Posts tagged journal post

Journal… I find that I can no longer feel the right side of my face.

I suppose I should explain this to Grayson, but he looks ridiculously excited for something he calls ‘Friday Night Flicks’; I feel this bit of news might ruin his day.

Ah, I suppose I should explain why my face has no feeling.

Last night for patrol, Grayson and I came across Gotham’s newest addition to the criminal underworld. The insane moron called himself ‘The Dentist’. A terror in white and a fool in crime. He laced his FDA approved gloves with some sort of numbing material. He was just lucky enough to have happened to graze my cheek. Need, I remind you it was the smallest hit and hardly worth mentioning.

The filthy peasant was easily put down and placed in Arkham where he belongs, but the trouble didn’t really start until this morning. Alfred roused me from sleep and I immediately noticed that my face felt strange.

At the morning meal, I couldn’t eat. I was, disgustingly, indisposed. To use simple terms, everything I ate, I drool back out.

I have spent this entire day avoiding people as much as possible. But that ridiculously, creepy, stalker Drake found me. How, I will never know, but he did and he dragged me down to the Cave. Apparently, he had noticed something was off.

The fool. I just wanted to be left alone.

He is lectured me about safety. I know exactly what safety is! You incompetent excuse for a vigilante! It’s not like my face having lost it’s ability to express emotions is hurting anyone.

I will watch Grayson’s silly Friday Night Flicks and he will not be informed of this. Journal, let it be known rendering Drake unconscious was for his and Grayson’s own sanity. After all, no one likes their movies to be interrupted with pointless information.

Right?

                                                                                                       Sincerely,

                                                                                                             D.W.

P.S. Alfred made Carmel popcorn. It was quite good, even if I had to shove each piece into the back of my jaw so I didn’t drool it into my lap.

It has come to my attention that this Damian Wayne journal isn’t ‘Damian’ enough. He is going to under go some serious attitude change, making him less ‘Jason Todd’ and more ‘Damian Wayne’. For those of you that are following Damian for his foul mouth and ill temper, I apologize. The foul mouth is going away the slightest bit. However, the temper will still be there.

I wish for this journal to be as ‘in character’ as possible and offer amusing tie-ins to the actual DC cannon. I apologize for my inaccuracies. I do hope you can bare with me.

                                                                                           Thank you very much,

                                                                                                           The Owner.

My mother told me once what a hero was and I have always pictured my father.

When I came to Gotham, I was still firmly convinced that only my father was a hero. He is, after all, Batman the protector and Savior of Gotham. He is every thing that a hero should be, strong, self-sacrificing, loyal and above all courageous. I have always looked up to my father and I can only hope that I will, one day be half the man he is.

But today, I learned about a different kind of hero.

Grayson told me about what happened in New York ten years ago. I had only been born, made I suppose, months before the event. I had no idea what had happened. Clearly, more important things were on my mind.

Those men and women were hehttp://www.tumblr.com/new/textroes. They still are heroes.

Of course, they don’t wear capes or masks. They don’t have secret identities to up keep or ‘day jobs’ to throw off the investigative public. They don’t have any more super powers than myself or my father.

And yet, they are heroes in their own right.

The men and woman of the New York Fire and Police Departments deserve to be all of America’s heroes. They are the Justice League. They deserve a Hall of Heroes.

My father is still my idol but, just for today, I will give thanks to a different kind of hero.

And if Fuckin’ Drake is reading this, he better not make fun of me. This is serious! He better be damn grateful for his life! The stupid peasant.

Thank you New York Police and Firefighters for all you did ten years ago and all you have done since. Without you, America would have fallen and not all the strength Superman or Batman possess would have brought it back.

Thank you.

                                                                                                         Sincerely,

                                                                                                             D.W.

P.S. Alfred made red velvet cake today because it was my father’s favorite. I think it’s becoming my favorite too.

Journal, did you know that Gotham could expirence heat waves?

ME FUCKING EITHER.

Seriously, the one city on the face of the Earth that looks like it sits in a sess pool of perpetual darkness and shadow can, without warning, get as hot as the ninth layer of Hell.

Shit, dude.

I woke up this morning in a good fucking mood, took one step out of my bedroom and I wanted to punch my own pores off of my face. It’s ridiculous. It shouldn’t be possible to get this fuckin’ hot. And Grayson is like ‘oh, hey little man, let’s go train because I’m fucking retarded and don’t have an internal tempurature system.’ Then he trotts his ass down stairs into the training room. But he doesn’t go to the Cave, where it would be cool, he goes into the fucking Training Room that no one ever touches and has an entire wall made out of glass.

Dumb ass.

So, I train. And it’s fucking hot. Grayson is making me do these moves that wouldn’t be out of place in an actrobatic porno. And I’m pissed off.

Then Fuckin’ Dumb Ass Drake shows up. He takes one look at me and snorts. ‘Aren’t you Middle Eastern?’ He asks, being fucking weird and watching Grayson flip around the high bars.

Yes. Yes, she was fuck tard.

The ability to suffer through heat isn’t genetic MORON. I was made in a fucking tube thirty miles under ground and the first time I touched ground was the MIDDLE OF WINTER GOTHAM. FUCK.

That’s when I stopped training. I fucking left to get some God Damned Water. Because I was fucking thirsty. I don’t know what Fuckin’ Dumb Ass Drake and Grayson did after I left and I could give a fuck. So long as it doesn’t involve me.

CHRIST.

I am hot.

I’m so hot my hands are sticking to the keyboard and I had to strip to my boxers so I wouldn’t fucking die.

So… Yes. Gotham is fucking hot. Don’t come here.

                                                                                                      Sincerely,

                                                                                                              D.W.

P.S. Alfred made peach ice cream. It was delicious and Fuckin’ Dumb Ass Drake and Grayson missed it because they’re still off doing whatever the fuck they’re doing.

Journal,

I was gone awhile, wasn’t I? Well… DON’T I HAVE SOME SHIT TO TELL YOU.

Okay, back story first! Since that dumbass tutor of mine is always talking about how to be a perfect writer—like I give a shit. I don’t need to know how to write. Crime fighters don’t have to write, they just have to know how to kick ass. That’s how it works.

Got off track, sorry.

So! This stupid mob boss thinks that Gotham would be a good place to set up business. Which is stupid in and of itself because, I mean, everyone knows Batman will kick your ass to Hong Kong if you even LOOK at Gotham with ill-favor. But, whatever. He must be blind, dumb, deaf and stupid. And this moron thinks to himself ‘what better way to attract attention to himself than to decide to kidnap half of the female population of Gotham?’

Fuck tard.

Back story over.

For the last two weeks, I’ve been stuck with Fuckin’ Drake and Grayson trying to track this mother fucker down. We finally manage to get him, but he’s locked up tight in this nightclub called Angel’s Wing or some other queer-ass shit. And the only way to get in is to be a pretty, little girl.

Guess what Fuckin’ Drake did last night?

You got it, Journal.

And man, I hate to admit it, but Fuckin’ Drake looks good in purple silk. And strappy heels. And eye liner. And… Fuck man, give me a second. I am laughing so hard I’m crying.

Okay, I’m back. Mind you those were tears of mirth. Not some fucking gay shit, you got that? Good.

Anyway, Fuckin’ Drake dolls himself up, calls himself Amethyst or some equally stripper like name and waltzes his way right into the club. While Grayson and I have to sit in the shitty apartment building across the street waiting for the signal.

I am telling you, that apartment building was so bad, I would have traded with Fuckin’ Drake in a heart beat.

For two fucking hours we waited. I don’t know what the fuck Fuckin’ Drake was doing but it too for-fucking-ever. Christ! I’ve seen street corner hookers work faster than him. We finally get the signal. And Batman and Robin get to swoop in to save the day.

But Fuckin’ Drake has already done everything, the God Damned Glory Hog. He’s standing over the mob bosses unconcious body smirking those painted lips at us. Silently mocking me. That fucker. I know he was mocking me. Only Grayson didn’t seem to mind that his thunder had been stolen.

In fact, he seemed really excited to see Fuckin’ Drake. Wouldn’t keep his eyes off of him. It was weird.

Whatever. Those two can just go and be fucked up without me.

OH WAIT. THEY DID.

Grayson drove me and Amethyst back to the Bat Cave. Then Grayson tossed me out of the car and peeled off with Fucking Amethyst. What the ever living fuck? Who does that? Whatever! Whatever!

Now, you know where I’ve been.

Today, I slept till noon, skipped that dumb ass tutor session and trained. Grayson still isn’t back and I haven’t gotten a single annoying message from Fuckin’ Drake.

They better not be dead, because I’m not going to go find them.

Sincerely,
D.W.

P.S. Alfred made a three layer chocolate cake today in celebration of our success. I had four slices. Guess who doesn’t get to enjoy a single piece? Suck it Drake!

This is the last time I eat anything not made by Alfred.

That blonde girl, one of the Batgirls, Stephanie or whatever, thought that it would be a wonderful idea to bake a cake. I think she felt bad because she forgot Dumb Ass Drake’s birthday. What a moron. I remembered and I don’t even like the dumb ass.

Anyway, she made this cake. And, not wanting to be rude, I fucking ate a piece.

Ever since my stomach has been making the weirdest God damn noises. Seriously, it’s like squeaking and whinning all over the place.

…

You really didn’t need to know that.

ANYWAY. Just five minutes ago, the fucking cake made me throw up. I have never thrown up in my life. NEVER. It was disgusting. I never want to do that again. EVER. Fuck, man. I didn’t even think that shit was real. Just some weird Hollywood stunt people did in movies to make it more EXTREME.

Fuck.

But now thanks to Shit Head Stephanie, I can’t go on patrol. Alfred thinks I have food poisoning. It’s food. HOW THE FUCK IS FOOD SUPPOSED TO POISON YOU. As far as I know, food isn’t the most proactive thing on the planet. Food poison, fuck.

So now, I have to stay home, in bed. And I can’t even eat anything! Because Alfred is afraid I’ll just throw it up. GOD DAMN IT.

Hope you have fun in Gotham tonight, Grayson. Cause I am so going to puke all over your pillows while you’re gone.

Fuckers.

                                                                                                  Sincerely,

                                                                                                        D.W.

P.S. Alfred made this Lemon Sponge Cake and I can’t have a single fucking piece. It smells so gooooood.

JOURNAL! I AM INSULTED!

I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE INSULTED THAN I AM RIGHT NOW.

And I’m serious.

Grayson and Fuckin’ Drake were talking. Apparently another insane murderer (Gotham never seems to run out of those) left a rather strange question. It didn’t even make sense. It was like, “If science created the universe, then why are there still scientists?”, written in blue marker over the victims body. Which doesn’t make any fucking sense.

And I said, “that doesn’t make any sense.”

To which Fuckin’ Drake says: “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that you might not understand. That his question would confuse you.”

And I’m like… “WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?”

Fuckin’ Drake has the gall, the fucking gall, to sit there, all confused. “Did I insult you?”

DID YOU INSULT ME?

Oh, no, not at all. Just questioning my intelligence and ability comprehend things. Nope, not insulting.

And he just sits there apologizing. Like ‘oh I’m so sorry I’ve insulted. I just thought you would understand’.

WHO DOES THAT? SERIOUSLY?! WHO. DOES. THAT?

Apart from Todd.

At least he doesn’t apologize like a dumbass.

Dumbass.

HIS NAME IS NOW DUMB ASS DRAKE.

FUCKIN’ DUMB ASS DRAKE.

                                                                                                  Sincerely,

                                                                                                        D.W.

P.S. The butler made me chocolate eclaires. Apparently, he felt bad. Thank you, butler. For being the only nonasshole in Gotham.