The Erotic Adventures of Batman

A Modern Highwayman?

Dear Doom,

What can I say? Randy was right.

I won’t bore you with the gory details. Let’s just say that high-quality, handcrafted designer wooden men’s dildonics are the new face of Batcorp enterprises.

Am I loving it?

Am I DTF and do I like to party?

Rhetorical questions.

It took a lot of hard, sweaty hours at the negotiating table—a lot of long nights staring at price sheets and asset reports and boring ass pictures of shitty looking bars and pies—all grey and gloomy without any fruits or nuts or chocolate chunks or anything that you would actually want. I don’t know, they said it was important. I mean, I get that the honcho is supposed to look like he actually gives a crap about the whole ritual aspect of business—it’s a sort of religion for guys like Stanley and the investors, and even though I personally believe that fate bends to the will of Lucifer and his maverick angels (among whom I count myself), I respect their freedom to dress the beefsteaks of their lives with whatever weak sauce they see fit—but seriously buddy, it’s like grow some sack, you know what I mean? Believe in the product and the product that you produce will be the product of your dreams.

Randy said that.

Or maybe I made it up. Who knows anymore? Personally, I don’t care about attributions. If the shit fits, wear it. That’s how I live my life, anyway, and look at me. Rich. Handsome. Lot of talent upstairs and down. Pretty young still, too, if you take the long view of history like I do and examine the world through the lens of geologic time. Long term planning. Legacy and shit. A lot of guys will tell you, “Oh, whatevs, it’ll all be the same in a million years,” but fuck that. You gotta think bigger. A million years… Psh. What about a million and one? Where you going to be then? Dead? Retired? Not this guy. He’s going to be out there, riding down the road on some sick futuristic chopper, leaner, meaner, and ready to either kick some tail, or lift some—whatever comes first or seems like the best option at the time.

A modern highwayman, if you will.

The ethos of such a modern highwayman is one that has intrigued me for some time now. It’s a concept that I attribute to my dark lord, Lucifer, the prince of space—who was in his first incarnation of the original badass, the prototypical highwayman of which I consider myself simply a contemporary version. In a way, I always was a highwayman in terms of my deeds and mentality, but it took hearing the song “Highwayman” by the outlaw country supergroup The Highwaymen for the idea to coalesce as such into the kernel of thought in my mind, which has since flowered into the power plant of my whole identity and the source of my company’s commercial renaissance. While I don’t typically listen to country music, preferring trance, trip-hop, drum and bass, and the slick, programmed beats that Alfred mixes down for me to vibe off to the land of nod to every night, I made a chance exception for the Highwayman the first time I heard it because the strains of the hollow, synth pad intro at first tricked me into thinking it was Toto’s “Africa”—a perennial favorite which I have been known to crank.

As I cruised the streets of Gotham, suddenly uninterested in its fleshy parade of normally irresistible whores and concubines of every gender and hue, I listened to the four horsemen of outlaw country—Willie, Waylon, Kristoferson and Cash—weave their wicked tale of a man who would not quit the road of life, even though his pursuit of its spoils should murder him, as they wisely sing “again and again and again and again [etc, thru a sick fadeout].” There was so much truth in what I heard that I had to pull over and think about it as I drained my main vein into some roadside bush.

My takeaway from the song was this: we are all on this road, this highway—whether that be a literal road as in Convoy (which, coincidence? stars Kristofferson himself), or an “information superhighway” of the as yet virtual future. That highway, like a racetrack, is a Moby Strip (Moby Dick?) of endless, eternal “recurrence” and “return,” to quote a phrase from nineteenth century German nihilist Jack Nitzsche, where our lives are but a single lap.  A life may end, but the track (the song) remains the same; the cars (consciousness) ride on, only there’s a new drive behind the wheel. The thing is, whether the car is a horse, such as the one Willie Nelson’s character rides in the song, or a starship, such as the one piloted by Mr. Cash, it doesn’t matter. The important part is that in my metaphor, these “cars” are the spirits and the people that are driving them merely the vessels. A highwayman is someone who, like me and Lucifer before me, understands this dynamic—understands that even though we may seem to perish from one life, we may perhaps, as Cash sings, “become a highwayman again,” or even if we were to “simply be a single drop of rain” we would, nevertheless, “still remain,” driving, as it were, into an endless and forever opening and expanding frontier of possibility, the crest of whose wave I aim to ride into futurity.

That’s where my head’s at at the moment, anyway, and while it remains to be seen whether or not my investment in prosthetic wooden vulvas for independent men will pay off in the short term, I know that my future in the long term is secure, because the path of risk is the path of reward—Lucifer’s path; aka The Frontier. In order to honor my obsession with the frontier I’m naming the new division of Batcorp devoted to marketing the wooden pussy, “Frontier Solutions.” And I’m naming Randy Shuvelback, who is my new best friend, to be in charge of it.

Good luck, Randy. You’re a highwayman if ever I saw one. I’m counting on you, old buddy. Don’t let Batman down.

Seth Blake is a writer from New Hampshire.