The Erotic Adventures of Batman

The Crapmaster Cycle: Part 1

Dear Doom,

It’s over.

The bat might as well be let out of the bag.

The wooden pussy thing? It tanked.

Don’t get me wrong. It was a great idea, and could have been a great product. That is, if it weren’t for the fact that my ex-friend Randy is actually a liar and a cheat.

And a douchebag.

And to think that I once considered him a highwayman…

Yeah, right—maybe if a highwayman robbed the shit out of people. A dickweed is more like it.

Frontier Solutions… Haha! More like Front-Butt Ablutions.

I don’t fuckin’ know…

Gah—it’s just like, shit-nuts.

Ok, ok. Hold it together, Batman. Let’s just back up the old rehab cab and start from the beginning of the part where we left off.

Actually, I first just want to share a poem that I wrote about my current emotional state:

Dark, dark, dark

A dark, lonesome place

Not like, a cool cave

Like, a shitty, stupid dark

Feeling inside of my heart

Shitweed, betrayer-man

Asshole’s got me down

The dumbass march of time

Who am I, indeed?

So, that’s pretty much the basic tone that we’re dealing with here. It’s where I’m coming from at the moment. Not exactly a ray of sunshine, obviously, but what am I supposed to say? “Oh, everything’s fine. No, no big deal. Yeah, whatever, so I’m down to ONLY $20 MILLION IN LIQUID ASSETS, OH WELL! HUMDEDUMDUMDUM!”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

When I get my hands on that Midwestern turd-weasel, the SHIT IS GOING TO HIT THE PROVERBIAL PAN. THAT’S RIGHT SHITBIRD, YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST! YOUR GOOSE IS FUCKED AND I AM THE GANDER!

THE BATGANDER! I mean the batmander. Fuck. The strong, male Bat… The batma…

Fuck, I need a drink…

Hold on a sec.

OK, I’m back. Feel better.

But still. Fuck. I feel like Mr. Bucket here, ’bout to blow my goddamn top.

It all started a few months ago when you-know-who was all like: “Batman, Batman! We’ve got a great product in the wooden pussy thing! All the research shows that men love pussy and wood! People want to buy it! We’ve got to go public with this shit!” And what can I say, the numbers were compelling.

I remember a lot of sixes and sevens and a whole lot of eights, which are positive indicators of chaotic, neutral, and lawful alignments, which means that all of our bases were pretty much covered. I would have liked to have seen more runes, glyphs, and zodiac shit in the mix, but whatever, you learn to take what you can get and let me tell you, the getting was good (or so it seemed).

(And FYI, let me just back up for a minute because I didn’t finish before, but I just wanted to say that I was into witchcraft and sorcery and all that shit before it became mainstream, but just because I don’t have the copyright it’s like, no, you can’t start a school for hardbodied young warlocks even though it would be tits and I would be a great role-model for the students. In a word, expect a lawsuit, or something. You know who you are. No, not you, Randy, although I’m not done with you either. Not by a long shot!)

So, naturally my next step was to take up the matter with Stanley. Now, obviously, Stanley and Randy are not the biggest fans of one another, to put it mildly, and I was expecting a shit show on the order of Poison at the Palladium, with maybe Ratt opening. Stanley hadn’t been the most enthusiastic supporter of the WP project from the start, but I chalked that up mostly to his personal beef with Randy and was therefore doubly surprised when he not only endorsed the concept of going public, but insisted that Randy’s IPO estimate was way lowball. Like hot fucking day in Dubai low.

As you might imagine, this gave me quite a hard one and I was so pumped on it that I pretty much gifted Stanley, like, a lot of pre-trade shares of Frontier or however it works, and instructed him to allocate a shit-ton more to Randy, who was riding high in my book at that point, and to make sure that Batcorp bought enough to continue to run the show once we went public and to rush all the paperwork and the prospectus and shit and pay as much as we needed to ram it through so we could start making our inevitable billions. And all the while, Stanley is just nodding and smiling and rubbing his hands and bowing and saying things like “Yes, master, yes! Of course! With great haste!” I should have known something was up, but could see nothing through the gauzy haze of wooden sex prostheses, save the endless green elysiums of cash I thought awaited me following the Initial Public Offering.

I tried to get a hold of Randy after my meeting with Stanley but it kept going to voicemail. No biggie, I thought, my man Randy’s a busy dude—probably just in a high powered meeting with an important client to push those wooden prostheses to as many truck stops as possible. I didn’t have reason to suspect anything. A man like Randy should be hard to reach, I reasoned; after all, I had granted him unilateral authority over the management of Frontier Solutions, and you can’t expect the Czar of the world’s largest manufacturer/distributor of high-quality wooden adult toys for on-the-go men to be accessible around the clock, even if his company is a wholly owned subsidiary of one that you inherited from your father. I had just wanted to congratulate him on the soon-to-be-blow-out success of our venture anyway, but there would be plenty of time to celebrate with him later and I was ready to tear it up right then and there. I had Alfred try Rob, but no dice with him either. That was a little weird, considering how Rob was usually the one barking up my tree and tended to pick up before the first ring, but I ultimately didn’t give a shit because that’s ancient history despite being a decent off-night hay lay. Then I remembered how he had recently been serving as Randy’s personal assistant and chuckled to myself. Poor bastard’s ass was probably getting ridden hard enough at work!

Oh well, I thought, I’d just do the yoush and have Alfred write me up a quick craiglist ad. I instructed my long suffering manservant to use the “Man Seeking Man for Tub and Drinks” template, and soon enough I was sorting through dozens of replies from Gotham’s hottest A-listers—the same boring stable of washboard Mr. Cleans and faux scruffy sailor boys. I sighed, just about ready to pop in my $500,000 bluray of The Cremaster Cycle and call it a night when an unfamiliar address popped up in my AOL.

Tom Shneider?

The name seemed oddly familiar.

I clicked his email and read through it a few times. I was impressed by the guy’s polite, heartland demeanor and DILFy, good looks.

“Looks like we have a winner,” I smiled. Then I clicked reply.

Seth Blake is a writer from New Hampshire.