Batwoman meets Catwoman Part One
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The Man In Black free porn video
Somehow he knew the phone was about to ring.
He wasn’t certain how he developed the sense, if it could even be called that. Sometimes he chalked it up to being a creature of habit or being predictable himself, but despite that he couldn’t deny the peculiar sense he felt, one of a heightened awareness or keen acuity when he knew the phone was about to ring. There were times when he found himself locked in a demented tug-of-war with the device knowing that it was about to ring, but then there would be many long minutes of silence. Just as he resigned himself to being mistaken, it would ring as if mocking him. Some nights he would be wrenched from a peaceful rest to reach over and hold his hand over the phone, hovering just inches away. As if on cue the damned thing would start making its one and only cry and he would answer it.
But not this night. It was as if the phone had already started ringing in his mind, he had only to answer it. He opened his eyes, torn from a rare deep sleep and sat upright. He shook the cobwebs from his mind and reached over, picking up the phone. It immediately started to ring. He answered it, still bleary-eyed from sleep.
‘Hello?’ He answered groggily.
For a few moments there was nothing but dead space over the phone, with a hiss and crackle of static at random. He decided it was an automated call or someone dialing the wrong number and was about to press the red button to terminate the call when a man’s voice came through.
‘Chef?’ The voice said.
There were only a spare few people who called him by that name, and most people who would have called him that were long gone. He knew it could only be one of a very small lot of people, and almost instantly he realized that he recognized the voice, just by the single word it spoke.
‘Goddamn Dalton, is that you?’ He replied, still with a little doubt.
‘Yeah, it’s me.’ Came the man’s voice again. ‘I’m sorry to call you so late. I really am. But I can’t rest any more Chef, it’s been at me for weeks, I need your help.’
‘You name it Dalton.’ He answered. ‘You tell me what it is and I’ll make it done.’
There were several long moments of dead silence, and when the man’s voice came again. He could tell that he was fighting back tears, his voice hitching and stuttering as he spoke.
‘He killed her.’ The man said between muffled sobs. ‘She’s gone. That sumbitch got away with it. Got away clean. The Sheriff covered for him and the Judge let him walk. ‘
He sat there baffled for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. As he remembered, the man he was speaking to was a widower, his wife dying from an aggressive ovarian cancer a few years before. It had to be that he was remarried, or maybe had found a girlfriend, as he had no children that he knew of.
‘Dalton, Brother you say the word and I’ll be on it.’ He said. ‘Just tell me everything, and take your time to make sure I get it right.’
Days later
He was sitting at his kitchen table, as he often did before leaving on a job. Laid out in front of him were various items and effects he would be taking with him. As always, he had picked through them inspecting each one carefully to make sure they were ‘on the ready’ as he would have said. Some of the items had been with him for many years, some so long that he had forgotten when and where he got them. Some were so familiar to him that they had developed a very storied history.
One was an old Solingen straight razor, the blade gray and dull with minute flecks of surface rust here and there. When he picked it up and slid the blade open with a practiced turn of his thumb, a myriad of memories came to him, as if they were fighting to be recognized first. It was given to him a long time ago, by someone who was now gone. She had given it to him because she knew he collected old razors. ‘If only she had known what my life would become, and the things I would do with this old thing. What would she think of me?’ He pondered to himself, closing the razor and gingerly sitting it down.
Next to the razor sat a pair of forty-caliber revolvers nestled snugly in pancake holsters, his ‘forties’ as he called them. The term revolver wasn’t entirely fair, as by all practical means they were hand-held cannons. The guns themselves weren’t entirely spectacular though they were expensive and well-made, but the ammunition he used was in itself quite menacing. He would spend hours loading shell after shell using a table mounted reloader, carefully measuring off the powder for each round. Once he had several long neat rows of the squat, shiny bullets lined up, he would place them in a padded vice and painstakingly knurl each projectile, a delicate process that involved scoring the surface in a left-to-right spiral pattern starting from the top of the lead to the bottom. Once this was done he would repeat the process in the opposite direction. The effect of knurling the shot was immediate and obvious, a forty caliber slug that was cross-hatched properly would make an entry wound typical in size for the caliber, but it would leave an exit wound roughly big enough to drive a Westfalia camper through.
He took great care with each step of the process. Accidents occur when they conditions are right, so to prevent anything unexpected to happen he didn’t take any chances. He often remembered some sage advice his Scoutmaster had given him when he was a kid, standing with the rest of his pack in a circle around a roaring campfire. ‘All a fire needs is three things, boys. Air, fuel and a spark. You take away one of those three and the fire ain’t gonna happen.’ Later on in life he discovered that this particular philosophy applied to many things, and remembering it had saved his hide more than once.
Sitting on the floor next to him was a pair of old run-down black leather harness boots. They had many a story to tell as well, traveling with the man on many jobs and carrying him through countless dark days and nights. Those boots and his feet were like old lovers, always wanting to feel the other’s presence, even if they had just parted ways. The soles had been replaced a number of times.
There were a few items on the table in front of him that he might or might not need, but he always had them, purely as reassurance, an old-fashioned pair of brass knuckles (they’re called paperweights now, he often reminded himself), a cigarette lighter, two ink pens and two sharpened pencils, and small variety of other random items he might need.
When he was content that he had checked and double-checked everything and was ready to go, he pushed his chair back from the table and sat there, exhaling aloud. His cat was circling his feet, purring. She knew he was about to go.
‘This is it.’ He said. ‘The last job. Let’s get this done.’
Many, many years before
The bicycle’s tires kicked up small puffs and plumes of dust as he meandered down the empty dirt road, casually peddling along as he made his way home. His skin was dirty and torn in various places from blackberry brambles and an occasional brush against barbed wire, and his hands were a calloused, ruined mess. An angry red sunburn covered most of his exposed skin, his back and shoulders in particular were a painful shade of crimson. The kid didn’t seem to notice, though, strolling along the newly-cut dirt road on his old beaten bicycle. The bike was an unimpressive thing with spots of rust showing through the blue enamel paint here and there. The chain gave a minute squeak of protest every time he turned the pedals, despite the thick layers of axel grease he slathered on it to keep it quiet. The old vinyl seat was split and ragged, the stuffing peeking through between the cracks. As he pedaled along the new stretch of road he felt a mild sense of exhilaration that he didn’t quite understand. The area was familiar to him, the only thing different about it was that instead of being surrounded by endless fields of corn and cotton, there was now a ru
ler-straight line dividing the fields in two. Something about exploring enlivened his senses, even if he was revisiting something that was known to him. It gave him a sense of hope, and made his mind race and wander. The kid lived for the sense of escapism, in one form of another.
He had spent all morning and the better part of the afternoon cleaning brush and old growth away from a fence row, almost two miles of it. He was dead tired and dehydrated, and every time he moved his muscles ached in protest. His skin was seeping blood from a few dozen small scratches and he was dirty from head to toe. But despite what could fairly be considered a hellish day for anyone, the kid was perfectly content. He had a small knot of five dollar bills in his pocket and he was thoroughly enjoying the peaceful ride home. He found himself lost in the cool evening air, the smell of freshly turned Earth and the thrumming staccato of crickets and cicadas floating through the air. He was making a concerted effort to enjoy the trip home as much as he could, pacing himself so that he would arrive home just after dark. The old man would be in bed by then, and that was a driving force in the kid’s life. The old man was three times his size and quick with his fists, and his propensity to crawl inside of a bottle every chance he got only made it worse. The kid had plenty of bruises and scars thanks to him, so he played a tactical game of avoiding the old drunk at every turn. The old man never thought anything of it, since the kid was always finding work every chance he got. He couldn’t stand the kid, but he had to admire how dogged and determined he was when it came to work, the kid wasn’t afraid of manual labor.
He was lost in the placid stroll home, inhaling deeply and relishing in the clean, warm summer air when suddenly the front tire of his bike jerked sideways and he was pitched forward over the handlebars, landing in a big powdery cloud of dry brown dirt. He choked and coughed, slapping at the dust hanging thick in the air around him, wiping the worst of it from around his eyes.
‘Well she-yit.’ He remarked with a cough.
A big rock lay half buried in the loose dirt just in front of his bike. He was unhurt, except for maybe a few more scratches to add to the dozens he already carried. His bike, however, did not fare so well. The chain had jumped free of the big geared cog behind the pedals, and the kid knew it would be a bear to get it back on. The chain had come from the carcass of another bike he found at the town dump, and it was a bit too small for his bike, although with a little elbow grease and some ingenuity he had managed to make it work. Without something to pull it tight and guide it onto the cog as the turned the pedals, though, it would be very hard to get the chain to seat on the cog so he could turn the pedal and feed the chain onto the cog one link at a time. He shook his head, shaking the dust and dirt from his hair. He sat there cross-legged for several moments, studying the rock that upended him. It looked like a great big stone toad burrowed into the loose dirt.
‘Hey Chef, you alright?’ He heard a voice call from behind him.
‘Chef’ was a nickname the kid earned early on, working in his uncle’s restaurant. While most other kids were enjoying carefree summer days filled with trips to the lake and chasing each other around on a football field, the kid was sweating away over a big Vulcan double grill. This was back in the days before child labor laws were strictly enforced, so no one gave a moment’s thought to a kid working in the kitchen so long as their food was cooked right. He had a definite talent for the work, too, churning away with deft and precision right along with his adult counterparts. Quite often the adults would tell him ‘Y’er too smart to be doin’ this kinda work Kid but damn if you ain’t good at it.’
By the time he was thirteen the kid was a seasoned veteran and the fastest kitchen hand in the restaurant. On busy Friday nights the various stations would be manned with two cooks each, all except for the big Vulcan. Many times his uncle would bring new employees in, and upon seeing the kid standing there they would almost always scoff at his presence. When the dining room began to fill and the orders came pouring in like a ticker tape parade, the kid would grind away and pull the kitchen crew through the busiest of shifts with relative ease. While the other line cooks were dashing out through the back to catch a quick draw on a smoke before the next rush came in, the kid was cleaning and reorganizing his work station, making certain that everything was in its proper place. Often times people would ask his uncle, ‘Damn Truman how’d you teach that boy to work like that?’
His response was always the same. ‘He ain’t working, he’s playing.’ He would say with a wrinkled grin.
The kid never minded the work or the time missed that could have been spent playing grabass or horsing around with other kids his age, his mind was always firmly set on the money he was earning. His uncle was a gruff old fellow who recognized the kid’s willingness to work, and he always had some kind of odd job for him to do.
Their working relationship had developed from the most unexpected of circumstances. The kid liked to walk to school since the buses tended to be full of rowdy hellions, and the school house was less than a mile from home. There were two ways to and from school, and the kid often preferred to take the longer route, mostly because taking that route meant he would have to invest less time in avoiding the old man once he got home. The long way home took him past his uncle’s restaurant, and one day after school let out the kid stopped by to get a bite to eat. As it so happened the dishwasher was out with a bad case of the flu. His uncle was on the phone trying to run down someone who could help him, as business was brisk and he was running shorthanded. He sat the phone down cursing, resigned himself to the duty and stalked into the dish pit to get a handle on the growing mountain of dishes he knew would be waiting for him. Instead he found the kid standing on a milk crate in front of the big stainless triple sink, neat stacks up clean white plates and saucers to his right. Rows upon rows of plastic dividers full of clean silverware were lined up in perfect rank and file. The kid looked over his shoulder to see his Uncle standing there.
‘Hey Uncle Truman.’ Was all the kid said as he continued washing dishes, like someone without a care in the world.
His uncle stood there a bit dumbfounded, not certain of what to say. The kid whistled merrily as he washed and scrubbed away, so his uncle just went back to the front and let the kid do his thing. The servers looked at him with a smile. ‘That’s Opal’s boy for you.’ They said. ‘He don’t mind helping.’
When the worst of the dishes were out of the way the kid got down from his stoop and went back to the counter, put down five dollars and change and waved goodbye to the gal behind the counter. As he was leaving to head home his uncle followed him out onto the sidewalk.
‘Kiddo you ain’t gotta pay for your food. You done earn’t it.’
He looked up at his uncle with a big smile. ‘I know, but I’d prefer to.’
That was just the kind of kid he was.
The kid would work with his uncle for many years, and over time the nickname ‘Chef’ became as common to him as his own given name. With time he would earn another name, one that would eventually be the one he identified himself by, the one that came to define his life. Matter of fact, many people in town had already gotten into the habit of calling him Nails. The kid’s childhood was not a carefree one, and one of the many reasons he enjoyed hard work so much was that it gave him peace and peace of mind, and quite often some solitude that he badly needed. The nickname was one that he both resented and understood, and often times he wondered what it might mean for him in the future.
‘Chef… are you alright?’ The
voice repeated.
He shook his head, not realizing he had been caught up in his thoughts, and looked up to see a lanky silver-haired kid standing there, a pair of pliers at the ready in his hand.
‘Yeah Dalton I’m alright.’ The kid huffed as he stood up, dusting himself off. ‘Nothin’ hurt but my pride.’
‘Well I can’t help you with your pride but I can fix your bike.’ Dalton replied with a smile. ‘But we gotta find a stick or something. Something thin and hard, rigid-like.’
The two boys scouted along the side of the road for several minutes before they found what they needed, a slender stick of wood about a foot long. They turned the bike upside down so it sat resting on the handlebars, and Dalton looped the chain over the top of the gear so that the chain seated onto the top teeth on the gear. Then he pulled the chain down tight with the pliers and guided him to slide the stick in between two of the teeth on the cog at about three o’clock, and then he turned the pedal to advance the cog forward. Using the pliers he pulled down on the chain hard until it was as tight as he could manage it.
‘The stick is gonna get caught between the cog and the chain and hold it in place tight…’ Dalton directed him. ‘And once we get the chain lined up right with the teeth on the cog we just turn it a bit, and…’
As he turned the pedal the chain slowly gained one tooth at a time on the cog, and just as it reached the last few teeth it appeared as if it were too tense to slip over the teeth. Dalton grabbed the end of the stick and pulled it toward him, angling the chain inward ever so slightly and gave the pedal another slight bump, and the chain slipped onto the last few teeth effortlessly. He rolled the pedals forward until the stick was clear of the chain and pulled it from between the teeth of the cog like a dentist removing a stubborn tooth.
‘Damn Dalton.’ The kid marveled. ‘You should be an engineer or somethin’.’
‘Nah.’ Dalton said with a smile. ‘I’m just a tinkerer.’
As the sun set behind them, the two boys became silhouettes walking side by side down the dusty dirt road. The kid walked his bike and Dalton walked with him. They both grew up in the same small town, worked in the same fields and farms, and they shared many of the same troubles. Dalton Forehand was an only child, a bright and genuine kid who loved nothing more than to find something to tinker on and fix, even if was only to disassemble it only to fix it again. He carried that old set of pliers with him everywhere he went, tucked away into a pocket of his faded denim carpenter’s pants. They were a gift from his father, but it was unlikely they were meant to be some profound gesture of fatherly love, chances are his dad gave them to him just to give him something to tinker on and keep him out of his hair for a while. Dalton took to them, though, and through them he cultivated a love of building, creating and finding ways to repair damn near anything. The old folks in town often joked that he could fix anything with those damned old pliers. He had saved many a farmer a pretty penny in repairs by mending all manner of equipment, whether it was the linkage on a combine thresher or the tackle on a plowhorse’s yoke, and every time he would pull off some minor feat of engineering genius he did so with those old pliers in one hand. They were his talisman, his mantra. They came natural to him somehow, and he never questioned it or doubted it.
He had put them to such great use, in fact, that he had replaced the rivet that held the two handles together several times. When he walked into the hardware store downtown, the old men behind the counter didn’t cast a wary eye at him like they would any other kid, they all knew Dalton was a tinkerer extraordinaire. He knew exactly what he would be needing, navigating the aisles like a master mariner. When he came to the counter to pay, he knew the price of each nut and bolt and various hardware he had gathered, and he even knew what he should be paying with tax included. He was a damned sharp kid, and he made the most of his intelligence and skill by finding ways to help other people out.
Trish
- 05.08.2021
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