Wednesday, September 29, 2004

83. Dick

I've been keeping a low profile for the last couple of weeks while trying to sort through B's latest bombshell.

Does the "B" stand for Bruce or Batman? (Or Bastard?) Don't know, don't care. And I'm writing as Dick now because... well, this game with masks and double lives is getting old. Or confusing. Or both. And I'm not sure I want to play along anymore--not when "playing" lands me with a knot on the top of my skull and repeated invitations to die at the hands of one of Bruce's psycho fuckbuddies.

So: Bruce, or Batman, or whatever he calls himself these days, has been doing the Riddler. For years. I guess he kind of said as much a few months ago, but he was so cryptic that I honestly didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

And now I do.

What I don't know is how to feel about all of it. Part of me is relieved that Bruce is finally starting to come out of his goddammed (bat-)closet. Another part of me is pissed that it's not me he's playing with. (I never expected I'd be jealous of one of the bad guys.) And a really big part of me is terrified of what the consequences will be, now that "E. Nygma" is out there hating my guts and resenting Batman as much as I do. (Holy love triangle!)

So I guess I know a thing or two about divided lives after all. And I guess that's why I can't just walk away, no matter how much I may want to.

Oh shit, almost forgot my appointment with Dr. T this afternoon. God, what I wouldn't give to sit on his couch and spill my guts out for a solid hour, or two, or ten. As Bruce knows better than just about anybody else, it hurts to sit on a secret this precious.