by Chris Dee CAT-TALES TTHE GGOTHAM RROGUES CAT-TALES TTHE GGOTHAM RROGUES By Chris Dee COPYRIGHT © 2012, CHRIS DEE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. BATMAN, CATWOMAN, GOTHAM CITY, ET AL CREATED BY BOB KANE, PROPERTY OF DC ENTERTAINMENT, USED WITHOUT PERMISSION catwoman-cattales.com facebook.com/cattales.by.chris.dee ISBN: 978-1517198084 THE GOTHAM ROGUES “I said ‘Fuck the Post’ not ‘Fuck in the Post,’” Eddie exclaimed, staring at the picture of his best friend screwing his worst enemy. He felt a throbbing behind his eyes, which he shut as he reminded himself that he didn’t care anymore. He was The Riddler, he was The Smartest Villain in Gotham, the only man with enough going on above the neck to bring the Batman to his knees, and he had been reduced to being Fate’s Bitch—largely because of that bitch “spreading her legs for him in the Gotham Post!” Eddie said aloud at his computer screen. The website of the notorious tabloid said nothing in reply, and Eddie switched off the monitor. Enough. E.N. Ough… No, too obvious, E.N. Houg, that would do for the junior partner, and the senior, the senior partner was to be A. Repo… Yes, he liked the sound of it: Repo and Houg, Attorneys at Law… or maybe CPAs… or book publishers. Maybe leave their profession unspecified. Fittingly unknown: Repo and Houg, Mind your own disgusting little middle class business. If you don’t know what we do here, you shouldn’t be knocking on our door. He already had the Scottish tote bag. He’d decided to go with the Blackwatch pattern after all. His first thought was to use the tartan of the Wemyss clan, that would be a nice shot at Bruce Wayne, but on reflection, Eddie decided he didn’t want to take a shot at the man under the mask. Too much of his descent into Fate’s Bitch status resulted from Selina’s involvement with Bruce Wayne. The Riddler wanted to keep this professional: a tartan tote full of roses left at the Bat-Signal, and he would be on the road to reclaiming his pride, his penis, his spine and his self respect—four things that are any man’s by right and which Fate’s Bitch had taken from him for far too long… “I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright, and I pity—Good morning, darling—any girl that wasn’t me last night.” Selina had paused her impromptu morning sing-a-long just long enough to kiss Bruce’s cheek and steal a bite of croissant off his plate, then she practically danced across the dining room to pour her coffee at the sideboard and, while her back was turned, Bruce glanced uncomfortably at Alfred. “Who’s that pretty girl in the Gotham Post? Who can that attractive girl be? Such a shapely calf, such a curvy hip, such a curvy ass, such a gorgeous rack, such a pretty me…” This was not part of the protocol. Batman had anticipated Selina’s giddy satisfaction with certain aspects of the plan, but it wasn’t a factor in achieving the protocol objective so he didn’t give its ultimate form of expression much thought. Cat-Tales “It can’t possibly be in the print edition yet,” he noted as Selina settled in at the far end of the table with her coffee and scone. It was only three hours since their steamy rooftop sex for the benefit of a traffic camera hacked by the Gotham Post. There was no way those pictures could have hit the newsstands already. “Probably not, but it’s on their website. I checked before I came down.” She sipped her coffee and then winked at him with the naughtiest of grins. “Be glad we don’t get the Post in this house, Alfred,” she said playfully without breaking eye contact with Bruce. “I know you like to run a hot iron over the Times before it goes on the breakfast tray each morning, and with what’s in the Post right now, that would not only be redundant, but knowing you’d seen it would make it hard for Bruce and I to sit here eating eggs and chatting about the weather without the whole thing feeling like a Noel Coward play.” “Indeed, miss,” Alfred smiled. “Master Bruce did inform me of the graphic nature of the images that were essential to his plan.” “Mhm, it’s quite diabolical,” Selina said, her voice dipping into a sinfully deep register as her eyes remained locked on Bruce’s. “Nothing focuses, directs and dominates the Collective Rogue’s attention like Batman.” Bruce’s lip twitched, and he took up the narration in Batman’s deep gravel. “After the fiasco at the Pelacci-Marcuso wedding, it was clear that the ‘Collective Rogue’s’ interest in Bruce and Selina had to be dealt with. Their interference presents a danger to innocent people.” “And less-than-innocents,” Selina added. “I know we’re talking about crime families, but I felt sorry for that poor girl. She might be the daughter of a mob boss and she might have been marrying Carmine Falcone’s godson, but still: greened federal agents chasing down weaponized venom-penguins, hatted bridesmaids terrorizing fear- gassed groomsmen… Harley singing. It’s not the wedding day every girl dreams of.” “They thought it was our wedding they were trashing,” Bruce reminded her. “MY life and YOURS, that those criminals and psychopaths took it upon themselves to interfere with. That wouldn’t be acceptable if they hadn’t endangered a soul. But they did. They endangered life and property and it has to stop. Their interest in us as a couple has to be dealt with, once and for all.” “Mhm,” Selina agreed, rubbing the pad of her index finger rhythmically inside the bowl of her teaspoon. “Dealt with.” “So Master Bruce’s plan is essentially a program of misdirection,” Alfred said, largely to demonstrate that he was following the conversation but taking no notice of the subtext. “Not exactly,” Bruce answered. “Misdirection is effective in short spurts. Batman and Catwoman carrying on like porn stars in the Post will grab their attention momentarily, but it’s not a permanent solution. In three months, in six, in a year, something else could set them off and they’ll be all over us again. For the long term, we need to flood them with so much data they won’t notice anymore.” “That’s where I come in,” Selina said with a wicked laugh reminiscent of Catwoman’s most malicious criminal escapades. “I go forth and bitch. To Harvey, to Hagen, to Oswald, to anyone who will listen: ‘The Goddamn Post is at it again.’ The fact that it’s Batman will make them all kinds of uncomfortable and they’ll wish me gone, gone, gone. Just shut up already and go… until they’re numb to it. They’ll stop 2 The Gotham Rogues processing new information, Bruce and I can get on with our lives without worrying how the Rogues will react whenever some picture from a Wayne fundraiser makes Page 6. Protocol achieved,” she concluded with an adoring smile. “Ingenious, sir,” Alfred said appreciatively. “It really is,” Selina said softly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Bruce said modestly. “Last night was only Phase I.” “And Phase 2 is already set in motion. I have a lunch date with Harvey tomorrow: ‘The Goddamn Post is at it again. Did you see all the places he had his hands? And those boots—it’d be like trying to sneak quietly through a museum with taiko drums strapped to my feet.’” “Good girl,” Bruce said, reaching under the table and pulling out a vivid orange and brown shopping bag. “But we haven’t quite settled accounts on Phase I yet.” He rose from his chair, pulled a gift box from the shopping bag, and walked it over to Selina. “You wore a ‘zip-up bikerchick’ catsuit, clodhopper boots, and tucked your hair into an appalling hoodie of a catmask. I thought you deserved a reward.” Selina’s eyes flicked down to the signature orange and brown box tied with an equally distinctive brown and white polka dot ribbon, then looked back up at him with an acquisitive gleam. “Is that what I think it is?” she asked in a tone that recalled an early encounter over a case of loose diamonds. “Open it and see.” A line suggested itself, but Selina waited until the lid was removed, the tissue paper folded back, the camel dust bag extracted, and her fingers were caressing the impeccably stitched snakeskin of a plum Hermes Kelly Bag. “If I’d known you were planning this, I wouldn’t have made them Photoshop in the goggles,” she purred. It was a common misconception that “physically strong” meant “stupid.” As an educated man, Bane was aware of this and he used it more or less to his advantage. Foes who expected a big, hulking steroid case to have no thought beyond “Hit it ‘til it cries” quickly found themselves backed into a corner where he could pick them up by their skull and crush it in his hand. That said, his grasp of strategy didn’t go much beyond that. Strategy was setting up the playing field. It was how you got that foe backed into that corner where you could “Hit it ‘til it cried.” That was all the tactics he needed for Gotham.