Friday, March 7, 2014

Catwoman #28

My new goal in life is to take over the writing job on Catwoman.

For one brief second, I thought about replacing my commentary for this comic book with a big picture of a pile of dog shit. But then I thought that would be cruel to the people that read this blog. They probably see enough poop when they Google Image Search for anything with SafeSearch off.

Person X types "Ash Misty Brock Hugging" into Google Image Search. Pictures of Ash and Misty. Pictures of Brock and Misty. Naked pictures of Misty on Brock's face. Naked pictures of Team Rocket fucking Psyduck and Meowth. Hardcore pictures of Professor Oak fucking Ash's mom in the mouth while sucking off Charizard. Picture of Pikachu pooping.

Person X was me in that last paragraph! Does Google Image Search work this way for anybody else? I wonder if I fucked up my settings. Are there boxes you can tick for "hardcore Pokemon porn" and "Add '+poop' to every search"?

Last issue, Selina Kyle was really confused because she loved Batman but then felt really relieved when he was taken to the loony bin. That's an insensitive way to say crazy farm. Later that night, she had a dream where she told herself she was not really herself and that her real self was the self telling herself that she was not herself. Later she met a guy named Puffy Jackets who was the 2nd greatest burglar in Gotham. For some reason, he wanted to convince Catwoman to get back into the burglary game and stop acting so delusional. I suppose ambition scares the guy. He just couldn't handle being the best and so he needed to fuck up his own game. But now Selina knows Gotham is not Gothtopia! She must save the world!

Unless she didn't believe the dream. I don't remember. I'm sure I'll be reminded soon enough.

Currently Selina is still working the Suicide Prevention Crisis Hotline trying to help people seeing through the illusion of Gothtopia.

"Whatever you say, Daddio!"

Here we see Selina trying to help in a fairly average and mediocre way. The person she's helping responds in a completely illogical manner which prompts Selina to spill her fucking guts to him. Nocenti has the best ability to figure out the nuance and finesse of natural conversations which she then completely ignores in favor of poorly structured blocks of text that have no relation to each other.

Bob agreed with Selina and pointed out that he's been in jail, so he knows when somebody is pulling a fast one on him! "Drop the soap once, shame on me!" he says and then becomes very quiet.

"You began to think of yourself as a cultural stereotype and the butt of a joke, didn't you?" Selina took a slow puff from her cigarette. The smoke went down into her esophagus and then filled her lungs. The nicotine in the smoke gave her a quick head rush and she grew slightly dizzy for a moment. She knew the next puff would not be as potent, so she tried to enjoy the giddy feel in the brief moment it was with her. Eventually she would simply begin tasting ash and char and filling her lungs with warmth and chemicals. The thought made her sick and she put out the cigarette.

"Yeah. Prison ain't like they say," Bob sneered.

"Who are they?" wondered Selina aloud although she was thinking of Batman's face as he was strapped to a gurney and hustled inside of Arkham.

"I wasn't happy. And then I was. But I knew I wasn't. Cats don't like dogs. I'm a dog. You're a cat." Bob flicked his cigarette against the wall where it bounced in a shower of sparkling ash. It came to rest near Selina's feet and she carefully crushed the butt beneath the toe of her high heeled foot.

"But sometimes they grow fond of each other. Neither knows the difference. When a dog grows up with a cat, sleeping together, eating together, seeing each other day in and day out, does the dog think it's a cat? Does the cat think it's a dog? Why would it not? All it sees is the other," remarked Selina. The thought, "Bats too," came unbidden into her mind and she discarded it easily. She was happy to have him out of her life, wasn't she?

"That's a good point, miss," finished Bob as he turned to leave. "But you might want to consider something else. Squirrels don't like cats either." He gave Selina a long, hard stare before leaving the interrogation room and headed back into Gothtopia.

Ann Nocenti has her own take on Gothtopia. Fuck how the other books are portraying it. Also, my favorite part is how she adds the "comma you" to the end of Catwoman's "What's going on?"

Chuck stared into the woman's bright green eyes, eyes that mirrored the confusion he'd been feeling for the last few years. It was the confusion, not so much the fear or the desire or the wearying wearing away of his edges from life on the streets, that finally led Chuck to shooting up. The world was too big; the people were too together. How did they do it? How does one accept the parameters of the society they have been forced to join by the mere chance of their birth? They make it through each day, doing the same things, seeing the same people, kissing the same children goodnight. Where does the motivation come from? So many decisions to be faced and choices to be made. Nobody ever told him how much harder it was to make his own way than to do what his parents had asked. Overwhelmed by the loss of limits, Chuck was paralyzed by indecision. It was much easier to shoot the junk into his veins and just let the misty cataracts of pure bliss drop over his vision and quiet the questions. And once he was hooked, he no longer had decisions to make. He had purpose. Get money for more dope. Get more dope. Shoot more dope. Check out. Repeat.

But then the world changed slightly. It wasn't very dramatic, really. The people still kept to their normal courses. They still went to work. They still ate at restaurants. They still held hands in public. But they stopped arguing. Nobody was in a rush. It was the patience of the people that first alerted Chuck that a subtle shift had come over the people of Gotham. And along with that patience, obliviousness. He found he could steal without repercussion. Anything he wanted was his to take. Until now. Until this lady staring confused into his eyes, her hand around his throat.

"Why aren't you asleep like the rest?" He heard the question again in his mind, the question she had asked that sent him spinning into his own mind, as if tackling him had set adrift in his blood some micro-fragments of the dope not yet processed by his brain. But things were clear now. Too clear. Too real.

"Because I'm real. That's how they can do it. That's how they get by! I'm real. They're simulations. Or automatons. But!...we're real. We're real." The woman removed her hand from his throat and bit her lower lip, her eyes squinting nearly shut. He heard her whisper one word: "Batman." And then she was gone, disappearing gracefully down the alley like a sight he knows he's seen dozens of times before but couldn't quite place. Chuck stood up and dusted himself off, looking about him for the purse he dropped in the scuffle. It was halfway hidden behind a garbage can and as he reached down to pick it up, he startled a stray cat that had been busy with half a sandwich in the dark recesses of the alley. It hissed loudly and fled into the shadows. "A cat," murmured Chuck. That's what she had reminded him of as she fled. A cat.

"Of course an ex-vet would rig a few low-tech booby traps." This is why I always had to be careful when playing at my father's place.

As Selina lifted Puffy Jackets up off the floor, she thought to herself, "Something's seriously wrong with this butthole." She wasn't straining at all and she very rarely found herself capable of lifting a grown man up over her head with one hand. "Why are you so light, Gunther?"

"My local VA Hospital helped me to walk again after a spinal injury I received in The Great War. They hollowed my bones and made me light enough so that my damaged spine was able to support my weight. Because, as you know, the only thing keeping somebody with a damaged spine from walking is the weight." Catwoman nodded vigorously at the completely understandable and thoroughly ironclad medical explanation. She could hear his neckial bones beginning to crack from her grip, so she through him down into a chair so that she wouldn't hurt him. Puffy Jackets landed on the soft cushions in a spray of dust and the cracking of several bones. Blood sprayed across Catwoman's face as several of his hollow bones snapped and shot out from his skin, boring through muscle, ligaments, and skin like an apple corer through a piece of fruit. Probably an apple. Gunther now lay in the shadows, the lone light of his warehouse swinging on a long wire as lone warehouse lights are wont to do in dramatic situations. "You horror!" he whispered in profound ecstasy, thinking that if those were his last words, they would be remembered forever in their ambiguity and their truth.

"Are you okay, Puffy Jackets?" asked Catwoman as she licked his blood from her paw and bent forward to examine him, making sure that she didn't bend her knees and that her ass was pointing directly at where the camera would be if this were ever made into a movie. She made sure to spread her legs a little bit so that the slight, round bulge of her pudenda could be seen straining against the tight leather suit she wore. "That should put some teenagers in the seats," she thought. Puffy Jackets tried to answer but merely spat blood and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide his boner. He might not have had the same view as the nonexistent camera but that meant he was looking straight down her unzippered uniform.

Puffy Jackets didn't know it at the time, but his erection saved him by pooling most of his blood in his crotch, causing his other wounds to cauterize or whatever the actual medical term is where wounds scab over. But he still could not move because his bones were not set correctly or at all even. "My suit. My suit!" moaned Puffy Jackets truly hoping that he didn't die now because those last words weren't nearly as memorable as his previous last words. Catwoman slid Puffy Jackets into his armored bird suit where he let out a long sigh and passed out.

"Meet me tonight at the Gotham Zoo," demanded Catwoman. Puffy Jackets did not answer because he was practically dead and all the way unconscious. Catwoman grabbed him by the balls and squeezed until his eyes popped open and his face flushed darkly as the blood from his groinal blood sausage was distributed back throughout his body. "I said, 'Meet me tonight at the Gotham Zoo.'"

"Of horror!" smiled Puffy Jackets, thankful to get his other last words back in time. Well, nearly his other words. Close enough. For added effect he also decided to mutter, "Rosebub!"

This scene feels like Ann Nocenti parodying herself! Nice work, Ann! I love it!

Martha was just about to cut into her steak when she caught it out of the corner of her eye. A band-aid. It was fluttering slowly down, then suddenly as it turned to the side, only to cut through the atmosphere once again, flatten out and slow down, spinning softly, around and around in a lazy circle. And then two more to her right. A few in front of her. And suddenly the entire room was filled with band-aids fluttering down from the ceiling like cherry blossoms. Mesmerized, she barely heard Wallace at the head of the table as he addressed the roof. She slowly glanced up, mouth slightly agape at what would have been a magical sight if her steak wasn't now covered in medical adhesives. Dropping from the skylight which had yet to be replaced for the fifth time this year, a woman in black leather and swimming goggles was swinging down to the table. Before Martha could chastise this intruder for her bad manners, the woman was slicing Martha's face with sharp claws. Martha ducked her head and tried to spin under the table but the fur on her stole caught the arm of her chair. She struggled to hide but her back, exposed from her low-cut dress, was instantly on fire from pain as the woman sliced and stung and poke. The other dinner guests were screaming and clawing for cover. It was complete chaos and Martha blacked out from fear and pain.

When she came to, Wallace was placing band-aids on the cuts on her back while Sarah was muttering inanely. "Why do you do this? Rob and terrorize people?" screamed Martha because this kind of rudeness really did demand an explanation.

"Salt and pepper, that's all a rare steak needs," the insane woman replied. It didn't make any sense. Was she just hungry? Was she upset at the way they were preparing dinner? Martha watched as the woman slid the rare meat over her tongue before sucking the blood from it, slurping down a long strip of white fat. The woman's face reminded Martha of something, somewhere long ago. Was it ecstasy? Pure bliss? Joy? They were emotions she once knew before appearance and social standing mattered above all else. It was a reminder that Martha had given up everything for security and for prosperity and for acceptance. But most of all, that look, that woman's was a reminder of Johnny and the way he could make her shoot her hips to the ceiling, trying to force his tongue deeper into her as she came hard against his jaw, feeling her clit throbbing against the hardness of his upper lip, aching for his finger to be back inside of her, the finger that had slipped out of her ass when she thrust upward. And with this reminder of her passionate youth lost, Martha couldn't help but lash out at this stranger one more time.

"And on Valentine's Day? Don't you have any love in your life?" The woman merely licked the blood covered plate, desperately, like a cat cleaning the last of its master's cereal bowl. It wasn't meant to be erotic but Martha couldn't help seeing it that way. Some fire she had thought long burnt out had been reignited this night, thanks to this rude stranger and her odd behaviour. The woman set the plate down and gracefully slid from the top of the table. She brushed by Martha and Martha took a deep breath of her smell. Sweat and leather. Sex. Thoughtless, careless, spontaneous sex. Martha gasped slightly as she watched the roll of the woman's ass, steadily walking past the white tiger pelt on the wall.

"White tigers are rare. You have to be a real jerk to hunt, kill, and display one." And with that, the woman was gone, leaving Martha to think two final thoughts: "Wallace really is a jerk, isn't he?" and "Where can I find a young man at this time of night?"

Ladies and Gentlemen! Your 2014's Best Gotham Detectives!

Did I like cats? I don't know if I like cats. I wonder if Alvarez likes cats. He's a man. Men like dogs. Dogs are like men. Men are like cats. I don't think dogs like cats. Women are like men.

"Keyes. KEYES. Where'd you go there, hunh?" Alvarez is staring at me impatiently. Why do I keep losing it like this? I have to concentrate.

"My heart breaks sometimes. Is she an animal? Put her in the cages!" Whew. I think I pulled that off okay. Alvarez seems more interested in his doodles than what I'm saying. That's good. I can relax. Maybe think up something smart to say later. I wonder if I can work in Moby Dick. That sounds smart. Also I like his music a lot.

"Rabid dogs deserve to be shot. She's a rabid dog. Do I like dogs?" asks Alvarez. Do I answer him? I think he wants an answer. What if I just touch his hand? No! Police don't touch each other like that! This isn't kindergarten. "I am a detective!"

"Yes, yes you are, Alvarez. As am me. As me am? As I am! As am I?" Why do I get this way around Alvarez? It's like my tongue were wrapped around my brain, strangling the breath out of it. I know we're not a couple but I so want to be! That's probably why I get so nervous! It's because we've fucked in the evidence locker about a zillion times but I don't know if he loves me. But today is Valentine's Day! Maybe he'll propose soon!

"Keyes! KEYES."

"Hunh? Oh, what?" I glance down and notice he has his dick in his hand. "Oh. OH! Okay!" I drop my pants, turn around, and bend over the desk. Oh my god I hope he proposes!

"It's Valentine's Day, not Halloween," says the person in the Catbird suit to the person in the Bluebelle suit. Yes, it's Bluebelle. With an "e"!

"Why am I dressed like this?" thinks the Catwoman as she talks to the Batgirl dressed like Not the Batgirl. "Who am I? What has happened? Am I really happy? How many questions do I have to ask before this becomes a profound and philosophical moment meant to tear down the walls of my resistance? Why am I Catbird? Who is Catwoman? Has Puffy Jackets been telling the truth? Is Catbird a lie? Why do I need the lie? It seems to be very important to me. Does Batman's sweet, sweet loving have anything to do with my desire to leave Catwoman behind? Is battling my friends a metaphor for battling my inner demons and insecurities? Am I punching Batgirl to show that I've conquered my lack of confidence? Does kicking Condor mean I'm refusing to be an unlikable nobody? When I throw Talon to the ground, does that say I'm refusing to escape from the delusion of a happy life? When I kiss Batwoman deeply and passionately, does that mean I'm just living out a fantasy of the person typing this sentence? Why is Black Canary suddenly voiceless as we battle? Have I lost my own true voice?! Maybe I should just go home and take a nap now until all of this is over in Detective Comics #29!"

Puffy Jackets is Jonathan Crane! He's light and feather-boned because he's a Scarecrow! Oh my! It makes so much sense now! Except for the part where The Scarecrow would be trying to convince Catwoman she's living a delusion. Maybe he needs her help to rob something.

Catwoman #28 Rating: No change. At least it didn't take place in the Gotham Underground. I don't think I like the Gotham Underground.

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