find someplace to dig in with her claws.
Batman freed his wrist from the remains of the whip and leapt down to her side. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her up, moving his hands beneath her armpits and then behind her back. The ledge was so narrow that he had to hold her quite close. It was almost as if they were embracing.
“Who are you?” she said as she gazed into his eyes. “Who’s the man behind the Bat?” She smiled sadly. “Maybe he can help me find the woman behind the Cat.” Her hand stroked his body armor. “That’s not him. Ah—here you are.”
Her hand stopped at that point just above the waist where the two main pieces of his armor joined. Without warning, she drove her talons through the fabric into his flesh.
Batman cried out in pain, pushing her away.
She fell.
“No,” Batman whispered.
She hit the back of a passing truck filled with sand.
Catwoman jumped up and waved at the astonished Batman, who watched her from high above.
“Saved by the kitty litter,” she remarked dryly. “Some date—”
She ripped her sleeve away to expose the nasty red welt on her forearm, loo
king at it more closely in the light of a passing street lamp.
“So it’s not a corsage,” she murmured. “But a burn lasts so much longer.” So that was the Batman, she thought.
“Bastard,” she added.
“Bitch,” Batman muttered as he examined the wound, a set of four small punctures across his lower stomach. They felt much worse than they looked. Still, it was only when he had reached the safety of the Batcave that he felt he could sufficiently examine them.
He walked over to his communications console and flicked a switch, then pressed a button.
“Alfred,” he called, “would you bring me some antiseptic ointment, please?”
“Coming,” the concerned voice of the butler replied. “Are you in pain, sir?”
“Yes,” Batman admitted, “a bit—” He flipped the switch back to break the connection.
“But I don’t really mind,” he added softly. He gingerly rubbed at his sore stomach, thinking about what had just happened, and with whom.
“Meow,” he remarked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Her desk was so much cozier now. She had gotten rid of all those old, wimpy notes that Selina had written to herself and posted all over her computer, and replaced them with much more appropriate reminders: “Defy Authority.” “Take No Prisoners.” “Expose the Horror.” Yes. She liked these much better.
A fly buzzed too close to her ear. She snatched it from the air and crushed it without looking up. It would be only one of the things she’d crush today.
But it was time for Max’s coffee.
She grabbed the milk and made those final, all-important preparations.
She sauntered into Max’s office. Chip was deep in conversation with his father; apparently an exploded department store was enough to get both their attentions.
“Morning, Max,” she said to the old boss. “Bummer about the store. You covered?”
“I damn well better be!” the senior Shreck fumed. “In fact, I want you to phone those goniffs over at Gotham Insurance and tell them—”
“Actually,” she replied casually, “I have to split. Take a ‘personal day.’ You don’t mind? Max, you’re tops!”
Max nodded. After her mysterious reappearance, he let her do just about anything. It was amazing what coming back from the dead could do for your career.
Max sipped his coffee. At last, the moment she’d been waiting for.
He made the strangest noise as he spit the live cockroach out of his mouth onto the table. And after that, he spent a good thirty seconds gagging.
Chip turned away from the table. The cockroach scurried off, leaving a coffee trail on Max’s important papers.
“Those darned exterminators,” she mentioned disparagingly. “They swore the machine was shipshape!”
She turned and sauntered out, listening to Max’s continued gagging, sweet music to her sensitive ears. Yes, this day was starting out well enough. But it would get even better!
His chance was here at last. After that shameful night of crime on the streets of Gotham City, what could The Penguin—that is, Oswald Cobblepot—do but declare his candidacy for mayor? So they’d taken down the curtains, revealing his campaign headquarters for all to see. They’d invited the press, alerted the media, even come up with a couple of improved banners. OSWALD MEANS ORDER hung on the left side of the room. COBBLEPOT CAN CLEAN IT UP hung over the right.
So here he was, surrounded by the media and his hundred volunteers. What could The Penguin do to top that, except to say a few inspiring words?
“I may have saved the Mayor’s baby,” he said with a wave of his ever-present umbrella, “but I refuse to save a mayor who stood by, helpless as a baby, while Gotham was ravaged by a disease that turns Eagle Scouts into crazed clowns, and happy homemakers into Catwomen!” The Penguin wasn’t exactly sure what this meant, but it sure sounded good.
His volunteers cheered. In the background, he could hear reporters calling in their stories: “Oswald Cobblepot, the mystery man-beast who’s been romancing Gotham, today made a bid to run Gotham—”
Ah, it was music to his ears. What could be better?
A very shapely young volunteer stood in his path. “Mr. Cobblepot,” she squealed as she looked adoringly down at him, “you’re the coolest role model a young person could have.”
Yes, he thought, it could get better, especially in the supply room, with the two of them alone.
“And you’re the hottest young person a role model could have,” he said aloud. He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Here, wear a button.”
It was, of course, his duty to pin that button personally on her pert young breast. He wanted to see more of this volunteer—not to mention her pert young breasts—as soon as possible.
Ah, but there were still members of the press around. A politician had to be careful in these troubled times. He decided it might be best to go upstairs and cool off.
“I could really get into this mayor stuff,” he murmured to himself. “It’s not about power, it’s about—reaching out to people. Touching people.” He thought of his volunteer. “Groping people.”
He climbed up to his other headquarters. The Organ Grinder was supervising the construction of those special weapons so necessary for their next assault. Everything looked to be in order here as well.
The thin Clown stuck his face up close to The Penguin.
“Hey, Penguin,” he began, “there’s a—”
The Penguin stomped down on the clown’s foot.
“My name’s not Penguin!” he barked. “It’s Oswald Cobblepot.” Especially, he thought, if that name attracted the babes. He almost felt like singing. Heck, why not? “I’ll get a lot of tail on the campaign trail—”
“Oswald,” the Knife Lady interjected, “there’s someone here to see you.” She jerked her head toward The Penguin’s bed in the far corner of the loft. There, curled up on the mattress, with a pretty little kitty in her lap, was the woman of The Penguin’s dreams—the Catwoman.
He chomped down hard on his cigarette holder. Be still, he told his heart—not to mention other parts of his anatomy. He’d show this beauty that fur and feathers could mix and mate.
The canary beside The Penguin’s bed cried out in alarm, not at all pleased with the new visitors. But hey, what did canaries know? Maybe this Catwoman was dangerous, but it was The Penguin’s kind of danger.
The Penguin stepped forward to greet her. “Just the pussy I’ve been looking for.”
Catwoman sat up, moving her hands slowly up and down her upper arms. “Chilly in here.”
She must be talking about those air conditioners on either side of his sleeping area, set up to re-create the temperature of his beloved Arctic World. One always tried to relive the comforts of one’s childhood. But there was no reason this poor woman had to suffer for The Penguin’s sake. At least not while they still had all their clothes on.
“I’ll warm you!” he heartily volunteered.
“Down, Oswald,” Catwoman warned.
The Penguin stopped. He didn’t like the look of her claws.
“We need to talk,” she continued. “You see, we have something in common.”
“Sounds familiar,” The Penguin agreed. He’d like to have a lot of things in common with this babe. “Appetite for destruction?” he guessed. He tugged on his suit coat. “Contempt for the czars of fashion? Wait—don’t tell me—naked sexual charisma!”
“Batman,” Catwoman replied simply. “The thorn in both our sides, the fly in our ointment.”
“Ointment?” The Penguin leered. It sounded good to him. “Scented or unscented?”
Catwoman sighed and stood. “I’ll come back later.”
The Penguin gently pushed her back on the bed. Perhaps he was coming on a bit too strong. Maybe they did need to talk for a minute or two before abandoning all their inhibitions and giving themselves up to overwhelming sexual passion.
“Are you, perchance, a registered voter?” he a
sked pleasantly. “I’m a mayoral prospect, you know.”
She did not seem impressed. “I have but one pet cause today. Ban the Bat.”
“Oh, him again,” The Penguin replied dismissively. “what is it with you two? He’s already history—” He raised his umbrella and pointed to the blueprints on the wall. “Check it out.”
Catwoman walked over to the detailed diagrams of the Batmobile. It had taken Max a pretty penny to get them from the car’s designer—or a disgruntled former employee of that designer. The Penguin let the businessman handle that sort of particular.
And speaking of particulars, they had every single part of the Batmobile labeled on these charts; and not just those parts the average citizen might see, but every nut and bolt that held that infernal machine together.
The Penguin chuckled at the very thought of their plans.
“We’re going to disassemble his spiffy old Batmobile,” he explained heartily, “then reassemble it as an H-bomb on wheels.” He opened his umbrella as he made the sound of a muffled explosion—a visual aid for the death of Batman. “Yesterday’s victor is tomorrow’s vapor.”
The Catwoman shook her head disapprovingly. “He’d have more power as a martyr. No, to destroy Batman, we must first turn him into what he hates most.” She pointed at the Penguin, then herself. “Namely, us.”
The Penguin frowned. This was more complicated than he thought. Was she talking about sullying the hero before they could off him?
“You mean, frame him?” he asked.
But Catwoman was no longer looking at him. She had noticed the huge pile of yellow legal pads on his bedside table, and had even picked up one to peruse the names he had written there.
“Hmm—not even in office yet,” she mused, “and already an enemies list.”
How dare she! The Penguin scurried over to his special project, thrusting his gloves forward to protect his list from unauthorized observation.
“These names are not for prying eyes!” He frowned up at this intruder. What did he know about this woman, anyway? “Hey, why should I trust some Catbroad? Maybe you’re just a screwed-up sorority chick who’s getting back at Daddy for not buying her that pony when she turned sweet sixteen—”
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