Chapter 8 - Stupid Riddles
I woke up and noticed my muscles all stiff and sore, despite Alfred's care, but I rolled out of bed anyway. It was about three o'clock, and I was hungry. But best of all, I was going on patrol with Bruce. No, not just Bruce – Batman! I was going out with Batman.
I threw on some jeans, a tee shirt, and a hoodie. Bruce said he would be getting me a costume soon, something official with my own codename. I thought Superboy would have been cool, but that was already taken. I suggested Superdick to Bruce, and he told me to watch my mouth or he's be soaping it out. I know the other meaning of my own name, well nickname, but I'd still rather have it be Dick than Richard. Richard sounds too formal, too snobby, too Bruce-like, not that Bruce is a snob, but whatever.
I raced out of the hallway and collided straight into Alfred. He caught himself, but I stumbled back, horrified at what I had done.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said in rush.
"Quite all right," Alfred said, but he did not smile. "Please try to slow down and watch where you're going."
His words hurt. I'm such a baby, but they really stung. I nodded, mumbled another apology, and walked away from him as fast as I could without seeming to go fast.
Bruce was coming out of the library, talking on his cellphone, "Yes, I need the shelves replaced . . . It's a library circa mid 1800's – of course it has wooden shelves. Pine, I think . . . I know people aren't using wood so much . . . Yes, I know it's bad on the environment. Damn it, Clark, what should I put in the library then? Bio-degradable plasma shelves?"
Bruce saw me and suddenly looked guilty for swearing. He said in a much calmer voice, "I'm sorry, Clark. I lost my temper for a moment. I consider you a very valuable friend and I should always treat you how I want to be treated . . . No, Dick did not just walk in . . . Fine, I'm lying. Find out what I should use for shelves and call me back . . . No, you are not my secretary . . . Don't make me come over there and tell Perry White to fire you . . . Bye."
Bruce's face was serious, but his eyes were smiling at he hung up his phone. I knew he and Clark Kent were good friends even though Clark lived way over in Metropolis. Clark had come to visit once, and though he looked kind of boring with glasses, he was fun to talk to, and he told jokes at the table though Bruce tried to look disapproving. Every so often Clark would sent me box with a book which was okay, but I'd find a king-sized candy bar at the bottom, wrapped in newspaper to make it look like stuffing so Bruce wouldn't know. And Clark reports on Superman so that makes him extra cool.
"What's wrong?" Bruce asked abruptly.
I promptly forgot about Clark Kent as I remembered my run-in with Alfred. "Nothing," I muttered. "It's just – never mind."
"Well, we're going to leave about nine," Bruce told me. "So we're suiting up a little after eight. Homework?"
"I don't have any," I looked away from him.
"Dick," Bruce sighed.
"I'll do it tomorrow," I objected. "Why do you care so much about homework? I'm going to fight crime, not become a teacher."
"You have to do something for a day job," Bruce insisted. "I do, Clark does-, uh other people do. Everyone has real jobs to pay bills."
"I'll do something," I shrugged. "Maybe invent video games."
"I'm sending you to a guidance counselor," Bruce followed me as I headed towards the kitchen. "And then a career counselor and then a life coach. How are you ever going to get into college with that attitude?"
"I'm not going to college," I sank down at the kitchen table and started eating the plate of sandwiches that was just laying there. Before Bruce could blow a gasket, I added, "I'm not smart enough for college."
Bruce seemed to swell with righteous angry. "Who," he demanded in a quiet, intense voice, "told you that?"
"People," I answered. "Students, Pamela."
"Pamela Isley?" Bruce asked. "The one you ran from Wednesday and found the Joker?"
"Yeah," I admitted ruefully, "but she's always saying I should be glad you can pay a college to let me in because otherwise I wouldn't go."
Bruce looked like he was going to be mad over that, too, but then he sighed. "Well, if worst comes to worst, you can go to the university here in Gotham. I've given them enough to take three of you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded.
"Keep studying and you won't find out," Bruce told me. He grabbed a stack of books and set them down on the table. "Now get to it."
It's always annoying how he knows where my books are at all times. I can't find them easily, but they always make themselves handy when Bruce is finishing up an argument and can slap them down in front of me to make his point. One day, I hope he grabs the wrong books, like telephone books, and then I can start calling people instead of studying. It's never happened yet, but one day – one day I'm going to get him back.
I began my algebra lesson, twenty-nine horrid problems that had a bunch of weird numbers and letters and lines going everywhere. I started working the first problem out on paper while Bruce poured himself a cup of coffee from the huge pot. I liked the smell of the coffee, but Bruce doesn't let me have much: sometimes a half of cup on Sunday, but that's it.
He had taken several sips when I looked up.
"Cam we kidnap the Riddler?" I asked.
Bruce looked at me in surprise. "What?"
"The Riddler – I mean, he seems to know a lot to plan those riddles and stupid questions. So he must be pretty smart. If we kidnapped him, he could help me with my homework."
Bruce's hand tightened around the coffee cup. "Has the Riddler ever given me a riddle I couldn't solve?"
"No."
"So doesn't that mean I'm just as smart as the Riddler if not smarter?"
"Yeah," I nodded. That made sense to me.
"Then why," Bruce's voice was sharp, "would you want him to help you instead of me?"
"Because he doesn't yell at me," I pointed out.
"No, he would sit there, making up questions to drive us crazy and trying to get out of the handcuffs."
"Why would he be in handcuffs?"
Bruce looked ever more frustrated. "Do you think the Riddler's going to just come here willingly? Of course, he's going to be in handcuffs and probably tied to the chair as well."
"Maybe we could pay him?" I suggested. "Or give him something he really wants? I wanted the Playstation III forever, but you said I had to be good and wait until Christmas. So I did, and I got it. We could that with the Riddler."
"You can't just –" Bruce broke off, too upset to continue.
At that moment, Alfred came in, and Bruce turned to him.
"Alfred, tell Dick we cannot hire the Riddler as a tutor for him."
"No, no criminals as tutors," Alfred said immediately, not a bit surprised. "No one who breaks the law in this house. Well, except for one."
He gave Bruce a side look, and Bruce bristled.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce said, lifting his chin up stubbornly.
"Remember what I said five years ago," Alfred told him as he walked back to the pantry.
I felt my stomach hit my shoes. It was one thing for him to talk about how much he despised me to Bruce late at night, but to say it right in front of me -
I wished I could stay in my room forever, but I was stuck in the kitchen, doing homework. I was going to finish the work and leave, but Bruce all the sudden stepped beside the table.
He set a cup of coffee front of me. "Drink it before he comes out," Bruce said in a low voice. "We'll be out late."
I blinked, surprised that Bruce would let me have some. I was even more surprised when he added,
"I put some milk and sugar in it so it won't be too bitter. And if you drink it now, you'll be awake later tonight and not too jittery."
Alfred was still in the pantry so I gulped down the coffee as fast as I could. It wasn't too hot, but the taste always makes me wince. I don't really like coffee, but I want it when Bruce has it. I finished, and Bruce stepped to the sink to wash the two glasses out.
He left, and a few seconds later, Alfred came back. I tried to act like I was busy studying, and he began cleaning up. I heard him take up the coffee pot and mutter, "I declare, cut him and he would bleed coffee! A heart attack waiting to happen – he must have had six cups. I should just put the whole pot in the Batmobile."
I tried very hard to look casual and not guilty, but Alfred came to stand by my side and I froze. I knew my face would give everything away, but I had to look up at him eventually . . .
"Here," Alfred set a cup of coffee in front of me. "No doubt Master Bruce would disapprove, but it will be late and you'll be tired and he has no room to talk, anyway. I put milk and sugar in it."
I stared at the cup. I had just swallowed two cups of coffee, but I dared not tell Alfred that. And I couldn't refuse to drink it because he wanted me to drink it, and I couldn't risk annoying him.
"Thank you," I murmured as I took the cup and started swallowing it.
The second cup was much harder to get down than the first. I began to feel the brew churning in my stomach and already I was feeling jittery as if I had drunk a two-liter bottle of coke.
I finished and put the glass down, reeling slightly. Already I wanted to get up and start moving around.
By eight that night, I could barely keep still. I was dressed in a green shirt and red gym pants with a black mask that covered the top half of my face, and I bounced from foot to foot, my thoughts racing and my whole body nervous as heck. Where was Bruce, what was taking Bruce so long?
I wanted to get in the Batmobile and drive it, going so fast I couldn't even see the road.
"Get in right now because I'm ready to go, ready to go right now, because I'm ready to go!" I shouted out.
Bruce stepped from the small changing room, in his black Batsuit, but with his cowl off. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine!" I yelled before I realized he wasn't a mile away. "Just ready to go."
"No caffeine for you ever again," Bruce muttered.
Alfred was at the controls, ready to open the door once we were in the car. I got in the passenger side of Batmobile, demanding,
"Can I drive, can I drive, can I drive?"
"No," Bruce growled, getting into his seat and pulling on his cowl.
"Please, Bruce, please?"
"No," his voice was lower, more gravelly, "and it's Batman now."
He pushed button and the doors began to close, sealing us inside. My excitement reached a new level, and I began bouncing my legs up and down against the floorboard.
Batman pushed a button on his wrist-com, and he said, "Ready for clearance."
"Yes, sir," Alfred's voice came from the wrist-com. "Ready to open."
A part of the Batcave began to open, and the next moment I was looking at a field bathed in moonlight. Batman started the car, and it jumped to life, growling beneath us.
"Yeah, man," I yelled as he put the car into gear.
"Calm down," Batman order.
And then he pulled forward.
I've never done drugs before – Bruce once said he tan my hide for a year if I ever even thought about smoking pot – but riding in the Batmobile is probably the closest thing to a drug-rush I'll ever get. And the Batmobile has to be like a million times cooler than drugs and way more fun. But right then I was so high on caffeine that I cried out as we sped over the field and covered my face.
"We're going to die!" I protested.
"We're not going to die – you've driven with me dozens of time," Batman shot back. But he eased off the gas until I could drop my hands.
Gotham was pretty quiet for a Saturday night, but as we drove through the streets, I kept pointing out things that I had never noticed.
"That Chinese store had their name in bright green lights," I told Batman. "Can we stop for Chinese food – I'm hungry."
"You just ate," Batman replied, his lips frowning underneath his cowl. "And we don't stop for food."
"I could get take-out," I suggested.
"No food in the Batmobile," he said sternly.
We drove by a pet store next, and the sight of the puppy dogs pressing their faces against the glass was too much for me. "I want a dog," I cried out. "Why can't I have a dog? Please, just one dog? Why can't I have two? Everyone else gets two dogs. Oh, oh, we could have a 101 Dalmatians and keep them all over the manor."
The wrist-com buzzed again, and Alfred's voice said, "The Riddler's on the loose again."
"Where?" Batman was already opening his computer monitor that stood between the two seats just over the rocket launcher.
"Gotham Central Bank," Alfred replied.
"Got it," Batman was already keying in the location.
Five minutes later, he pulled the car under a bridge that ran right beside the bank and we got out.
"Stay down and stay quiet," Batman ordered. "I have no idea what the Riddler has planned."
I nodded, because I didn't remember how to talk quietly anymore. Batman crouched down and began to approach the building.
The Riddler really isn't a bad guy, I guess. I mean he does bad things and he makes a lot of trouble, but he isn't like the Joker who likes to stick knives into people. The Riddler likes to set up elaborate traps and have people try to figure them out. Only problem is, he tends to use dynamite to get people to go along, otherwise no one would play with him. That goes for Batman, too. I don't think Batman would even bother showing up just to answer the Riddler's riddles, but Batman will come if people are in trouble,
That's why we found the Riddler in front of the bank with two guards gagged and tied to a front pillar with dynamite and the Riddle prancing around in his stupid green costume.
"All right," the Riddler grinned the guards, "we have to wait until the Batman shows up and then the game can begin."
"Hey!" I jumped out where the Riddler could see me. "That's the Joker's line."
The Riddler froze, his expression completely bewildered. "Who the heck are you? Mini superhero?"
Batman stepped from the shadows, black and tall and menacing. The Riddler stepped back a space.
"Move out of the way, kid," the Riddler ordered, his eyes on Batman. "The men got some playing to do."
"That's so gay, it isn't even funny," I retorted.
Batman snapped his fingers at me, not an easy feat with gloves on, but it made a loud sound all the same. "Get back," Batman growled at me.
"Why?" I demanded. "He's not going to use the dynamite. You said last time it was fake, and that's probably why I get to come with you now. All this way, just for fake dynamite."
"Hey, dynamite's expensive," the Riddler protested. "You can't just find it lying around the street. And anyway, this stuff is real."
"Why should we believe you?" I retorted, feeling really good. My fingertips were buzzing, but I was talking super fast and super cool. "Prove it's real."
The guards began shaking their heads and protesting loudly behind their gags, and Batman clamped a hand on my shoulder, nearly knocking me backwards.
"Forgive my sidekick," Batman growled. "He's a little over-eager and he's going to calm down right not, or he's going to sit in the car all by himself."
"I'm helping," I protested. "He's the one that's got people tied up with fake dynamite."
"It's real!" the Riddler nearly screamed. He looked about two seconds from throwing a tantrum, all mad because he wasn't the center of attention.
"All right, Riddler," Batman's lips were a thin line, "what do you want?"
The Riddler tried to pull himself together, to look smart and threatening. "I-I-I want you to play the – answer the riddle," he amended, glaring at me.
I snorted. "Oh, this is going to take a long time. What's dressed in green and looks like a man, but is really a dumbass?"
"Watch it," Batman ordered, but the Riddler stomped his foot.
"I am not a dumbass – I'm the smartest man you'll ever meet."
"If smartest means dumbest, then yeah," I scoffed. I wasn't scared – Batman would protect me, and it was fun to yell at a bad guy after one had tortured me.
"What's in my head could fill a dozen encyclopedias," the Riddler told me.
"Yeah, with blank pages," I quipped.
"Pages with words on them," the Riddler insisted.
"Typed by monkeys," I grinned.
"Batman," the Riddler whined, "make him stop. I'm causing a real crime here, and he's not taking it seriously."
"All right," Batman sighed, "take it seriously, Robin."
I blinked, confused. "That's not my name."
"It's your name for tonight," Batman growled. "We'll find you a real codename later. But for now you answer to Robin. Now, Riddler, what do I have to figure out for you to let these men go?"
"From the fake dynamite," I added.
"Forget the dynamite," Batman commanded, giving me a furious look from behind his cowl. "Just tell me the riddle."
"It – it," the Riddler stammered, "it was – look, Batman, I like it better when you work alone. Why did you have to bring him along? I can't even think with him yammering on and on."
"I don't believe you think at all," I decided. "I think you have an earpiece in your ear and the Penguin tells you all your lines."
The Riddle was furious. "I tell myself my own lines!" he screamed.
Batman sighed heavily and stepped towards the guards. "I'm untying them," he told the Riddler. "If you get my sidekick to shut up, you win this round."
"Ha!" the Riddler stepped in front of me, no longer caring about his captives. "What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, has a bed but never sleeps?
"I don't know, but it can't be any stupider than you are," I retorted. Man, it felt good to just let it all out.
"That's not an answer – you're not playing right. You're the stupid one."
"I know you are, but what am I?" I sneered.
"You're playing wrong! Play right, play right!"
"I play left." I jeered. "Do you stay in the stupid ward at Arkham or did they have to create a whole new room for dumb people just so you'd have a place to stay?"
The guards had run for safety, leaving the dynamite tied around the pillar, and Batman came back to us, not wanting to hear the squabbling.
"He's not playing fair," the Riddler complained. "I thought you good guys were supposed to play fair."
"You would think," Batman said wearily. "Riddler, stop fighting with the kid. Let us give you a ride back to Arkham and we'll call it a night. Come on, I'll drive through and pick you up something to eat."
"You said no food in the Batmobile," I protested, mad that Batman was being nice to the criminal. "If the good guys don't get to eat in the car, he doesn't either."
"If I can't eat, I'm not coming," the Riddler replied, crossing his arms stubbornly.
"Everyone can eat in the Batmobile if you just come along," Batman announced loudly.
The Riddler glared at me, but he finally agreed, "Fine, but it was a really good riddle."
"For a baby," I muttered as we moved away from the bank.
The Riddler turned to me, his eyes blazing, and he pulled a small black box from his pocket.
"No!" Batman yelled, but the Riddler pushed down on the black button.
Immediately, the front of the bank exploded, blowing out the two pillars with a terrified bang.
I threw on some jeans, a tee shirt, and a hoodie. Bruce said he would be getting me a costume soon, something official with my own codename. I thought Superboy would have been cool, but that was already taken. I suggested Superdick to Bruce, and he told me to watch my mouth or he's be soaping it out. I know the other meaning of my own name, well nickname, but I'd still rather have it be Dick than Richard. Richard sounds too formal, too snobby, too Bruce-like, not that Bruce is a snob, but whatever.
I raced out of the hallway and collided straight into Alfred. He caught himself, but I stumbled back, horrified at what I had done.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said in rush.
"Quite all right," Alfred said, but he did not smile. "Please try to slow down and watch where you're going."
His words hurt. I'm such a baby, but they really stung. I nodded, mumbled another apology, and walked away from him as fast as I could without seeming to go fast.
Bruce was coming out of the library, talking on his cellphone, "Yes, I need the shelves replaced . . . It's a library circa mid 1800's – of course it has wooden shelves. Pine, I think . . . I know people aren't using wood so much . . . Yes, I know it's bad on the environment. Damn it, Clark, what should I put in the library then? Bio-degradable plasma shelves?"
Bruce saw me and suddenly looked guilty for swearing. He said in a much calmer voice, "I'm sorry, Clark. I lost my temper for a moment. I consider you a very valuable friend and I should always treat you how I want to be treated . . . No, Dick did not just walk in . . . Fine, I'm lying. Find out what I should use for shelves and call me back . . . No, you are not my secretary . . . Don't make me come over there and tell Perry White to fire you . . . Bye."
Bruce's face was serious, but his eyes were smiling at he hung up his phone. I knew he and Clark Kent were good friends even though Clark lived way over in Metropolis. Clark had come to visit once, and though he looked kind of boring with glasses, he was fun to talk to, and he told jokes at the table though Bruce tried to look disapproving. Every so often Clark would sent me box with a book which was okay, but I'd find a king-sized candy bar at the bottom, wrapped in newspaper to make it look like stuffing so Bruce wouldn't know. And Clark reports on Superman so that makes him extra cool.
"What's wrong?" Bruce asked abruptly.
I promptly forgot about Clark Kent as I remembered my run-in with Alfred. "Nothing," I muttered. "It's just – never mind."
"Well, we're going to leave about nine," Bruce told me. "So we're suiting up a little after eight. Homework?"
"I don't have any," I looked away from him.
"Dick," Bruce sighed.
"I'll do it tomorrow," I objected. "Why do you care so much about homework? I'm going to fight crime, not become a teacher."
"You have to do something for a day job," Bruce insisted. "I do, Clark does-, uh other people do. Everyone has real jobs to pay bills."
"I'll do something," I shrugged. "Maybe invent video games."
"I'm sending you to a guidance counselor," Bruce followed me as I headed towards the kitchen. "And then a career counselor and then a life coach. How are you ever going to get into college with that attitude?"
"I'm not going to college," I sank down at the kitchen table and started eating the plate of sandwiches that was just laying there. Before Bruce could blow a gasket, I added, "I'm not smart enough for college."
Bruce seemed to swell with righteous angry. "Who," he demanded in a quiet, intense voice, "told you that?"
"People," I answered. "Students, Pamela."
"Pamela Isley?" Bruce asked. "The one you ran from Wednesday and found the Joker?"
"Yeah," I admitted ruefully, "but she's always saying I should be glad you can pay a college to let me in because otherwise I wouldn't go."
Bruce looked like he was going to be mad over that, too, but then he sighed. "Well, if worst comes to worst, you can go to the university here in Gotham. I've given them enough to take three of you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded.
"Keep studying and you won't find out," Bruce told me. He grabbed a stack of books and set them down on the table. "Now get to it."
It's always annoying how he knows where my books are at all times. I can't find them easily, but they always make themselves handy when Bruce is finishing up an argument and can slap them down in front of me to make his point. One day, I hope he grabs the wrong books, like telephone books, and then I can start calling people instead of studying. It's never happened yet, but one day – one day I'm going to get him back.
I began my algebra lesson, twenty-nine horrid problems that had a bunch of weird numbers and letters and lines going everywhere. I started working the first problem out on paper while Bruce poured himself a cup of coffee from the huge pot. I liked the smell of the coffee, but Bruce doesn't let me have much: sometimes a half of cup on Sunday, but that's it.
He had taken several sips when I looked up.
"Cam we kidnap the Riddler?" I asked.
Bruce looked at me in surprise. "What?"
"The Riddler – I mean, he seems to know a lot to plan those riddles and stupid questions. So he must be pretty smart. If we kidnapped him, he could help me with my homework."
Bruce's hand tightened around the coffee cup. "Has the Riddler ever given me a riddle I couldn't solve?"
"No."
"So doesn't that mean I'm just as smart as the Riddler if not smarter?"
"Yeah," I nodded. That made sense to me.
"Then why," Bruce's voice was sharp, "would you want him to help you instead of me?"
"Because he doesn't yell at me," I pointed out.
"No, he would sit there, making up questions to drive us crazy and trying to get out of the handcuffs."
"Why would he be in handcuffs?"
Bruce looked ever more frustrated. "Do you think the Riddler's going to just come here willingly? Of course, he's going to be in handcuffs and probably tied to the chair as well."
"Maybe we could pay him?" I suggested. "Or give him something he really wants? I wanted the Playstation III forever, but you said I had to be good and wait until Christmas. So I did, and I got it. We could that with the Riddler."
"You can't just –" Bruce broke off, too upset to continue.
At that moment, Alfred came in, and Bruce turned to him.
"Alfred, tell Dick we cannot hire the Riddler as a tutor for him."
"No, no criminals as tutors," Alfred said immediately, not a bit surprised. "No one who breaks the law in this house. Well, except for one."
He gave Bruce a side look, and Bruce bristled.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce said, lifting his chin up stubbornly.
"Remember what I said five years ago," Alfred told him as he walked back to the pantry.
I felt my stomach hit my shoes. It was one thing for him to talk about how much he despised me to Bruce late at night, but to say it right in front of me -
I wished I could stay in my room forever, but I was stuck in the kitchen, doing homework. I was going to finish the work and leave, but Bruce all the sudden stepped beside the table.
He set a cup of coffee front of me. "Drink it before he comes out," Bruce said in a low voice. "We'll be out late."
I blinked, surprised that Bruce would let me have some. I was even more surprised when he added,
"I put some milk and sugar in it so it won't be too bitter. And if you drink it now, you'll be awake later tonight and not too jittery."
Alfred was still in the pantry so I gulped down the coffee as fast as I could. It wasn't too hot, but the taste always makes me wince. I don't really like coffee, but I want it when Bruce has it. I finished, and Bruce stepped to the sink to wash the two glasses out.
He left, and a few seconds later, Alfred came back. I tried to act like I was busy studying, and he began cleaning up. I heard him take up the coffee pot and mutter, "I declare, cut him and he would bleed coffee! A heart attack waiting to happen – he must have had six cups. I should just put the whole pot in the Batmobile."
I tried very hard to look casual and not guilty, but Alfred came to stand by my side and I froze. I knew my face would give everything away, but I had to look up at him eventually . . .
"Here," Alfred set a cup of coffee in front of me. "No doubt Master Bruce would disapprove, but it will be late and you'll be tired and he has no room to talk, anyway. I put milk and sugar in it."
I stared at the cup. I had just swallowed two cups of coffee, but I dared not tell Alfred that. And I couldn't refuse to drink it because he wanted me to drink it, and I couldn't risk annoying him.
"Thank you," I murmured as I took the cup and started swallowing it.
The second cup was much harder to get down than the first. I began to feel the brew churning in my stomach and already I was feeling jittery as if I had drunk a two-liter bottle of coke.
I finished and put the glass down, reeling slightly. Already I wanted to get up and start moving around.
By eight that night, I could barely keep still. I was dressed in a green shirt and red gym pants with a black mask that covered the top half of my face, and I bounced from foot to foot, my thoughts racing and my whole body nervous as heck. Where was Bruce, what was taking Bruce so long?
I wanted to get in the Batmobile and drive it, going so fast I couldn't even see the road.
"Get in right now because I'm ready to go, ready to go right now, because I'm ready to go!" I shouted out.
Bruce stepped from the small changing room, in his black Batsuit, but with his cowl off. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine!" I yelled before I realized he wasn't a mile away. "Just ready to go."
"No caffeine for you ever again," Bruce muttered.
Alfred was at the controls, ready to open the door once we were in the car. I got in the passenger side of Batmobile, demanding,
"Can I drive, can I drive, can I drive?"
"No," Bruce growled, getting into his seat and pulling on his cowl.
"Please, Bruce, please?"
"No," his voice was lower, more gravelly, "and it's Batman now."
He pushed button and the doors began to close, sealing us inside. My excitement reached a new level, and I began bouncing my legs up and down against the floorboard.
Batman pushed a button on his wrist-com, and he said, "Ready for clearance."
"Yes, sir," Alfred's voice came from the wrist-com. "Ready to open."
A part of the Batcave began to open, and the next moment I was looking at a field bathed in moonlight. Batman started the car, and it jumped to life, growling beneath us.
"Yeah, man," I yelled as he put the car into gear.
"Calm down," Batman order.
And then he pulled forward.
I've never done drugs before – Bruce once said he tan my hide for a year if I ever even thought about smoking pot – but riding in the Batmobile is probably the closest thing to a drug-rush I'll ever get. And the Batmobile has to be like a million times cooler than drugs and way more fun. But right then I was so high on caffeine that I cried out as we sped over the field and covered my face.
"We're going to die!" I protested.
"We're not going to die – you've driven with me dozens of time," Batman shot back. But he eased off the gas until I could drop my hands.
Gotham was pretty quiet for a Saturday night, but as we drove through the streets, I kept pointing out things that I had never noticed.
"That Chinese store had their name in bright green lights," I told Batman. "Can we stop for Chinese food – I'm hungry."
"You just ate," Batman replied, his lips frowning underneath his cowl. "And we don't stop for food."
"I could get take-out," I suggested.
"No food in the Batmobile," he said sternly.
We drove by a pet store next, and the sight of the puppy dogs pressing their faces against the glass was too much for me. "I want a dog," I cried out. "Why can't I have a dog? Please, just one dog? Why can't I have two? Everyone else gets two dogs. Oh, oh, we could have a 101 Dalmatians and keep them all over the manor."
The wrist-com buzzed again, and Alfred's voice said, "The Riddler's on the loose again."
"Where?" Batman was already opening his computer monitor that stood between the two seats just over the rocket launcher.
"Gotham Central Bank," Alfred replied.
"Got it," Batman was already keying in the location.
Five minutes later, he pulled the car under a bridge that ran right beside the bank and we got out.
"Stay down and stay quiet," Batman ordered. "I have no idea what the Riddler has planned."
I nodded, because I didn't remember how to talk quietly anymore. Batman crouched down and began to approach the building.
The Riddler really isn't a bad guy, I guess. I mean he does bad things and he makes a lot of trouble, but he isn't like the Joker who likes to stick knives into people. The Riddler likes to set up elaborate traps and have people try to figure them out. Only problem is, he tends to use dynamite to get people to go along, otherwise no one would play with him. That goes for Batman, too. I don't think Batman would even bother showing up just to answer the Riddler's riddles, but Batman will come if people are in trouble,
That's why we found the Riddler in front of the bank with two guards gagged and tied to a front pillar with dynamite and the Riddle prancing around in his stupid green costume.
"All right," the Riddler grinned the guards, "we have to wait until the Batman shows up and then the game can begin."
"Hey!" I jumped out where the Riddler could see me. "That's the Joker's line."
The Riddler froze, his expression completely bewildered. "Who the heck are you? Mini superhero?"
Batman stepped from the shadows, black and tall and menacing. The Riddler stepped back a space.
"Move out of the way, kid," the Riddler ordered, his eyes on Batman. "The men got some playing to do."
"That's so gay, it isn't even funny," I retorted.
Batman snapped his fingers at me, not an easy feat with gloves on, but it made a loud sound all the same. "Get back," Batman growled at me.
"Why?" I demanded. "He's not going to use the dynamite. You said last time it was fake, and that's probably why I get to come with you now. All this way, just for fake dynamite."
"Hey, dynamite's expensive," the Riddler protested. "You can't just find it lying around the street. And anyway, this stuff is real."
"Why should we believe you?" I retorted, feeling really good. My fingertips were buzzing, but I was talking super fast and super cool. "Prove it's real."
The guards began shaking their heads and protesting loudly behind their gags, and Batman clamped a hand on my shoulder, nearly knocking me backwards.
"Forgive my sidekick," Batman growled. "He's a little over-eager and he's going to calm down right not, or he's going to sit in the car all by himself."
"I'm helping," I protested. "He's the one that's got people tied up with fake dynamite."
"It's real!" the Riddler nearly screamed. He looked about two seconds from throwing a tantrum, all mad because he wasn't the center of attention.
"All right, Riddler," Batman's lips were a thin line, "what do you want?"
The Riddler tried to pull himself together, to look smart and threatening. "I-I-I want you to play the – answer the riddle," he amended, glaring at me.
I snorted. "Oh, this is going to take a long time. What's dressed in green and looks like a man, but is really a dumbass?"
"Watch it," Batman ordered, but the Riddler stomped his foot.
"I am not a dumbass – I'm the smartest man you'll ever meet."
"If smartest means dumbest, then yeah," I scoffed. I wasn't scared – Batman would protect me, and it was fun to yell at a bad guy after one had tortured me.
"What's in my head could fill a dozen encyclopedias," the Riddler told me.
"Yeah, with blank pages," I quipped.
"Pages with words on them," the Riddler insisted.
"Typed by monkeys," I grinned.
"Batman," the Riddler whined, "make him stop. I'm causing a real crime here, and he's not taking it seriously."
"All right," Batman sighed, "take it seriously, Robin."
I blinked, confused. "That's not my name."
"It's your name for tonight," Batman growled. "We'll find you a real codename later. But for now you answer to Robin. Now, Riddler, what do I have to figure out for you to let these men go?"
"From the fake dynamite," I added.
"Forget the dynamite," Batman commanded, giving me a furious look from behind his cowl. "Just tell me the riddle."
"It – it," the Riddler stammered, "it was – look, Batman, I like it better when you work alone. Why did you have to bring him along? I can't even think with him yammering on and on."
"I don't believe you think at all," I decided. "I think you have an earpiece in your ear and the Penguin tells you all your lines."
The Riddle was furious. "I tell myself my own lines!" he screamed.
Batman sighed heavily and stepped towards the guards. "I'm untying them," he told the Riddler. "If you get my sidekick to shut up, you win this round."
"Ha!" the Riddler stepped in front of me, no longer caring about his captives. "What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, has a bed but never sleeps?
"I don't know, but it can't be any stupider than you are," I retorted. Man, it felt good to just let it all out.
"That's not an answer – you're not playing right. You're the stupid one."
"I know you are, but what am I?" I sneered.
"You're playing wrong! Play right, play right!"
"I play left." I jeered. "Do you stay in the stupid ward at Arkham or did they have to create a whole new room for dumb people just so you'd have a place to stay?"
The guards had run for safety, leaving the dynamite tied around the pillar, and Batman came back to us, not wanting to hear the squabbling.
"He's not playing fair," the Riddler complained. "I thought you good guys were supposed to play fair."
"You would think," Batman said wearily. "Riddler, stop fighting with the kid. Let us give you a ride back to Arkham and we'll call it a night. Come on, I'll drive through and pick you up something to eat."
"You said no food in the Batmobile," I protested, mad that Batman was being nice to the criminal. "If the good guys don't get to eat in the car, he doesn't either."
"If I can't eat, I'm not coming," the Riddler replied, crossing his arms stubbornly.
"Everyone can eat in the Batmobile if you just come along," Batman announced loudly.
The Riddler glared at me, but he finally agreed, "Fine, but it was a really good riddle."
"For a baby," I muttered as we moved away from the bank.
The Riddler turned to me, his eyes blazing, and he pulled a small black box from his pocket.
"No!" Batman yelled, but the Riddler pushed down on the black button.
Immediately, the front of the bank exploded, blowing out the two pillars with a terrified bang.