Fictional Character Profile
The filth encrusted streets of Gotham City fill with the gentle spattering of warm spring rain as the stars fight to break through the smog and pollution. A little boy, dressed like his father in an all black suit and cufflinks, hangs his head as police officer Lieutenant James Gordon escorts him into the back of a squad car where the paparazzi circle around like vultures. They are trying to snap the first picture of the boy’s tear stained face - trying to capture an orphan’s pain for all the world to glimpse.
Beyond the car, paramedics lift the boy’s lifeless parents out of the gutter. One of them happens to recognize the male as Thomas Wayne; what a pity. He was one of the good guys. Shot at point blank range with a .45 caliber pistol once in the chest, right above the heart, he bled to death slowly. His wife was shot once in the throat and died within seconds. They find some roses clutched tightly in her hand. Roses for the dead, one of them remarks.
As the bodies are loaded and zipped into black leather bags, the boy’s sobs rise above the chaos and penetrate the evening like the cries of an abandoned alley cat on a fence. It’s pathetic and even the paparazzi feel ashamed, though someone has whipped out a tape recorder to memorialize the mournful sound. Cops usher them away as the squad car pulls out and the last thing anyone sees is the haunted look in the boy’s eyes. It makes the cover of TIME magazine the following morning with the headline, Bruce Wayne: A Child’s Grief.
Almost thirty years later, that same little face graces the newsstands only this time, as a commemorative issue to mark his own untimely death on March 1st, 2009 - coincidentally, the last dated appearance of the hero known as Batman.
* * *
Even if you weren’t paying attention, there was no way you could miss the bat shaped spotlight shining through the thick fog from the roof of the Gotham City Police Department. In the dead of night, the yellow beacon was like a wheel of Swiss cheese in the sky and we were the hungry mice gazing up at it in rapt anticipation. Would we see his infamous shadow as he swung on a grapple line from the roofs of skyscrapers in the business district?
The first time it happened, a collective chill ran down the spines of every Gothamite who happened to be in the vicinity because the myth became reality right before our eager eyes.
Early on, his name was but a whisper; his appearance likened to the terrifying image of a man-sized rodent who would sooner beat you senseless and leave you on the Commissioner’s doorstep than read you the Miranda rights. For three weeks, the crime rate in Gotham City dropped to an all time low because no one wanted to trifle with a nutcase in a Kevlar reinforced Bat-suit. That is, until the arrival of similar nutcases with a penchant for doubles and twins who covered their faces in clown make up, their bodies in scarecrow garb, and demanded the Bat’s attention like neglected children. They wanted to make contact, but they ached to know his name.
Few photographs exist of the man in action, but the fact that he hides his face beneath a thick, black cowl is common knowledge even among school children. Speculation as to his civilian identity has ranged from investment bankers to homeless men; yet, there have been no legitimate claims made due to lack of evidence. However, Bruce Wayne now seems to be the likeliest candidate if only for his concurrent death back in March.
* * *
At the age of eight years old, Bruce became the richest person living in the United States with the inheritance he received upon the tragic deaths of his parents. You would think that a child who grew up to be the most notorious billionaire playboy would have better things to do with his time than run around in a Bat-suit; however, a child traumatized by the sight of a criminal brutally gunning down his beloved mother and father suddenly seems a much likelier contender for the man behind the cowl.
Psychological studies show that events such as the aforementioned murder can damage a person beyond repair. Perhaps in order to heal, Bruce needed to satiate his cravings for justice and righteousness by prowling the streets and ridding them of the monsters hiding in the shadows. Perhaps in order to make peace, he needed to master that which scared him most.
Of course, many people would still find this idea utterly laughable. Tragedies occur every day - why aren’t there more people running around the city in capes?
Perhaps the reason is that crime fighting and vigilantism are costly endeavors. A story ran on the local news about an accountant who, in his spare time, collected the Bat’s left over grapple hooks from the tops of buildings. The dollar signs rack up when you think about what he must go through to keep up his life style: carrying around all that tech, wearing an expensive suit made from materials that would surely gain attention if the manufacturer wasn’t bought off, driving a sleek, souped up car made from parts likely taken from a tank.
At the age of twenty-five, Bruce took control of the family business, Wayne Enterprises. He had his fingers in a variety of fields including, but not limited to: military defense, weapons manufacturing, technology, and medical research. He cashed in a total net worth of over $6.5 billion at the age of thirty-two, according to the Forbes Rich List circa 2003, not including the expensive prototypes he probably stole from his own labs - weapons and gadgetry that simply disappeared from the records. By the end of 2008, his net worth totaled almost $7.8 billion, plenty of which he left in a trust fund for his recently adopted son, Timothy Drake-Wayne, who gains access to the account when he turns eighteen later this year.
The evidence is stacked high in favor of the billionaire, whose teenage son could easily pass for the Bat’s colorfully costumed sidekick, Robin. If anyone had the resources and funding to maintain a crime fighting career, it was Bruce, who lived in stately Wayne Manor on the outskirts of the city he fought so diligently to protect.
* * *
It seems fitting that there should be rain falling when visiting Bruce’s gravesite, as though the hundred years worth of grime and sin buried deep among the dead would be washed away in memoriam. To the side of the cross-adorned headstone of their only son, Thomas and Martha Wayne sleep peacefully beneath the slightly parched grass. They are a family reunited only in death and only under the most tragic of circumstances.
The now classic shot of Superman cradling the charred remains of Batman’s body on the front page of the Daily Prophet far outshines the false stores of Bruce’s ill-fated car accident. It seems only fair that the public should know who to appreciate for so many years of thankless protection. It seems only right that such a hero should finally be recognized for his contributions to society both in and out of costume, because it’s now more than ever that we need people to be strong in his stead.
In a world without pity, we will certainly mourn the loss of one of the good guys.
Beyond the car, paramedics lift the boy’s lifeless parents out of the gutter. One of them happens to recognize the male as Thomas Wayne; what a pity. He was one of the good guys. Shot at point blank range with a .45 caliber pistol once in the chest, right above the heart, he bled to death slowly. His wife was shot once in the throat and died within seconds. They find some roses clutched tightly in her hand. Roses for the dead, one of them remarks.
As the bodies are loaded and zipped into black leather bags, the boy’s sobs rise above the chaos and penetrate the evening like the cries of an abandoned alley cat on a fence. It’s pathetic and even the paparazzi feel ashamed, though someone has whipped out a tape recorder to memorialize the mournful sound. Cops usher them away as the squad car pulls out and the last thing anyone sees is the haunted look in the boy’s eyes. It makes the cover of TIME magazine the following morning with the headline, Bruce Wayne: A Child’s Grief.
Almost thirty years later, that same little face graces the newsstands only this time, as a commemorative issue to mark his own untimely death on March 1st, 2009 - coincidentally, the last dated appearance of the hero known as Batman.
* * *
Even if you weren’t paying attention, there was no way you could miss the bat shaped spotlight shining through the thick fog from the roof of the Gotham City Police Department. In the dead of night, the yellow beacon was like a wheel of Swiss cheese in the sky and we were the hungry mice gazing up at it in rapt anticipation. Would we see his infamous shadow as he swung on a grapple line from the roofs of skyscrapers in the business district?
The first time it happened, a collective chill ran down the spines of every Gothamite who happened to be in the vicinity because the myth became reality right before our eager eyes.
Early on, his name was but a whisper; his appearance likened to the terrifying image of a man-sized rodent who would sooner beat you senseless and leave you on the Commissioner’s doorstep than read you the Miranda rights. For three weeks, the crime rate in Gotham City dropped to an all time low because no one wanted to trifle with a nutcase in a Kevlar reinforced Bat-suit. That is, until the arrival of similar nutcases with a penchant for doubles and twins who covered their faces in clown make up, their bodies in scarecrow garb, and demanded the Bat’s attention like neglected children. They wanted to make contact, but they ached to know his name.
Few photographs exist of the man in action, but the fact that he hides his face beneath a thick, black cowl is common knowledge even among school children. Speculation as to his civilian identity has ranged from investment bankers to homeless men; yet, there have been no legitimate claims made due to lack of evidence. However, Bruce Wayne now seems to be the likeliest candidate if only for his concurrent death back in March.
* * *
At the age of eight years old, Bruce became the richest person living in the United States with the inheritance he received upon the tragic deaths of his parents. You would think that a child who grew up to be the most notorious billionaire playboy would have better things to do with his time than run around in a Bat-suit; however, a child traumatized by the sight of a criminal brutally gunning down his beloved mother and father suddenly seems a much likelier contender for the man behind the cowl.
Psychological studies show that events such as the aforementioned murder can damage a person beyond repair. Perhaps in order to heal, Bruce needed to satiate his cravings for justice and righteousness by prowling the streets and ridding them of the monsters hiding in the shadows. Perhaps in order to make peace, he needed to master that which scared him most.
Of course, many people would still find this idea utterly laughable. Tragedies occur every day - why aren’t there more people running around the city in capes?
Perhaps the reason is that crime fighting and vigilantism are costly endeavors. A story ran on the local news about an accountant who, in his spare time, collected the Bat’s left over grapple hooks from the tops of buildings. The dollar signs rack up when you think about what he must go through to keep up his life style: carrying around all that tech, wearing an expensive suit made from materials that would surely gain attention if the manufacturer wasn’t bought off, driving a sleek, souped up car made from parts likely taken from a tank.
At the age of twenty-five, Bruce took control of the family business, Wayne Enterprises. He had his fingers in a variety of fields including, but not limited to: military defense, weapons manufacturing, technology, and medical research. He cashed in a total net worth of over $6.5 billion at the age of thirty-two, according to the Forbes Rich List circa 2003, not including the expensive prototypes he probably stole from his own labs - weapons and gadgetry that simply disappeared from the records. By the end of 2008, his net worth totaled almost $7.8 billion, plenty of which he left in a trust fund for his recently adopted son, Timothy Drake-Wayne, who gains access to the account when he turns eighteen later this year.
The evidence is stacked high in favor of the billionaire, whose teenage son could easily pass for the Bat’s colorfully costumed sidekick, Robin. If anyone had the resources and funding to maintain a crime fighting career, it was Bruce, who lived in stately Wayne Manor on the outskirts of the city he fought so diligently to protect.
* * *
It seems fitting that there should be rain falling when visiting Bruce’s gravesite, as though the hundred years worth of grime and sin buried deep among the dead would be washed away in memoriam. To the side of the cross-adorned headstone of their only son, Thomas and Martha Wayne sleep peacefully beneath the slightly parched grass. They are a family reunited only in death and only under the most tragic of circumstances.
The now classic shot of Superman cradling the charred remains of Batman’s body on the front page of the Daily Prophet far outshines the false stores of Bruce’s ill-fated car accident. It seems only fair that the public should know who to appreciate for so many years of thankless protection. It seems only right that such a hero should finally be recognized for his contributions to society both in and out of costume, because it’s now more than ever that we need people to be strong in his stead.
In a world without pity, we will certainly mourn the loss of one of the good guys.