Comics have an advantage over film because of their ability to accurately portray the private thoughts of characters. Through such devices as the thought balloon or caption box, comics have the uncanny talent to get in the minds of our favorite heroes. But what if the comics DIDN’T tell us what the characters were thinking? How would we know? Well, you can’t–at least, you couldn’t. But now, with “Inner Monologues,” you can!
Last week, DC kicked of their first official crossover event: The Night of the Owls! If you’re like me, you thrilled to this issue, but you wanted to know exactly what was going through Batman’s head. Also, if you’re like me, you need a job, but that’s neither here nor there.
Man, I am just the BEST at brooding. I should tell Alfred to leave the lights off more often. Seriously, check this: the silhouette. The hands in the pockets. The eyes. This is VINTGAGE brooding. I should do this more often.
Also, note to self: tell Alfred to install tiny versions of Gotham City all over the mansion. I like feeling like a giant.
Alfred Oh, yes, to be sure. The big fearsome crime fighter can’t have the low-level laser illumination hurting his widdle eyes. Tell me, Master Bruce: how is it you have time to bitch about the mood lighting but you have yet to give me a gift for my birthday? Even Damien remembered. It was a severed thumb with a note that read ‘The penalty for failing me, Pennyworth,’ but at least it was SOMETHING.
Actually, no, this is pretty cool. Laser towers.
Note to self: contact Lucius. See about the feasibility of installing laser towers in Gotham City.
Okay, let’s do a quick summary. Half-blind, and getting worse. Four…let’s say five cracked ribs. Stitches are still fresh on the punctured appendix. Little bit of residual internal bleeding, that could start back any minute now. Dehydrated. Malnourished. Still haven’t had a decent night’s sleep.
Time to kick ass.
Wake up in the mornin’ feelin’ like P. Diddy, I grab my glasses I’m out the door I’m ‘bout to hit this city OF ALL THE TIMES TO GET A SONG STUCK IN YOUR HEAD.
Note to self: confiscate Alfred’s iPod. Or his speakers. At the very least, lay down some very specific ground rules about when it is appropriate for Ke$ha and when it is not. Namely, never. If he keeps this up, I’m tempted to keep pretending I’ve forgotten his birthday.
Additional note to self: Write a note to self about Alfred’s birthday so you won’t forget next time.
HOLY LUMPING TRUCK NUTS, BATMAN! Oh man, this is so exciting! I’m such a big fan! Should I—should I say something? What? “Hey, I heard you were getting your own series. JMS is a hell of a guy, isn’t he?” No. Too familiar. “Sorry about Alan Moore, I heard you guys were close.”No. Ah well. Guess I just fall back to violence.
Hope you give a thumbs-up to this POST!
God, that was terrible.
Ha ha, kick to the face.
I think I pulled my stitches.
I can…what? What, exactly, can I do against the cadre of immortal assassins? Maybe I can make them some stew. Everybody likes stew, right? Maybe I can press their cowls. I’ve had a lot of cowl-pressing experience.
Oh man, he’s dead. Need to dust off the ol’ resume. Maybe the Teen Titans could use a butler.
Oh, another one. Guess that last one wasn’t Nite Owl after all.
This is embarrassing.
What are those, song lyrics? Sounds like…who’s that one guy? The “You’re Beautiful” guy? Got to ask Alfred about that one. At least it’s better than Ke$ha before I leave, brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack DAMMIT!
‘Cause when I leave for the night I ain’t comin’ back, I’m talking ’bout pedicures on our toes, toes, tryin’ on all our clothes, clothes SON OF A BITCH!
Heh. Stick around.
What is WRONG with me tonight?
Ha! “No Bruce, don’t bother installing a tunnel from the chimney into the Batcave, you’ll never use it! It’s a money sink, Bruce! Think of how much it will cost to have that insulated, Bruce!”
Who’s the idiot now, Alfred?
Penny for your thoughts, BITCH! Wait, no, that was bad. I can do better. Ahem.
That hit was CENT-sational!
Ah, yes. That’s better. Now, it would be such a shame to let all this good meat go to waste—oh. Master Bruce. I’ll let you take it from here, then, shall I?
And now to see who you REALLY are!
Jenkies! Edward Cullen, is that you? What are you doing so far from Repressed Sexuality, Washington? Maybe…maybe I can just put the mask back on, okay?
Okay, this is a bit much. Homicidal clowns? Sure. Giant crocodiles? Hell, I killed three of those with my bare hands when I served with Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force. Mister Freeze? More like Mister Puh-leeze. But owl-sassins? This is outside of my pay grade. You think cleaning up bat @#$% is easy? I’m not adding owl pellets to that mess. Bruce, consider this my resignation.
Oh, sure, the armory. That’s a good idea. The one place in the Batcave with one entrance and exit. “World’s Greatest Detective” indeed.
Yeah, don’t worry about me, Alfred. You just hang out in the comfy heated recliner. I’ll go out and pulverize the immortal killers.
That wasn’t meant to be sarcastic, by the way. I’m tired of running. Time to wreck some birds.
HELL YES! RUN, BIRDIES, RUN! HA HA! “Never going to use the giant Bat-suit,” am I, Alfred? “Can’t justify the expense,” can I Lucius? WELL WHO’S LAUGHING NOW?
I am. I am the GIANT BATMAN.
That’s all the time we have for today Sleepwalkers. Remember–it’s a bird-eat-bat world out there. Watch your backs.