Of course, Bruce did not have to be told where to aim his spunk; it added a fresh coat to the inside of his sweatpants, and he gave thanks that it was there instead of trapped inside him.
"Take them off," Gustavus ordered, and Bruce stepped out of the sweats he'd been wearing for a week and a half. "Behold your past," the Master said. "Embrace it, so that we can put it behind you."
Bruce looked confused.
"Jesus Christ, do I have to explain everything to you, boy?" Gustavus snapped. He pointed at the spot on the floor where the discarded pants lay. "Get down there. NOW." Bruce lowered himself to the ground once more. "Smell them. Press your head in nice and close."
Once again, Bruce did as he was told, rubbing his face into the warm, wet patch at the crotch. As close as he was, he could distinguish between the fresh moistness of the most recent spurt and the earlier layers of crust.
"Hmmm. Not good enough," Gustavus said. "Put them on. Over your head."
Without even a second's misgivings, Bruce Wayne rose to a squatting position, picked up the filthy sweatpants, and wore them on his head. He felt ridiculous. In the darkness, he heard the door close and lock shut.