LUDIC LOG

"Mr. Wayne. The signal."

I don't call him 'Master Bruce'. My uncle did, but frankly, that's a bit too, well...interpreted kindly, it implies sadomasochism, and interpreted unkindly, slavery. Not my pot of Darjeeling.

"Albert. It's 2 AM. I need sleep."

"Crime waits not for dawn's rosy fingers, Mr. Wayne."

There isn't a crime, really. He's almost 70, and he's lucky if he can frighten jaywalkers. The guys at the precinct play along because Old Man Gordon still has a soft spot for him. I know one of the Public Works directors from college, and when it's really cold or Wayne's arthritis is acting up, I call him and offer to buy him and his wife dinner if he fires up the signal. You'd think Wayne would have caught on by now.

"God. My back. It's like fire. What day is it?"

"It's Thursday, February 4th, Mr. Wayne. One of the busiest days of the year for street trouble, according to the Bat-computer's statistical analysis."

The Bat-computer being, in this case, my narrow white ass, which is where I pulled that from. He hasn't really been able to use it himself since he got the trifocals. The actual Bat-computer I use to do day trading while he's passed out in the front seat of the Batmobile under a big icepack. If I get him whacked out enough on painkillers he gives me all sorts of insider information on Wayne Industries. Most of it goes in my Swiss account, but some of it I spend on hiring mercenaries to come to Gotham and stir up trouble. Speedsters, mostly. I like anyone who can make him run a lot. Sometimes I just sit up here and listen to his heart flame out on the monitors.

"Sometimes I wonder if it's all worth it, Albert. All this time, and what have I acheived?"

"That's not Bruce Wayne talking, sir. That's not the boy who lost his parents. That's just a weak old man. Bruce Wayne knows full well the good he's done."

He's done plenty of good. The crime rate in Gotham is at an all-time low, thanks in part to an efficient police force, a strong economy and racially integrated neighborhoods. He would know that if he had any spare time to look into it, but he sleeps all day and then I send him out every night to "fight crime". Between the hired goons, the fake newspaper I brew up in my spare time, and the fact that I send him to the worst neighborhoods in town, he still thinks the place is a cesspool. He talks about "keeping them busy down at Arkham". Arkham closed up 13 years ago. It's a golf course now. Moron.

"I suppose you're right, Albert. There's so much left to do though, and sometimes I'm so tired. So tired."

"You fight the good fight, Mr. Wayne. No man can do more."

It's true. He fights the good fight. Especially lately. I wasted a ton of money hiring 18 guys to dress up like Cluemaster in hopes of driving him nuts, but apparently I've overestimated his mental condition. Cluemaster has been dead since '06, but he never even asked me how come he keeps fighting the same guy over and over even though he never looks the same. I don't even think he can sense the passage of time anymore. He's got a busy day coming up; I've faked a handful of bank robbery calls to play on his police-band, hired an ex-pro wrestler to jump him after the Wayne Industries Acheivement Bruncheon, and programmed the Batmobile to take him to a crack house when he needs gas. But I've got plenty to do myself; I have to cut his heart pills with ephedra, fix the "Dick Grayson Crying" tape that I play while he's sleeping, and call up his probate lawyer to take care of a few details.

"It's just hard, Albert. It's hard."

"I know, Mr. Wayne. Believe me, I know."