“Strike three! You’re out!” hooted the Joker.
“Drat!” said Sandman, throwing the bat down. “Why can’t we play cricket like civilized people?”
As he slunk back towards the dugout, he had to walk past Catwoman’s disapproving glare. “Why, oh why, does that man always wind up on my team?” she hissed in disgust as he slunk past.
“Oh, be quiet,” muttered Sandman.
He stepped up to the group of convicts that was surrounding Mr. Personality.
“Did you finish your tale yet? What did I miss?” Sandman asked.
Mr. Personality was more than willing to recap the highlights.
“When last we left Batman and Robin, they were gazing into the inexorable jaws of death! Lying bound hand and foot on the top of a giant baseball glove, they were about to be catapulted out over our fair city’s skyline, only to be smashed back in the opposite direction by a giant hydraulically-powered baseball bat positioned a half-mile away. I am sure the exquisite irony of having Batman demolished by a bat has not escaped your collective attention. The Dynamic Duo was left with no alternative but to lie there, writhing in their own mediocrity, as they awaited a death that would provide entertainment value far beyond what they had ever bestowed upon Gotham. Ah, the cruel quirks of fate -- about to have their lives sacrificed for an undignified ratings gimmick, televised for all to behold!”
*Mr. Personality plot and character created by Phil McKenna
**Benny the Butcher created by Trent Wolf
***Almost Got ‘Im animated episode written by Paul Dini
**** Pretty Much Everything Else created by Bob Kane
“What happen next?” asked Solomon Grundy.
“Yes, do go on with your story,” encouraged Sandman.
“‘What happened next?’” snickered Tweedledee. “What do you think? You just saw Batman and Robin standing in front of us less than an hour ago. That should give you a clue.”
“Okay, so they lived. How did they escape?” asked Lola Lasagne.
“I have ab-so-lutely no idea,” replied Mr. Personality.
“What?” growled Catwoman.
“As I stated, I departed mere moments before the catapult was to activate. I am at a loss to explain Batman’s apparent ability to extricate himself from my death-trap,” the umpire repeated. The group stared at him in stunned silence for several seconds.
Benny the Butcher threw up his hands. “Oh, well, GREAT ending, Mr. Personality. You don’t know how they escaped!”
“Yes, a thrilling, thrilling tale. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” sneered Sandman.
“Say, we was all talking about Batgirl, and she isn’t even in your story!” said Tweedledum.
“I apologize, sir,” said Mr. Personality. “I was not aware that your reminisces were focused on Batgirl to the exclusion of all other marsupial-inspired vigilantes, her better-known male counterparts notwithstanding. How regrettable that your time in the confines of public incarceration would render you incapable of discussing any topic that did not involve a well-proportioned female dressed in Lurex.”
“Well, I know how they escaped,” said Blaze. “I saw it on the news. It turns out they had emergency wing-shaped parachutes in their utility belts that they were able to activate while they were airborne.”
“Oh, naturally! Wing-shaped parachutes,” snorted Benny the Butcher. “Can ya believe these guys? They don’t play fair for a second!”
“The giant bat missed hitting them because the parachutes slowed down their descent, so the bat swung prematurely,” continued Blaze.
“Now, assuming that satisfies your voracious appetite for trivial minutia,” Mr. Personality said pointedly to his detractors, “perhaps I can be allowed to continue with the primary focus of the story -- namely, myself.”
“That deathtrap stupid,” opined Solomon Grundy.
“Shortly thereafter, I began laying the seeds for my next endeavor, an extraordinary scheme as masterful as it was bold” the umpire continued.
“Naturally, I realized the futility of proceeding without first eliminating a pair of troublesome thorns in my side. Batman and Robin had managed to make themselves (more specifically, their deaths) my top priority. Since their true identities were a secret, I contacted them through my accustomed manner of communication…”
“…and police are urging anyone with information to the whereabouts of Jenny and Delisha to call in immediately,” midday news announcer Walter Klondike read from his script.
Unbeknownst to Mr. Klondike, his broadcast was about to be cut short. For at a secret location, the mere flip of a switch was enough to instantaneously replace the image of Klondike with Mr. Personality’s slouching profile.
“We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this impoahtent bulletin,” the familiar squinty face proclaimed on television screens across the city. “Some of you will remember the broadcast by this reporter several years past, which led my employahs to reconsider my tenure with this company. ‘Too emotional on the air’ they said. ‘Completely lost his marbles,’ said the reviews. All because I have the courage to ‘say it like it’s so.’ And though I appear before you tonight with less vehemence than my last appearance in the network’s employ, I remain dissatisfied with the treatment accorded me and will remain silent no longer. I grow weary of my opponents’ hypocrisy -- accusing me of deceit. I am here presenting myself for your scrutiny, while Batman continues to lurk in back alleys, unwilling to reveal his true face. Cruelty, vanity, arrogance -- these traits and worse are attributed to me. But again, these more accurately describe the pretentious behavyoah of the Caped Crusaders. And although continually besting Batman is rapidly becoming a stagnant bore, I will give him yet another chance to prove himself. What’s more, since he somehow seems to keep missing my engagements, I will go so far as to give him a time and location: the Gotham Intra-City Soccer Match; 2:00 this afternoon. I trust this will simplify things for my easily confused competitor. Sadly, I doubt even this will be sufficient. Simply stated, I believe the man is a coward, and there is ample evidence to support this hypothesis. We shall soon see. This has been Mr. Personality - Referring of Robbery!”
“Great job, Mr. Personality,” said Don, shutting down his pilfered TV camera as the broadcast concluded.
“Of course it was. I am the consummate professional. Now, quickly, a soccer match awaits us. Time is of the essence!”
Back at the softball game, one pitch after another was zooming across home plate without receiving a ruling. Oblivious to the game, the talkative umpire continued on with his story. “Although my men and I drove the distance through mid-town Gotham to the soccer field in the proverbial speed of light, Batman somehow managed to reach the site first. When we arrived, what should greet our eyes but….”
“The Batmobile!” exclaimed Don as he peered through the bushes outside the soccer field parking lot. “How’d it get here ahead of us?”
“That point can be debated later,” said Mr. Personality. “Frank, are the machine guns in place?”
“Check, boss.”
“Hand grenades?”
“Check.”
“Arrows?”
“Got ‘em.”
“Switsch Marine Knives?”
“Right here.”
“Batman and Robin’re still sitting in the car there,” observed Don. “They must be waiting for you to make your move.”
“They want to see my ‘move,’ do they? Very well, let it never be said that this showman kept an audience waiting.”
Receiving a signal in the form of a slashing hand motion from their leader, the group unleashed an astounding barrage of ordinance. Ear-splitting sounds of gunfire filled the air. Their view of the Batmobile was obscured by explosive flashes detonating on all sides of the vehicle. The fiendish thugs laughed as they launched volley after volley of bullets, arrows and shrapnel down upon the unfortunate parking spot. After sixty full seconds of non-stop bombardment, Personality held up a hand to halt the massacre. When the smoke finally cleared, he saw that nothing remained of the shining black vehicle. “Sen-sational! Can you believe it!” Mr. Personality yelled, shaking his fist in triumph. Concealing their weapons, the group eagerly trotted over towards the smoking, blackened patch of asphalt.
“Well, what are we to make of the Dynamic Duo now?” snickered the broadcaster, lighting a large cigar. “Perhaps we should hereafter refer to them as the ‘Dynamited Duo.’”
As he reached the center of the scene of the devastation, the cigar dropped from his lips. He and his cohorts stood flabbergasted, gaping at chunks of plastic lying about the asphalt. The pieces were all that remained of a pair of plastic dummies painted to resemble Batman and Robin. Also strewn about were patches of burnt balloon material.
“The car - it was nothin’ but a fake!”
“An inflatable Batmobile constructed of industrial strength rubber! How could this happen? This is insanity! I don’t even know what I pay you people for!” Mr. Personality yelled at his cohorts.
Their silence only worsened his mood.
“Now who goofed? I’ve got to know!” he demanded, looking from one stooge to the other.
“Uh, b-boss, maybe we should get outta here. How do we know Batman ain’t watchin’ us right now?” said Frank.
Peering about for the Caped Crusaders, Mr. Personality and his minions began cautiously backing up toward the bushes.
A dark van with the side door wide open drove up and the arms-wielding group dived inside it. The van sped away just as the sound of sirens began being heard in the distance.
“Although my inept employees failed to accomplish their assigned task, we were able to make a hasty escape from the scene. We then turned our attention back to my master hold-up scheme, the execution of which was already under way. The target was the Gotham World Champions Bowling Tournament, scheduled to be held in less than one hour at Barry Burwell’s Bowl-O-Rama (and Gypsy Tea Room). This event would serve as a suitable debut for my latest innovative inventions: bowling pin replicas filled with knockout gas capable of anesthetizing anyone in the establishment. Having acquired a set of uniforms, the embroidery of which declared us to be members of the official Lacquedorian bowling team, my associates and I headed straight for the Bowl-O-Rama (and Gypsy Tea Room)….”
Blending in amidst a sea of identically-garbed bowlers, Mr. Personality and his crew huddled together at the area assigned to the Lacquerdorian team. They watched the start of the tournament with intent interest, as one bowler after another sent balls rolling down the lanes.
“Which lane is it, Mistuh Personality?” asked Frank.
“You refer to the row bearing the pins enriched with knockout gas of incontestable potency?”
“Uh, yeah. I think.”
“Those would be in lane 8, the lane which is about to be used by the next bowler even as we speak. Men, it is time to don our gas masks.”
The group yanked gas masks from their bowling bags as a black ball went hurtling down lane 8 towards an innocent-looking set of pins. A loud clatter rang out as the ball made impact with the pins.
No gas emerged from the pins, though. Mr. Personality’s men watched hopefully as the fallen pins lay scattered on the floor for several seconds before being swept away out of sight. There was still no sign of any gas in the air. They became acutely aware that the other bowlers were staring at the gas-masked group.
“Hey, what’s going on?” demanded Don. “How come no gas?”
“Because Robin and I replaced your rigged bowling pins,” boomed Batman’s voice from across the room. He and Robin were standing in front of shelves of bowling shoes.
“Batman!” said Mr. Personality. “While your persistence is reminiscent of a young Cassius Clay in his prime, regrettably your intellect reminds me of Primo Carnera.”
His thugs removed their gas masks as he continued.
“Although I am traditionally the one to inform the public to the sequence of transpiring events, in this case it appears you have the advantage of me.”
“Very simple,” replied Batman. “We knew from the start that your appearance at the soccer match was an ambush because there isn’t any soccer being played there until tomorrow. We deduced that this tournament would be the real event of interest to the twisted workings of your criminal mind. When you and your cohorts showed up wearing uniforms that were two shades lighter than all the other teams, we knew it was you from a distance.”
“Those outfits were so obvious that we didn’t even need to keep an eye out for that lousy toupee of yours!" chimed in Robin.
“I will have you know, young man, that this hair is every bit as real as yours,” said Mr. Personality coldly.
Don burst out in laughter at the statement. Mr. Personality fixed him with a glare.
“Uh, sorry, boss. I was just laughing at the …the funny shoes on that guy over there,” Don said lamely.
“We’ve been surreptitiously tracking your every move since you’ve been here,” continued Batman.
“When you replaced the bowling pins with gas-filled fakes, we just switched them back,” said Robin.
“It’s your play now, Mr. Personality -- surrender or be pinned down!” said Batman.
“Surrender? A word that is not in my inexhaustible vocabulary! Men, huddle up!”
The three criminals hunched over in a huddle. Batman and Robin ducked together in their own huddle. Mr. Personality began scribbling out a play on the bowling score sheet as he spoke to his underlings.
“We are now going to inflict a beating of a magnitude that will deprive these preening costumed posers of their lives as well as their senses!”
He frantically scratched out a complex diagram for his men to follow which involved lots of feints and criss-crossing routes around the Bowl-O-Rama. Unfortunately, they emerged from their huddle to find Batman and Robin descending on their seating area.
“Delay of game. Five knuckle penalty!” said Robin, socking Don on the jaw.
“These men are in for a lengthy stay in the penalty box, Robin!” Batman said, joining in the pun, as he cracked Frank’s head against the overhead lamp. Seizing the two thugs by their collars, the Caped Crusaders spun around. With a mighty heave, they sent Don and Frank hurtling down the bowling lane. The two minions crashed to the lane floor, their momentum keeping their dazed forms sliding for another ten feet.
Out of options and out of quips, Mr. Personality took off in a dash down the nearest avenue of escape - the next bowling lane. Seizing upon this golden opportunity, Robin grabbed up a large sixteen-pound bowling ball. He hefted it experimentally for a moment, then went through a classic three-step and release motion. Mr. Personality heard the low growling hum of the rolling ball approaching rapidly behind him. He turned to look over his shoulder just as the round juggernaut of justice sailed into his ankles, knocking his feet out from under him. He crashed to the floor, flat on his back. He looked up slowly to find Batman’s imposing figure towering over him.
“How does it feel, Mr. Personality, to have wound up in the gutter?” Batman said, pulling out the Bat-cuffs.
“No comment,” the fallen foe sputtered. “you long-winded, gizmo-wielding, do-gooding, pointy-eared…”
“Holy Lost Weekend! Even his ‘no comments’ take forever!” observed Robin.
“…and although I requested a rematch, my cowled competitor, no doubt realizing his incredible good fortune in gaining the upper hand against me, fled the scene in a cowardly manner after ensuring that sufficient police were present to prevent me from getting my hands on him.” The convicts pondered the lessons of Mr. Personality’s story for a moment.
“Strike three! Game over! We win!! Hoo hoo hoo!!” cried out the Joker’s voice from the pitcher’s mound. The Claw team digested this new turn of events glumly.
One truth was made crystal clear by the game's outcome: a team run by the Joker was second to none in its victory celebration. The Claw team watched in dismay as the Jesters carried on at length, laughing, jumping, and cavorting all around the softball field.
“I say, that’s not very sportsmanlike,” said Sandman.
“We wanted to make you feel at home when you arrived back at ol’ Gotham State Pen, Catwoman” jeered the Joker. “It doesn’t matter what color you are. What could be more familiar for you than losing another game of softball to me!”
The African-American woman was clearly furious at the taunts, but held her tongue.
“Better luck next time, loooosers!” the Joker called from the distance, as his team left the field. The defeated Claw team members were left the alone on the softball diamond.
“Grundy have Batgirl story!” boomed a low voice.
Everyone turned to see what the towering behemoth had to say.
“Me rob gas station,” Solomon began. “Take all money. Hit clerk -- him knocked out. Me see Batgirl chasing Grundy. Me run slow -- arms full of money. She catching up. Me run into woods. Closer she get, closer. Me trip on root. Batgirl right behind…”
He paused, exhausted at putting so many words together in a row.
“Well, how did you stop her?” asked the Wizard.
The hulking brute lifted his arms for dramatic affect.
“Grundy hit with log!”
He stopped to see what effect his deathtrap idea had on his audience. All he got was silence and a bunch of blank looks.
“Well….at least it was short,” offered Blaze after a long pause.
Catwoman spoke up. “Since you were all so willing to lose to the Joker again in order that you could waste time with these rrriduculous stories, I might as well tell you how to do it right.”
The convicts nodded encouragingly, eager to avoid a tongue-lashing and get Catwoman’s mind off the defeat. The Feline Felon continued.
“I matched wits with Batgirl less than one week ago today. You see, I had just stolen the singing voices of the internationally-acclaimed Spanish singing group ‘Jose and the Kitty Kats’ with my new and improved Voice-Eraser. I was planning on demanding a hefty ransom for the return of the voices, but the police were hot on my tail from the moment I took possession.”
She closed her eyes, remembering the scene….
Dirt flew in the air as Catwoman, shovel in hand, hastily dug a makeshift hiding place for her loot. The prized jar of singing voices sat next to her on the darkened flowerbed of one of Gotham’s larger mansions.
“The game’s over, Catwoman! Give yourself up and come quietly.”
The feline thief turned to see Batgirl standing at the edge of the garden bed, hands on her hips. She was blocking Catwoman’s path of escape off the property. Catwoman spread her arms innocently.
“You can’t arrest me -- I’ve done nothing wrong! I’m just working in my garden here, as you can plainly see.”
“Really, Catwoman! Disregarding the fact you’re an escaped convict, I wasn’t aware that this house belonged to you. Or that midnight was an ideal time for gardening.”
“Black cats do everything better at midnight.”
“I know you’ve had trouble with multiple identities, but I didn’t know the situation had left you completely loopy.”
“My mental abilities are as sharp as ever. To prove it, allow me demonstrate my latest invention, which I’m surrrre will interest you, Batgirl.”
Nearby stood a familiar-looking black cat. It was sniffing at a garbage can. Catwoman strolled over to the cat, pulling out something that resembled a perfume bottle. She gave the confused kitty a liberal spraying with the bottle, then wandered away from it to watch.
“Leave that poor creature out of this, Catwoman,” said Batgirl. “This is between you and me.”
Batgirl looked around to ensure that none of Catwoman’s thugs were lurking nearby. When she looked back at the cat, it was standing in the same spot, but now the trash can was barely as tall as the creature’s stomach. The creature still resembled a typical feline in every respect except that it was now five feet tall! If she hadn’t already been familiar with the capabilities of special guest villainesses, Batgirl would have sworn she was looking at an ordinary kitty next to some miniature replicas of a trash can and flower bed. It occurred to her that a feline-enlarging formula and Voice-Eraser were lofty accomplishments for a cat burglar with no known background in science, but Batgirl knew she didn't currently have the luxury of disputing the claims.
“Okay, Catwoman. Now that you’ve distorted the intentions of Mother Nature with your perverted science, maybe you won’t mind explaining -- with what protection does enlarging this docile kitty provide you? You might as well have enlarged one of the slugs you’ve been digging up.”
“Oh, cats are anything but docile when it comes to dealing with furry little rodents like you, Batgirl.”
“Really? Are you sure it won’t remember some of the training exercises you put the poor thing through to make it assist you in your nefarious heists? Let’s just see with which one of us the kitty has a grudge.”
“And you’re willing to bet your life on that?”
“I am!” Batgirl answered defiantly.
“Then let this be a lesson to you, my little wagering novice. You should have listened to your parents when they told you never to parrrrtake in the evils of gambling. You see, I brought along one more little device just to make sure Hecate doesn’t lose interest in you.”
Catwoman produced a small device that resembled a small flashlight. Without a sound, the object suddenly emitted a bright red beam at Batgirl. Batgirl sprang to the side and cartwheeled out of the way.
“Put that laser beam away, Catwoman!” cried Batgirl.
“Oh, I don’t need a laser beam to deal with the likes of you. A laser pointer will be more than sufficient.”
Sure enough, Batgirl saw that the beam had no effect on anything it touched. No effect, it seemed, except on the giant cat, which was transfixed by the sight of the flitting point of light. “See?” said Catwoman. “Are you afraid of a little harmless beam of light?”
The cat had forgotten all about the trash can and was now crouched down, intently following every move of the pencil-thin beam.
“Do you see it, Hecate?” Catwoman asked her pet. “Has that evil little red firefly returned to bedevil you? No matter how you chase it, you never seem to be able to catch it. You must hate that firefly verrry much. There it goes!”
She suddenly shone the red light straight at Batgirl, so that the narrow dot it projected was pinpointed squarely on her stomach. The cat’s hindquarters trembled and Batgirl saw its large eyes fill with blackness. It sprang into the air as Batgirl backpedaled furiously. Although it was at least thirty feet away, Batgirl could tell from the creature’s speed that it would outrun her with no effort. It covered the distance between them in three quick strides and pounced.
Batgirl dived to one side at the last possible instant. She and Hecate both fell to the ground a few yards apart from each other. Hecate was searching around for the red light, which was no longer shining on Batgirl. Catwoman laughed as she easily swept the beam back up Batgirl's thighs. Before Batgirl could get to her feet, a huge paw whopped down on her leg, pinning her to the ground.
Out of the corner of her eye, Batgirl could make out silhouettes of figures gesturing and pointing at her from inside the darkened house. They were obviously on the phone, with the police she assumed, but she knew that help would arrive far too late to save her. The cat’s eyes frantically watched the tiny beam of light dance across Batgirl’s body. It raised a paw, claws extended. Batgirl frantically reached inside her cape for a Batarang, but the giant cat’s reflexes were quicker. The massive paw shot towards her, then stopped for a second. Catwoman was letting the beam of light move too wildly over Batgirl for the creature to pinpoint where to strike. Batgirl twisted to her side. Her eyes followed the red beam of light back to its source, to where Catwoman stood cackling and wiggling the laser pointer. The cat took another false start, its claws almost touching Batgirl before it pulled back at the last second.
“Am I making things too confusing for you, dear Hecate?” called Catwoman. “Is this better?”
She held the red point of light fixed in one spot, shining right over Batgirl’s heart. Batgirl’s arm whipped out, hurling the Batarang in a perfect arc straight for Catwoman’s arm. Catwoman didn’t even know it was coming out of the darkness until it hit her wrist. The laser pointer flew from her hands and spun in circles as it came to land in some shrubbery bushes. The instant the point of light zipped away from Batgirl’s heart, the giant cat leaped up in the air, trying in vain to catch the frustrating red dot as it sketched a bizarre path across the property. Her boot now free of the beast, Batgirl leapt to her feet. Seeing Catwoman heading for the shrubbery to recover the pointer stick, she took off in pursuit. Two pairs of shapely legs churned across the lawn, leaving high-heel marks in the turf. Batgirl reached the bushes seconds after Catwoman, who had pulled up short in order to peer into the shrubbery. Not slowing for a moment, Batgirl lowered her shoulder and rammed into her nemesis. Batgirl’s body-block sent Catwoman toppling head over heels into the bushes.
As luck would have it, she landed right next to the still-activated pointer. Two pairs of hands grabbed desperately for it. Catwoman’s fingers closed on it first. Batgirl grabbed Catwoman’s wrist and tried to wrench the pointer free of her grasp. The red point of light danced in crazy circles on the ground several feet away from the tussling pair. Hecaste’s head darted around, searching for some sign of the devilish “red bug.” He now saw it “running” around in a circle over by the shrubbery and charged in that direction with a vengeance. Seeing the huge feline hurtling at them, Batgirl twisted Catwoman’s wrist, forcing the beam of light to shine off in a different direction. Hecate changed course on a dime and charged off after the light, kicking up turf as it did. Batgirl forced Catwoman’s hand up sharply, then yanked it down as she slammed her knee up to greet it. Catwoman hissed in pain as the knee connected with the side of her hand, and the pointer fell from her grasp. Batgirl was the first to grab it off the ground. Sweeping the light beam down the street in front of the house, she aimed the red dot directly on a nearby telephone pole. Hecate enthusiastically ran for the telephone pole in huge bounding leaps. When the oversized cat had almost reached the pole, Batgirl sent the point of light shooting away. Hecate tried to change direction in mid-leap. The beast lowered its head to follow the red dot zipping away underneath it, and slammed headfirst into the telephone pole.
WHOMP!
The pole shook from the impact, and Hecate fell in an ungraceful heap on the street, letting out a loud yowl.
“I’m sorry to have to do this to you, kitty,” Batgirl said to the groggy animal. “Once I’ve got you back to normal size, I promise to get you to a vet.”
“You’re not putting either one of us in a cage!” she heard an angry voice growl behind her. Before she could turn, the back of Catwoman’s shovel connected soundly with the back of her head.
WHONK!
Batgirl fell face forward, out like a light.
“So, did you kill her then, Catwoman?!” asked Blaze.
“You did, didn’t you? Oh, you lucky stiff!” said Lola.
“Cerrrtainly not! After what she did to my pet? No quick death for her! I decided right away that Batgirl’s discomfort must be as long and protracted as possible. I hid her behind some bushes, then ran to the nearest phone booth. I dialed up an old friend, Jack O’Shea, to arrange for some transportation. But before I finished the call, there were sirens and flashing lights everywhere -- seems the miserable homeowners had called the police during the fight. I barely had time to give Jack some brief instructions before I was surrounded by gun-toting men with badges.”
“They didn’t find Batgirl?” asked the Wizard.
“No. I still had the jar of singing voices with me, so I distracted the police by smashing it on the ground. That left them with quite a mess to clean up -- they were still scraping up bits of voice off the pavement for hours afterward. I’m afraid poor ‘Jose and the Kitty Kats’ may never sing again.”
“Hey, the softball game’s over,” called out Ted the Prison Guard. “What are you all still hanging around for? And what are you whispering about over there?”
Catwoman hissed as she saw Ted the Prison Guard heading towards them. The guard reached the group just in time to hear Catwoman loudly say, “…and even though I’m verrry disappointed in your play this afternoon, I’m sure you will all make up for it by defeating the Joker’s team the next time the opportunity presents itself. Dismissed.”
The Claw team responded by nodding solemnly for Ted’s benefit. They then obediently filed past the unsuspecting guard and headed back inside.
Several hours later, the prison residents were settling down for the night. Catwoman slinked down the hallway, carefully assessing her surroundings. Most of the groups of fraternizing convicts had broken up for the evening, and the sounds of conversation from the surrounding cells were dying off. As she passed the television room, the only voice she heard inside was Solomon Grundy’s.
“Not Tonight Show repeat! Ugh -- Ed McMahon! Change channel!”
She stiffened when she saw Ted the Prison Guard standing next to her jail cell, but made sure not to break stride as she approached him in her usual confident gait.
“I see you got that new bed that you’ve been begging for,” he said, gesturing at the accommodations within the concrete room. “Now, if someone can keep from ripping tears in her mattress up while she sleeps…”
“My, is that some insensitive harassment I hear?” said Catwoman coolly. “Apparently my disability is a source of amusement to you.”
“What disability?” scoffed Ted the Prison Guard.
“The one that forces my hands to act out my dreams while I sleep,” she said, making clawing motions with her fingernails. “Now, will I have to get my lawyer to file a lawsuit to teach someone some manners?”
“Yeah, yeah, save it for the judge,” Ted the Prison Guard said, turning to leave. “Just make sure you take care of this bed or you’ll find yourself sleeping on the floor.”
Catwoman flopped lazily onto the new mattress and stretched.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take purrfect care of my prrecious new bed.”
She glanced up to see that the guard was gone, then reached to pull back the top of the sheets. At the head of the mattress, her fingers located a small zipper. She pulled down, unzipping a hidden seam that ran down the middle of the mattress. She parted the two halves of the mattress slightly, to discover two wide eyes staring back at her. She tugged the opening wider to reveal a bound and gagged Batgirl hidden inside the mattress. A human-shaped cavity had been carved out of the material, and Batgirl was now strapped securely into it. Catwoman smiled sweetly down at her captive.
“Every time, the same thing,” Catwoman said, shaking her head. “I escape from the penitentiary. You track me down and bring me back to the penitentiary. Over and over. Really, Batgirl, if my presence here is that important to you, it’ll be so much easier for you to keep track of me from where you are now. I’ll be right where you can monitor my every movement. By the way, I hope you're a sound sleeper. I tend to grind around on the mattress for awhile after lights out.”
Batgirl attempted a reply, but her words emerged from her sealed lips as an indecipherable hum. Catwoman grinned deviously at the display of helplessness from her new play toy. Her fingernail traced the length of Batgirl’s long leg.
“Tsk,” clucked Catwoman. “Having Jack O’Shea arrange to have you smuggled into the prison was child’s play. He simply called the bed company to cancel the order and then took their place for the delivery. The security at Gotham State Penitentiary is, as always, woefully inadequate.”
Catwoman tickled the purple-clad ribs just so she could watch her captive squirm. Batgirl glared angrily back as she writhed against the torments of Catwoman’s fingers.
“Just think, now you’ll be able to spend every night sleeping soundly in bed, and I do mean in bed, content in the knowledge that I’m locked up behind bars. I know how comforrrting that will be for you.”
Batgirl made stifled sounds of complaint and tried to squirm loose, but the straps held her tight against the metal springs of the bed's framework. She watched helplessly as Catwoman gave her a pat on the hip.
"But enough talk. What was that advice you gave me earlier? 'Give yourself up and come quietly?'"
Catwoman was interrupted by the sound of Ted the Prison Guard walking down the corridor, loudly banging a nightstick against the bars of the jail cells.
“Okay, listen up, jailbirds,” he yelled. “Everybody up. The warden has an announcement to make, so you’re all going to line up down at the end of the cellblock.”
Catwoman hastily zipped up the mattress and threw the covers on it before the guard arrived outside her cell.
“I’m so verrry tired. May I skip this meeting and go back to sleep” she asked Ted the Prison Guard innocently as he unlocked her cell.
“No dice, Kyle.”
“But I was just finally beginning to overcome my sleep disorder.”
“Everyone assembles down at the end of the cellblock -- no exceptions.”
She stole a glance back at the bed as she left her cell. "Keep my spot warm for me. I'll be right back," she purred under her breath. Catwoman proceeded to get in line with the rest of the tired convicts.
When the irritable group of criminals had trudged down to the assigned meeting place, they were joined by Warden Crichton. The warden examined them critically for a moment, then spoke.
“I’d like to apologize for disturbing you all at this time of night. Let me get right to the point: Batgirl has gone missing and Batman has informed me that he has reason to believe that one or more of you may have information that would help Robin and him locate her. I know that any of you with any knowledge relevant to the case will be happy to share it with the Dynamic Duo.”
“After they ruined our softball game?” said Blaze incredulously. “Fat chance.”
“Yeah, it’d be cold day in Hell before we’d give those creeps any information,” proclaimed Benny.
“I believe you’re mistaken,” Tweedledee replied, only it wasn’t Tweedledee’s voice at all. Tugging and tearing away at pounds of make-up, “Tweedledee” revealed his true face - the cowled visage of the Batman!
“Yeah, don’t bet on it, Butcher!” came Robin’s muffled voice as he peeled off an even larger amount of padding from the Tweedledum disguise consuming his head and body.
The convicts gaped in disbelief as the caped spies in their midst nonchalantly shed their disguises.
“Warden Crichton, Catwoman revealed to this bunch that she knows exactly where Batgirl is,” said Batman. “Therefore, her cell would seem to be the logical place to begin searching.” Batman unstrapped his ankles from his thighs, allowing his boots to once again touch the ground. The stunned collection of cons realized that he had been standing on his knees the entire time he’d been posing as the short, squat Tweedledee.
Catwoman suddenly spun and whipped her arm forward, unleashing her patented fastball in the direction of Ted the Prison Guard. Unaware that Catwoman had been carrying her softball, the guard reacted too late. The last thing he saw (before the spinning, tweeting birds) was the stitching in the seams of the oncoming softball. Grabbing the guard’s falling rifle before it hit the ground, Benny the Butcher let loose with a wild shot in the direction of the Caped Crusaders. The bullet tore a hole in the Tweedledum wig that Robin had been holding, a split second before he dove for the side of the hallway.
All Hades broke loose as the cons attacked the Dynamic Duo or fled in retreat, depending on their inclination at the moment. The Wizard and Lola Lasagne teamed up in kicking the prone Robin. Benny was getting a bead on Warden Crichton through the cross-hairs of the rifle when Batman slid feet first toward him and kicked the rifle out of his arms. Benny raised his arms to make a repeat mid-air grab of the firearm, but Batman’s fist slammed into his breadbasket, knocking the wind out of him.
WHOOF!
Solomon Grundy watched the scene unfolding, his rage increasing by the second. He cracked his knuckles menacingly and waded into the fray.
Tiring of Lola’s pink shoes kicking his head, Robin managed to grab her thick ankle while it was in mid-kick. Springing to his feet, he yanked Lola’s foot straight up and pushed. She shrieked as she became briefly airborne, landing with all her weight on the Wizard. The two crashed in a heap on the floor.
WHAM!
Solomon Grundy found himself facing the back of a bobbing, weaving Mr. Personality, who was displaying questionable boxing skills in addition to blocking Grundy’s path to the Caped Crusader. With a swipe of his arm, he sent Mr. Personality flying into the wall. Batman sized up this new adversary as Grundy’s immense shadow fell over the Dark Knight.
“It boogie time,” declared Solomon.
He lumbered towards Batman, then suddenly stopped as an electrical zapping sound crackled in the air. Grundy’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed face first. Behind him stood Warden Crichton, holding a taser in one hand and an oversized, smoking, cattle prod in the other.
“Gosh, Warden,” exclaimed Robin, “don’t you still swear by your progressive penal policies?”
“Harumph! Quite so, Boy Wonder.” Crichton replied, gesturing at Grundy. “But after extensive counseling for this fellow, I've learned that he just needs to get the living daylights beat out of him.”
“Where’s Catwoman?” asked Batman, looking around. “We can’t afford to lose her now that she knows we’re on to her.”
“She went down that hallway! And she’s got the guard’s rifle!” said Robin.
The two took off in a dash, leaving Crichton, his taser and his cattle prod to keep the rest of the convicts at bay. Several hundred yards ahead of them, Catwoman was racing back to her cell with murderous intent.
“Stop, Catwoman!” ordered Batman as he got a glimpse of the fleeing feline up ahead of them.
They rounded a corner to find Sandman pushing a large desk into their path. Not slowing, the two simultaneously vaulted over the desk to land on a golden-colored carpet. To their surprise, they promptly sank up to their necks in the carpet, which was not a carpet at all.
“Quicksand!” declared Batman. “Robin, lean back against it.”
“Rock-a-bye, Batman, in the sunken floor,” sang Sandman in a haunting tone. “When the desk tips, there’ll be blood and gore.”
The large desk which he had used to block the Caped Crusaders’ view of the trap was now being pushed towards the quicksand pit.
“Quite sloppy of you to fail to keep up to date with the plumbing overhaul going on in the penitentiary this month, Batman,” said Sandman. “All kinds of pits and holes about that one might stumble into if they’re not careful. And no telling what an industrious soul could fill them with, if given half the chance.” Batman could see that the teetering desk was about to seal them in a quicksand tomb.
Catwoman reached her cell. Stopping at the door, she cocked the rifle.
“There’s been a change of plans, Batgirl,” she announced.
With a final heave, Sandman forced the desk past the edge to the pit. To his surprise, the two heroes seized the legs of the desk and pulled it in towards them. As the desk scraped along the edge of the pit, Batman and Robin reached up to grasp the surface of the desk. Rather than toppling horizontally on top of the Dynamic Duo, the desk was turned on end and used as a climbing handhold by the Caped Crusaders. The sudden huge weight of the desk plummeting into the hole sent a thick spray of quicksand spurting into the air. A sizable patch of it landed in Sandman’s face. He cleared the messy substance away, only to see two gloved fists filling his vision.
SMACK!
Batman and Robin sent him flying.
“Let’s go, Robin!” said Batman, racing up the corridor, but he knew that they were already too late.
Catwoman stomped over to the bed, pulled back the covers and unzipped the mattress. There was the loud sound of more guns cocking. From the hole where she expected to see Batgirl, emerged the twin barrels of two police rifles.
“You’re outgunned, Catwoman!”
Catwoman was astounded, but didn’t let go of her gun.
“There’s no way two people could fit in there!” she said.
“Right ye are, Miss Catwoman,” came Chief O’Hara’s voice, “however, Officer Mooney and I found there was a bit more room underneath the bed once we smashed a big hole in your accursed device with our rifle butts.”
A slender gloved hand reached through the bars behind her and grabbed a handful of Catwoman’s hair. Before she could get off a shot at the police officers under the bed, her head was yanked backwards against the metal bars of the cell. Another purple glove appeared through the bars and yanked the rifle from her grip.
“That’s your second defeat in one day, Catwoman,” the dazed super-villainess heard Batgirl say. “And you were never ahead in either game.”
Several minutes later, Catwoman and her teammates were all locked back in their cells. Catwoman strained to overhear snatches of the conversation as Batman explained things to Chief O’Hara.
“But how on earth did ye appear on the prison wall while Tweedledee was down on the field?” asked O’Hara.
“Robin and I were in our Tweedle-guises at the time. We enlisted the aid of photographer Jimmy Olson from Metropolis to stand in for Robin, and Bruce Wayne’s butler, Alfred, as a stand in for myself. We waited for an occasion when the miscreants’ attention would be occupied with their softball game and the angle of the sun in their eyes would make thorough identification difficult.”
“Sure, and I might have known ye’d have to use the butler instead of Mr. Wayne himself. That assignment would be a wee bit too dangerous for the likes of that millionaire playboy.”
“Actually, Mr. Wayne offered, but we discovered that years of soft living have left him with a posture that would prove unconvincing as a crime-fighter.”
As the group of crime-fighters passed her cell, Batgirl called out, “I’m sorry we had to confiscate your new bed for evidence, Catwoman, but at least you won’t have to worry about damaging the concrete floor with your claws when you spend the next week or so sleeping on it.”
Catwoman grimaced and watched the caped trio depart. She shook her head in regret. “Almost got ‘errr.”
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