New Fan Fic: Batman Strikes Back

[johnnygobbs]

?Son of a bitch!? muttered District Attorney Harvey ?Apollo? Dent, as he clicked the ?off? button on the TV remote.

Having intently scrutinised the live footage of Carmine Falcone?s release, not to mention his subsequent address to the media, Harvey sat back down and settled into his wooden swivel armchair.  He took a gasp of his thick, noxious cigar and surveyed his lavish private office, that evoked nothing less than a genteel drawing room straight out of one of those 1920s Evelyn Waugh collegiate novels he?d been assigned as a freshman, and the multitude of Ivy League diplomas and legal practice certificates that entirely adorned one of the mahogany panelled walls.  He?d come a long way in his thirty-eight years.  His achievements would have been impressive enough for one of the blue-blooded preppies he?d been at college with; for a guy whose formative years had been spent in Gotham?s most impoverished slums, The Narrows raised by a permanently inebriated and abusive father, and an erratic and mentally ill mother, his ?rags to riches? story was practically a fairytale; and it all went back to Carmine Falcone, not that the old bastard would ever know.

Though he?d been raised in a tiny four-room hovel on the second floor of his father?s barber shop, the first nine years of Harvey Dent?s childhood had been relatively idyllic; certainly for a black kid raised during the pre-civil rights ?50s in what was one of the worst neighbourhoods within a city that had even then, begun to attain a reputation for urban decay.  Yet, if Harvey was deprived he hadn?t yet noticed it, not even amidst the various vagrants and drunks that littered the pavement and shop fronts that lined his street.  Moreover, Harvey was already asserting himself as a star athlete and a prize student, and was hugely popular among his classmates not least the girls, who could not fail to notice his burgeoning good looks.  Still, when you grew up in a rough neighbourhood like The Narrows, childhood innocence had an inevitable tendency to draw to a very early end.

Harvey could remember that pivotal Saturday during the summer of 1960 as acutely as the events of this very morning.  His father, Solomon, a late middle-aged bear-like figure of a man, with tufts of slicked-back grey hair plastered to the temples of his otherwise bald head, was dressed in a cream workman?s apron that hung over an impeccably smart assemble; a thin red tie, and a crisp yellow cotton dress-shirt which, rolled up at the sleeves, exposed his thick, muscular biceps.  Solomon had just finished attending to one of a customer, a non-regular who had come in for a traditional straight shave, and was dealing with the payment whilst simultaneously engaged in light banter with one of the locals, an elderly African-American gentleman who would often shoot the breeze with Solomon during the barber shop?s opening hours.  Harvey, meanwhile was sweeping the various clumps of hair that had accumulated upon the ceramic floor, one of the many unpaid chores Solomon had enlisted his highly-disciplined son to undertake, in addition to the various paid part-time jobs he performed when he was not studying, or practicing his pitch alongside several of the other neighbourhood boys, with whom he had assembled a makeshift baseball team.

As the customer exited the shop, Solomon turned to inspect the dollar the man had deposited as a tip.  ?Well I?ll be darned!? he whispered to himself before moving to pursue the gentleman from outside.

?Excuse me sir!? hollered Solomon Dent in the mild Southern diction that had accompanied him to Gotham eighteen years ago, though the man had already drifted several yards down the street by the time Solomon had got to the door.

?What?s up Solomon?? croaked the old-timer as his befuddled co-banterer re-entered the shop.

?It?s the dollar he gave me, Orin...strange thing is, it?s ?heads? on both sides.?

?Let?s see,? Orin requested.  ?The mint musta made a mistake.  Else, it?s some kinda novelty coin,? he suggested upon its evaluation.

?I don?t see how the mint could make a mistake like that.  Moreover, I don?t see what anyone?d need a dollar with two faces of Lady Gotham for,? Solomon stated matter-of-factly.

?Still...it mighta bring some kind of luck seeing as it?s rare an? all.  Here, Harvey!  It?s all yours son.  You never know, it might be worth somethin? one day.?  Solomon beckoned to Harvey and deposited the coin in the boy?s cupped hands.

Harvey checked the coin himself.  Both sides were indeed adorned with the same side profile of the city?s dignified and feminine ?symbol of hope?, Lady Gotham.  Even for a child who scrimped and saved what little earnings he made from his daily morning paper-round and delivery jobs to be able to afford the barest of non-essential trinkets, whether it be the most basic of bikes or a mere baseball card, this coin was a keeper.

Harvey stuffed the coin into the recesses of his trouser, at which point he looked up from his broomstick to see two egregiously dressed and very unfamiliar white men enter the shop.  Both were clothed in expensive looking threads, at least as far as this neighbourhood was concerned; double-breasted, pin-striped silk suits, topped off with snap-brimmed fedoras and spats worn over shiny black leather Bluchers, that might ordinarily have been considered as rather feminine, although these didn?t appear to be the type of guys it would have been wise to make such an observation to.

One of the strangers, a particularly reedy, weaselly-looking man ambled towards the opposite side of the room to the array of mirrors, sinks and the leather upholstered barber shop chair that comprised Solomon Dent?s work-station, which contained a small magazine rack alongside the wooden bench on which Orin was seated.  ?How you doing old timer?? the man enquired, in an overly familiar manner, that did very little to hide a threatening undertone.  Orin started to edge away from the man.

?Can I help you gentlemen?? bellowed Solomon before the man could intimidate Orin any further, in a much more transparently threatening tone.

?Yeah, sure,? the man replied in his nasal, mocking rasp of a voice.  ?Me and Paulie was thinking of getting a new cut.?  He nodded to the other gentleman, a bigger, seemingly mute, brute of a man, who stood legs spread wide apart directly in front of the shop entrance, his hands entwined below his groin, a gesture that seemed both dutiful and menacing.

?I don?t think there?s much I can do for you gentlemen,? Solomon continued through gritted teeth.

Ignoring Solomon?s remonstrations, the weaselly man eased himself into the hydraulic barber shop chair.  ?I was thinking of getting one of those Afro-style cuts,? he mocked before removing his fedora and placing it on one of the chair?s arms, to reveal a dome that was practically bald except for a ring of black hair that covered the outer circumference of his head.  Paulie chuckled agreeably with his partner, the first time he had made any sort of sound since he had entered the shop.

?Better turn the door sign to ?closed? Paulie,? the first man instructed, ?I don?t want none of them local deadbeats to think they can interrupt our little meeting with our friend Solomon here.?

?No disrespect,? he added, turning to Orin.

?What the hell is this?? demanded Solomon.

Unfazed, the nasty looking fellow pushed himself off the barber?s chair before striding up close to Solomon completely dismissive of the additional four inches and forty pounds of muscle Solomon had on him.

?Seeing as it don?t look like I?ll be getting a cut today, I suppose we?d better get down to business.  My name?s Tony G, that there?s Paulie Knuckles.  We?re both associates of Carmine Falcone, but of I?m sure you already knew that Solomon.?

The man who had finally introduced himself as Tony G began pacing the chequered tile floor, affecting a mock-thoughtful demeanour.

?Anyways...it?s come to Mr Falcone?s attention that this neighbourhood has recently started to become infested with undesirables.  Not decent people like you and me, Solomon.  Crooks, winos, thugs, punks.  The kinda scum that?d mug a little old lady in broad daylight.  You know how these kids are today...No disrespect to your son, Solomon.  I?m sure he?s a fine, respectful kinda boy,? he continued.  ?So, Mr Falcone, decent, civic-minded citizen that he is has sent me and Paulie to offer you upstanding local businessmen a...proposition...Is that right Paulie??

Paulie nodded impassively in agreement.

Smart kid that he was, Harvey knew that whatever proposition these people were going to make, was not going to be the type of offer subject to negotiation.

?Mr Falcone and his associates, namely me and Paulie here, would like to offer you people our services.  For a small sum , say...a mere twenty per cent of the profits this nice little establishment takes in, Mr Falcone would be able to provide you decent folk our guaranteed protection.?  Tony swept his right arm at an open, ninety degree angle to emphasise the all-encompassing nature of Mr Falcone?s generous offer.

?How dare you people talk to me like this in front of my son!? Solomon cried.  ?Get the hell out of my shop!?

?I don?t think you quite understand what we?re offering, Mr Dent,? Tony responded in an insinuating tone.

?I think I know exactly what you people are offering!  And I?m not gonna allow Mr Falcone bully me!  You can put whatever label you want on it...I call it stealing!  And if I know them, none of the others in this neighbourhood are gonna stand for this THEFT!?

Utterly unfazed by Solomon?s outburst, Tony affixed a gimlet-eyed stare at the defiant figure before him.  ?Sorry to hear that Mr Dent,? he sneered, creasing the edges of his thin mouth into a chilling, crescent-shaped reptilian smile.

Tony released Solomon from his intense glare and fixed his fedora upon his bald done.  ?We?re done here, Paulie.?

Harvey exhaled a barely perceptible sigh of relief.  The expected fireworks had failed to materialise.  Both Tony and Paulie had barely batted an eyelid at Solomon?s unequivocal rebuke.

Before exiting the shop the hitherto voiceless Paulie turned towards Solomon, Harvey and Orin to deliver an unexpected parting shot in a deep baritone.  ??Twas a shame, Mr Dent.  This was a nice little store.?  Instantly the two hoods burst into a cruel, unrelenting cackle that was finally muffled by the sound of the perilously close to shattering glass-paned door smacking heavily behind them.

BANG, BANG, BANG.  The door continued to knock...

The District Attorney?s momentary lapse into childhood memories he?d believed to have been long suppressed were interrupted by the sound at his office door.

?Come in!? he beckoned.

Harvey?s personal assistant, a twenty-something paralegal decked in a highly fashionable yet ultra-professional suit, and a very smart shoulder-length bob peered round.

?Mr Dent, the prosecution bundles for the Napier trial have been completed and couriered to the defence counsel.?

?Excellent, Dana.  Thanks for staying late...I guess I?ll see you tomorrow morning,? he hollered, as he absently focused on a pile of legal papers sprawled across his desk, if only to create the illusion that he had been long absorbed in his work.

?Goodnight Mr Dent,? chirped Dana.  Just as she proceeded to delicately bring the door to a close behind her, Harvey?s eye caught a pair of very glossy, laminated personal invitations he?d been resting one of his elbows upon.

?District Attorney Harvey Dent,

You are cordially invited to Gotham Publishing?s launch of ?On the Trail of the Bat?, Gotham Globe reporter Alexander Knox?s 400-page document of his investigation as to the existence of The Batman.

To take place at The Flugelheim Gallery on Thursday December 7th from 7pm to 10pm.
 
Black tie preferred.?

?Dana!? he hollered before his assistant had any time to dash out of the office, ?I was wondering if you and your boyfriend would be interested in these tickets for Alexander Knox?s book launch.  It?s at the Flugelheim, and if these invites are anything to go by, it promises to be some swanky affair.  Pretty much everyone?s going to be there.?

Dana smiled graciously, yet declined her boss?s generous gesture.  Though her regally handsome and immensely charismatic boss had something of a reputation as a ?ladies man?, the last few turbulent months had vastly overstretched the D.A.?s office, had transformed Dent into a virtual office-bound recluse.

?Thank you Mr Dent, but I already have plans for tonight so I don?t think I?ll be able to take up your office.  Besides, if you don?t mind me saying so, it might do you some good to get out of this office.  Who knows, you might even enjoy yourself.?

Harvey pondered his assistant?s suggestion as she finally exited his office.  Carmine Falcone?s imminent release had been playing on his mind for some days now.  Certain recollections that were best left to the most remote recesses of his semi-conscious, were starting to take on a more vivid role in his thoughts.  Like Dana had intimated, perhaps the company would do him good.

Harvey dug into his trouser pocket and retrieved his lucky coin, the same identically-faced dollar from that very summer decades ago.  He couldn?t really claim that it had brought him much in the way of good fortune in the intervening years; still this peculiar token had retained its allure upon the thirty-eight year old Harvey Dent.  Harvey rested the coin upon his left thumb and index finger and flicked it into the air, letting it spin for a few revolutions, before smacking the coin against his upper right palm.

Harvey released his left hand and inspected the face of the coin beneath it.  ?I guess I?m going after all,? he affirmed.

He rose from his chair and straightened his charcoal-grey perfectly tailored Italian three-piece suit.  Harvey couldn?t help but shoot a glance at the dashing reflection peering at him from the office?s en suite mirror.  He cut a rather dapper figure with his elegant head of brylcreemed hair, and the thick yet immaculately trimmed moustache that provided character to his classically handsome features.  Some may have accused the D.A. of egregious vanity, and even Harvey had to admit, those criticisms were hardly unfounded, but so what?  For all his Ivy League scholarships, and sharp legal wit, those prized good-looks had proven just as invaluable during his election campaign, and they sure didn?t go unnoticed amongst the wide-eyed female jurors when he made his closing addresses in court.  After all, he hadn?t simply earned the ?Apollo? appellation for his unimpeachable public record.

Harvey scrutinised each side-profile.  Hmm, his right-side was perhaps a little puffy, the unavoidable effects of middle-age.  By contrast his left profile was practically flawless.  He?d definitely need to ensure that this was the angle that remained in focus next time he was photographed...

To be continued...

[Azrael]

Really well-written and Dent's characterization (as played by Williams) is interesting.

[johnnygobbs]

Thanks silenig.  I always thought it was a pity that Williams never got a chance to develop Harvey Dent/ Two-Face in a Batman sequel, so this is my own interpretation of how a BDW version of the character could have been portrayed.

[Sandman]

Exellent , I also love that you used Billy Dee as Dent i always felt that we were cheated of his Two-Face.

[johnnygobbs]

Chapter 7: Selina Kyle

Amidst the legions of anonymous, barely distinguishable capitalist temples that dominated Gotham?s financial district?s skyline stood the outlandishly modernist Shreck Towers, an incongruously spiral structure; and perched upon the summit of its very high glass roof, a twenty-foot steel effigy of the company?s ostensibly benign but ever-so-sinister mascot, a crude 1920s-comic-strip cat?s head with an unnervingly omniscient smile.  Twenty-five square feet of the vinyl surface that covered the Shreck Tower?s top executive floor was adorned with a ceramic reproduction of this feline mascot, and it was this very image that would ?greet? Max Shreck?s personal assistant every morning she exited the elevator and proceeded to her office; although the tiny forlorn desk that lay crammed into one corner of the top floor, barely separated a few feet either side by an intimidating row of metal filing cabinets, more accurately constituted a reception possessing neither a wall nor partition to separate its unfortunate occupant from the officious bustle of thrusting young executives toing and froing between their own private work quarters and the adjacent room, Mr Shreck?s megalithic conference room.

It was approaching half six in the evening and the current occupier of this scarcely adequate workstation, the third in so many years, was still only halfway through transcribing the contents of a Dictaphone onto her computer screen.  The alacrity at which she processed the information being fed into her headphones and tapped the keyboard with her long, tapered fingers demonstrated the type of secretarial proficiency one would not ordinarily associate with a ?personal assistant?.  Still, it sure beat having to brew yet another coffee for Mr Shreck or one of the various top floor execs who seemed to consider it their entitlement to take full advantage of their boss? apparent secretary, in more ways than one judging by the way some of those braying yuppie creeps would make crude passes at her.

Not even her over-sized horn-rimmed glasses, drab grey and brown matching cotton business frocks, and the infrequently distressed state of her flaxen hair could disguise Selina Kyle?s almost ethereal beauty; not that anyone had ever really paid much regard to Selina?s purposefully understated good looks, or any of her other various qualities for that matter, including whatever business acumen and administrative skills that had led her to be hired by Shreck Industries in the first place.  Since transferring to big, bad Gotham City two months ago from Midville, the quaint, suburban, stereotypically white picket-fenced town where she had spent almost the entirety of her formative twenty-four years, Selina had grown rapidly disenchanted with the initially promising semi-executive role that had enticed her to this daunting metropolis.  In fact, it hadn?t taken very long at all for Selina to notice that she was the only woman (albeit a college graduate and bona fide bachelor of business at that) on the entire executive level of Shreck Towers, as well as the only Shreck employee whose daily itinerary often seemed to be consumed with pouring steaming hot kettles of coffee for her superiors; two states of affairs that were probably not unrelated.  Still, Selina was determined to stick it through with this job, if only to stave off her brothers? inevitable eye rolling and her parents? over-zealous displays of sympathy with its barely concealed subtext of ?I told you so?, that would greet her return to Midville were she to yet again be cast into the customary role of the ?family disappointment?.

To a detached observer, Selina?s picturesque two-storey Victorian style childhood home, with its blue wooden window shutters, elegant timber-framed porch and charmingly genteel rose garden that was surrounded by an abundance of lush, evergreen trees, was an image straight out of an idealised nineteen-fifties television sitcom, as were all the pretty chocolate-box family houses that lined across Midville?s neighbourhoods; and in many ways, Selina?s well-to-do childhood was as idyllic as that description implied.  Carefree weekday evenings and Saturday mornings spend riding her pony at the local stables, Sundays accompanying her parents and two brothers to the local Catholic parish, various birthday parties held on her family?s luscious verdant back garden.  Yet for all those external signifiers of happiness, and the material comfort and familial stability Selina had been raised into, there had always been a niggling sense of inadequacy; that no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many gymkhanas or junior gymnastics competitions she competed in, or how well she achieved at school, Selina would never be able to garner the praise or approval that was regularly bestowed on her brothers.  William Kyle, the manager of the Midville?s only bank and Gertrude, a dedicated housewife whose aspirations apparently extended no further than ensuring her family were provided with three square meals a day, exulted in the respective achievements of their first and third-born children.  Although Bill and Gertrude?s college fund only extended as far as securing their eldest son, Griffin?s entry into a prestigious Ivy League school, their youngest boy, Thomas was also able to clinch an elite place at a top college through a baseball scholarship; in no small part thanks to the multiple hours his father had spent coaching his Little League Team, along with the substantial financial investment his parents had made in their junior sports star?s private summer coaching.  Unfortunately, that left little room for their middle child and her own cherished ambitions.

Selina?s parents had always hoped that an attractive girl like her would eventually grow out of her various teenage ?fads? and short-lived dalliances with gymnastics and riding, and settle down to marry and build a family with an eligible Midville gentleman as her mother had done before her.  Besides, how could Bill and Gertrude?s middle child complain of being unfulfilled?  Hadn?t they gone out of their way to provide all three of their children with the best possible childhood?  Very few girls were lucky enough to have their own pony at the age of eight years, and as relatively prosperous as the Kyles may have been, a small town bank manager?s salary could only go so far in supporting his children?s future.

Yet, hope as they might, Selina had persevered in gaining her diploma from state college and was determined to make a career and life that wasn?t defined by a man, or the stifling, parochial community in which she?d been raised.  Not that her parents could be convinced, nor her brothers, both of whom had established highly respectable careers following college, and had already moved past the incipient stages of raising children and building a home within Midville; a process that Selina was determined to shun, being customary that, as a woman, she?d inevitably find herself at the raw end of such an arrangement.

Unfortunately, it was soon dawning upon Selina that the cosmopolitan, thrusting, forward-looking metropolis she now found herself in was no more liberated and receptive to an intelligent, independently-minded woman?s aspirations than the conservative small town she?d left behind.  Having avoided returning to Midville for Thanksgiving, Selina was currently devising her excuses for the imminent Christmas holidays.  She could see her mother?s shrill, carping voice at the dinner table, ?So Selina, are you glad you?ve left Midville for Gotham?  I can?t imagine there?s much to live on in such a place on a secretary?s salary,? and the embarrassed, semi-pitying, semi-disapproving faces of her assembled brothers, their new wives, and her loving, but disappointed father as he stood at the head of the table preparing to carve the family turkey.  It would hardly be worth attempting to differentiate the respective responsibilities of a personal assistant and a secretary; regardless of her official job title, she was essentially performing duties even a standard secretary would baulk at.

Selina could at least content herself with the fact that she was working directly for Gotham?s leading industrialist, its official ?man of the year? no less, and a renowned philanthropist, or so the company literature would have it, although Selina had seen scant evidence of much charity or generosity from her boss on either a personal or corporate level since working for Shreck Industries.  Take the contents of the dictation she was currently typing up for instance, a speech Max proposed to deliver to a gathering of the city?s wealthiest and most powerful figures (and potential investors) at a dinner party come business conference to be held at his vast estate tomorrow evening.  Selina wasn?t yet especially au fait with the various details of Gotham?s sprawling geography and big city political intricacies but if she understood her boss?s proposals correctly, he was seeking to develop luxury $ million condos in The Narrows, upon land that had hitherto been designated by the local government as housing for Gotham?s lowest paid citizens; not really the type of scheme that one would readily associate with the magnanimous humanitarian Shreck Industries were so keen to portray themselves as.  Yet, as her boss was so keen on impressing upon her, Selina was not being hired to offer her opinions, but simply to do as he commanded her.

[johnnygobbs]

So engrossed was Selina in ensuring that Mr Shreck had his speech ready for his full review by tomorrow morning, far better for scoring some needed brownie points with her ever-so demanding employer, she had barely looked up to notice the lumbering two-hundred and fifty frame that had ungraciously plumped itself on the side of her desk, inadvertently disturbing the carefully ordered array of corporate documents that were awaiting her attention.  Selina released an irritable sigh on registering the mess this apparent idiot had made, and peered up over her bifocals.  Just as she had thought (and feared); Charles Shreck?s preppie, self-satisfied grin was leering down upon her.  Since commencing employment for Max two months ago, Selina had been lucky to avoid the unbearable presence of his obnoxious, conceited son and heir.  Unfortunately, since recently dropping out of his highly expensive Ivy League a mere few months before his finals, following nearly two and half years of drink-fuelled partying, multiple-one night stands with amorous co-eds, and exclusive fraternity rituals, ?Chip? as he was affectionately known by Max, was back in town, and destined to be a permanent fixture at his father?s company though not, hoped Selina, at the edge of her desk.

Apparently, Chip had been trying to catch Selina?s attention for several seconds, and it having finally dawned upon him that his father?s conscientious assistant was unable to hear him from beneath her headphones, he rather presumptuously reached over to detach the pads from her delicate shell-like ears.  From their few previous encounters, it was clear to Selina that for all his elite prep-school and Ivy League college education, the guy was an idiot.  Besides, it was a well-known fact that Chip had only ?earned? a prestigious place at his highly selective alma mater thanks to the very generous endowment his powerful father had made to the college?s new school of business.  It was true that Shreck?s sycophantic young cadre of ambitious, upwardly-mobile senior executives were even more agreeable and as solicitous in Chip?s presence as they were to each other, heartily sharing his distasteful predilection for politically incorrect, frequently chauvinist fraternity humour; however, in his absence Selina had been privy to their real opinions about the ?Chip off the old ?Block Head?? and that he was held in even lower regard than she was, since Selina was at least was providing some type of useful function for the company.  For these smart young bucks, all of them bona fide business graduates who?d invariably been top of the class at their prestigious respective colleges, it rankled that this dumb rich kid was destined to inherit and run his father?s company despite possessing not one iota of discernible business acumen or particular intelligence.  It didn?t help their palpable sense of envy that having quit college, this object of derision amongst the Shreck executive board was now dating the city?s wealthiest and most desirable heiress.  Still, thought Selina, if they really wanted to experience how difficult faking pleasantries with the boss?s son could be they might want to see things from her level of the corporate pecking order.

?How can I help you Chip?? Selina asked warily, believing that the tone in her voice correctly straddled the gap between obligatory politeness and a clear indication that she was busy and had little time for idle banter.

Chip once again beamed his winning grin and stared directly into Selina?s green-blue eyes.  As much as she loathed the guy, she had to admit, he was certainly handsome in a typically jock-like way.  His classically square chin, and quiff of silky blonde hair, not to mention the preponderance of rippling heavy muscles that filled every inch of his six foot four frame bestowed him the appearance of a Teutonic superhero; although too much of the good life was taking its premature toll on the twenty-one year old former school football captain judging by the burgeoning signs of a thick gut strapped beneath his plush pin-striped Brooks Brothers suit.

?I was just wondering what you looked like under those glasses, Selina,? he smiled, oozing the insufferable over self-confidence of a man well accustomed to having his sexual advances reciprocated, and audaciously extend his right arm to reach at Selina?s spectacles and lift them off her nose.

With the instinctive readiness of an animal acting against a rival preparing to violate its territory, Selina swatted Chip?s approaching hand away from her glasses.

?Sorry Chip, but I?ve got to get this report prepared for your father before tomorrow morning, so I don?t really have time for this,? she stated, modulating her genuine annoyance with the barest hint of an apology in her voice, conscious not to sound too terse with the boss?s son.

Completely undeterred, Chip proceeded with his egregious come-on.  ?I know I?ve only been back a couple of weeks, but by this stage I?d usually know what colour lingerie my dad?s secretary wears.?

Selina could barely contain her gag reflex, but tried to maintain her composure.  ?Well in that case, I should probably invest in a lock for my underwear drawer.?

?Ah, come on Selina.  None of the girls who?ve worked for my dad have ever said no to a date.?

?...And look where they are now,? Selina sarcastically muttered under her breath, not a little piqued that Chip had effectively described her as a ?girl? despite being three years her junior.

?So what?d you say Selina?  If it?s my dad, don?t worry.  I?m sure he won?t have a problem with me going out on a little date with his secretary,? Chip affirmed with no little degree of confidence, once again extending his right hand towards Selina, this time successfully managing to stroke her jaw-line and tilt her head upwards so that it came close to meeting his own mega-smug face.

?Yes, but what would your girlfriend think?? replied Selina cocking her head in the direction of where the top floor elevators where mere yards down the corridor.

?Huh?? Chip exclaimed, turning his head from Selina?s lithe figure to the dazzlingly beautiful and very buxom young woman who had just emerged from one of the elevators followed by two tall, robustly-built men practically swamped by the large multitude of shopping bags they were carrying, each bearing the logo of a fashionable department store or high-class boutique.

The woman herself was carrying little more than a petite white crocodile-skin handbag slung over one of her shoulders, and was swathed in an immense white ermine fur coat on top of a short diamond studded dress that exposed an impressive d?colletage, and which despite its skimpy cut probably cost more than Selina?s entire wardrobe.  She was in the process of primping her voluminous golden blonde hair upon which sat a large white fur winter hat that matched her coat, and admiring her sun-tanned, classically good-looking facial features in a compact mirror, when she spotted Chip out of the corner of her eye practically all over his father?s female assistant.  Her effervescent smile instantly switched to a puzzled frown.

She lowered her compact and folded her arms in an indignant manner, implying that Chip had just been caught in the act of a very disagreeable act, and that he would almost certainly need to have a good explanation.

?Chippie, what are you doing with your daddy?s secretary?? she pouted.

?Babe!? Chip bellowed spreading his massive, muscle-bound arms in a grandiose gesture of affection, ?Selina was just about to get my coat and cane for me.?

?Weren?t you, Selina?? he muttered tersely for Selina?s benefit, making it clear that the solicitous, over-familiar manner with which he had approached her moments ago was to be immediately supplanted by a professional ?master and servant? relationship, at least while his girlfriend was present.  Selina warily lifted herself from her office chair and made her way to the hat stand where Chip?s thick fur-collared winter coat was draped besides his long and rather unnerving metal-tipped cane.  The anachronistic accessory was an undoubtedly an affectation, mused Selina, and more than likely a compensatory device.

The young woman had obviously fallen for Chip?s hasty ruse and her face now beamed with a smile even more radiant than her last.  A fully attired Chip, cane in one hand strode towards her, with an ever-so-charming smile and thrust his arms around her body.  She squealed with delight as he launched her five foot five and a half inch high body a few inches off the ground and allowed her own arms to interlink behind his powerful upper torso.   As she wrapped her arms around her boyfriend?s almost Herculean body, the girl?s large blue eyes cast Selina a dirty look that suggested she had higher regard for whatever was underneath her designer stilettos than the seemingly drab wage-slave who was painstakingly trying to resume her work amidst the racket in front of her.

Portia Peacock, the twenty-year old heir to one of Gotham?s largest and oldest fortunes was not the type it took too long to figure out; exceedingly rich, spoiled, vain and incredibly stupid, she made Chip seem almost Einstein-like by comparison.

Chip lowered Portia to the floor. ?Chippie, I thought you were going to meet me by my limo.  We?ve got dinner reservations for seven.  Remember?  And I?m absolutely starving!? she drawled, placing a gloved hand on her round midriff for added effect.

?Don?t worry, babe,? smirked ?Chippie?, ?it doesn?t matter if we?re late.  The Gotham Ritz will always have a table for people like us, even if it means they have to turf out some poor saps in the middle of their meal.  ?Sides babe, most people will be at that deadbeat reporter?s book launch.?

?Book launch?  How boring!? Portia exclaimed, confirming that she was not particularly fond of reading.

The over-privileged Aryan couple turned to leave, with Porsha?s barely regarded pair of bodyguards in tow.  Selina extracted the headphones from her ears just in time to satiate her self-admitted curiosity into how the other half lived and catch Chip and Portia?s conversation.

?I?ve had such a hard day, Chippie,? Portia sighed.  She proceeded to recount her day as if she was delivering the most absorbing anecdote in the world, ?I had to get my nails done, meet Brittany, Whitney and Tiff for lunch at the Plaza, and they were doing all this really complicated stuff in my acting class today, something called 'impronisation' I think, and then I was doing a little shopping and there was this one dress I really wanted, and the stupid shop girl said that I?d have to wait ?til Saturday for them to order one in my size.  Saturday!  I mean, that?s like...umm...today's Thursday...sooo...one, two...TWO whole days!  And I really needed that dress for your daddy?s party tomorrow!  Oh, and Chippie...are you listening to me?  Good!  Maybe, you can tell me what that ugly thing is your daddy?s secretary is wearing!  I mean, she looks sooo plain, don?t you think??

Chip nodded absently, paying the scarcest of attention to his girlfriend?s inane twittering.  Instead, as he guided Portia to the elevator, with one hand placed firmly against her plump derriere, he affixed Selina a final arrogant, self-regarding smile.

Selina resignedly turned to her computer screen and resumed her typing, nursing what was for her an untypically anti-feminist fantasy in which she was an impoverished maiden in a fairytale story just waiting for Prince Charming to rescue her from a life of drab servitude, and whisk her away to the ball.

And right on cue, here was her wicked master bursting through the magnificent twelve foot high art-deco style doors that separated his vast dome-shaped conference room from her poky, openly exposed office space.

Max Shreck, Gotham?s monumental mogul?s impoverished childhood may have been as far removed from his spoiled only child?s gilded entrance into the world as it was possible to imagine, and yet after five and a half decades of scrambling and scrimping, he had finally earned his place amongst the pinnacle of Gotham?s immutable social hierarchy, alongside its oldest founding families, the blue-blooded likes of the Peacocks, the Vreelands, the Waynes, the Sionis? and the dynasty from which his own aristocratic wife had originated, the Vanderworths.  Whilst he may not yet have been as wealthy as many of them, his megalithic company was rising at an exponential rate and it was only time before he would truly be recognised as Gotham?s most powerful man.  Consequently, he basked in the open respect his status conferred, especially from his minions whose utter obedience he demanded.

Suffice to say, Max was not the easiest of employers to work for; on occasion, he could appear almost terrifying, if not at the very least a somewhat remote, intimidating presence who had little time for genial small talk with his dutiful employees.  Even Max?s physical appearance gave Selina the creeps; not that he?d ever tried to make any unwelcome sexual advances like his doltish son, or several of his colleagues, including his infrequently absent and apparently shiftless business-partner, Fred Atkins.  Though fairly tall, unlike Chip Max possessed a thin, almost gaunt figure that carried through to his hollowed, spectral face which was framed by a shock of ghostly, bright white hair.  Yet it was the intense dead-eyed stare he?d occasionally fix upon her with an exacting, practically interrogatory manner whilst she performed her tasks that really unsettled Selina.  ?Boy, I must really want this job? she thought.  She removed her headphones as soon as her boss paused in front her deck.

?You finished my report?? Max rasped in a semi-guttural accent which betrayed his working class roots.

?Um, not quite Mr Shreck...but it should be ready by tomorrow morning,? she sputtered in a soft, patently nervous voice.

?Well make sure it is.  I don?t care how long it takes you tonight.  I want that speech in my hands first thing tomorrow!?

?Now grab me my coat and hat!? he demanded, oblivious to the fact that Selina had proceeded to place the headphones back against her ears and resume typing.

"Sandra!? Max barked.  Selina sheepishly removed her ear piece.

?My coat??  Max impatiently beckoned his head towards the hat stand.

?I?m sorry Mr Shreck,? mumbled Selina as she fitted Max into his black fur-collared winter coat.

?And it?s...er...Selina sir,? she whispered apprehensively.

?What makes you think I care?? Max snapped fixing Selina one of those cold, intense stares that gave her the chills.  ?I?m in a hurry.  Vivien and me have got to be at that pinko reporter?s book launch.?

?The nerve of the guy!? Max seethed.  ?He tries writing some garbage story ?bout me hiring sweatshop workers, and here he is inviting me to this thing.  I should have got him kicked off the ?Globe? when I had the chance.  Still, whatever Vivien thinks, the only reason I?m going is to see if that Commie mayor will be there.  I?ll give him one more chance to come round to my plans for the city he seems intent on trying to run into the ground!?  With that affirmation, Max affixed his lurid red bow-tie, cocked his head from side to side in order to stretch his neck muscles and departed for the lift doors.

"Stupid corn dog!" Selina muttered, admonishing herself for having let two generations of the Shreck dynasty verbally diminish her within the space of five minutes.  She then returned to her desk to prepare to contend with yet another probable all-nighter in front of her office computer screen, and once again nurture her wistful, un-Selina like Cinderella fantasy.

To be continued...

[Catwoman]

me likey.