You guys have gotten it all wrong, you've only scratched the surface of the whole thing. The well goes deeper than you know, and what's at the bottom will drive you mad. "How was Batman born?", the question I now wish with all that I have that I didn't look into for I know my time is now short, led me to consult various tomes of knowledge. Hubris, I suppose, the downfall of any octopus. I poured over ancient texts from all over this world in search of answers; Detective Comics, that Adam West crossover with the teens of Riverdale, that time Batman hung a mutant freak off of his plane and just straight up shot some racist Japanese caricatures, the Necronomicon and the flesh bound scrolls of Tower of Babel. At first, they provided nothing but affirmation that Batman was born like a normal man to normal, living parents. But then I started seeing them. Connections. Flashes. Images of something grotesque. Like tears in the concrete veins of Gotham City's streets.
The Battschafennuffen Incident, mentioned in the 1206 diary of a mad priest; "and with each flash of lighting, the demon was illuminated before me. A cloak of shadows hung off his impossible physique, and his voice roared out from his mask of blackest night, twice pointed. He spoke unto my soul of nightmares and evil..." Mentions of the same caped figure can be collaborated over the next 1000 years of human civilization, and even further back. The figure mentioned in the forbidden books of creation, the bat in the tree that the apple grew on that fed the first humans. Adam West's seemingly strange aversion to his own costume, and his claims of spiritual possession when he put on the blue and grey. Bridge collapses foretold by his appearance. Comic writers who behind closed doors practise perverse rites (I already knew that one, that's just obvious). Murders under it's long shadow. The coverup of Dick Sprang's mental collapse, when in a night of terrible fever he cried out to the heavens of his arcane channeling of the primal force he worshiped in his art, bright and colourful only to guide the soul into the darkness. Destruction of entire ancient villages, with the only surviving object placed in the center of the ash, a sign or a warning; a single impractical bat shaped throwing star. Worship by twisted cults in Toronto, Canada, who claim that there exists a demon older than the light itself, who walks not in the physical realm, or even on the shores of mankind's dreamsands, but in our consciousness as a concept. A symbol, a character finely crafted as to guide our civilization. I can still hear that grotesque Toronto accent rising over the sacrificial fires, crying out the cults twisted call to worship; "with prep time, he can do anything!"
Batman, or as I've come to learn of it's true name, Xyssxyb'rucesyxplickWhyA'reYouReading'Thiswayne, birthed itself in our minds. It waits, and learns, and preps, for its reaping of us when the time is right. Can't you all see? Can't you see why we can't stop it, why the bats are always in the belfry? He planted them there, and himself. I know now that I'm soon to meet it, for it must know of my delving into the tomes of the forbidden. Know that his dark, gloved hand reaches across consciousness, and has been behind every great disaster of our entire universe. Remember me, and also yeah I got pretty bored and decided to write this whole thing. I don't know.
