Miss Vicki Vale. A notorious Gotham gossip columnist and socialite with an incredibly voracious appetite for scandal. This is one enemy of Master Bruce's that can't be beaten into submission. No amount of punching and kicking would solve his current predicament. Miss Vale smells blood in the water and she won't rest until she has truly sunk her teeth into the matter. The charade put up by the boys won't last long especially in those peculiar outfits. Miss Vale is a harbinger of doom on the verge of discovering the secret of the Batman.
You would then understand why it's so funny that she's standing three feet away from the Batcave.
It seems I have been tasked with hosting Miss Vale for the day. Much to my chagrin I was unprepared for her arrival. Otherwise I would have had time to slip into character. Well Alfie, let's show Miss Vicki Vale why you're the most prestigious actor this side of the Thames. Although that may be because of your dashingly good looks. We'll just have to wait and see.
Apparently Master Bruce conceded to an interview with Miss Vale contrary to the suggestion of the company guru mister Lucius Fox. Why he would do such a thing I have no idea. Perhaps it has something to do with her fantastic breasts and her otherworldly buttocks. Although Master Bruce tends to stress his sociopathy as an armor against his baser instincts and all too human lust, no man on earth is that crazy.
But passion is a younger man's game. Even if it is with feigned reluctance Bruce is undoubtedly infatuated with the woman. And I can't even imagine what Richard will think. One look and he will dive into puberty head first. Once that happens I imagine the lime green lycra underwear will be the first things to go. Please dear god let this be true. I can't even glance in Robin's direction without feeling a distinct urge to call child protective services.
Where on earth is Master Bruce? You can only tour Wayne Manor so many times. If I have to regale Miss Vale one more time on Solomon Wayne's architectural prowess I fear she may shoot herself.
Space. How on earth did he get to space? I thought the rocket wasn't even functional.
Miss Vale is clearly vexed by Master Bruce's behavior. As such she is becoming more and more irritable and less and less cooperative. She is attacking her cellular phone with a religious zeal. Sending off furious tweets and texts at a whim. Mark my words boy, social media will do more damage to your never ending war than the League of Assassins ever did. And given her latest string of expletives I'd wager seduction is off the table.
An ice cold chill runs up my spine when I see her eyes linger over the grandfather clock.
After finally convincing Miss Vale to partake in my culinary vision we retired to the drawing room where I bargained Master Bruce's absence for my side of the story. Miss Vale is a clever reporter and a tactical interviewer. Her questions border on interrogation with just enough justification to compel an honest answer. No amount of thespian talent would protect me from her onslaught.
Luckily I was able to slip an obscene amount of horse tranquilizer into her luncheon.
It pained me to spoil such a wonderful quiche but it had to be done. About halfway into asking about my employment history with the Wayne family she lost consciousness. She slouched in such a way that her head rested on the coffee table while her legs remain pinned between the seat cushions, creating a horseshoe wedge between the sofa and the table. I simply can't bring myself to move her without crying from laughter. I'll let her sleep it off.
Miss Vale is still unconscious. Thank Heaven.
Still unconscious, which allows time for the more pedestrian duties my job entails. Master Bruce has his utility belt, I have my broom.
Still unconscious. Apparently a small titanium pod shot down from the sky with Victor Fries captive inside. At least I know what he's been up to.
Still unconscious. I'm starting to worry.
For a moment I had believed myself responsible for Miss Vale's death. If that were the case I would of course hand in my resignation. That is if I were legitimately employed and not the victim of indentured servitude for the 21st century. Taking part in a cover up for the most famous vigilante and urban legend in the entire world was not a part of my job description. Neither was attempted murder regardless of intent. Fortunately Miss Vale has written this incident off as a preexisting condition and gone to seek medical attention. The particular cocktail I whipped up was untraceable. I am in the clear as they say. Although I clearly don't have the stomach for it, I must admit I would make quite the serial killer. Perhaps a change of vocation would do me good.
But the piéce de résistance of this entire ordeal did not take place until Miss Vale's departure. She crossed paths with Master Bruce in the lounge and gave him the most spiteful slap I have ever seen in my entire life. Her words were even more precious.
"Do me a favor and lose my number!"
Perhaps there is a god. After all only a higher power could dream up poetic justice such as this. Effectively castrated in front of his errand boy. I should not take pleasure in such things but I must admit I enjoy humbling the great and terrifying Batman.
Only three hours later and she's back. After an entire day of dismissal and a not insubstantial blackout she's back in his arms. To put things in perspective forty minutes earlier they were locked up in the bedroom. Their embrace is charged with passion and lust. How do you do it Bruce? Damn you and you're unrelenting libido. The most flagrant sexual deviant in the history of Gotham and you still manage to save the day and get the girl.
Robin's jaw is hovering just above the floor.