THE RESCUER 2: THE REVEREND'S REVENGE

By Batfan60

 

DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters belong to a giant corporation, not me. This is a work of fan fiction; no infringement intended.

 

 

1.

 

The dungeon was cool and dark and damp, exactly as he remembered it. He'd been brought here so many times, been chained to one torture device or another so often, that the infernal place felt like home. And that suited Batman just fine.

 

He was kneeling this time, his neck encased in its familiar leather collar and his hands cuffed behind his back. He watched silently as Marco Moretti's cock plunged deeper and deeper down his throat, and it was all the masked man could do to keep from gagging on it. When at last he did show signs of choking, all activity ceased.

 

Marco withdrew his penis, tucked it back inside his thigh-hugging breeches, and zipped them shut. "GET UP," he ordered, and Batman obeyed. The motorcycle cop produced a knife from a pouch on his duty belt, opened it, and walked behind his captive.

 

"This will teach you to fuck up," Marco said in a low voice. Batman heard the sound of fabric ripping and felt a tug at the back of his neck. He knew without turning to look that the cop had just sliced a two-foot-long tear down the center of his cape. "Anytime you disobey me from now on, I add another rip, until your little cape is in shreds. Do you hear me, batboy?" Marco continued.

 

"Yes," the kneeling man replied.

 

"Yes, WHAT?" the cop shouted, branishing the knife once more and tearing a second, smaller gash in the cape.

 

"Yes, Sir."

 

The ex-officer's next move was swift and brutal: he pushed Batman forward into a nearby wall, then reached through the larger of the two new rips in the cape, pulled down the hero's briefs and tights, and smeared the exposed asshole with lube. Marco unzipped his own pants once more and his shaft sprang out into the open air for just a moment, before the cop directed it just below Batman's cuffed hands and into the hapless hero's waiting butt. He thrust in and pulled back, thrust in and pulled back, in and back, in and back and then in as far as he could go, until the inevitable spurt of syrupy white jism filled the bound man's insides.

 

"Thank you, Sir," Batman responded as he'd been trained to do.

 

Marco withdrew and moved so that Batman could see him now. The cop's cock was smeared with a mix of cum, lube, and traces of shit. "Better clean this up," he said, grabbing part of Batman's cape and wiping his cockhead on it until the silky fabric was wet with copjism--

 

--"NNNNggggggggaaahhhhhhhh!" Bruce Wayne let out a mighty roar -- half outrage, half ecstacy, and loud enough to shake him out of his reverie and snap him back to reality. He slumped back in his chair in the Batcave and let loose the largest stream of spunk he'd produced all day.

 

***

 

2.

 

The cave was a wreck. Stacks upon stacks of notes from unfinished cases from months back cluttered the area which served as a work station.

 

Robin returned in the early hours of the morning after a long, difficult night of solo patrols to find his mentor slumped at the Batcomputer, a half-empty bottle of scotch beside him. Bruce's mask, cape, gloves and belt were strewn about the floor near his feet. He wearing only the basic body suit and his boots, and his right hand rested in his lap.

 

As Robin moved closer, he could see that Bruce had his tights pulled down and was absent-mindedly jerking off. The younger man watched unseen as the fabled Dark Knight Detective pinched and squeezed his right nipple with one hand and massaged his sizable cock with the other. Bruce moaned and grunted from time to time, but in most respects he seemed barely present.

 

Robin removed his own mask and held it for a moment as he stood behind Bruce. Under other circumstances, the sight of Batman lost in erotic reverie might have excited him and inspired him to join in, but this time he was genuinely concerned. For one thing, this same scene had been replayed night after night for much of the last three weeks: Robin flying solo, Batman staying in to do little more than guzzle booze and masturbate for hours on end.

 

Bruce could barely bring himself to talk anymore, let alone shave or shower or eat on a regular basis. There was a distant, almost glassy look in his eyes most of the time; he slept even less than usual, and his temper was shorter than ever before.

 

"NNNNggggggggaaahhhhhhhh!" he exclaimed, as cum poured out of his cock and onto his leg and tights.

 

"Dick," he said after a moment, not bothering to turn around. "I didn't hear you come in."

 

***

3.

 

Some time earlier:

 

The man on the gurney awoke to find himself in a tight spot. This was a first for him, lying prone and helpless, and he didn't like it. Hated it, in fact: mostly the loss of control, strapped down, shoved into some kind of bus stinking of incense, surrounded by a bunch of lunatics. They'd taken his belt but left him in his gloves, boots, and the rest of his dark, tight-fitting uniform. He tried to break free but it was no use. The harder he struggled, the more they simply smiled.

 

A golden-haired boy stationed next to him beamed brightest of all. The youth extended one hand and caressed his stubbled face. "We have been sent in the spirit of love to assist with your Conversion, friend," the kid said. "Just relax and enjoy the ride."

 

He would have none of this talk. "Fuck you," he snarled, and attempted with all his considerable might to sit upright, but the straps proved unbreakable without access to any sort of tools or weapons. Concentrating as hard he could on the attempt to escape, he failed to notice a hypodermic being inserted straight through the sleeve of his shirt and into a vein of his arm.

 

He felt exhausted. And then a surge of color and light and power filled the bus. His bonds melted as if by magic; he leapt up and found to his amazement that he had the ability to hover in mid-air. Waving his hands like wings, he discovered he could fly. He found an open window and slipped gracefully through it and up, up, up into the sky, towards the heavens …

 

The golden-haired boy looked at the sleeping man strapped to the gurney. "The Journey is just beginning. He needs his rest," the boy whispered to his companions on the bus. He was smiling. They smiled.

 

Lost in his dreams, the man on the gurney began to smile, too.

 

 

***

4.

 

Another night alone on the job, and Robin was pissed. Here he was, trying to fend off seven saffron-robed goons singlehandedly, while Bruce stayed home doing god knows what. If the past weeks were any guide, Batman was at this very minute either sleeping, getting drunk, or -- most likely -- jerking off.

 

In any case, he was no help right now, when Robin needed him most. These thugs weren't the most sophisticated of fighters, but they were completely relentless. Knock one down, and within minutes he was back on his feet, swinging blows with glassy-eyed determination.

 

Not that the former Teen Titan was complaining. Over the years he'd come to admit to himself that the fighting itself was an incredible turn-on: fist against fist, flesh on flesh, his flawless body snug in its form-fitting costume, wrestling muscular men of all ages to the ground and holding them there, restraining them with his trusty batcuffs, tumbling with them as they struggled to escape. It took three layers of fabric to restrain the inevitable boner he sprouted with each new bout of hand-to-hand combat. Some nights he and Batman would both be so worked up from pummeling the bad guys that the minute a case was wrapped up they'd speed off to the cave and pounce on each other, transforming the most dangerous aspect of their job into equally charged horseplay. The cops always thought they were disappearing into the night like the Lone Ranger and Tonto to preserve the air of mystery that surrounded them, but the dynamic duo knew better.

 

That was all a thing of the past now. With no assistance whatsoever from his mentor, Robin had traced a series of robberies at churches, mosques and synagogues throughout Gotham City and deduced that the Preacher was behind them all, financing his operation by stealing from legitimate houses of worship. He'd correctly guessed where they would strike next, and was now calling upon every resource he could muster to prevent them from completing their mission.

 

Apprehending all of the crooks would prove impossible for the lone vigilante. In fact, apprehending even one of them was turning out a miserable failure, after the other six ran away. It was all Robin could do to pry the church coffers from the creep's clutches and slide the money safely out of reach, to a spot where the police could retrieve it later. As he concentrated on this task, the young masked man lost sight of his intended captive, who seized the opportunity to grab a solid gold cross which had fallen out of the loot bag and whack the Boy Wonder across the back of the head with it. "Non-believer!" the thug yelled as he fled the scene.

 

Robin fell to the floor immediately. He was out cold, and it would take two EMTs and the church janitor to revive him a few hours later. In their haste, not one of them noticed the telltale wet spots at the very center of the costumed crimefighter's colorful briefs.

 

***

5.

 

Bruce was at it again: wearing only the lower half of his costume, he sat slumped in his chair in the batcave, one hand fingering one of his nipples and the other wrapped around his cock.

 

"We have to talk, partner," Dick said, removing his utility belt and gloves and reaching for a bandage for his injured head. "I'm out there getting my ass kicked night after night while you sit here whacking off without a care in the world. This isn't like you, not by a long shot. And you still haven't told me what happened that night at the Preacher's compound. Where you were when you disappeared for days before that. Why you took so long to answer my distress call. If you hadn't shown up when you did, that madman would have killed me."

 

"Bullshit," Batman replied with uncharacteristic profanity, still stroking himself and staring into space. "You were only bait to catch me. Jeremiah had no reason to destroy you before he achieved that goal."

 

"And that ex-cop," Dick continued. "Officer Moretti--what was he doing on the scene?"

 

"You saw Marco?!" Bruce exclaimed. The duo had not bothered to compare notes for weeks, so the news of Moretti came as a revelation. He put his hands down and turned to face Dick for the first time. A flood of his own questions poured out: "Was he okay? Did it look like he and Jeremiah were working together?"

 

Dick was puzzled by this sudden display of interest but decided to play along. "No, he'd been overpowered, too, just like us. They said something about 'converting' him; last I saw, he was being led off somewhere. He put up quite a fight, though."

 

Batman said nothing. After an awkward silence, Dick spoke again. "Listen to me, Bruce. Marco Moretti is a dangerous man. You heard what Commissioner Gordon had to say about him the night that bastard captured both of us. I don't know what he's done to you, but you've got to fight it."

 

"I can handle my own problems," Bruce snapped.

 

"Yeah, looks that way to me," Dick said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "This place is a disaster. Your body's gone to shit; you reek of alcohol, you haven't worked out in weeks, and you can barely be bothered to drag your ass out of bed. Meanwhile, the town's overrun with crime. Everybody's been asking where you are, why you've given up on the city. Looks to me like you've given up on yourself."

 

The once-eloquent master detective was at a loss for words. "Fuck you," he said at last, downing another shot of tequila.

 

"That's it?" Robin said, mildly shocked. "You mean you're really just gonna sit there and drink yourself blind while innocent people are being victimized by the Preacher? All right, great. Be my guest. Meanwhile, it's time I found out what his real plan is and where his new headquarters are -- and that's exactly what I'm going to do."

 

"You don't stand a chance, Robin. All his men know you. They've already caught you once and they'll gladly do it again. If they've got Marco, they're bound to take you down, too."

 

The Boy Wonder removed his cape and the rest of his costume. "Correction. They know Robin. But they don't know Dick Grayson. That bored, rich, directionless kid has been struggling through a spiritual crisis lately -- and he's just about ready to walk straight into their clutches."

 

***

 

6.

 

Black and cold. The room was black as night and cold as ice.

 

No. The room was so bright it blinded him, so hot it burned his flesh.

 

No. The room was…

 

What room? Where was he? Who was he? What had they done to him? What in the name of god was going on?

 

The name of god. The name of god. The name of god was … Jeremiah.

 

"Good answer," said a voice from somewhere far away. "Receive your reward."

 

The reward was food. Something grey and slimy with a funny aftertaste, but the first meal he'd had in three days.

 

Had it been three days? Or three weeks? Probably a long, long, long, long time, judging from the condition of his uniform.

 

Uniform … yes … last time he checked, last time he could see a damn thing, he was wearing a uniform of some kind. It was hot and wet and smelled very, very bad and he wanted to take it off, but he couldn't.

 

The uniform was all black. Black shirt, black breeches, black boots, black gloves, black gunbelt …

 

No, no belt. They'd taken that away when they first took him.

 

He didn't remember much about that time, outside in the daylight. He had been with another man, also in some kind of special clothing, and they had separated, and he was on his own. That's when they took him. They came out of nowhere, a whole army of them, all dressed alike, and they surrounded him and took his weapons and brought him to someone … someone named Jeremiah, who was god.

 

It was all very confusing. And every time he thought he had it sorted out, the room would change again, from bright to dark or from hot to cold, or the loud music would play or the shocks would start up again and he would sweat and scream and cry just like a little baby.

 

But he was not a baby. He was a big, strong man, a man so big and strong he had single-handedly overpowered many other men, like the man in the special clothing, back when he was free. He was a big, strong man who rode a motorcycle and fought the bad guys and he had a name of his own. His name was Officer Mario Moretti.

 

And he was losing his mind.

 

 

 

***

 

7.

 

Infiltration proved almost criminally easy. Decked out in full prep attire and sporting a flashy (and bugged) Rolex, Dick's first stop was Gotham City's Bob Kane Memorial International Airport. Within five minutes, he'd been approached by two smiling, blue-robed youth. Within an hour, he was telling them his (heavily embellished) life story: orphaned as a child, taken under the wing of multimillionaire Bruce Wayne, surrounded by luxuries but sensing a hole at the center of his being.

 

The Blue Robes had invited him to join them for dinner and a movie, and Dick was careful not to consume either in its entirety, wisely fearing drugs and subliminal imbeds. From there he was treated to a weekend of singing, dancing, and long, abstract lectures by a smiling, green-robed former gym coach.

 

The color coding of the robes was becoming clear: white (the color he'd been assigned after completing a second "weekend intensive") for "newcomers," blue for "second stagers," green for "trainers," saffron for the thugs who'd beaten the crap out of his alter ego on more than one occasion. There were sure to be others, too. The exact number of disciples remained unclear, as did the precise location of the cult's new base of operations. And he still hadn't seen Jeremiah face to face since their encounter at the old compound.

 

All of this was conveyed to Bruce through a series of phone calls from pay phones whenever Dick was able to break away from the group, which wasn't often. During these brief encounters, Bruce seemed to pay little attention to the flood of information Robin provided. All that concerned him was whether Dick had seen Marco yet. The answer was always no, although there was evidence that the cult appeared to be actively recruiting members from every branch of law enforcement and local government, along with several other prominent citizens from wealthy backgrounds. Dick had met some of these men (all men, by the way, no female disciples anywhere to be seen) during his training sessions; they appeared to be buying whatever line of salvation Jeremiah was selling.

 

As the lines of communication with the outside world grew more and more strained, Dick continued recording data in a small notebook. He was careful not to divulge his alternate identity anywhere in its pages, and he trusted that the Rolex he had offered up as a "love gift" upon his graduation from white robe status to blue was providing Batman with a steady signal and plenty of candid conversation.

 

Whether or not Bruce was actually listening was another issue entirely.

 

 

***

8a.

 

Bruce Wayne was deep in a dream.

 

His waking self was haggard and growing weaker by the day, but in this nocturnal vision he was his old magnificent self once more, strong and wise and at the top of his game.

 

Except for one thing: He was bound, head to toe, in rope. Strong, white rope, which covered every square inch of his body like the wrappings on a mummy. He seemed to be stretched out on the floor, and could sense Marco standing next to him, one boot planted firmly on his rope-bound chest. The strong aroma of the cop's leather boots filled his nostrils, and he could easily envision his Master towering above him as had happened so many nights before.

 

Marco clapped his hands and the ropes turned to dust. Batman could see now that he was indeed lying on the floor at his Master's feet, both men dressed in the clothes of their chosen professions. As he surveyed his own prone body, he could see the outline of his cock and balls and the ripples of his muscles beneath his tights, reminding him once again why he'd chosen this distinctive costume so very long ago.

 

"Get up on your knees, motherfucker," Marco demanded, and Batman sat up on the hard concrete, then assumed a kneeling position. He was eye level with the buckle of Marco's duty belt.

 

"Unbuckle it," the cop said. Batman obeyed, carefully placing the belt on a large nearby table which was illuminated from above by a single bright red light.

 

"Now the other belt," Marco commanded. "Unfasten my pants. Unzip them. Pull them down around my ankles. The jock, too. Attaboy. Now suck me off."

 

Batman feasted on the cop's waiting cock. As he'd been trained to do, he wrapped one gloved hand around the shaft while the other slipped underneath Marco's shirt and t-shirt to grab hold of his right nipple. The masked man sucked away until he felt one of Marco's own gloves push him back. "That's enough for now. Take these gloves off me. Slowly. Very slowly. One finger at a time. Excellent. Now stand up. That's it. Take my shirt off. And the t-shirt. Good boy."

 

Marco pulled his own boots and socks off his feet, then kicked his breeches and jockstrap away from his legs. He stood completely naked, his muscular body bathed in red light. Batman knew without being told that it was his duty now to fold the discarded uniform and arrange each item on the table with clinical care.

 

Marco stared the masked vigilante straight in the eye with a gaze so fierce it was frightening. "It's time, Bruce," he said.

 

 

***

 

8b.

 

The dreaming detective knew exactly what to do. Slowly and silently he unfastened his cape, folded it, and placed it on the table. Next came his utility belt, followed by his gloves and tunic. He stood now, his chest bare and his biceps gleaming in the red light, looking to his Master for reassurance.

 

"Keep going," Marco said. Off came Batman's boots, the blue satin briefs, the tights, until he, too, was entirely naked but for his mask. Each item was neatly folded and added to the stack on the table. When he was done, he stood in the light beside his Master and gazed at the man who had broken and rebuilt him. Bruce's hand rose instinctively to his own cock, and he began to jerk himself off.

 

"I didn't give you permission to do that, asshole," Marco barked, and Batman's arm immediately returned to its resting position.

 

"You're forgetting something, fucker," the naked cop said next. Batman reached up and unfastened the strap of his cowl, then lifted the mask off his head and handed it to Marco, who held it in his hand and stared at it for a moment before placing it on his own head.

 

The tunic slid over it and hugged the cop's chest tightly. Marco grabbed the tights and put them on. He was now a vision in grey. Next came the blue briefs and gloves and boots, and then the yellow utility belt. Everything fit snugly. Once the cape was in place, his transformation was complete.

 

"I will be the Batman from now on," Marco announced. "You are nothing. Less than nothing. You're obsolete. As of tonight, there is no reason for you to exist, little man."

 

Bruce felt naked and ashamed. He lowered his head and looked at the ground.

 

Marco slapped him. "Now get over here and finish what you started."

 

Bruce knelt at the new Batman's feet. Sliding his hands under the utility belt, he pulled his Master's briefs and tights down and resumed sucking the rock-hard shaft buried beneath the costume.

 

"That's it," the new Batman sighed. "Yeah. Work me over, boy. Make me come."

 

Bruce's lips and hands did the work demanded of them. In a matter of minutes, a flood of cum spewed from the Master's cock and into Bruce's mouth. The cum was hot, and every place it touched began to melt away. Bruce could feel his flesh dissolving, disappearing, vanishing without a trace. In a minute, he would be completely gone.

 

''"NNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOO!!!!!!" he screamed, in a voice loud enough to wake himself up, repeating a phrase he'd uttered many times throughout his career. "I am vengeance. I am the night. I … AM … BATMAN! And no one can take that away from me."

 

He bolted up in bed, stark naked. The sheets were covered with sticky fluid. Bruce tossed them aside and leapt to his feet. He threw on his gloves and the bottom half of his costume and headed to the parallel bars for his first workout in over a month. There was no time to lose.

 

 

 

***

9.

 

Somewhere on the other side of town, the real Marco Moretti's gloved hands were stretched high over his head and tied to a hook on the ceiling. His arms ached; his legs sagged limply above his tightly bound, booted feet, which barely touched the ground. He hadn't shaved in so long that a full, unkempt beard had sprouted on his face. The hairs around his mouth and chin were sore from their constant exposure to the endless duct tape gags which had been applied and then ripped away any time he'd been fed or interrogated.

 

The once-burly cop looked like he'd lost at least fifteen pounds, maybe more. His uniform was ripped in several places, exposing bruises on his forearms, chest, and thighs. He hadn't been allowed to use a toilet since he'd arrived, and his clothes stank of piss and shit as a result.

 

Not that his body was producing many waste products anymore. Feedings were rare and served only two purposes: to keep him alive (barely) and filled with mind-altering chemicals. He was hallucinating most of the time now, and it was easier to remember his nightmares -- and occasional wet dreams -- than simple things like his name or what he'd done during the first three or four decades of his life.

 

Moretti's years of police training had hardly prepared him for the brutal realities of the Preacher's "Conversion" process, and he was clearly crumbling from the alternating doses of sensory deprivation and overstimulation. A seasoned Top, he had long hated the role of bottom -- and yet he had no choice but to accept it now. This was not a game, it was a war -- and he was losing, badly.

 

In his delirium, Marco felt the ropes above his head growing lax and sensed that he was slowly being lowered to the ground. The moment he made contact with the cold, hard, dirty floor, he longed to sleep, but a bright light shining in his eyes made that impossible.

 

"You sad, sad man," said a gentle voice from the other side of the light. "You have suffered greatly on your journey to Conversion. Your body cries out for rest. And you shall have it, soon enough. But first you must shed the hurtful things of your past and open yourself to the promise of the future."

 

***

10.

 

Dick Grayson was beginning to enjoy the look and feel of his robe. It smelled faintly of incense, and he'd already had enough dealings with the cult to suspect that it had been dusted with some sort of mind-altering substance, so he kept up his daily regimen of Bat Antidote tablets, which he'd disguised as allergy pills. He'd had no contact with Bruce or anyone else from the outside world for days, and the constant bombardment of cult propaganda was beginning to wear on him.

There was a knock on the door of his room. His living quarters resembled a stripped-down college dorm room, except that the usual posters of rock stars, athletes and babes were replaced with oversized photos of Jeremiah, and the only music available on the sound system was hymns singing the praises of the Preacher.

 

"Come in," Dick said. His guest was a Red Robe, a member of an elite faction whose existence Grayson had only recently discovered. Only the most attractive of disciples were invited to join, and once initiated, their days consisted largely of providing pleasure to Jeremiah, his confidants, and anyone else the Preacher designated.

 

"My name is Raphael," the beautiful young Red Robe said. "The Father has sent me to attend to you." Raphael worked quickly, sliding his hands under Dick's own church-assigned garments and exploring the flesh concealed beneath them. Fingers tickled tits, snaked their way across skin to caress the sensitive spots on Dick's body, and soon worked their way into the crack of his ass. Raphael's kisses were gentle but insistent, and in no time the two lads were sprawled out on Dick's bed, exploring each other's most private places.

 

Grayson's fully erect member proved that he wasn't just playing along. Tongues and toes and earlobes and necks were all called into service, and soon the piped-in hymns became the celestial accompaniment to their groping and thrusting. The scene was like a porn flick scored to gospel music. "Praise be unto the Father!" Raphael said as he straddled Dick's butt cheeks and shot a load which landed on Grayson's back.

 

The incognito crimefighter tried to keep his mind focused on his mission, but it wasn't easy. When both young men had reached their climax, he took the opportunity to make small talk. "Father Jeremiah has great things in store for us all, doesn't he?" Dick asked.

 

"Indeed," said Raphael.

 

"Have you heard anything about what he wants us to do yet?"

 

Raphael was quiet. This was starting to sound like an interrogation, and his suspicions were now as aroused as his cock had recently been.

 

"I have to go now," the radiant disciple announced at last, kissing Dick on the cheek and slipping back into his robe before heading for the door. "I hear the Father calling me to my next assignment. Peace be with you." With that, he was gone.

 

***

11.

 

Marco Moretti 's eyes were two small slits he could barely keep open, but through them he could make out four smiling figures in white gowns kneeling beside him. They looked radiant, and he was half-convinced they were angels. Two of them set to work untying the ropes which bound his wrists and ankles, and when he was free, all four of them lifted him up, cupping their hands beneath his armpits and knees and carrying him to a soft white mattress halfway across the room.

 

They let him lie there for a moment, enjoying the sensation of freedom from bondage. His black-gloved hands lay at his sides and his booted feet practically floated above the heavily padded, unbelievably comfortable mattress. This must be paradise, he thought to himself, and he let out a nice long sigh.

 

"That's it," said one of the angels, "Let it all out. Breathe out all the pain and exhaustion. Just let it go." The angel lifted Marco's right hand and began massaging it gently. The captive cop's fingers began to curl inward as if they had a mind and mission of their own. The angel leaned in to kiss the hand and began removing the leather glove surrounding it, one finger at a time.

 

As the glove left the surface of the hand, Marco could feel cool air touching his bare flesh. It felt good. The angel continued rubbing his palm, and Moretti felt himself relax just a bit more.

 

"Yesssss," whispered a second angel seated at Marco's left as a second handrub began. Once again, the glove came off one finger at a time, and Moretti couldn't help but sigh and smile.

 

The right boot and sock came off next, accompanied by the most soothing foot massage imaginable from the third angel. The left boot and sock were last, with the fourth angel delivering yet another masterful caress.

 

Marco was still coherent enough to remember that he literally smelled like shit, and he marvelled at the fact that his four attendants showed no evidence of disgust. They accepted him as he was, passing no judgment on his shortcomings. He was a flawed and all too human being, and they were … He wasn't quite sure what they were. They were beyond age or gender, that much was certain. He felt safe and secure in their hands. He could let down all his defenses now. He was safe at last.

 

***

12.

 

Marco felt better than he'd felt in days. Weeks. Months. He didn't know how long he'd been here, but he understood at last that the journey had been well worth whatever pain he had experienced. The four beings in white robes were tending to his every need. One kissed his heavily bearded cheek while another unbuttoned and removed his tattered, sweat-soaked shirt and t-shirt, exposing the thick pelt of hair on his chest. He felt his pants being unbuttoned and unzipped and pulled away, and he was ashamed at the mess contained inside them -- but there was no need for embarassment. The angels simply smiled at him and let him know that everything was okay now.

 

He was wearing nothing but a jockstrap now, the same jock he'd had on since the day he'd… He couldn't remember what he'd been doing the last time he was outside this room. He didn't know anymore and he didn't care. He beamed, proud that his humble yet powerful, masculine body was bringing so much pleasure to these supreme visitors. It was the only gift of thanks he had to offer them for their kindness.

 

One of the angels distributed sponges and washclothes to the others, which they dipped in a faintly scented bowl of water and applied to the many cuts and bruises and dirty spots on his flesh. The water felt good against his body, and made him smile even more. The angels kissed his hands, his feet, his nipples, his bearded cheeks, his tired eyelids. One of them kissed the pouch on his jockstrap and began to pull it aside.

 

Marco noticed that his cock was limp. He worried that this might displease his companions, and he closed his eyes and tried to will himself into an erect state, but it was no use.

 

That was when everything changed.

 

***

13.

 

"GET UP," an unseen voice commanded. Marco opened his eyes and looked up to find that the angels had vanished. In their place were three men in jet-black uniforms not unlike his own, wearing riot helmets which obscured their faces. A quick glance reminded him that he was naked now but for the jockstrap which lay loosely around his ankles. Had he simply imagined a past for himself in which he'd once dressed something like these menacing strangers? Two of the men held guns aimed directly at his head; the third man bore a large, heavy-duty hose.

 

"NOW!!!!!" shouted the third man, prompting a blast of water from the hose which pressed the ex-cop flat on his back and soaked him head to toe in the course of two short seconds. The water kept coming, and all three men laughed cruelly as Marco was carried along by the sheer force of the flood. Soon enough he was pushed onto his back as the soaking continued.

 

"ENOUGH!," the third man yelled, and the water stopped. Marco lay shivering at the feet of his attackers. Two of them squatted down and lifted him up by the elbows. They pinned his wrists behind his back and forced him to walk back to the hook where he'd previously been suspended. The memory of his earlier time suspended from it made him shudder. One of the men slapped him hard across the cheek and snarled, "Shut up."

 

He felt his hands being cuffed once more and fastened with rope to the hook. "Hang you here to dry," one man said, and the other two laughed coarsely as all three left the room, turning off the lights as they slammed and locked the door.

 

They returned a short while later carrying something resembling a car battery and some wires. These were attached to Marco's tits and testicles. The room was brighter than ever now, glowing so intensely that he could barely see what was going on.

 

"How much do your superiors know about us?" barked a harsh-sounding voice. "ANSWER ME!"

 

"They know … UNGH! … almost noth-- UNGHHH!" Marco mumbled between bursts of electricity. He'd forgotten that he was no longer a member of the police force, but a lone vigilante who kept tabs on his former employers through close surveillance. That was too complicated a notion for him to grasp or try to convey under the circumstances.

 

"Almost nothing," he repeated, gasping for air. "They know you exist, but … UNGHH! .. that's about all."

 

"Very good," the stern voice continued. "Now tell us everything you know about the Batman."

 

***

 

14.

 

The prisoner looked confused. Through his drug-addled, sleep-deprived haze Marco could feel the wires attached to his body and see the apparatus to which they were connected. He knew these men demanded answers, but he could barely follow the question. He mumbled something incoherent at a volume so low no one could hear it.

 

"SPEAK!" commanded the voice from the other side of the blinding lights.

 

"B-Bat-man?" Marco said at last, sounding as if the name was new to him and he was trying to picture what it meant: a bat who was also a man? He said nothing else for a long time and simply hung from the hook like an animal carcass, twisting slightly to and fro.

 

"Son of a fucking BITCH!!!!!" screamed one of the voices. "I don't have time for this. I'm juicing the motherfucker."

 

A jolt of electricity flowed through Marco's body with such force that it almost knocked him off the hook. His body spasmed for several minutes, then hung as still as a corpse.

 

The lights went out. "Did you kill him?" asked one voice.

 

"I don't think so," answered another. A rubber-gloved hand emerged out of the darkness and felt for a pulse on the motionless captive's wrist.

 

"Now you've done it," one of the men said. "This one's no good anymore. He's too far gone."

 

"If he's useless," another man said, "Let's just get rid of him."

 

***

15.

 

The splash of hot water on Bruce Wayne's bare chest felt good. This was the first shower he'd taken in days, maybe weeks, and he sighed deeply as he felt the grime of his recent debauchery wash away from his skin. He dried his naked body with a soft terrycloth towel, then wrapped the towel around his waist while he shaved. The stubble on his cheeks was stiff and it hurt slightly to scrape it away, but at least his face no longer itched. Aftershave, toothpaste, mouthwash and deodorant all did their duty, and soon he was back to his workout in a clean pair of tights,boots, and batbriefs. He could no longer lift the same weights he'd once been accustomed to, and his time on the treadmill left him panting like any out-of-shape suburbanite, but he knew the road to physical recovery would be long and slow.

 

Too bad he wouldn't have time to complete that road before heading back into action. He completed his exercise regimen, finished suiting up, and headed to his usual perch at the batcomputer. The workstation was still a disaster zone, but cleanup would have to wait. Two lives, maybe more, hung in the balance.

 

Bruce picked up the batphone and activated the direct connection to Commissioner Gordon's office.

 

"Batman -- is it -- is it you? Where have you been? We've been so worried …"

 

"No time to explain, Jim. I need you to get me Marco Moretti's home address."

 

"Moretti? But I thought --"

 

The detective sounded more forceful than he had in ages. "Do it, Jim. For me."

 

"S-sure, Batman."

 

Bruce glanced at himself in the reflective surface of the computer monitor and smiled at the image he saw staring back at him: strong, confident, and ready for action once more. He was a brand new man.

 

***

16.

 

The next thing he knew, Marco was being lowered to the ground once more. He looked up to see Jeremiah hovering over him. The captive felt ashamed of his nakedness and vulnerability, but the Preacher seemed not to mind. He wore the collar of a priest and his face was radiant -- the most beautiful face Marco had ever seen. The gentle reverend kissed the top of the beaten man's bruised head and untied the ropes himself.

 

"My child, my child, how you must be hurting! The men who did this to you were very wrong," Jeremiah said in a gentle tone. "They disobeyed me, and I punished them as I punish all who disobey." He held up something the size and shape of a small pumpkin. Marco couldn't quite make out what it was, but knew it was soaked in blood. He turned his head to look away.

 

Jeremiah continued. "My son, you look so very tired and hungry. Your journey is almost over. We must clothe and feed you and get you back on your feet. You want that, don't you?"

 

"Yes," Marco said in a voice barely above a whisper.

 

"My children call me 'Father,'" Jeremiah said. "You are like a son to me now, aren't you?"

 

"Yes … Father," the naked man replied.

 

"You're strong," the Preacher said. "You're fast becoming one of my favorites. You have a long way to go, but I have faith in you. For now, it's very, very important that you tell me everything you know about the Batman. You arrived in my world at the same time he did, and therefore I must assume that the two of you have some awareness of each other. No matter what he may have told you, you must know that he is a very bad person; he has tried to hurt me in the past, and I need to make sure that never happens again in the future. You love your Father and you want to help me accomplish my great work, don't you, my son?"

 

Marco looked straight into Jeremiah's beautiful eyes. "Yes, Father."

 

Jeremiah smiled and stroked Moretti's unruly beard. "Very good. Now, what can you tell me about that evil, evil man who hides behind a mask? Who is he? What is his weakness?"

 

The questions reminded Marco of the torture he had just endured; he was visibly shaking and scared. "I… I don't know… I'm so confused, Father… so tired…"

 

"I know, my son, I know. There will be time for answers later. In time, you will tell me everything, and I will reward you for your help. For now let's get you cleaned up." The Preacher summoned an assistant in saffron robes. "Ezekiel, this one shall now be called Provenance. He is the newest member of my flock. His conversion is almost complete. See that he is bathed and fed. Shave him and apply ointments to his wounds. Then give him a brown robe. In time, if he pleases me, he may earn another." Jeremiah gave the naked man a hug, full of trust and friendship. "Go with Ezekiel now, Provenance. He will help you."

 

The naked man nodded weakly.

 

Provenance. What a beautiful name.

 

***

17.

 

Batman parked the Batmobile in an empty parking lot not far from Moretti's house and sat quietly, surveying the sleeping suburban neighborhood through his infrared binoculars for no practical reason. A part of him simply did not want to enter. Another part of him was already inside, chained up in the basement dungeon, waiting for his Master to return.

 

Once he was certain no one was watching him -- all the lights on the block were out -- the masked man exited his vehicle and silently made his way through yards and down streets toward his destination. It was far harder to travel undetected in this kind of setting than the urban jungle to which he'd grown accustomed.

 

He approached the front door. Passing it brought back memories of the first time he'd been brought here, bound and unconscious, blindfolded, at the mercy of the rogue cop who had stolen his ultimate secret.

 

As he picked the lock on the side door and crept silently through the empty house, fragments of his adventures here came flooding back. Scenes of unspeakable torture and humiliation were suddenly as fresh as the moment they'd happened, each one more tantalizing than the last.

 

He wanted to whip off his mask right now and walk through the building in his unguarded state, but something held him back. It was too risky -- Marco was clearly long gone, but who knew what other guests this house had seen in the meantime? Could the Preacher have tracked this place down -- might it now be a trap, waiting for Batman's return?

 

Bruce's defenses were on high alert; he hadn't felt this alive since … since the last night he'd spent here, a prisoner of the mysterious man who'd broken him and then abandoned him, left him alone to die at the hands of the Preacher. They'd parted ways at the compound, never to see each other again. For all Bruce knew, Marco could be dead now, a victim of Jeremiah's as yet unknown forces. And what of Robin? Like a fool -- a drunken,  heartbroken, self-obsessed fool -- he'd let the boy wander off alone to combat a power far greater than the lad could possibly withstand.

 

The main floor of the house yielded no clues. In the pitch black, his flashlight caught a glint of metal: the doorknob which stood between him and the basement dungeon, his home away from home for such a very long time.

 

***

18.

 

Batman reached for the knob with his gloved hand and started to turn it, but something held him back. There were voices coming from the other side of the door!

 

Jeremiah's minions, no doubt. His hunch had proved correct: they'd tracked the cop's home down faster than he had, and they were using its basement-level setup for some unknown purpose.

 

Pulling the listening device from his utility belt, he held one end up to the wooden door and the other to his ear.

 

"Hit me again! Harder! Harder! Oh yes, oh yes, ohyesohyesohyesyesyes…"

 

Whoever it was was obviously distracted enough that he could venture in without being noticed.

 

Two of Jeremiah's men were hard at work, one cloaked in a red robe and the other naked and strapped to a rack whose features Batman knew all too well. The robed one wielded a paddle -- wielded it like a pro, in fact -- and was soon surprised to discover his weapon yanked from his hand and used against him by the one and only Caped Crusader.

 

Batman made quick work of the Top, who crumpled in a corner and was batcuffed and hogtied in seconds flat. The masked man next turned his attention to the bound bottom.

 

"Don't hurt me, please!" the bottom grovelled, catching himself an instant later. "That is, unless it be the Father's will."

 

Batman grabbed a cat-o'-nine-tails off the wall -- he knew right where to find one -- and held it up in the air. "Where's Jeremiah?" he commanded. "TELL ME NOW."

 

It felt odd to find himself in this particular room barking the orders instead of obeying them, but at least he knew the routine by heart.

 

The bottom cringed. His cock stuck straight up. "Sir, yessir," he shouted, a smile sprouting on his face and a lie forming on his lips as he squirmed on the rack.

 

It was obvious this line of questioning would lead nowhere but a few cheap thrills and some unreliable testimony. "You stay put," Batman said, reaching for the aerosolized Batsleep in his belt and squirting a blast in the naked man's face.

 

The detective turned to the toppled Top and kicked him with his boot. "Wake up, punk," he snarled. "You're going for a ride."

 

 

 

***

 

19.

 

"Wake up, Richard Grayson," someone said. "The time has come for your christening."

 

Dick looked up from his bunk at the two men who stood beside him. He was half asleep as they helped him to his feet, pulled his robe over his naked body, and ushered him down a long hall.

 

"Huh? Where are we going?" he asked.

 

"You are a very lucky boy," a Green Robe whispered. "The Father has asked to meet you, face to face! Do you realize what an honor that is?"

 

"We've already met," Dick started to say in the wisecracking voice of Robin, but he was just awake enough to stop himself. "All praise to the Almighty," he answered instead, using the stock phrase he'd learned to use in such instances.

 

"All praise to the Almighty," responded both of his escorts in unison. They had reached a door now, which one of them opened. They gestured for Dick to enter, and then closed the door behind him.

 

Dick found himself alone in a lavishly appointed room with the Preacher himself, who sat on a throne Robin knew had been stolen from a local museum. He wore a robe which appeared to be constructed of spun gold. "Greetings my son, my holy boy. Come here and let me look at you."

 

Dick walked closer. There was no denying the Preacher's natural charisma.

 

"You look familiar," Jeremiah said after a moment. "Do we know each other?"

 

"No, Father," Dick said quietly.

 

"Don't be shy, my son," Jeremiah said. "Come closer and sit on my knee, little one."

 

Dick bristled at the condescension in the older man's voice. If he breaks out with that "Robin Wonder Boy" crap one more time…

 

"Yes, Father," the not-so-young lad replied, taking his place on the cult leader's outstretched leg like a child of three. Dick watched as Jeremiah's heavily jeweled fingers began exploring all the obvious places. "Let's get this robe off you," the Preacher suggested, and Dick lifted it up over his head and resumed his position on the villain's knee. Young Grayson was naked now, and Jeremiah began planting a long, slow line of kisses from his forehead to the tip of his cock.

 

"May these seeds take root and blossom within you," Jeremiah whispered. Dick's immediate impulse was to reply, "Excuse me while I vomit," but he bit his tongue -- which was by this point buried deep inside Jeremiah's moist mouth. The two men embraced and held each other for a long time, until their breathing had become syncronized.

 

"Some kind of mind-control trick," Dick told himself, though he knew he had no other choice but to play along. As with his earlier liaisons with Jeremiah's men, his stiffening member established that he wasn't just humoring the Preacher. This man was strong and capable of terrifying force, yet gentle and loving -- exactly the same irresistable combination Dick had always sensed in Bruce, at least until recently.

 

Unprovoked by any charade, Dick pulled away for a moment and gazed directly into Jeremiah's wide, wise eyes for the first time. They were deep blue, he noticed for the first time. All-knowing, all-seeing, he said to himself, echoing the lyrics of one of the hymns he'd heard over and over and over again in the last few weeks.

 

"That's it, boy," Jeremiah said with a smile, evidently responding to something Dick was doing without realizing it. "Just breathe a moment," the Preacher whispered. "Let it all go." His voice was soothing and calm -- so unlike the profanity-laced bullshit Batman had been spouting lately.

 

Dick slid down off the older man's knee and onto the floor. Without any spoken directions, he found himself on all fours, his head nudging its way under the folds of Jeremiah's beautiful golden robe. He placed his hands on the Preacher's strong, sturdy calves and pulled himself up to the spot where Jeremiah's two legs met. There he found one of the longest, thickest cocks he'd ever seen -- Bruce's was dwarfed by comparison. He wrapped his lips around it and took as much of it into his mouth as deep as it would go. If I relax, he thought, I can take even more. Just breathe, and let it all go.

 

"Yes, my son, my joy," the Preacher intoned. "You serve me well."

 

Dick was certain he'd be rewarded any moment now with a mouthful of hot holy fluid, and he threw his whole being into the task before him. His own cock was crying out for attention, and he wrapped one hand around its shaft, but soon felt something warm and firm clutching his wrist.

 

It was Jeremiah's large, soft palm. The Preacher gently but firmly persuaded Dick to stop everything he was doing and be still. The young man was still on his hands and knees, his head still buried beneath Jeremiah's robes, when he heard a sound not far away: was the door opening? Had someone else now joined them in the room?

 

All this instinctive detective work had jarred him back to his senses. What the hell was he doing? What was Jeremiah up to? Was surrender really this easy?

 

From somewhere up above his head, Dick heard the Preacher speak. "Come out, come out, my little bird. Come see the wonderful surprise I've prepared for us both."

 

***

20.

 

Feeling more than a little foolish, Dick Grayson withdrew his head from underneath Jeremiah's golden robes and raised himself to a crouch. There was indeed a new person in the room.

 

"Little Bird -- that shall be your new name: Little Bird -- I want you to meet someone. This is Provenance. He has come to play with us."

 

The brown-robed disciple called Provenance was thin, almost frail. He looked familiar, but Dick couldn't place him right away. Not only was he clean-shaven and completely bald, but his chest and back were also free of all body hair. The stranger kept his head bowed unless Jeremiah addressed him directly.

 

For the time being, Dick was distracted by his own new nickname: Did "Little Bird" indicate that Jeremiah was onto him, or was it a mere coincidence? Nothing seemed accidental in this nightmare world -- nothing happened by chance, no encounter lacked meaning.

 

It came to him in a flash: could it possibly be? Could the zombie standing before him really be Officer Marco Moretti, the sadistic asshole who only a short while ago had brutalized Robin and totally fucked with Batman's head, transforming him into the drunken depressed slob who was even now probably spewing cum all over the Batcave? No way!

 

Closer examination confirmed this absurd suspicion as fact. Dick didn't dare break character, but it was already clear that Marco didn't recognize him at all, even though the fucker had clearly seen him without his mask.

 

"Do you like him, Little Bird?" asked Jeremiah, like a proud parent taking stock of a child's response to his birthday presents.

 

It wasn't a question Dick wanted to answer, but he knew the only possible answer. "Yes, Father."

 

"Then let's play with him," said the Preacher, smiling as broadly as ever.

 

The three men formed a gold and brown and flesh-colored cluster on the soft, carpeted floor. Jeremiah took the lead, silently prodding some protracted foreplay before removing his own robe and motioning for Dick to remove Marco's. They were all naked now, one man's limbs entwined around another's and his around yet another's as if they were all one organism. Dick was trying hard to remain focused on his undercover work, but it felt so fucking good to stretch out on the ground and let Marco suck him off while Jeremiah fucked his ass. Then they'd shift positions, the transitions always guided by the Preacher, as Top became bottom and bottom became Top and the man in the middle just took it all in: the interwoven smells of salty spunk and sweet perfume, the sensations of flesh on flesh and mouth on mouth, the seductive rhythms of writhing and grinding, tension and release, tension and release, and then a rush so intense it nearly blinded him. In the midst of the fun, Dick could hear frenzied whispers around the room and thought he saw one or two more disciples off in the distance. All part of the scene, he told himself.

 

Sometime after his third or fourth orgasm of the night, Dick pushed away from the huddle and let out a long, replenishing sigh --

 

-- and felt a hand squeezing in on his cheeks, holding his mouth open. Something that looked very much like a communion wafer hovered in the air before his nose for just a second before disappearing down his throat. The same hand now held his mouth shut tight until it was clear he had swallowed.

 

Poison, he knew at once. And through his rapidly blurring vision, he could see Jeremiah waving something before his face: the notebook, filled with weeks' worth of details about the Preacher and his congregation.

 

***

21.

 

"Seems my Little Bird is something of a rat," Jeremiah scolded. "You have displeased me," he continued. "You know that. And you will tell me NOW who it is you are reporting to. The poison you have just been administered is already beginning to work on your central nervous system. You don't have much longer to live, and you may as well make one last attempt to avoid eternal damnation by revealing to me what you know and who else you've told."

 

Dick was indeed growing weaker and weaker with each passing moment. Even so, there was one bright spot in all of this: it see ed clear now that the Preacher had not deduced his alter ego. Robin and all his secrets would die without detection. For what that was worth, at this point.

 

He noticed that Marco -- Provenance -- had been returned to his robes and stood by the wall, mute and obviously confused. The one man who could ruin the whole thing had evidently been driven out of his mind.

 

"Let me ask you again," the Preacher said, his voice turning stern. "WHO are you working for?"

 

"Fuck you," Dick snarled, relieved to be able to drop the "Yes, Father" act at last. And since he wasn't Robin at the moment, he was free to be as potty-mouthed as he wanted. What did he have to lose?

 

His life, for starters. Two of his familiar saffron-robed adversaries entered and lifted him to his feet. A third man handed a gun -- Marco's old weapon, which had long ago been taken from him -- to Jeremiah.

 

"The poison is too slow for this one. He dares to mock me with his dying breath," Jeremiah said, returning the gun to the brainwashed ex-cop and staring straight into his eyes without blinking once. "The time has come for the first true test of your love for me, my son. Shoot him in the head, Provenance," the Preacher ordered.

 

"Yes, Father," the man once named Moretti replied.

 

***

22.

 

Dick knew that if the bullet didn't do him in, the poison surely would. With all the strength he could muster, he sent a well-aimed foot directly into the groin of one of the men who held him. The trio lost their balance and tumbled back to the ground, out of the path of the gun.

 

But no bullet was fired. Moretti dropped the gun as if by reflex the moment something hit his hand. That something was sharp and stung like holy hell: it was a batarang, and the man who had sent it in his direction meant business.

 

"Batman!" Dick cried. "Just in time!" In the midst of the crisis, he took care not to reveal his true identity. "My name is Dick Grayson, and these men just poisoned me."

 

Faster than anyone could see, Batman reached into a compartment on his belt and produced a small vial of capsules, which he tossed to the naked lad on the ground. "Take three of these and lie still, Mr. Grayson," the masked manhunter shouted.

 

Batman fought valiantly against the ever-growing legions of Jeremiah's disciples who, as if conjured up out of thin air, filled the room and the hallway outside. It had been a long time since he'd engaged in hand-to-hand combat like this, and he had grown a little rusty from lack of practice. Fortunately, his opponents were better suited to lives of nonstop sex and prayer than fighting, so many of them fell away easily. Even so, more and more of them kept coming at him, throwing punches -- and more than a little furniture -- in every direction.

 

Dick watched from his position on the floor. He was already beginning to regain a portion of his life force, but he knew he was still too weak to lend a hand. Besides, he could not risk exposing himself as the legendary crimefighter's battle-trained partner. All he could do was watch from the sidelines and yell at one opportune moment, "Batman! Look out behind you!" But it was no use. One goon grabbed Dick's discarded robe and pulled it over Batman's head, distracting and temporarily blinding him while another man administered a final knockout blow.

 

The great detective collapsed on the ground, out cold. One of the thugs pulled the robe away from Batman's head and made sure his eyes were shut tight.

 

Jeremiah applauded at the sight of his nemesis sprawled out before him. "The battle has been long and difficult. My children, you have fought well, and in the end, my will shall be done. Remove his belt of weapons," he commanded. "As well as his cloak." Two Saffron Robes did as they were told, handing the utility belt and cape to a Green Robe, who bowed to the Preacher and removed them from the room.

 

One of the Saffron Robes knealt by Batman's inert body and reached for his mask. "All glory unto Jeremiah! The Revelation is upon us!" he cried as he began to lift it up and away from the sleeping man's face.

 

***

23.

 

The zealous disciple held a generous portion of Batman's cowl in his hand and was about to remove the rest of it when he noticed that Jeremiah was furious. "LEAVE IT!" the reverend screamed, and the Saffron Robe backed away at once.

 

The Preacher took a moment to regain his composure before launching into sermon mode. "Our enemy wears the mask of a monster because he lives in fear and shame. To expose his true face to the world would be to acknowledge that he is indeed a man after all. We shall not grant him that dignity as long as he continues to live and breathe. In these last few moments of his existence, let him continue to hide like the frightened beast we know him to be."

 

All the disciples nodded. Dick tried to stifle a sigh of relief.

 

Jeremiah heard it and turned to face the naked youth, but was so carried away with his own pontifications that he paid little mind. "My children, we see before us two misguided souls, carriers of an evil which cannot be allowed to remain in our presence. This one--" --he motioned to Dick -- "has tricked us and betrayed us. He has shared our food and enjoyed our bodily gifts, but his heart was not true.

 

"And THIS one--" he pointed now to Batman -- "this one has long defied my every attempt to destroy him. Until now. The time has come for them both to feel the full power of my wrath."  Jeremiah himself bent down and took both of the sleeping man's arms in his own hands and dragged the body over toward Dick's, propping Batman's head on his disguised partner's lap.

 

"Come here, Provenance," the Preacher said quietly.

 

"Yes, Father?" the former Officer Moretti replied, barely looking up from the floor.

 

Jeremiah handed him the gun once more. "Remember what I told you about the masked man. His heart is full of evil. The same is true of the youth. They are not my children. They hate your father. They hate you, too, because they are jealous of the love I feel for you. They have come here to torment me, and if you truly love me, you won't let that happen, will you? WILL YOU? Finish what you started a moment ago. Kill them both. NOW."

 

The frail man who currently answered only to the name Provenance aimed his weapon straight at the helpless duo lying not far from his feet.

 

***

24.

 

The newly bald man in the brown robe was shaking as he fingered the trigger. A tremor ran through his body until the gun dropped from his hand. Tears streamed from his eyes, and he fell to the ground.

 

"Have mercy on me, oh Father," Provenance pleaded.

 

"Silence," the Preacher replied. "You were given a test, and you failed. My church has no room for those who would betray me." Jeremiah turned to the Saffron Robe named Ezekiel and issued a command. "This man has lost the right to wear the garments of our church. Remove them."

 

"Gladly, Father," Ezekiel said. He stripped the robe from the traitor's body, leaving the brainwashed cop wearing nothing but a white muslin loincloth.

 

"Chain him," Jeremiah ordered.

 

The only White Robe in the room, a cute but stupid-looking kid with curly blonde hair, dared to speak. "Why don't we just kill them ourselves, right now?" he asked.

 

"An innocent enough question," the Preacher said, the smile returning to his face. "But we do not permit questions from those whose robes are white. When and if you graduate to Blue, you will understand. Now be silent and leave us."

 

Upon this cue, all but the Saffron Robes left the room. Jeremiah closed the door.

 

"Fate has provided us with a golden opportunity," he announced to his inner circle of disciples as he walked among the three bodies and doused them all with sleep-inducing incense. "We shall make an example of all three of these blasphemers. Bind them all and prepare them for transport." He surveyed his three captives: the youngest was naked, and the fallen convert wore only a loincloth. He devised a similar status for the masked man and called for a jewelled knife.

 

"Cut away the Batman's tunic. All of it. Remove his gauntlets and his boots. And now his leggings -- sever them just below the satin outergarments."

 

The sleeping Batman was now naked but for his mask and the blue briefs around his waist. Ragged bits of his grey tights poked out from beneath.

 

"He came to us in armor," Jeremiah said. "He shall leave us in a diaper." The image made him laugh, and the disciples soon joined him in mocking the ludicrous-looking sight.

 

"Take these fools who wanted so badly to be heroes and show them to their demise. Their bodies will serve as a warning to all who doubt us. Their flesh shall bear testimony to the sins they have committed. Verily I say unto you: before the cock crows, these three shall be no more."

 

***

 

25.

 

It was in the early hours of morning -- with daybreak still some time away -- that three large wooden posts the size of telephone poles sprouted up on the lawn of Gotham City Town Square, just across the street from City Hall. To the north lay the main police station; to the south, the central post office and library.

 

The poles were tall enough to be seen for at least two blocks, and tightly bound to each was a naked or barely clad man -- Batman in the center, Dick Grayson to his left, and Marco to his right. Their arms were stretched out perpendicular to their bodies and bound to cross-beams. Each man's mouth was gagged, and upon each of their bare chests was painted a single word in huge red letters.

 

TRAITOR, read the paint on Marco's close-shaved chest.

SPY, said Dick's.

DEMON, ran the letters on Batman's muscular, hairy chest. The paint was still wet and dripped down his abdomen, staining the blue briefs which were the only clothes he had on..

 

The masked man was the first to wake up. His eyelids fluttered slightly and then opened to the cool night air. The first thing he saw, about thirty feet in the distance, was the rest of his costume, laid out neatly on the ground as if his body had simply melted away from it. On either side of it lay Marco's cop uniform, now cleaned and pressed, and Dick's street clothes.

 

Batman cast his attention from the empty clothes past several feet of sticks and timber, up to the comrades who flanked him on poles of their own. They were just beginning to open their eyes and take stock of their baffling situation, Dick obviously far more alert than the heavily traumatized Moretti.

 

"Would that Robin Wonder Boy were here to die alongside you, but this strapping young lad shall make a fine replacement," said Jeremiah, calling up to Batman and motioning to the stark naked youth.

 

All three men were now awake and struggling against the ropes which held them high above the Preacher. Even Marco made a half-hearted attempt to break free, though he seemed resigned to whatever fate might befall him.

 

Batman was just beginning to understand exactly what that fate might consist of when the Preacher began to sermonize once more.

 

"Ye shall be burned at the stake as infidels," Jeremiah shouted. "How it must hurt you to realize with your dying breaths that your entire life's work has been a waste of time: policeman, vigilante, socialite. You know now that you have labored for the cause of evil, and your sins have at last caught up with you. The time has come for you and your black-hearted colleagues to pay for your mistakes, Batman."

 

The uncaped crusader held his head up high and tried to shout through his gag, "Go to hell."

 

"I'm not sure I made that out, but I do believe you continue to curse me even unto your dying. Such language from an infidel, let alone a self-styled hero! Your true colors have been exposed once and for all. Let the flames consume your bodies and send you swiftly to eternal damnation. May all who gaze upon this inferno know my power, and fear it."

 

Jeremiah lit a lone match and dropped it to the ground.

 

The gasoline-soaked wood caught the flame and carried it with a roar across the lawn. The fire grew higher and hotter with each passing second. Batman and Dick both reached instinctively for their utility belts, only to be reminded of their predicament. Marco could only mumble "Have mercy on me, Father" through his gag faster and faster as the flames began to lick at his bare feet.

 

In the midst of the disaster, Batman stared over at his former Master and then at the cop's discarded uniform, once a symbol of his awesome power over the Dynamic Duo, now a mockery of the scrawny, mindless idiot babbling away in a loincloth.

 

"This is the man who nearly destroyed my life…," Batman thought to himself when he should have been working out a means of escape. He looked down at Jeremiah, who was now seated on his golden throne a safe distance from the fire to watch his plan unfold.

 

"…And this is the man who will finish me off."

 

***

 

26.

 

Commissioner James Gordon was sound asleep when the phone rang at 5AM.

 

"Sorry to wake you, Commissioner, but this is an emergency. That Preacher guy has taken over downtown; he's sealed off Town Square and he's burning the lawn. He's got three naked men tied to poles in the middle of the fire; we can't get close enough to make out two of them yet, but the one in the middle looks like Batman."

 

"What the --" Jim said. He hadn't caught a word the voice on the other end had just blurted out, except the last one. "Batman??!"

 

"Yessir -- he's being burned alive. Get down here as soon as you can. We've already got a squad car heading to your house."

 

Gordon stumbled to his feet and threw on his work clothes. The next few minutes were a blur of sirens and smoke, and in no time he found himself bearing witness to an unbelievable, bone-chilling spectacle: his closest friend and two other men stripped of all or most of their clothes, tied to poles and about to be burned to a crisp in full view of the city, while the Preacher addressed the gathering crowd of rescue workers, news media, and already-assembling onlookers:

 

"Men and women of Gotham City, behold. I bring you tidings of great horror. A blackness has settled upon the city, and I alone possess the power to extinguish it. You see before you three evildoers who dared to stand in my way. I, Jeremiah RisingSon, only begotten offspring of the divine shapers of heaven and earth, have unleashed my wrath upon them. I say now unto each and every one of you, bow down before me now or YE SHALL BE NEXT!"

 

Chief O'Hara came running up to Gordon with late-breaking news. "Commissioner, Sir, we still can't get close enough to ID the other two men, but we have reliable reports that the clothes of the victims are laid out on the lawn near them; one is definitely Batman, and there's some rich kid, and the last one appears to be …" The chief choked on his words. "… a police officer."

 

"Hand me the binoculars," Gordon ordered, and a pair was presented to him immediately. "That's Batman, all right," he said through clenched teeth. "That looks like Richard Grayson, the young ward of millionaire Bruce Wayne, on one side of him, and -- Great Scott! -- the third man may well be former officer Marco Moretti, the rogue cop who's caused our force so much grief these last few months!"

 

Jim watched through the smoke as Batman squirmed and writhed. He took note of the word "DEMON" painted on the masked man's chest, then shifted his view to take in what had been scrawled on the other two, pausing when his eyes dipped down to the Grayson kid's exposed cock and balls. Gordon put the binoculars down and rubbed his eyes. It was all too much to bear.

 

***

 

27.

 

The flames rose higher and higher and the heroes struggled in vain to break free of their funeral pyres. Then the clock in the center of Town Square chimed. It was 6AM. All at once, fountains of water began spurting from beneath the flames, temporarily lessening their effects.

 

"Begorah, it's a miracle," said Chief O'Hara.

 

"No, it's the city's automated sprinkler system, just doing its job," Commissioner Gordon replied. Thank heavens the voters approved that bond last November. Our tax dollars have finally gone to a worthy cause: saving the life of the man who has saved us all so very many times."

 

"He's not out of the woods just yet," O'Hara said. "Everybody knows water only helps a fire in the long run."

 

"Yes," Gordon said, "but at least it will buy our firemen some time. Meanwhile, the boys of the 2nd precinct have just about rounded up all of the Preacher's dastardly helpers. There must be hundreds of those cult crazies; the paddy wagons are already full. Say, has anyone seen what became of Jeremiah himself?"

 

"A moment ago when the sprinklers started, he ran off into the crowd. Probably had his getaway planned long ago. But at least we'll be able to cut the Batman and the other two free. Say, have you ever noticed how often we find the caped crusader in these kinds of situations--semi-naked and tied up in some kind of crazy deathtrap?" asked Chief O'Hara. "He never really apprehends that many crooks anymore when you get right down to it, and the ones he does manage to catch are always breaking out of jail. It's almost like he plans it that way…"

 

"I don't know what you're insinuating," Commissioner Gordon replied curtly. "But the Caped Crusader is one of the greatest heroes this city has ever known, and I will not have one of my subordinates besmirch his reputation with crude innuendo."

 

"Just wondering," O'Hara said. "It's nothing, really. I certainly didn't mean to suggest…"

 

His sentence was cut short by the arrival of Batman himself, dripping wet in his blue trunks. The sprinklers and fire hoses had washed most of the paint off his chest, and he held the remainder of his costume in his hands. "Commissioner, Chief O'Hara. I just wanted to thank both of you for the role you played in aiding my escape from the clutches of that most unholy of so-called holy men. I'll just be taking Mr. Grayson home; as you know, his mentor Mr. Wayne is a close friend of mine, and I'm sure he'll appreciate knowing the lad is safe and sound."

 

"Good idea, Batman. We'll take ex-Officer Moretti into custody and try to get to the bottom of this murky tale."

 

Batman was somber. "I’m afraid Mr. Moretti has come away from this experience a shadow of his former self. The Preacher subjected him to weeks of unspeakable torture beginning the night he first captured me quite a while back. He appears to have little if any awareness of his surroundings and no memory of anything that's happened to him at any point in his life. He answers only to his cult name; it appears our Reverend Jeremiah broke his spirit as well as his body."

 

"Dear lord," said Commissioner Gordon. "I had no idea it was that bad. But I must admit I barely recognized him when I saw him hanging up there next to you. If it hadn't been for his uniform on the ground below, I daresay he would died anonymous and forgotten. We'll give him the best pysychiatric care money can buy."

 

"If I may be so bold, Jim," Batman said quietly, "Might I suggest that you speak to Mr. Wayne about the matter? I understand he's recently established a Home for Retired Police Officers, and perhaps Mr. Moretti can be rehabilitated by the highly professional staff there."

 

"Another excellent idea, Caped Crusader," replied Gordon. "If anyone can help this poor man, it's got to be Bruce Wayne."

 

"Sorry to run, Commissioner, but it's nearly 7 now, and I've got to get Mr. Grayson home; I do believe he has a trigonometry class in an hour. I thank you and your men for their brave efforts on my behalf. I only regret that the Preacher is still at large; you have my word I will hunt him down and bring him to justice. And now I must away." Batman was gone in a flash.

 

"Mercy me," murmured Chief O'Hara the moment the masked manhunter was out of sight. "I don't recall hearing anything about a Wayne Foundation Home for Retired Police Officers, and you'd think I'd be the first to know. After all, I'm heading for retirement soon myself."

 

"Enough of that talk, Chief," Gordon said. "We've got a massive cleanup operation on our hands. Let's get to work."

 

THE END