Bats Ablaze 2 of 2

“I’m not done with you yet,” come a voice from above. I look up and there’s Bats on top of the entrance.

He gracefully leaps down, an eerie silence as his feet touch ground. We walk back to where we were and Bats watches the alley again. “So I learn that you’re not only a student, but a good one,” he continues as if he had never left. “I guess you could say I made you my little hobby for the last couple of weeks, Hugo. I disguised myself as a guidance councellor and got a hold of your files at school, some of your exams and essays…” We hear sirens in the distance and Bats checks a watch hidden in those big crazy gloves of his. He looks up at me. “I really enjoyed one of your political-science papers. What was it? ‘Nationalism Equals War: Toward a New Global Revolution?’”

“'Global Renaissance', but yeah,” I chuckle, remembering that paper. “I took a chance on that one. Some teacher’s won’t let you write like that.” Bats doesn’t say anything and I remember where I am. A couple of cop-cars pull up to the alley way and they get out and look at the tied-up thugs. Like a total suicidal madman, Bats just leaps off the roof, from right beside me. I get all woozy and dizzy just watching him, and have to grab the ledge for support. But he just glides down there, his cape acting like a glider and a parachute at the same time. He says a couple words to the cops before launching another tether-line and peeling off like he did the last time. At least this time I know he’s coming back, I just don’t know from what direction. Dude isn’t going to surprise me again, I think, looking towards the entrance that he appeared from last time.

“So,” he says, from behind me, creeping me out again, “I go to your house and sure enough, you have a huge crop growing in your basement. I looked at how you set it up. Complex system, unlike any I’ve seen. Your design, yes?”

I nod my head and try not to beam with pride. This system is of my own design and the crops are absolutely huge, and rich with big fat buds. If marijuana were legal I would patent this system and retire from even this casual form of work.

“I investigate some of your things. You read the newspaper every day-”

“So I like to be informed about what’s going on, so what?”

“I look at your bookshelf, in your files, your journal…” he continues as if he doesn’t even hear me and for a few reckless seconds I feel like hitting him again. Who is this guy to invade my life, the sanctity of my home, read my stuff? Fortunately, that feeling passes as a dull throb in my wrist reminds me of what happened the last time.

Instead I ask him a question. “So, what’s the point Bats, huh?”

“My point,” he says looking up at me, “is that you are well-read, an independent and articulate thinker and writer and…”

“And…” I’m dumbfounded. What the hell does this guy want from me? Is he going to beat me up, pull some kind of Clockwork Orange bullshit on me or not?

“And in spite of myself I started to like the person that you are,” his shoulders hunched. “I started thinking, well, no wonder you’re friends with a guy like Jacob Hannah. But you’re a CRIMINAL!” his eyes narrow and his fists clench, “just another filthy criminal puke living off the suffering of-”

“Stop,” I urge, gently considering the circumstances. “Just stop.”

“But you sell drugs! ”

"I sell herb. Not heroin, not coke. The stuff I grow in my house is the same stuff that grows naturally all over the world, you get that? Naturally, as in: grows whether we're here to smoke it or pass judgement on it or not.”

"It's illegal!" he shouts at me, exasperated.

"'It is the just man who disobeys the unjust law,'" I respond. Not my own words, of course..

"Thomas Aquinas," Bats names the author miserably, revealing himself to me as an educated man.

"Besides," I press, "how illegal is it? I mean do you hop into your Bat-jet to apprehend jay-walkers and people who rip the little tags off their mattresses? Goddamned stuff was just legalized in Canada, you know?" I'm laughing in spite of the situation. "And here in Gotham, I don't know if you know but the cops are sort of turning a blind eye on it these days. Not worth the hassle, too many cases getting thrown out of court by too many judges who just can’t be bothered with it…"

"Yeah," Bats sighs resignedly, his broad shoulders slump as he leans against a roof-top gargoyle. "I know. I read the papers too, get all the scientific data on it…"

"And it's not too bad, right? I mean, it's smoke in your lungs, so that's never that good for you, but beyond that…" was I really having this conversation? With Bats?

"What about the gateway stuff, you know, joints lead to lines, then needles and you’re an addict! You ever see a hardcore heroin junky before, Jueroux? What about a crack-baby?" he paces to the edge of the rooftop. I’m pretty sure that if he jumps off again I'm gonna ralph.

"You ever see a neighborhood pub?" I respond quickly, "alcohol's a drug." I've had this argument before with my Dad, so I'm ready for it. "What about a 'Starbucks'? Caffeine is a drug. I bet every crack-head, heroin cokehead junky you've ever met has also drank a coffee or a beer. Probably smoked more than a couple cigarettes too."

"It's not the same thing!" Bats vehemently complains.

"Why not? Look, I thought about all that gateway stuff going into this, you know, growing and selling?" Bats nods his head, listening while surveying his city. Our city. "Thing is, some people are going to drink, smoke and fuck whatever they can get their hands on. Some people are just waiting to become addicts, because their lives are totally empty even before they ever sniff their glue, drop their acid or snort their cocaine. Or else their just total lemming types that do whatever somebody else tells them to do. Either way, they’re going to find the hard stuff whether there's any herb around or not."

“And the proof is in the pudding, Bats! Look at me, look at Jacob!” I urged him. “You think Jacob has time for a little crack habit? You think I’m going to wind up in that alley down there with a needle in my arm because I dig the herbage? Not bloody likely!” Believe it or not, Bats starts nodding his head in agreement. Maybe I’ve talked my way out of a beating after all. Nobody will believe this story, nobody.

“You’ve given me something to think about,” says Bats over his shoulder as he fires off another tetherline to god-knows-where. He starts running to the edge of the building as I realize he’s taking off again.

“Hey Bats!” I shout at him, “wait, man!” His feet start shuffling through the gravel, the first time I’ve heard him make a noise on this rooftop as he lurches to a stop. He doesn’t ask what I want, he just turns and tilts his head slightly to the left, a master at non-verbal communication when necessary. He waits as I consider the sagacity, nay, the sheer insanity of what I’m about to offer him.

“Look,” I begin uncertainly, “we can debate the positives and negatives all night up here and you can go home and research all this as long as you want, but you still won’t really know what it is we’re dealing with. You won’t know why intelligent people like Jacob Hannah and I smoke this stuff, right? I mean obviously there has to be some merit to it…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bats shrugs me off. “Are you actually suggesting…”

I press at my peril. “Bats,” I begin, “you exhaustively investigated me and you brought me up here to talk about this stuff. So here we are, and if you want me to ask the question, I’ll ask it.”

Here goes. Many instances of your life you have to either roll the dice and let ‘er buck or pack it up and go home. I go into my left pocket and pull out the P.R.Js, selecting a particularly fat one and putting the rest back in my pocket. I pull out my lighter and light this bad-boy, taking a great, deep inhale, all the while noting his eyes widen as if the fucker just can’t believe I’m doing this right in front of him, which makes two of us.

“So, Batty …” I say amidst a voluminous cloud of smoke, “smoke a fatty?” I hold my breath and brace myself.

Fin