Wherein the painful secret of Wallace Wayne’s painful existence is painfully revealed, and…
… wherein The Bastard Wallace Wayne, The Batman Bruce Wayne’s illegitimate older half-brother, finds his origins in a dream cycle of nine strange and nightmarish sonnets by Saint Stephan, as recovered by The Damned Fool from a website and a comic book inside this story of Kyiv Unedited’s own making, through its by-now famous Kyiv Commix imprint, Dysfunctional Commix, more popularly known as DC Commix (no relation to DC Comics of Burbank, California, who claim to own the Batman…)
So The Damned Fool says, “Vacuum-mouthed wantons and rooster-raising sluts, titified tramps, boobacious bimbos, mammacious molls and minxes, having brought our georgic hither, we shall now take it yonder…”
“Where, Fool, where?!” together ask the mass-mounded vixens, Toma Bed Lamb and Tamo Shatterd, quite astonished, hardly distinguishing between themselves.
“There… there…!!!” exclaims the playful Fool.
The Dead Little Welsh Losser stuffed PR puppet toy and Anti Olifko Writer Wood Dummy stare menacingly at the merry trio from their dead eyes, though mutely and with no apparent threat of harm, as they are but dead forms, but mocking expressions, but farcical interpretations, coauthored by Fate and The Hereafter of what their essence had amounted to while they had still been alive.
“Step forth and deliver, Fool,” cries Bed Lamb, twisting excitedly in her panties.
“I step forth, or I step back, but most of all, I step away sideways, to let the fat ass of ticking time pass by as I tragic over its waste – plop plump plop it goes, down the toilet of the universe, and I am left with the swirling waters of memory gone dry…”
“Get on with it, Fool,” fairly screams Shatterd, squirming, “before you tease us to the brink, and send us over – by ourselves…”
“Such threats, shrews, should only lie idle. I was about to, bawds, but now that you tell me to, I think I won’t.”
This kind of thing is not supposed to happen with The Damned Fool. It’s highly unusual, and even more highly unlikely, being, we thought, completely out of keeping with his character.
It is therefore with some panic and desperation that we quickly cut to another version of the same scene, as it is apparent to me – due, no doubt, to my small and low skill, which can be easily bettered by another – there is no easy way out of the narrative cornering of my own abominable erection.
“So tell us the story already, Fool,” one of the two big-titted chicks says.
“Not, first, without my salutations, for I celebrate your eminence of minxness, your grandeur, magnificence, splendor, majesty, and glory. I cease never to marvel at how your welcoming committees greet my hopefully inseparable voyaging mate, at our forming binding alliances with options to renew, and at your compassing my bulk-freighted vessel into hot harbor, where I dock, unloading my supersonic cargo of liquid jets, breaking the speed of clowns. I, ergo, commend your good semen ship and that, finding it hard, you have found it not hard to come by, being fair hearty merchants of free trade. Blah, blah, and blah…”
“Trade for what, Fool?!”
“Why, the story, of course…”
“And when will you finally tell it?!”
“By my cock, I say!”
“Is there anything you can’t do without it?!”
“Well… come… to mention it!!!”
“I feel violated!”
“Then feel this…”
The Damned Fool pulls out a comic book, seemingly out of the air, opens it and begins paraphrasing, in the manner and spirit of storytelling, the word bubble text.
The girls lean toward him to look at the cartoons and are astonished to see likenesses of themselves, apparently being told the very same story by The Damned Fool inside the comic book The Damned Fool is reading to them from, right there and then. The illustrations are so accurate, they depict the very comic book The Damned Fool is holding, right down to the details of their Antipolex underground hideout, including posters on the wall of Walt Whitman, Ernest Hemingway, Jim Morrison, The Velvet Underground, and Bruce Springsteen from the cover of his “Born to Run” album, and strangely, eerily, the inanimate humanlike figures of the Dead Little Welsh Losser PR puppet toy and Anti Olifko Writer Wood Dummy glaring at them menacingly from dead eyes, sitting together, heads knocking, in the torn armchair in the background, where they had been dropped.
“Wow, she looks more like me than I do,” says one of the gals.
“They drew my breasts too big,” laments the other.
“Now,” says The Damned Fool, “there is
Bruce Wayne the Batman
Thomas Wayne his father
Martha Wayne his mother
Thomas Wayne, Junior,
Who is both Bruce Wayne’s older and younger brother simultaneously as well as Owlman
And Philip Wayne his uncle…
“But little known to some, if anyone” continues The Damned Fool, “and entirely unknown to most, if not everyone, there is Wallace Wayne, the jilted bastard son of Thomas Wayne and his beloved courtesan from a time before Thomas Wayne ever knew Martha, and therefore the older half-brother of Bruce Wayne, and by extension of logic, also older than his other half-brother Thomas Wayne, Junior, if there ever really was one.
“Now, toward little Bruce, Wallace had always held great affection, even after he was forced to leave the Wayne Estate, finding out he’d been disinherited, or, more accurately, that he never stood to inherit the Wayne Fortune in any degree by legal bequest at all; and that remained the case even after the cold-blooded murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne, in front of little Bruce, who was spared, although this is not to say that Wallace Wayne was in any way involved, though the possibility appears strong.”
The Damned Fool turns another page in the comic book, then, pointing at the illustrations, says, “He also goes by the name of The Bad Night, The Darker Knight (as opposed to Batman, who is merely The Dark Knight), The Real Heir, The Bad Seed, but, most of all, The Pale Dragon…”
Toma Bed Lamb and Tamo Shatterd have stopped paying attention. They engage in whispers, like this:
“You have a boyfriend?”
“Yeah…”
“What’s his name?”
“Michael Juice Flea. And you?”
“I killed him. It was last year. Oh, the fate of it all, the unbearable complain, the verdict, the phrased judgment, the immutable sentence, the highly emulate disease – and now I am here…”
The Damned Fool is outraged.
“Cozening colleens and cackling crones…”
For reasons nearly identical to the ones given from the first time this happened, we again cut to a different version of the same scene.
“The firstfruits of our knowledge of Wallace Wayne come to us in a poem,” says The Damned Fool, turning another comic book page.
“This poem is actually a cycle of 9 sonnets, divided into three Phases of 3, which the author has described as a nine-sonnet dream cycle; the rhyme scheme, if one can be made out, is unusual; and it was simply marked by the author as ‘Rain’.”
“Who’s the author, Fool? How did you come by this poem?”
“It is by one Saint Stephan. One has to know these things, and I, for lack of a superior way of putting it, know them, digging deep as I do among the arcane. For this poem I found on the Saint’s website, still mysteriously maintained and hovering in the ether although seemingly long abandoned by its master, raising the question yet again how a site can be kept in the first place by one so long dead. But then again, how do ghosts truly haunt houses, abandoned cinemas, theaters, pavilions, bathhouses, dance halls, carnivals, towers, and castles? How is it we see their shadows move across the moon if we do not look straight into the night? By breath held and heart pound, when we halt under a lamppost, what are those noises, that pitter-pattering, those footsteps we hear behind us in the wet echoes of a broken city’s night – and yet, no one there?
“Now listen, you, and see what you can make of this…”
And so The Damned Fool reads the poem to his two female companions, Toma Bed Lamb, and Tamo Shatterd, to you say I, John Smith.
Continued without interruption in the very next Part of “The Transmigration of Bad Souls” – being Part the Fourth (Part 4)
Filed by John Smith, October 26, 2015