Batman 2 - Batman Returns by Craig Shaw Gardner Read Free Book Online Page B

of young women dressed in black. Who were they? Penguin groupies? If he had known this sort of thing was going to happen, he would have come out of the sewers sooner. Now, if he could only determine some way that he could show his appreciation for these fine, nubile young women without the press nosing around. Ah well. All things in their time. At this moment, he had other fish to swallow.
    The police once again formed a living chain to keep the curious away as The Penguin strode forward onto the tiny, private cemetery plot tucked in a forgotten corner of Gotham. The well-manicured headstone he sought was immediately ahead, with separate inscriptions for Tucker and Esther Cobblepot, his very dearly departed father and mother. It was a shame that they both had to die so young. And so mysteriously.
    The Penguin fell to his knees in front of the markers, and reached within one frayed sleeve to pull out a pair of roses that, frankly, were a little the worse for wear. Oh, well, no matter. It was the sentiment that counted. And, by The Penguin’s count, there were at least a dozen TV and film cameras recording this sentiment at this very moment. And there was no way anyone could ever count all the news cameras.
    The Penguin stood, and thought he saw a couple of his groupies swoon at the great emotion of his actions. Ah, yes, he would like to get one or two of those little chicks alone. But not here. Not now.
    Instead, he walked back toward the crowd of reporters. One obnoxious example of the profession pushed forward from his fellows.
    “So,” the reporter began, “Mr. Penguin—”
    The Penguin held up his umbrella in protest. “A ‘penguin’ is a bird that cannot fly,” he remarked sternly yet sadly. “I am a man. I have a name. It’s Oswald Cobblepot.” Or at least it was now his name whenever it suited him.
    “Mr. Cobblepot!” the reporter continued, unfazed. He waved toward the grave of The Penguin’s parents. “You’ll never get a chance to settle with them, huh?”
    The crowd gasped at the effrontery of the reporter. My, The Penguin thought, it was certainly good to have the masses on his side. He twirled his umbrella pensively for a moment before he replied.
    “True, I was their number one son”—he glanced back pensively at the twin headstones—“and they treated me like number two. But it’s human nature to fear the unusual—even with all their education and privilege. My dad, a district attorney, mother active in the DAR; perhaps, when I held my Tiffany baby rattle with a shiny flipper, they freaked.”
    He paused and turned to the crowd before he continued.
    “But I forgive them.”
    The crowd cheered one more time. He had them in the palm of his hand.
    Or should that be the palm of his flipper?
    All of Gotham City was talking about The Penguin.
    “Penguin forgives parents!” the paperboy called. “Read all about it! ‘I’m fully at peace with myself and the world!’ Get your paper!”
    And Gotham City responded, grabbing the newsprint as soon as the papers could be dropped from the trucks. Everybody stopped whatever they were doing to read the charming news.
    “ ‘You don’t need hands as long as you’ve got heart,’ ” quoted one from the paper before him.
    “ ‘My heart is filled with love,’ ” a second read aloud. “ ‘I feel five feet tall.’ ”
    “He’s like a frog,” another exclaimed, “that became a prince!”
    “No, actually he’s more like a penguin,” another, calmer head replied.
    A couple passed nearby, talking as animatedly as everyone else. “Abandoned penguins from the old Arctic World raised him!”
    “Makes you remember the true meaning of the holiday,” the woman chimed in. “The love, the giving—”
    Max chuckled. He’d been in that Arctic World, that old leftover pavilion from some world’s fair or wonders-of-tomorrow technology exhibition. Max should probably read a paper to find out which one. There used to be a lot of that sort of thing