DC2 Special #8 - A Holiday Omnibus

[Fantômas]

DC2 Special #8 - A Holiday Omnibus
Compiled by Fantomas


PART ONE - FAMILY

Two Gifts From My Father
Words by Ellen Fleischer

Ghosts of Christmas Past
Words by Mark Bowers

[Fantômas]

Two Gifts from My Father
Words by Ellen Fleischer
Timeline: Batman Year One

Dad was in his fifties when I was born. Late fifties. He told me once that he hadn’t expected to make it to retirement and didn’t want to bring kids into the world who he wouldn’t live to see grow up. Well, instead of being afraid that he’d be shot by some hitman or two-bit crook with a grudge, I was afraid he’d keel over from old age before I finished high school. I should’ve known better. Anyone tough enough to serve as police commissioner in a town like Lakeside at the height of Prohibition, and then stay on for more than two decades, and then retire to live out his golden years in a city that had been even more notorious for organized crime, back in the day? I mean, you’d think that someone who did his bit to stop mobsters and bootleggers in his prime would have retired to some place other than Chicago. But that was Dad.


I went back to see him one Christmas, right after I got promoted to captain. Dad was almost ninety, then. Still in good shape. Make that great shape for someone his age; good shape for just about anyone. His hearing was starting to go. His prescription lenses were a bit thicker, and he needed a cane for long distances, but he still made it a point to do three miles on the treadmill every day, plus swimming twice a week, and a five mile hike in the Palos Preserves on Sundays—cane and all—as long as the trail didn’t ice over. His mind was sharp as ever, and he’d been doing his homework on Gotham.


“Heard you’ve had a bit of a helping hand, lately,” he said, after we’d gotten past the hugs and greetings and telling each other how good we looked and mostly meaning it. “Unsolicited, I mean.”


That floored me. Sure, the Gotham dailies had picked up on Batman, but I didn’t think word had reached travelled out his way, yet.

Dad laughed. “I took out a subscription to the Gotham Herald, the day you told me you’d taken the job,” he said. “I figured between what you think you can share with me without giving me a heart attack and what I find out from the press, I’ll get a decent idea of what you’re actually dealing with. Now, about this Batman…”

Damn! Something must’ve shown on my face. I’d actually been looking forward to a few days without hearing about Gotham’s newest vigilante.


“Sore spot?” Dad asked me.


I sighed. “He’s taking the law into his own hands. If he wants to help, let him be a cop.”


“That’s no picnic either,” Dad said. “And sometimes…” He let out a long breath. “I guess we are going to have that conversation, after all."


Only he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to have it. He must’ve stood there, shifting his weight from the cane back to his feet for a good couple of minutes—which felt like a good couple of hours. Finally, he walked over to the bay window and stood, looking out at the street. “Now, I’m sorry I gave up smoking. I could really use a snipe, right about now.”


Snipes. That’s what he called my cigarettes, the first time he caught me lighting up on the back porch. I started to reach for the pack in my pocket, but the old man had eyes in the back of his head and they didn’t need glasses.


“Keep ‘em.” He said sharply. “Now, Jimmy… Jim, I’m not exactly going to stand here and tell you that a mid-sized city in upstate New York in the 30s was just like Gotham, because it wasn’t. But it was corrupt. That was something I had to deal with as police commissioner, back in the day. We were lucky to get the small fish, and they were usually sprung the next day; a lot my people were taking bribes to look the other way—or paying bribes so that their superiors would. I wanted to put a stop to it, only I knew that if I did things the correct way, the legal way, well, it wouldn’t be the right way and it would be the stupid way. Drive-by shootings have been happening for a long time, Jim. I wasn’t fixing to find the bullet with my name on it anytime soon. Your mother’s grandfather,” he was choosing his words more deliberately now, “Dick Traeger—he went by ‘Quick Trigger,’ back then; I ever tell you about him?”


He never talked much about the old days, and Quick Trigger had been long gone before I was born, but I’d pieced together a few things. “I know he looked out for you after… um…”


“After my old man died of influenza, yep. Quick Trigger was a deputy commissioner then—he took an interest in me, Heaven only knows why, but he did.

“He was a big part of why I joined the police force,” Dad’s voice took on a faraway note as he remembered, “and probably why I wanted the commissioner job in the first place—even though he’d retired by then. Yeah, Quick Trigger was my friend, mentor, father… eventually, well, call him grandfather-in-law, but he was also my partner in crime.” He turned back to face me then. “And I do mean that literally.”


I must’ve blinked. Was Dad trying to tell me that he’d been working for the mob? I couldn’t believe that. I wouldn’t.


“Stop looking at me like I’m some crumb,” he snapped, but he was smiling as he said it. “Sometimes, if you want to catch lawbreakers, you need to bend the law a little. I knew that people tended to speak a bit more freely if they didn’t know that a copper was in earshot, so I came up with an idea. Or we did; me and Quick Trigger.


He looked around a bit nervously, as if he was expecting someone to be hiding in the dense branches of the evergreen tree in the corner. Dad was never big on decorating, but he always wanted the greenest tree. Mom would be vacuuming up the needles for days. He took a couple of steps closer and lowered his voice a notch. “Quick Trigger knew how to make dental plates,” he said. “He never told me how he learned and I never asked him. He made a set for me and when I wore them, they changed the look of my face—made my upper lip look longer and gave my chin a bit more prominence. They weren’t that comfortable, but they weren’t bad.”


I frowned. “How did you talk?”


And that was when Dad smiled and leaned in even closer, as if he was sharing some big secret—which he was; I just hadn’t realized how big, yet. “In whispers, Jimmy. In whispers.”


And then, it hit me. I wasn’t the first Commissioner Gordon to operate in a town with vigilante activity. Back in the 30s, the Lakeside Police Department—under the stewardship of one James “Wildcat” Gordon—had also had some unofficial assistance. But from what Dad was saying… “You?” I gaped at him. “You were The Whisperer?”


Dad smiled. “Those black-and-white photos in the albums don’t do ‘em justice, but I know you’ve seen some my old suits hanging in the cedar closet. And don’t think I never saw you roll your eyes at my fashion sense. C’mon, Jimmy; I’m not colorblind. Do you really think I liked wearing lime-green suits with orange pinstripes and polka-dot ties? I dressed like that for a reason. See, the Whisperer was a gray, bent-over Joe in a gray old coat, so drab and ordinary you wouldn’t look twice at him. I figured if the commish had a rep for dressing like a dandy, well, that would put even more distance between me and…” he chuckled, “…me.”


His expression turned serious. “Now, this Batman… he killed anyone yet?”


I shook my head. “No. Not that I know of, anyway.”


“Ever seen him drunk? Or hopped up?”


“No.”


“If he had a choice between saving a life and stopping a crook and could only do one, what would he pick?”


I didn’t even have to think on that one. It had already happened, more than once. “Save a life.”


Dad nodded. “Then ask yourself if you’re better off with his help or without it, and if it’s with… then you do your job and let him do his.” He smiled. “You’ll probably have it easier than I did in one respect: it’s not easy leading a double life. Of course, when those idiot bureaucrats and politicians come to call and you’re stuck in the office…” He laughed. “Believe me, if I could’ve been sure that nobody would spot The Whisperer sneaking out of my office, I would’ve missed a lot more meetings.”


I smiled at that. I’d been butting heads with my own politicians; more of them, now that I’d made captain. Still… “Dad, you know, that bit about you being the Whisperer, it sounds…”


“Like I’m pulling your leg?” Dad smiled. “Here. Catch.” He reached into his pocket and flipped me a small key. “That unlocks the middle desk drawer in the study. Pull it out as far as it’ll go and you’ll find a flat tin box near the back. Bring it here.”


When I came back with the box, he made no move to take it. “Did you open it?” he asked.


I shook my head.


“Go on.”


I started to, but then I realized it wasn’t necessary. “It’s the plates,” I said. “Isn’t it?”


“Yep. Go ahead. Have a look.”


I shook my head. “It’s okay, Dad,” I said. “I believe you. I don’t need proof.”


He nodded. “That’s right,” he said, pleased. “You don’t. Because sometimes, if you have real proof of something, you need to act on it. It might force you to make some hard decisions. If you only suspect something but can’t prove it… you have a few more options.” He leaned a bit closer. “For the record, the statute of limitations ran out long ago on any law-bending I did as the Whisperer. Not that I seriously think you’d try to arrest your old man, Jimmy, but I wouldn’t be telling you any of this if it were going to put you in an uncomfortable position. But if you do decide to work with this vigilante—and I’m not saying you should or you shouldn’t—you might find yourself getting curious about who he is and what he does when he’s not in that costume. It’s fine to guess. But you might not want to know, you get what I’m saying?”


I did. And he was right. “Should I put this away?” I asked, holding up the box.


“Nah, take it with you. These days, I wear a different set. Think of it as a souvenir or an extra Christmas present—I’m getting tired of giving you cash and neckties anyway. Now you’ve got something you can show the grandkids, one day.”


When I left Chicago a week later, I carried two gifts from my father: the dental plates, and the best advice he ever gave me. (I didn’t mean to forget the tie, though Dad called me up later to laugh about it and rub it in.)
Since then, I’ve kept many secrets—my father’s is just one of them. But I’d have to be blind not to notice that my daughter and Dick Grayson have been growing a lot closer together lately. And if I’m going to have Bats for in-laws—okay, Dad. Suspected Bats. I hear you—then maybe it’s time let a few more secrets out into the open.





Disclaimer: James Gordon, Gotham City, and Batman are owned by DC Comics. James Gordon, Quick Trigger, The Whisperer, and Lakeside were created by Laurence Donovan (writing as Clifford Goodrich). “The Whisperer” is a trademark owned by Advance Magazine Publishers Inc.

[Fantômas]

Ghosts Of Christmas Past
Words by Mark Bowers

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It was a Christmas day at Wayne Manor, but a Christmas like no other. Batman was standing at the head of the table, wearing his bat-apron, as he carved the Christmas turkey and looked around at the familiar faces. There was his faithful butler Alfred, who he’d given the day off from his serving duties, Robin the Boy Wonder, laughing at the sophisticated jokes from the Christmas crackers that Alfred had brought from England, Commissioner Gordon, who’d phoned him on his bright red bat-phone earlier to let him know that, in the spirit of the season, crime had also taken a holiday, and finally there was Batgirl, who unbeknownst to Gordon was his librarian daughter Barbara.

As the delicious smell of the turkey filled the air, and Batman looked around at his ‘family’, he realized that this was indeed the most wonderful time of the year, a day when everything seemed possible, a day when you could get rid of a bomb. And yet, there was still something troubling him.

Looking into his master’s white eyes, Alfred could sense Batman’s uneasiness. “Sir, is something the matter?”

“What could be wrong, Alfred?” asked Robin. “It’s Christmas, Batman’s favorite time of the year.”

“No, old chum,” Batman said, his smile slipping. “Alfred’s right, I’m not my usual happy-go-lucky self today.”

“Oh, Bru-, I mean Batman,” said a concerned Batgirl, being careful not to use Batman’s real name in front of her father. “Whatever can it be? Tell us, maybe we’ll be able to help.”

“It’s kind of silly,” admitted Batman, his smile returning, as he started placing turkey on his friends’ plates. “I had this crazy dream last night that seemed to go on forever, and you were there, Alfred, and you, Robin, and you, Batgirl, and you too, Commissioner.”

“Good gracious, Batman,” said Commissioner Gordon, “you had me worried there for a moment, but then it turns out that it was all just a dream?”

“Not just a dream, Commissioner,” Batman said, his tone serious. “It was so vivid and real, and it wasn’t just a dream... it was more of a nightmare.”

“Tell us about it, Batman,” begged the Boy Wonder, adding some vegetables to his plate.

And so, Bruce told them all about his dream, as they ate their Christmas dinner. It was a long dark tale of the future, but so detailed and outlandish that they listened in rapt attention as the tale continued to unfold, and then finally the story came to an end, and the people sat in silence.

“Holy hippocampus, Batman,” said the Boy Wonder, breaking the silence. “That was one crazy dream. Imagine me falling in love with a golden girl from outer space who learns English by kissing.”

“And it’s not like I’d ever go to Las Vegas, hang out with some foul-mouthed ruffians, and end up getting arrested,” said the Dominoed Daredoll. “Why would anyone want to leave idyllic Gotham?”

“That’s right, Batgirl.” Robin turned to Batman. “Maybe you just fell asleep reading A Christmas Carol,” he suggested. “Seeing Christmas future, and me being replaced by Tiny Tim. As if I’d ever want to give up being Robin.”

“And as if I’d ever want to call myself Batwoman - that makes me sound so old.”

“At least things changed for you two,” joked Alfred. “From the sound of it, I just continue to potter around here polishing poles.”

“Sounds like things get worse for Gotham,” said Commissioner Gordon. “Who’d have thought that the lovable zany Crown Prince of Crime would get so homicidal?”

“Speaking of people who wear red hoods and laugh, maybe we should forget the Christmas future and get round to opening our Christmas presents,” Robin said, now bored of the dream and eager to see what Santa had brought him.

“You’re right, old chum,” Batman said. “It’s not as if I’d ever be narcissistic enough to start an organization called Batman Inc. That’s even more egomaniacal than the Metropolis hero who’s calling himself Superman.”

“And as if Green Arrow would ever leave his faithful sidekick Speedy, go to Vegas and hang out with Black Canary’s daughter.” Batgirl shook her head in disbelief.

“Speaking of people who sometimes wear hoods, sometimes wear hats, and have white beards
and a penchant for stockings, maybe it’s time to open our presents from Father Christmas.”

Batman laughed. “I can tell you’re getting impatient, Boy Wonder. Let’s open them.”

And so they opened their presents, one by one. Robin looked at the clock on the wall, waiting eagerly as Batman opened his.

As Batman opened his last present, yet another can of nuts from that evil scamp, The Joker, a frown appeared on his face as the synthetic snakes leaped into the air around him. “Robin, old friend, I can’t find your gift to me.”

Robin just smiled, put his fingers to his mouth and gave a high-pitched whistle. Suddenly, a puppy came bounding in from the other room.

Batman knelt down to pet it. “Great, this is just what I’ve always wanted.”

“We can call it Ace,” Robin said. “Maybe it could help us on cases.”

“Good thinking,” Batman said. “Guess the family’s complete now.”

“In that case, time for a family photo,” Batgirl said, setting the timer on her bat-cam. “Come over here, Da- I mean Commissioner Gordon.”

As they all gathered together to pose, Batman, Robin, Batgirl, Alfred, Commissioner Gordon and the Batman Family’s newest member, Ace, Batman suddenly felt someone breathing behind him. Turning around fast, he spotted a small figure in a Batman costume floating in the air.

“What trickery is this? Have you been hiding here all the time?”

The figure nodded sheepishly. “You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been silent.”

“And who are you?” asked Batman.

“Looks like some kind of Batboy,” said Robin.

“Don’t you remember me?” The figure flew closer and grabbed Batman by the cowl, “I’m the goshdarn Bat-Mite!”

“Silent Mite!” exclaimed the Caped Crusader.

“Holy Mite!” added the Boy Wonder, punching his fist into his open hand.

“Wait, I remember you, Bat-Mite, you were in my dream,” said the Batman, “though in that you were a computer program*.” Suddenly the truth dawned on Batman. “This isn’t real, is it? This is some augmented reality program I’m trapped in? That dream was actually my subconscious hanging onto reality.”

[*See Batman #6 to find out when we last saw the mischievous Bat-Mite! – Eggnog-Swilling Ed.]

The others stepped back. They’d never seen Batman looking so grim. This sounded more like that Batman of the future he’d talked about, obsessive, driven. The kind of man who’d fight crime on a Christmas Eve rather than go to bed early and wait for Santa.

“This is nonsense, sir,” said Alfred. “How could that future be real? Next you’ll be saying that we’re not real.”

Batman ignored Alfred. This had been his best Christmas ever, but he knew deep inside things could never be this good, that he could never be this happy.

“I’m not some computer fakery,” said Bat-Mite. “That’s just what I wanted you to think last time I saw you. Truth to tell, I’m your biggest fan, but I was too shy to introduce myself properly, plus it’s against the rule.”

“The Prime Directive?” asked Robin, eager to help Batman, even if it could mean the end of his own existence.

“No, the first rule of Mite Club.”

“Maybe you’ve come to life in the same way as The Bat-Man of Hong Kong,” reasoned Batman. “Created yourself as a hologram.”

“Holy hologrammatic hallucinations, Batman,” Robin said, wondering who the Bat-Man of Hong Kong was, for Batman had failed to recount the events of Batman Inc. #1* in his earlier tale.

[*See...well, Batman Inc. #1, to find out what well-written events of Batman Inc. #1 are being referenced! - Ever-So-Biased Ed.]

“No, I’m not a hologram,” insisted Bat-Mite, “I’m magical. You must believe in magic, Bruce, especially at this time of the year.”

“Bruce Wayne is Batman!?” gasped Commissioner Gordon, almost speechless.

“Be quiet, Father,” said Batgirl, which completed his transformation into speechlessness.

Ace the Bat-Puppy gave a small bark and ran away, so upset by the turn of affairs.

Batman grimaced. “Magical or not, did you create this trap for me?”

“It’s not a trap,” Bat-Mite said, tears coming to his eyes. “It’s a Christmas present. I was trying to give you the best Christmas you never had. It’s got nostalgia and Christmas lights and you’d have loved the musical number at the end. That’s not to mention those carol singers coming round to sing Jingle Bells, Batman Excels”

“I realize you’ve got good intentions, Mite, but it’s not real. End it! End it now!”

“I could bring back your parents,” Bat-Mite offered.

“Please,” begged Batman, “end it now!”

Bat-Mite frowned. Some people just didn’t want to be happy. “If I do, can I be a member of Batman Inc.? Can I? Huh, huh, can I?”

“No.”

“I’ve got hidden dimensions,” pleaded Bat-Mite. “Literally.”

“No.”

“Just say yes, and then you can go back to your future.”

Batman turned to his family. “Goodbye, old chums.” And then he turned back to the mite, and with a quavering voice, he said “Okay, yes, you can join.”

“Thanks, but who’d want to be in a club that would have me as a member?”

“Why you-” began Batman, and lunged for Bat-Mite, but instead he found himself leaping out of a comfortable chair.

“Are you okay, Bruce?” asked Dick Grayson. “We found you sitting on your chair in a daze and then you just woke up yelling.”

A confused Bruce Wayne looked at Dick, standing there, all grown up, with Kory on his arm. They had concerned faces, while behind them Alfred was giving him a withering look.

“You’re going out with Starfire?” said Bruce. “And Alfred’s looking all old?”

“How very perceptive of you, Master Bruce,” said Alfred.

“And what about Commissioner Gordon?” Bruce asked.

“Visiting Barbara in Las Vegas,” replied Dick.

“I just had a crazy dream,” Bruce said, “and Commissioner Gordon was there, and Barbara, and you, Dick, and you too, Alfred.”

“Fascinating, sir” said Alfred, with all the dripping sarcasm that told Bruce this was definitely the real Alfred.

“I’d say you could tell us about it,” said Dick, “but that’ll have to wait. It’s present opening time.”

Bruce smiled. Back to life, back to reality. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home.

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” he yelled, hoping that he’d never hear from Bat-Mite again, and then, just as he thought everything was back to normal, that it had all been a bad dream, and that he was no longer under Bat-Mite’s influence, he broke into a musical number.

Alfred just looked at him pityingly and saw the empty glass Bruce had left lying at the side of his chair. Some people just couldn’t hold their eggnog.

[Fantômas]

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MERRY CHRISTMAS!

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