From Today, You Won't Have Lex Luthor to Kick Around Anymore

The new chapter of NMK Inc is finally here.  Part 2: Positive Carry will bring us to the Gotham Stock Exchange, and as readers of Part I know, Lex Luthor is coming to town.

As a quick reference for newcomers, I prepared a History of Lex Luthor in Cat-Tales to bring new readers up to speed and refresh memories elsewhere.

After that, it's on to NMK Inc to find out what the crazy cue ball is up to now.

NMK Inc.

The new Cat-Tale begins today.  

NMK Inc. is the name of a firm that first made its appearance in Not My Kink, when Selina took over Batman's patrols for a few weeks while Bruce recovered from an injury.  She wasn't happy about it, having proclaimed crimefighting "not my kink" on many occasions before and after.  That's why Bruce chose the name NMK Shipping when he needed a new shield company to lay a trap for Ra's al Ghul.  It's not like the name mattered, no one would ever see it.  He just needed a new corporate entity unconnected to any of Batman's existing shield companies, and because Ra's was involved, it couldn't be connected to anything Wayne either.  He put Selina's name at the end of the paper trail no one would ever see, and because the whole thing resulted from a lead she uncovered as Catwoman the crimefighter, he called the company NMK as a private joke.

Until The Gotham Rogues, when war broke out between Carmine Falcone's crime family and the theme villains.  Day by day Falcone lost property to the Rogues, and as they fell one by one, Batman scrambled to keep Falcone from getting them back.  He used the old shield company, reinvented as NMK Holdings, and at the start of Wayne Rises, Selina found herself in control of "an awful lot of Gotham real estate."  At first she worked with the Wayne Foundation as Bruce intended, making the properties available for various philanthropic entities and using others for a business incubator to stimulate the Gotham economy.  While this was going on, a faction inside Ra's al Ghul's operation launched a new and very expensive assault on Gotham City and on Bruce Wayne personally.    They had to leverage, sell and otherwise cripple other parts of the organization to fund the plan... and that gave Selina an idea.  She put all the charitable giving on hold and began using NMK to do to Ra's what they'd done to Falcone - buy up, lock down and otherwise screw with all the parts of his operation that were now vulnerable.

Working with her banker in Zurich, she has established Nicht Meine Kragenweite Holdinggesellschaft, an international counterpart to NMK.  And thus begins our new tale...

Jim Gordon is back. When he resigned, Catwoman was an anonymous cat burglar.
Now she's Selina Kyle, living with Bruce Wayne, and running this company
that's messing with Ra's al Ghul. Might be a learning curve.

Cat-Tales Inside an Enigma - Ebooks now ready for download

"I said I was a patient cat; I am.  I said I would wait, I did. 
And now Fate, friend of cats, has laid the key to his happiness at my feet.

He betrayed my friendship, betrayed my trust. 
And now… he is going… to pay."

Cat-Tales: Inside an Enigma now complete, downloadable as an ebook for Kindle, Mobi and universal epub for other mobile readers, and print-quality pdf is available for download on the Cat-Tales website.

 "It's a labyrinth of cunning and puzzles and riddle-mania… but never hard to follow. That's what makes it riveting…"

"Selina is a lot smarter and a lot scarier than a lot of people realise."

"Simply brilliant

"Inspired

"THAT…was AWESOME, and so very, *very* Kitty!"

Cat-Tales Audio Books - A Girl's Gotta Protect Her Reputation and Fun & Games

Cat-Tales is pleased to announce the first selection of short stories to be released as audio books.

From the earliest tales, the Book One collection...

CT #1: A Girl's Gotta Protect Her Reputation - Let’s say nearly everything you’ve ever read in a comic book is wrong...  This is where it began.  The Gotham Post had been getting it wrong about Catwoman for years.  Until the day they said she was small time, arrested by ordinary cops, arrested... Selina Kyle had enough, punched back - and Gotham was never the same.

CT #7: Fun & Games - We all knew, those two would play some interesting games if they ever got together after all those years of "whatever it was" between Batman & Catwoman.  We weren't wrong.

Read by Caroline Sharp, a graduate of NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, studied with the renowned Atlantic Theater Company in both New York and Los Angeles and at the Samuel Beckett Centre, Trinity College Dublin. NY, LA, and international theatre and film credits include Group: A Musical, The Importance of Being Earnest, The Country Wife, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, Teachers, Chicxulub, Top Girls, Dolly West’s Kitchen, The Sound of Music, Scrooge, Grand Hotel, and the comedy webseries The Majestic Theatre Co.

A Touch of Cat-Tales for your Desktop and Devices

I asked readers what moments from Cat-Tales they'd like to see, and boy, they had a lot of requests.  The latest to be translated into wallpaper is from Not My Kink.  Bruce was injured in the previous tale, and Selina took over his *cough*fighting duties while he recovered.   She made it all the way to Week 6 before Riddler got suspicious, and, well, "Zany hijinx ensued" as they say...

 

Like all the new wallpapers in this series, this image is available in HD, widescreen, and for all screen ratios and devices, including android, iPhone and iPad.

In The Gotham Post, the notorious Mrs. Ashton-Larraby has one of her bright ideas for a society fundraiser.  They'll all dress up as those colorful night people!  Sure, Wayne events have been crime magnets in the past, but now that Selina is Bruce’s hostess, there won’t be any trouble at all!

When the inevitable disaster unfolds, Catwoman, Riddler and a healed Harvey Dent dressed as Nightwing retreat to the hotel roof...

 

And in one of the more breathtaking images of Gotham, the Batman family gather after a long night of crimefighting to watch the sunrise over the cathedral.

All images can be downloaded from the Gallery at catwoman-cattales.com.

It's a Knight at the Opera for The Gotham Rogues (This Can't End Well)

Previously on Cat-Tales:
“Not green for the opera,” he said in a poisonous voice that was barely human.  “That purple and black thing you’ve got, the strapless that’s almost the same shade as your costume.  Hair up, nothing to pull focus from your neck.  We might have to improvise the jewelry…”
 

And now, here it is:  The Gotham Rogues: A Knight at the Opera

My interview on Blogtalk Radio: Batman, Catwoman and all things Gotham

Listen to internet radio with Allaine on Blog Talk Radio

“Okay. Look, boys, if what you’re after in this world is validation of your bad girl identity after a marathon fuck-over by a sleazy tabloid, then cooking up something with Lex Luthor that leaves Batman and Superman speechless is the motherlode. And I’m sure I’d be enjoying it a lot more if I knew what the hell it is. What’s so special about this three companies that Luthor being after their files turns you two into the World’s Palest?”

War of the Poses might just be the richest Cat-Tale in the series.  First, there's Luthor.  In Cat-Tales as in the DCU, Lex Luthor's ultimate ambition was fulfilled: he became President of the United States.  And in Cat-Tales as in the DCU, it ended... badly.  He lost the office, his fortune, and for a time back during the Infinite Crisis of String Theory, his sanity.  But in WoP, he was back and he had a plan.  It was a really good plan too.  That's the kicker.  A Gotham-Metropolis alliance like the one that worked so well for Batman and Superman, joining forces with the Big Bad of Gotham City, the Boss of the Gotham Underworld... if only he wasn't trying to join forces with Batman's girlfriend. 
Catwoman's first meeting with Luthor is... well, it's echt Selina and echt Luthor:

You’re an interesting creature,” he said at last. “For one of those who wears—well, why be circumspect—who wears a mask and the costume of a professional wrestler, one hears that you are remarkably sane.”

Catwoman’s lips curled slightly. Not a threatening smile, but hardly a warm one.

“And for one who wears a tie and the costume of an undertaker, one hears you’re remarkably rude, Lex.”

“Touché. My point was merely that I believe one can make a deal with you, Catwoman, and expect you to hold up your end. Not decide at the critical hour to go on a murderous rampage in a jam factory instead.”

“Not unless the jam starts it,” she said brightly. “Seriously, Lex, may I remind you that we have done business before and I was not the one who failed to hold up my end of the bargain?”

It was Luthor’s turn to smile. He did enjoy when a negotiation went according to plan. Catwoman might wear a preposterous outfit, but her thinking was rational and therefore predictable. If one could overlook the cat ears, it was quite like negotiating any other business deal.

“You refer to my declining to pay you for the Lex-Wing job,” he said magnanimously. “I recall the incident, of course. I also recall that you got paid all the same. You had the resourcefulness to get your money. In my view, that means you are entitled to it.”

“Survival of the fittest.”

“Enrichment of the fittest, Catwoman. Mere survival is for wage slaves and spotted owls.”

Catwoman burst out laughing.

“It must’ve been hell for you being president, Lex. ‘Wage slaves and spotted owls?’ This is what built up all those years having to pretend you care?”

While fun, particulary Lex hears Selina's description of his "resignation" as depicted by the Gotham Post: 

"Flying out of the Oval Office in a space suit that looked like a Tylenol capsule decked out for Mardi Gras, buzzing Dupont Circle hopped up on venom and challenging Batman to a fist fight"

Things get a lot more interesting once Superman arrives on the scene, and Lex's plans begin to unfold.  Cat-Tales is seldom as action-driven as the comics, but the Batman/Superman adventure at the World Bank would definitely give the panels a run for their money.  And the Kitty Ex Machina conclusion might just be my favorite Batman/Catwoman exchange in Book 5...

Batman’s tone and manner changed as he tapped the side of his cowl. “OraCom activate. Private channel metro-one-alpha. Do you read?”

“You can’t be serious.  It’s like Luthor stacked the entire table of elements over our heads. Even I can’t tell how much steel, lead, and who knows what is up there but—”

“Private channel metro-one-beta. Do you read? That’s why I installed a special signal booster. Private channel metro-two-alpha…”
“You planned on getting stuck down here?” Superman gaped.
“It was always a possibility.  Private channel metro-three-alpha…”
“~~~~~andsom~ ~~~avri~~~~itty~~~~~~” sounded in his earpiece. 
“There she is,” Batman noted.  “Lock in metro-three-alpha, shutdown all nonessential operations, enhance signal, all parameters.”
“B~~m~an~~~~~ad~me~~~st met with Lex and ~~~~m the works, ke~to decrypt~~~~~lans~~~n hog heaven, it was disgus~~~ng~~~~~~sch an obnoxious troll~~~ ~~~ ~~nwa~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~pected you’d be~~~ack b~~ow.”
“We were delayed.  We’re trapped in the vault.”
“~~~ault?  th~~~~~one under the --~~~~ank?  Yo~~~ill there?”
 “Yes.  We’re going to need you to take out the time locks.”
“Th~~im~~~ocks?  In Met~~~~olis?  ~~~~~ant me t~~~~~ to Me~~~~li~~~~~~~~~~~~ime locks fo~~”
“Either that, or we’re stuck until the bank opens for business on Monday.”
“Wel~~~ow suppo~~~~~et there?”
“Transport to the Watchtower. J’onn is expecting you.  He’ll send you on to the transport station at the Daily Planet.”
“~~~”
“Selina?”
“~~~”
“Selina?”
“~~~~oing~~~~claim villainess privilege and~~~ay no.”

But for all that, for ALL THAT, it's not even the main story that is best remembered from War of the Poses.  It's a minor subplot, with Batgirl, sweet adorable Cassie, learning some new stealth techniques from Selina and getting just a little carried away trying them out at the museum until, well, I'll let her explain...

This bad.
This bad.
This bad.

Father would give twenty lashes and lock in dark closet for day. Maybe two day. 
Was first principle of sustained surveillance: mind clock. Surveillance is dead time. Must mind clock else lose track of time.
Practicing stealth in museum not like sustained surveillance. Not dead time. But still lose track of time.

This bad.
Was exciting. Lose track of time.
Lights come on.
Guard in uniform gone. New guard in blue blazer jacket take place.

New noise.
Shoes that not quiet on stone floor.
People in shoes that no need be quiet.
People that work in museum.

Museum open. Soon be people everywhere. This bad.

Isn't she cute?  Deadly as all hell, but really cute.
Anyway, those are some of my favorite bits from War of the Poses.  You can read the complete story and download print and ebook versions from the Cat-Tales website.
Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com

The Color of Catwoman

The Color of is a fascinating new website "to find the colour of anything." Give it a word or a phrase and it searches through Flickr, selects its best matches, and ingeniously manages to combine them without making mud.

 

The result are some lovely canvases that would look right at home on the wall of an art museum, and that's exactly what we've done at The Gotham Museum of Modern Art at The Cat-Tales Visitor Center in Second Life. The Color of Gotham exhibit gives The Color of treatment to many familiar names associated with Batman, as well as items like the Batsignal, Batarangs and the city itself. Those who cannot visit the museum in digitized person can enjoy this slideshow.

 

While the Color of Gotham exhibit at the MoMA will run through the summer, the Rogues Gallery Masks will be on display at the Visitor Center itself only for the duration of the current Cat-Tale: Comedy of Errors.

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.

A Look Back: Don't Name the Bats!

When I had the idea to look back at Cat-Tales year by year, there was never
any doubt which tale I would highlight for 2006

Bruce knew Selina resented being summoned to the Batcave “like a spaniel.” And, since the matter wasn’t pressing, he squelched the impulse to use the intercom or send a message through Alfred. He waited until lunchtime and went up to the manor himself. He thought Alfred was just a little too pleased that he had come up for lunch unprodded (a development that Bruce found annoying), but Selina didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about his behavior. She greeted him with the easy smile that was the norm since their talk after the fundraiser, and they chatted only of non-Bat subjects as they ate. Bruce said he was avoiding the Wayne offices. He denied it was because “Lucius had to be punished” for the disastrous Ashton-Larraby fundraiser. On the contrary, Bruce insisted, he had trained enough Robins to know that what Lucius really needed now was a free hand. He didn’t need to feel supervised, second-guessed and micromanaged because he had made a mistake. He needed to pick himself up, dust himself off, and regain his confidence as quickly as possible.

With that noble declaration, Bruce wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth, tossed his napkin onto the table, and asked Selina to accompany him back to the cave. She agreed, the easy smile morphing into one of feline curiosity. When they reached the Batcave, she curled comfortably into the chair at workstation two, picked two wing-shaped slivers of metal off the desk, and began to play. Bruce suppressed a lip twitch as she turned the pieces this way and that, trying to work out what they were and how they fit together. Then his whole demeanor changed as he underwent what the staunchest heroes in the Justice League have described as “the most frightening transformation in existence.” His jaw clenched, his eyes darkened, his entire body seemed to become denser, and those with sufficient imagination could almost envision the mask appearing over his stern features.

He sat and powered up his screen, while Selina continued to play with the batwings as if nothing at all had occurred—which to her mind, it hadn’t.

“With all the rogues incarcerated at Blackgate or Arkham,” Bruce began in the gruff Bat-gravel, “I have time to look into another type of case. This is really why I began this work. I never intended to—I never envisioned the kind of costumed criminal element that evolved in Gotham.”

“Hey, hey, hey. Watch it, Stud,” Selina chided playfully. “Remember one of them is sitting in striking distance, and I’ve got one of your, eh…” She held up the two wing pieces pinched together between her fingers to resemble a lopsided batarang. “…What is this thing anyway?”

“They’re components for a new palm unit,” he growled. “They don’t fit into each other,”

“Oh.”

She put them down, disappointed, and gave him her full attention.

“So this is what you really wanted to do before the likes of me showed up and spoiled your evenings with lots of purple, banter, and fun?”

He scowled and said nothing, refusing to be baited.

“So what is it?” she asked gamely.

“Diamonds,” he pronounced with a grunt.

“Ooh,” she sat up eagerly. “That doesn’t sound so dreary after all.Tell-tell.”

He paused, needing a moment to process her enthusiasm. She was excited, which is, of course, what he wanted. But in all the years of study, in all the years of crimefighting, in all the briefings and all the interrogations, the phrase “tell-tell” had never been uttered.

“As you know, Gotham is one of four primary centers of the global diamond market, the others being London—”

“Antwerp, and South Africa,” Selina interrupted with a naughty grin. “Yeah, Bruce, I have a nodding acquaintance with the international gem market.”

He nodded, curtly.

“More diamonds are bought and sold in that one block of 47^th Street than anywhere else in the world. Ninety percent of the diamonds imported into the U.S. go through there; a single day’s trade averages $400 million. And most of it—in this day and age—is still done on a handshake. If there was nothing else in this city, that’s a fulltime job for a crimefighter, right there.”

“Pfft,” came the unexpected response. “I hate to ruin your plan, Handsome, but I think I see where this is going. And I will tell you gleefully that they don’t need you, and more to the point, they don’t need me. They’ve got a private police force of their own hired by the neighborhood association, something like fifteen individual security firms on top of that, armed guards, x-rays, retinal scans, everything. They’re fine.”

“There are twenty-five diamond exchanges, Selina, how many can you get into?”

“All twenty-five,” she answered instantly. “But I’m me.”

“And within those twenty-five exchanges, there are twenty-six hundred independent businesses. How many of their safes have you opened?”

“I have no idea,” she laughed. “Who counts?”

“More than half?”

“Probably,” she said with a grin. “But again, I’m me. And I have no interest in spending my nights poring over blueprints looking for ways to plug up holes that only I could get through.”

Bruce felt his lip twitch in spite of himself as he recalled his earlier thought:the slightest hint that she might participate in such a loathsome activity as crimefighting was enough to set her off…

“I wasn’t going to suggest anything like that,” he said honestly. “I was just mapping out the landscape, laying out the basic facts of the Gotham City diamond district.”

“Really?” she asked skeptically.

“Really,” he assured her.

“Really???”

“Selina.”

She laughed—a very particular laugh, a rooftop laugh that he hadn’t heard for quite some time—a laugh that nearly always preceded her getting away with something.

“Okay then,” she said at last, “basic facts of the diamond district have been duly laid out in scrupulously correct if slightly anal bat-fashion. What’s next?”

The bat-density seemed to intensify and, when he spoke, his voice dipped again into the deep bat-gravel.

“Talk me through selling a stolen diamond,” he ordered.

“Well,” she smiled, happy (for once) to comply with a bat-order. “As you probably know, every gemstone is unique. Hit it with a laser, it will produce its own, one of a kind sparkle pattern, just like a fingerprint. Any stone important enough for me to take an interest in, that visual signature would have been recorded and logged in an international database.”

“So if you steal my Aunt Elena’s necklace here in Gotham, remove the stones and sell them loose in Hong Kong or reset them into a bracelet to sell in Tokyo, they will still come up as stolen. My goods are returned to me and you go to jail.”

“That’s the theory. So why am I sitting here instead of in jail?”

“Unscrupulous dealers who won’t check the gemprints to verify that any item they sell is legitimate,” he suggested.

Selina made a face.

“Well, I’m sure that goes on, but not on my level. Anything I’d steal is going to be valuable enough that whoever buys it down the line will probably insure it. When they do, that means a new gemprint and oh, look, those stones were taken in Gotham six months ago… Catwoman suspected.”

She grinned, and he considered the problem.

“Recutting into smaller stones would greatly diminish the value,” he noted sourly.

“It would,” Selina agreed. “But that’s not the real problem with it. It all gets more complicated in 1998. There’s fighting in West Africa for control of the diamond mines. Serious atrocities. On his worst day, Joker couldn’t come close to this kind of ugly. Both sides start selling diamonds on the black market to fund their wars, and most civilized countries, wanting nothing to do with these ‘blood diamonds,’ pass laws prohibiting their import or sale. So now all legit diamonds, cut or rough, have to have an ID that certifies they didn’t come out of this process.”

Bruce inhaled slowly, beginning to see the solution. Selina could almost envision Sherlock Holmes savoring a long draw on his pipe.

“How secure is the database?” he asked finally. And Catwoman’s naughty grin widened into the Cheshire variety.

“How secure is anything?” she asked in reply. And he grunted.

“If you have a stone to sell that you’re not supposed to have,” he began, solidifying the thought by speaking it aloud, “you can’t change its gemprint any more than you could a fingerprint, but you can change the information in the database that’s attached to the print. You substitute the visual signature of some lesser diamond, which you can then bury, destroy, or grind to dust for industrial use, for the one on the record of Aunt Elena’s necklace. So the gem tagged on that record as ‘stolen’ will never be found. And you make a new print for your stolen diamond and assign it to a record with an innocuous and legitimate-seeming history.”

“I salute you, World’s Greatest Detective,” Selina purred softly.

“Thank you for your help,” he said, swiveling the chair to face the monitor. He began typing rapidly into a waiting file, and Selina began to think he had forgotten her entirely.

“Done with me, or should I stay?” she asked finally.

“Oh, I’ll have more questions,” he graveled, his fingers never slowing and his eyes never wavering from the screen. “Give me a minute to modify a few queries and data filters.”

She waited. She picked up the batwing whatever-it-was again, buffed its silver surface, and used it as a mirror to primp her hair. Then she looked curiously around the cave.

“Those bats are watching us,” she said at last.

“Oh, those two,” Bruce said lightly. “They perch lower than the others. I think they’re attracted to the hum of the computer.”

She giggled, delighted.

“You have your own Whiskers and Nutmeg.”

“Selina, do not name the bats,” he warned darkly.

“I wasn’t going to name the bats,” she declared with exaggerated dignity.

“Good,” he grunted. He could bring Catwoman into his life, he could accept her friendships with Riddler and Two-Face, he could overlook her favorite bar being the Iceberg Lounge, and he could even, in time, come to terms with a stolen cat figurine among the curios in his bedroom. But he simply could not tolerate her coming into his cave and assigning cutesy names to the native chiroptera.

“The black one is awfully cute,” she noted.

“Selina,” he growled.

“I’m not naming him,” she insisted. “I just said he was cute. Look at those ears and that broad muscular chest—”

“Gemprints,” Bruce cut her off forcefully. “Whenever I’ve purchased diamonds or had them insured, I receive hardcopies of the gemprints, laser inscriptions, serial numbers, everything. Once you or your fence alters the records in the database, I still have proof that the stones you’re selling in Tokyo are mine.”

“Yes, but your hardcopies are sitting in an acidfree envelope in the bottom of a safe in the bedroom. It’s not connected to anything, nothing searchable will ever see it.”

“No,” Bruce admitted reluctantly. “But it’s a start. It’s a link. The key to most detective work is finding some overlooked link between the person and the deed.”

“I always thought Walapang would be a good name for an animal,” she said brightly. “I hate giving them people names, don’t you?”

“You’re not naming the bat ‘Walapang.’”

“Do you even know what it means?”

“Yes, it’s from Lombardic law: ‘to disguise one’s self in order to commit theft.’”

“You are a freak of nature,” she smirked. “A sexy freak, but a freak.”

He sighed and resumed typing.

“It will take me another seven minutes to modify the auto-downloads, search routines, and data spiders in light of what you’ve told me. In that time, you have a workstation of your own, as noted by the purple wallpaper you’ve installed there. Why don’t you amuse yourself on that and leave the bats alone.”

She laughed.

“You cannot in your wildest fantasies think that is going to work.”

“We’re doing stolen art next,” he graveled with the subtlest flicker at the corner of his lip. “Your workstation is logged into the Museum Security Network.”

“Meow,” she said, swinging her chair around.

***

Read the completeCat-Tales #47: Blueprints now on the CT website or mobile-friendlyCat-Tales.mobi.

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.

A Look Back Year Four: An Iceberg Tale

Another tough call, because Year Four saw some amazing moments.  The Cat-Tales debut of the World's Finest in Red Cape, Big City and the emergence of Alfred's voice in Polishing Silver: The Journal of Alfred Pennyworth are the fan favorites.  One or the other would undoubtedly have been picked for the Look Back spotlight if only there had been a single scene to focus on.  But both tales are packed with so many developments and so many heart-race moments, a snapshot wasn't quite possible.  In contrast, there was one tale where the climactic event not only had repercussions in future stories, spawned an entire Alternate Universe, and inspired the first Cat-Tales fan art, it also contained the most memorable laugh line of Book 3. 

Ladies and gentlemen, presenting this week's look back... AIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE   Purple Mannequin

Sly looked carefully at the new arrival—masks were the norm for the Iceberg crowd, but face painting was not unheard of.  This girl—in a pair of furry tan-colored cat ears, with her face painted in tiger stripes, feline noseleather, and whiskers—had a more elaborate look than the typical groupie.  But there was something beyond that, something unusual.  What it was clicked into place when she placed her order:

“A Diet Sprite, please,” she squeaked, “with a tequila chaser.”

“Ms. Quinn?”

“Shhh, I’m here incognifty.”

Sly poured the drinks with a shrug.

“Whatever you say, Ma’am.  One Diet Sprite, one tequila.  What you chase with what is up to you.”

Harley took her drinks to a corner booth near her quarry, sat down without appearing to notice him in any way, and then began a jerky motion with her wrist underneath her chin.  She paused occasionally to sip her drink and spy on the next table.

“What is she doing?” Tom Blake asked finally.

“Trying to get your attention, you silly ass,” Nigma replied.

“My attention?”

“Tiger stripes, cat ears, she’s not here for me.  And I’d assume that thing with the chin is meant to be licking a paw.”

Catman looked at the girl in disbelief, then back at Riddler.

“Well that’s just great. That is just what we need around here.  Another goddamn cat-broad trying to steal the show.  THE LITTERBOX IS CLOSED, SWEETIEPIE!” he said loudly.

“Blake, you’re an ass,” Eddie whispered harshly, “she’s here for you, you stupid schmuck.  She’s trying to get picked up.”

Blake looked back at Harley, who was again performing the bizarre wrist-jerk.  He looked back at Eddie.

“That looks nothing like licking a paw.”

“So she’s a bad mime.  She’s cute.  She’s here.  She’s dressed like a cat.  What’s your problem, man?”

Blake picked up his drink, grumbling, and walked to the other table as if performing some odious duty to pacify a tiresome friend.

Nigma shook his head.  “Cats.  The eternal riddle.”

***

Selina’s brow furrowed, she swallowed, then looked up at Bruce, confusion etched on every feature.

“I have a feeling I don’t want to hear this,” she said carefully.  “Just about anything to do with Hugo tends to make me queasy.”

“I visited their camera truck last night, setting this up.  It will allow me to monitor all of their raw footage as they’re taping.  If there’s anything of concern…”

“Oh,” Selina broke in, suddenly getting it, “Not the Bruce-Wayne-is-Batman theory again.”

Bruce noted, with some amusement, that she spoke of it with the same weary-dismissive contempt that all rogues did.  That she knew it was true—that she was actually standing next to him in the Batcave as she said it—made no difference whatsoever.  It was Hugo, and therefore a laughable embarrassment to all roguekind.

“…if there’s anything of concern,” he continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “I can zap it.”

“Won’t that look suspicious?”

“No, it’ll look like the cameras experienced a momentary atmospheric anomaly that corrupted the sound record.  I perfected this technique last year when the JLA considered that reality show nonsense*.”

“Ah.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I love it when you go all bad-ass technophile.”

Bruce’s fingers paused for a split second, and then continued their continual movement over the dials and keyboard. Selina spoke again.

“So has there been anything ‘of concern’ to zap?”

“No,” he twitched.

Selina looked at the screen that read

   … … … … …:: feed off FAB! remote crew-1 camera-1 ::… … … … …

The camera shot showed the interior of a van, as five well-groomed men circulated a dossier.

“Okay, our subject this week is Dr. Hugo Strange—Supervillain.”

“Supervillain, well that explains the beard.”

“Right, always remember:  when you go evil, stop shaving.”

Selina blinked at the monitors.

“This isn’t for real.”

“It’s real.”

“Maybe I should start watching more television.”

*** 

Harley stood before the mirror in the Iceberg Women’s Room, fretfully combing her hair.   She had made an error.  She’d greeted Gina, the washroom attendant, by name—forgetting that she was supposed to be a newcomer to the Iceberg who wouldn’t know who Gina was.

Harley bit her lip.

Well, her time here was almost up anyway.  She’d gotten what she needed from Tom Blake.  Now she just needed to pop upstairs to Oswald’s flat above the club, her first foray as a cat-woman cat-burglar, and then she could leave and it wouldn’t matter if Gina let the cat out of the bag about the new cat-groupie.

“Bye-ah Gina, I mean, Meow,” Harley said cheerily.

Out in the dining room, she stopped to say goodnight to Catman:

“It was such a thrill meeting you, Mistah C, I can’t tell you.  Now I gotta give this sidekick idea some thought, ‘cause I don’t know if it’s quite my style.  But if I decide to help you out stealin’ these famous relics from the Catacombs, then I will get in touch.  Where did you say your lair was again?”

Blake regarded the girl as if she wasn’t very bright, and repeated patiently:  “Beneath the Safari Club, hidden entrance in the Tiger’s Paw Room behind the armoire.”

“Thanks Tommy, I mean, Meow.”

*** 

I cocked my head and looked at the video screen.  It was an exterior shot where the van pulled to a stop and the FAB! team ran out and knocked feverishly on a heavy wooden door.  The door swung open, and there was Hugo Strange, standing agape as FAB! swarmed over his apartment like a Ralph Lauren SWAT team.

“Ugh, Hugo, sweetheart. 1967 called, they want their glasses back. Wonderful invention, Dearie, they’re called ‘contacts.’ Say it slowly with me: ‘con-tacts.’”

“This room is just stupid.  Plastic ferns? What’s the idea here: ‘I want to set off my purple leopard print chair with a little touch of green without having a living plant around?’”

I think I blacked out for a second at that.  Purple leopard.  And Hugo.  Just the idea—shudder.

“Don’t look,” Bruce advised, “it could get much worse.”

I remembered that he had been inside Hugo’s place as Batman, although I’d never heard the circumstances or even if this was the same apartment.

“Trust me,” he repeated, “Don’t look.”

“What’s with this floor anyway?  Those tiles are kind of… what would you call that? Off-beige.”

“The throw-pillows look like Doug Henning’s T-shirts…”

“Even shopping malls in the square states don’t use those recessed overhead lights anymore, do they?” 

“Now Hugo, about your personal couture.  First thing we’re going to do is lose this Freud Gone Wrong beard and then we’ll fix up the wardrobe.  So, you’re a criminal mastermind and all that.  Sounds exciting.  To each his own, I always say.  So, how to do you generally dress for that?”

All sound stopped from the video feed and I opened my eyes to see why. Hugo wasn’t saying anything.  I looked at Bruce, who had the same faintly horrified look on his face.

I looked back to the screen and Hugo still hadn’t come up with an answer.  He might be standing there still if one of the others on the Fab! crew hadn’t burst in from a side door.  He slammed it shut behind him and leaned back against it like maybe the Mummy was chasing him.

“Do not go into the bathroom.”

*** 

Greg Brady fitted a 10x loop into his eye and examined the gems laid out on Oswald’s desk.

“Very nice,” he remarked, looking up at Tom Blake.

“They are more than nice,” Blake declared, “They are Cat-worthy.”

“Um, yeah, okay.”  Greg tossed a thick envelope onto the desk.  Blake opened it and began counting a thick wad of bills.

“There’s less catnip here than we agreed.”

“It’s exactly what was agreed on, minus your outstanding bar tab.  I spoke to my partner—”

“SLY!”

“—and he agreed that when a tab gets into four figures we need to draw a line.”

“SLY!” Blake called again, opening the office door and screaming into the bar, “SLY!  Come in here!  My tab cannot possibly be…”  He quieted once Sly entered the room and closed the door behind him. “There is fourteen hundred dollars missing from this envelope!”

“$1468, Mr. Blake,” Sly said evenly.

Blake looked from Sly to Greg and back to Sly.

“Fourteen hundred sixty… how on EARTH is that possible.”

“You tore up Miss Ivy’s special wood-free table, Mr. Blake.  That polymer stuff is very expensive to get fixed.”

“She made comparisons between myself as the Lord of All Felines and that flea-bitten hellcat.”

“I don’t care, Mr. Blake.  Miss Selina has claws too, but she doesn’t go scratching up the place.  Your tab with the Iceberg-S was $1468, and so we took it out of your payoff from Iceberg-G.  If that’s all you guys need me for, I’ll be back at the bar.  Stop by for a beer on your way out, Mr. Blake.  On the house.”

***

They argued the whole way down to the cave.

“I am not treading on your sacred right to go all batty on Joker matters—”

“I do wish you would drop that expression. It is not ‘going batty’ to prepare a—”

“Whatever.  Point is, Harley is screwing with ME, and I don’t let that pass, and I don’t let the boyfriend handle it—”

“Selina—”

“—AND I don’t stand quietly in the background while the—AAAIIIIEEEE!”

A scream such as had never been heard in the Batcave before echoed through the caverns, causing the bats to shriek, squawk and shudder several seconds after it ceased.

“WHAT! WHAT IS IT?” Bruce yelled.

Selina just stood, wide-eyed, staring at the Workstation 3 monitors with a look of frozen horror.

After a moment, she raised a finger and half-pointed.  Bruce had already turned in the direction she was staring.  His eyes registered the horror just as Selina found strength to manage a hoarse whisper:

“Purple mannequin.”

On the screen, the FAB! decorator was showing Hugo Strange what they had made of his apartment in his absence.

“…this amazing artwork we found stashed away in the garage. Now this is clearly an important sculpture by one of Gotham’s most challenging artists.  A piece like that, you’ve got to show off.  You don’t want to hide this away, so see how we’ve made it the focal point of the room.”

“Oh god,” Bruce groaned.

There, in the center of Hugo Strange’s exquisitely redecorated living room, sat a contorted mannequin dressed in a Catwoman costume.

A sharp intake of breath and Selina recovered from the initial shock.

“I take it Quinn is out of the basement,” Bruce observed dryly.

Hostile green eyes glared at him.

“Did you know about this?” the tigress snarled.

Harley was indeed out of the basement—and Bruce thought it best to clarify that it was Hugo and not Batman that would be taking her place.

“I’ve seen the mannequin.  She wasn’t dressed that way at the time,” he answered.

Selina stormed off to the costume vault but Bruce lagged behind, pretending to make an adjustment at the workstation.  He too wanted to change into costume, but just this once he would wait and allow her to go first.  Batman’s survival instinct would never permit his telling Selina, but he considered the catsuit an improvement.  When he had seen Hugo’s mannequin in person, she wore a camisole, garter belt, silk stockings—and a Batman cowl.

Read the complete tale now on theCat-Tales website or mobile-friendly Cat-Tales.mobi.

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com 
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.

Retro-Active and Reichenbach Falls

So, it’s common knowledge that DC Comics and I parted ways several years ago. It’s also common knowledge that that is not at all uncommon, and we’ll get to that shortly. Point is, while I delight in the produce of DC Entertainment, I've come to view anything from the actual DC Comics division as I would a plate of shrimp that was left in the sun for a day: there’s a high probability that it’s bad and will make me sick if I eat it. You’re free to, of course, but I wonder what the hell is wrong with you (and I'll just leave the number for the poison control center right here on the counter where you can’t miss it).

Still, DC news occasionally does push its way in front of my eyeballs, and I must say the latest bulletin from WonderCon is… suggestive.

Retro-Active is described as “a wave of one-shots that will pay homage to the spirit of the Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, The Flash, and Justice League of America stories of the '70s, '80s and '90s.” These are not simple reprints but a 50/50 mix of new material written into the old continuities presented alongside the reprinted originals.

Now, what immediately pops out at me is the significance of those decades. Bluntly: an era before things were fucked up beyond all repair. There were missteps to be sure, but there was a bottom line respect for the characters, the readership, and the basic tenets of storytelling. What also jumps out is I’m looking at names from those eras – names we haven’t seen in a while. Names that, like the continuities, were not a part of or tainted by the last 10 years of toxicity.

Len Wein, Alan Grant, Norm Breyfogle, Marv Wolfman… Wow.

I can only come up with three explanations for a move of this kind coming out of… I’m not sure my fingers will even type it… a move like this coming out of the DC Comics of 2011.

1. Reichenbach Falls

DC has been hemorrhaging readers for a long time, but recent years have seen them deliberately slicing themselves open. I don’t know if the intent was suicide or a troubled teen cutting herself for attention and nicking an artery by mistake, but the result is the same: the readers are going, going, gone. Faster than they can be replaced – and what they’ve been replaced with isn’t worth much. DC has consistently cut loyal long-time fans in favor of imagined new ones: new ones with less disposable income, who are less invested in the hobby and won’t necessarily spend as much on it regardless of income. They do make plenty of noise in forums and blogs. That never translates into actual sales because they mostly get the gist from Scans Daily, but hey, at least their excesses further alienate those who have left. You might think that once a reader is lost that’s the end of it. They can’t spend less than $0, right? But the cost of all those lost readers goes far beyond the simple dollars and cents. Consider: I was at a friend’s house a couple weeks ago and they were showing off their gaming system. They had EA Sports, Assassin’s Creed, and then while the rest of us were talking, they took out Assassins Creed and put in Arkham Asylum. As soon as the DC logo went up, the guy I was talking to looked up, rolled his eyes and threw back his head. He thought it was an ad for DC Online, but then the Rocksteady name came up and he said "oh wait, I've heard of this." When he saw the actual game start, he really liked it.

Now, that’s some serious bad voodoo. The DC logo = Bad. The Dark Knight was not only a great movie, it was a fantastically popular one. Smallville has been running longer than M*A*S*H. The Green Lantern trailer OWNED WonderCon this past weekend. And yet, the DC logo got this automatic negative reaction – because of the comics. If you’ve ever heard talking about a great unsolicited review or great word of mouth for their business and say they “can’t put a price on that kind of advertising” – well this is the flip side. You can't put a dollar amount on the cost of YOUR LOGO = BAD. You can't put a dollar amount on the real damage DC Comics has done to the DC brand.

So, possibility #1 is Retro is a concerted effort to lure back those lost readers. If so, it’s a nice start. It really is, don't get me wrong. However, it needs to be said that you’re not going to undo 10+ years of abuse in 2 months.

In 1893 Conan Doyle decided he was tired writing Sherlock Holmes and attempted to kill off his character in a final battle with Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls. To put it mildly: the reading public was not pleased. They flatly refused to accept the destruction of something that brought them such pleasure. Doyle then tried to appease them by telling new stories from the time before Holmes was killed. The reading public WAS NOT SATISFIED. It was not enough to have new stuff if the trail still led to the unacceptable outcome, and Doyle had no choice but to suck it up and undo the damage, bring his hero back to life.

If DC wants to win back readers it lost by its own bad behavior, this is a start, but make no mistake it is only the first step of a long journey.

2. To learn how to get up

A couple years ago, Dan Didio was interviewed for one of the many specials out just prior to The Dark Knight, and he was going on how “We at DC look on Bruce Wayne is the mask and Batman is the real person.” You could tell he was just so pleased with the line, like they all are, it’s so clever… Then one of the real experts came on and said how that’s doing a real disservice to the character and displays a complete lack of understanding: the story of “Batman” is the story of Bruce Wayne, the man. The long tradition of heroes yadda yadda yadda…

Since that time, that lack of understanding has become more and more apparent. The phrase we hear more and more is that the folks at DC simply do not know: they don’t know who these characters are, they don’t know what they’re supposed to be, they don’t know what is non-negotiable part of the mythos and what’s disposable window dressing. They don’t know a good idea from a bad one (or a really bad one) (or a really, really bad one). They don’t know storytelling. They don’t understand women. They don’t understand heroes. They don’t understand how long a story should run. They don't understand human behavior…

What’s worse, they cut themselves off from the past that did know. They mocked it and belittled it. Now they’re stuck. They know where they are isn’t working. They don’t know how to fix it. Everything they try makes it worse. When they stumble onto something that works, they don’t know understand why it worked and try to recreate it focusing on all the wrong things.

With Retro: going back to the time before things were broken and BRINGING BACK THE PEOPLE WHO KNOW WHAT THEY’RE DOING, letting them work in the non-broken continuities, this could be a phenomenally effective way for these guys to LEARN HOW TO DO THIS.

3. Come back here and take what’s coming to ya! I’ll bite your legs off!

Unfortunately, no one who’s seen the storylines of the past few years can overlook the possibility that this series is intended to deliver another attack on old fans by polluting the past continuities. Having done their worst in the present, it’s a way to retro-actively poison the past stories we love and take that last bit of pleasure from us.

Do I believe there is that much malice in the people making decisions at DC Comics? Absolutely. Do I think that’s what Retro is about? Probably not. Because the whispers about Time Warner shutting down print comics have become louder with each new tweak of the corporate structure and each new announcement of another five titles being cancelled. When you’re being wheeled into the emergency room with a collapsed lung, who wastes the energy to give someone the finger?

Anyway, on a lighter note: Trophies is now available in ebook and print-quality pdf. There’s also a new edition of the epub ebooks on the site. Mobile people in particular should find these load much faster. Iphone 4 newer Blackberry folks, hang tight. Your CSS issues are next on the todo list.

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.

A Look Back Year Three: Splitzville

It was hard to select a single episode from for this week's look back. Year Three began with a fellow called Giggles waltzing into the Iceberg for a job as interim bartender and we all still smirk at the response when Oswald asked his real name. That was the Hell Month when Bruce asked Selina to move into the manor, not even realizing he'd done it until a scary moment on that Cartier's rooftop. It was the year he discovered a certain cat figurine in the curio in his bedroom "To Candice, from BW." It was the year we first heard the DEMON Oath of Loyalty (in the long form, if you please) and witnessed the formal ceremony of Calling an Ubu. It was even when we found out the Ha-Hacienda SOP for a Bat-Encounter, beginning with the order to smile... politely. Then smile like you know something about Batman's sister...

But in the end, despite all this moments of purring purple cattitude, one chapter in one tale stood out.

Whiskers trotted across the Great Hall of Wayne Manor like a cat on a mission. He trotted up the grand staircase, down the hallway, and made a brisk turn into Selina’s suite.

ººFOUND IT!ºº he declared with such a gleam of feline triumph, Nutmeg actually lifted her head several centimeters from the cushion where she napped, and looked at him.

ººI found it!ºº the cat repeated, ººI found that cave smell!ºº

Nutmeg yawned.

ººThe cave smell,ºº Whiskers insisted, ººDamp. Clammy. Rock. When Bat-Bruce is Two-Foot in Boots.ºº

Nutmeg licked a paw, unable to share Whiskers’s enthusiasm for their new quarters. Most of the furniture had come with them to this new place, but not Selina-cat’s bed, and hence, not Nutmeg’s war room underneath Selina-cat’s bed. All of Nutmeg’s prized trophies: the plastic milk ring, the crunchy envelope, the paper ball, the pantyhose egg, had all been lost along with her special place for keeping them. Whiskers suffered a loss as well: his terrace and the prize spot behind the planter where he pretended to be the stalking jungle cat of death. But his special cushion was here, so he didn’t mind so much. Indeed, he seemed to look on the new place as a great adventure.

ººSo,ºº Nutmeg said finally, deciding to give Whiskers his moment of glory, ººyou found the smell?ºº

ººBehind the tick-tock. Tick-tock opens up into big dark. Damp. Clammy. Rock. Lots of mousy squeak-squeak noise.ºº

ººNot interested.ºº

ººHow can anyone not like mice?ºº he asked. Whiskers was a life-long enthusiast of the gentlemanly sport of mousing. He didn’t understand how anybody could not enjoy it.

ººWoof.ºº came the reply, the ultimate expression of feline disdain.

Whiskers shifted his back legs in a telltale signal that he was ready to pounce. Then he hopped up to the sofa, rolled Nutmeg onto her side and nipped at her ear while her paw swatted his muzzle. When the brief wrestle was over, Whiskers touched the tip of his nose to Nutmeg’s, just as two martial artists might bow after a match. Then he sat up.

ººIf you don’t explore,ºº he told her sternly, ººyou’ll never find a new territoire.ºº

ººI explore,ºº Nutmeg said proudly, ººI followed Standing Softpaws today.ºº

ººAeiou!ºº Whiskers exclaimed in delight.

Both cats were equally fascinated by the two-foot they called Standing Softpaws. He was almost catlike in his ability to appear from nowhere and stare—which he did a great deal in their first days here. It seemed that he was keeping an eye on them, which they found insulting. They were certain he was the keeper of their new living quarters, for he had a wonderfully feline way of moving about the rooms, putting every little thing in its proper place. Few two-foots were so precise about where objects belonged. If only he would get over this idea that they had some grudge against his breakables.

“Adorable creatures, Miss,” they had heard him saying, “but I do fear for the Meissen and the Ming.”

That led to outrageous suggestions that they be locked in Selina-cat’s suite. They overheard Bat-Bruce veto the idea:

“Alfred, I’ll admit I don’t know all there is to know about cat behavior. But I have learned one thing: If you let them know you don’t want them to go in a particular place, it absolutely guarantees that will become the mission of their lives.”

“Respectfully, sir, is it not possible you are letting your experiences with Miss Selina cloud your-”

“No, Alfred. It’s not.”

“I see, sir.”

“Selina says leave the door open, and once they see they can come and go freely, they’ll probably stay in there with their familiar things after the preliminary explorations.”

“Very good, sir.”

Both cats thought Bat-Bruce should be rewarded for such admirable behavior: Whiskers did so by rubbing his head into the pantleg, while Nutmeg determined to claim one of his socks just as soon as she found a new war room in which to keep it.

She also resolved to settle the matter of Standing Softpaws.

***

Nutmeg observed that Standing Softpaws had again appeared at the door to the room. He was, Nutmeg would have to admit, almost as silent as a cat. Neither Bat-Bruce nor Selina-cat were as quiet as they seemed to think. Like all two-foots, their ears were simply too far from the ground to be able to move with true stealth. But Standing Softpaws was the exception to the rule: here he was, staring at her, and Nutmeg had no idea how or when he arrived.

She stared back, politely.

And he walked away.

This struck her as unforgivably rude, even for a two-foot. She had interrupted her nap in order to return his stare, and he walked away. She decided right then that he should be taught a lesson. She would follow him to his own nap-place and look at him, see how he liked it!

She followed down the hall, down the stairs, and down another hallway. She followed through the bright room and the drafty room and the room with all the books. She stopped long enough to rub her scent into the doorway. She liked books, they had a warm, crisp smell and were fun to curl in when Selina-cat tried to read them. Then Nutmeg trotted faster to catch up with Standing Softpaws wherever he had gone to… she rounded the corner and… gaped.

It was the Land of the Can-Opener. It was the biggest, grandest, sparkling Land of the Can-Opener any cat had ever seen! And Standing Softpaws was its king???

Instantly, Nutmeg decided she had misjudged this wise and noble two-foot. She would find him and make amends at once.

***

Nutmeg was not actually able to locate Standing Softpaws to make her apologies until the harsh squeal led her to his location. She recognized the sound—it was a teakettle, and it meant there would be little plates with cake and sometimes sandwiches. She saw Standing Softpaws take just such a plate into a little pantry-like room off the kitchen. There he sat, in a hard-looking chair that offended Nutmeg’s feline sensibilities. Beside him was a little table. From her position on the floor, she could not see onto the table, but her nose told her the steaming hot tea was on there, which meant the cake would be too.

She walked up to Standing Softpaws and treated him to the “aren’t I precious” look.

“Good heavens, who let you in here?” was the less-than-welcoming greeting.

Nutmeg switched her posture from "aren’t I precious" to "what can you be doing over there that could possibly be more interesting than admiring me ?"

He appeared to ignore her, then glanced down twice as he sipped his tea. Nutmeg waited for the third glance, readying herself to perform the ultimate act of feline beguilement: the silent miaow.*

The moment came—Standing Softpaws reached for his tea, brought the cup to his lips, and glanced downward. Nutmeg opened her mouth as she would for a fully articulated meow, but emitted no sound. Standing Softpaws watched this, as all two-foots do, as if pondering what possible burden could so plague a little creature that she could not even give voice to it. He set down his cup, and bent to take Nutmeg into his lap.

“Now then, little fellow, it can’t be as bad as all that, can it? I suppose this house is rather large and daunting for someone like you to get used to.” He touched his fingertip to Nutmeg’s nose, which she permitted, as it seemed like a friendly gesture, and also because it smelled like tea. “But I assure you,” he went on, now stroking her fur as he spoke, “that you are not the first newcomer here, and, thus far, all new residents of Wayne Manor have made the adjustment.”

He gave her a morsel of cake and told her of Master Dick and Master Jason, and his efforts to make them welcome when they came to live here. They sounded, to Nutmeg, like two of the sorriest cats she ever heard tell of.

Read the complete tale now on the Cat-Tales website or mobile-friendlyCat-Tales.mobi

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.

A Look Back Year One: Fun and Games

As an anniversary treat, I'd like to revisit some special moments from each year of Cat-Tales.




Cat-Tales #7: Fun and Games

Bruce Wayne took a deep whiff of cognac and closed his eyes as the lone­ly tones of Schu­bert’s Im­promp­tu #90 waft­ed through the air.  Re­lax­ing in the sit­ting room ad­ja­cent to his bed­room, with a roar­ing fire, hand­made silk ki­mono, Wa­ter­ford snifter, and clas­si­cal mu­sic play­ing on the cost­ly ul­tra-​sleek stereo, he was the pic­ture of the bil­lion­aire bach­elor at home alone.

He didn’t hear the first dis­tant click, nor the sec­ond.  The third he at­tribut­ed to Al­fred, though it was more than an hour since the old man said he’d be re­tir­ing for the night.  The me­ow he couldn’t dis­miss so eas­ily and he rose to in­ves­ti­gate…

His eyes went square as he stood in the door­way to his bed­room, ob­serv­ing a dark sil­hou­ette flick­er be­fore the open safe.  Cat­wom­an? 

“Me­ow,” be­gan the in­trud­er, as an ap­prais­ing eye scanned him up and down.  “You’re a lot younger than the av­er­age fos­sil one finds home alone in these big hous­es.”

He was be­gin­ning to re­gret that sec­ond cognac; he need­ed a clear head… Bruce Wayne shouldn’t be too con­fi­dent or con­fronta­tion­al with this wom­an.  He had to find an­oth­er way.  As the fig­ure swayed en­tic­ing­ly in­to the light, he re­mem­bered he was a known wom­an­iz­er.  He al­lowed a fas­ci­nat­ed leer to over­take his fea­tures.   

“Can I, ah, help you with any­thing?” he man­aged as she touched a sin­gle claw to the cen­ter of his chest and stepped for­ward, back­ing him slow­ly but firm­ly in­to the sit­ting room and the chair he’d oc­cu­pied be­fore.  She stood over him now, twirling his great grand­moth­er’s ru­by neck­lace.  

“Not any more. I have what I came for… more or less.”  

She leaned over the chair, hov­er­ing tan­ta­liz­ing­ly above him, more de­lib­er­ate­ly volup­tuous than she ev­er was with Bat­man… Bruce felt his hand reach­ing round her waist and mov­ing gen­tly up her back as she con­tin­ued, “What’s a hand­some, rich, ath­let­ic guy like you do­ing all alone at mid­night any­way?”

As Cat­wom­an low­ered her mouth on­to his, he re­turned the kiss in­stinc­tive­ly; nev­er stop­ping to think of the times he’d kissed her as Bat­man… 

He didn’t see her hand move silent­ly to the pouch in her belt and fin­ger the bulb of knock­out gas… then pause and change course, com­ing to rest in­stead on the belt of his ki­mono and slash­ing it with a swift stroke of her claws.  

He didn’t hear the neck­lace hit the floor as she freed the oth­er hand to ex­plore his abs, chest, shoul­der and back.  

He did feel when her body tensed sud­den­ly, but she al­lowed him to twist her round and un­der­neath him, as he groped for the clasp that un­did her cos­tume.  

As the pur­ple leather fell away, Bruce broke the kiss fi­nal­ly to work down her neck and those lus­cious, ex­traor­di­nary… 

Their eyes met then, and he saw it.  

She knew….

… Or did she?

Im­pos­si­ble to tell and, at the mo­ment, im­pos­si­ble to care.  Af­ter all these years, af­ter all the teas­ing, af­ter all the games, he would fi­nal­ly have her.

*** *** ***

 

“Well, that was fun,” Seli­na purred.  “You got any oth­er fan­tasies you want to take out for a spin?”

Bruce Wayne, the char­ac­ter of the night be­fore, might have blushed or stam­mered.  The Bruce of this morn­ing stroked her leg as he whis­pered omi­nous­ly,  “You don’t think Bat­man’s go­ing to sim­ply ig­nore your break­ing in­to Wayne Manor, do you?”

She con­sid­ered this, then said, “But I didn’t leave with any­thing.  And I don’t think Bruce Wayne is go­ing to be press­ing charges for break­ing and en­ter­ing.”

“You can’t ex­act­ly tell Bat­man that part, can you?”

She raised an eye­brow.

“Bet me.”

Bruce couldn’t quite be­lieve how slow he’d been to take ad­van­tage of the sit­ua­tion—of ex­act­ly who his girl­friend was now.  Pro­to­cols!  He’d asked her about pro­to­cols, but nev­er so much as hint­ed—okay, the idea had tanked when he’d float­ed it past pre­vi­ous lovers; truth be told, that’s what re­al­ly broke up him and Sil­ver St. Cloud—but Seli­na was not Sil­ver.  She was Cat­wom­an.  She was re­al­ly Cat­wom­an.  She didn’t think hav­ing fan­tasies about cos­tumed night dwellers was re­mote­ly odd; she un­doubt­ed­ly had a few of her own.  She was down­right pleased to learn he thought about her that way, and she was ex­cit­ed (she was quite SPEC­TAC­ULAR­LY ex­cit­ed) to try out his Cat­wom­an-​break­ing-​in­to-​the-​manor sce­nario.

And he owed it all to Gio­van­ni D’An­nun­zio be­ing a snob, the Velk­stad Bal­let be­ing a bore, and the Jok­er be­ing in­sane.

*** *** ***

 

Read the complete tale now on the Cat-Tales website or mobile-friendly Cat-Tales.mobi

Combining  "Mask for Mardi Gras" with another page of panels from the Graphic  Novel Prologue, this might be my favorite of the posters kicking off  Cat-Tales 10th Anniversary tomorrow.

Capes and Bats Long Video Trailer

Remember those Marvel "What If" Comics. Well...
What if Dracula came to Gotham?
What if he wants Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn and Catwoman for his brides?
What if... Vampire Joker

The Week in Cat-Tales

Quick one today, because it's going to be a busy week. Trophies, the tale that was teased at the end of Electron 29, is well underway, but a surprise one-shot came out instead last week: CT #62: A Bon Chat, Bon Rat which chronicles a Bruce and Selina adventure in Paris (also teased at the end of Electron 29). The title is a French proverb that is used in the sense of "tit for tat" but which translates literally as: "For every cat, a rat."

Now, for those who asked, this was not ever intended to be a Christmas surprised which I didn't get out in time. I do like putting out a Christmas chapter every few years if the timing works out, like the one in Not My Kink. But on the whole, I figure we all have other things to keep us occupied at that time of year. Bon Chat has nothing to do with Christmas, other than in the most subtextual way: Cartier, Paris plays a big role and of course Cartier, Gotham is a pivotal location in Bruce and Selina's relationship, going back to that first Christmas encounter in Cattitude. So there might be some subconscious associations at work, but only Feline Logic would declare that a Christmas tale. What it is is... a snack. Sometimes we all enjoy sitting down to a big elaborate meal, but more often, we want a yummy little bite. A light snack. Bon Chat is a light snack.

Another yummy tidbit...

Joker has set up a Ha-Hacienda in the Cat-Tales Visitor Center in Second Life. You know Batman isn't going to let that remain for long. The Hacienda will be up for ONE WEEK ONLY. Come see it now, or Harley will pout.

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.

P.S. No, I did not see The Cape yet. That pesky real life thing again. I will catch the pilot once it's posted on NBC's website, and for there is already a thread in the CT forum. See you there.

How to Succeed in Comics Without Really Trying

Had a few comics-related conversations over the holidays, and particularly their similarity to theatre. Comic books, like stage productions, cannot show elaborate cinematic scenes. They suggest, and the audience (or reader) fills in the rest from their imagination. Panel 1: close up on a Bat-glove, fist cocked. Panel 2: DEMON minion lying on the floor. You don't SEE Batman attack (reminder if you haven't seen the Arkham City trailer, you haven't seen CGI Keysi Shakespeare the way it's meant to be played), you create it in your own mind, and that folks, is why fanboys are more INVESTED in these characters and these stories. We are more possessive because they truly are OURS more than something we only see in a movie or on television.

Because of that similarity, and because theatre has had to reinvent itself for thousands of years to keep entertaining in a changing world, the modern comics professional can learn a lot from the theatre world. The big one to consider today is literally the difference between a theatre that failed in the last 10 years, and one in the same city that kept its lights on and is still performing shows. The philosophy is simplicity itself:

Look on every single performance of every single show as your one and only chance to win over someone in that audience and make them a lifelong theatre goer. Someone out there has never come to the theatre before, and what they see and hear and experience tonight could be so overwhelmingly magical for them that they are hooked for life.

Look on every single performance of every single show as potentially the last straw for someone who has seen one bad show too many.

Remember The Dark Knight? That movie brought people into comic shops for the first time. They were looking for Batman. If what was in the comics DELIVERED what they wanted, some of them would have come back. (And maybe some comic shops that have closed in the last 2 years would have weathered the storm, but that's a question for another day.)

But it doesn't take a movie. It doesn't even take a cartoon. SOMEONE is be walking into a shop for the first time EVERY DAMN DAY. Every issue of every comic is a chance to win them.

Every issue of every comic is also a chance to LOSE them. There is a misconception out there that because fanboys howl and complain, because they have always howled and complained, that it's fine and even desirable, to anger, disappoint and insult them. And it isn't necessary to master or even understand the basic tenets of storytelling because a bad story will pass the time for the next 6 months as well as, or better than, a good one. There is a reason it is writers with roots in or ties to other media who are having exponentially more success than the hacks: because they understand real readers and audiences. They know that those hundred guys on forums are not representative of anything. The vast majority of readers you never hear from either way. They like it and they buy again, or they hate it and they don't.

Things can be bad enough for long enough that the most vocal and committed fans decide enough is enough. We're seeing that happen in increasing numbers, but those are the extreme cases. Every issue of every comic IS a chance to lose one of those diehards, but it is also infinitely more probable it will lose a hundred casual readers. Particularly when the actual goal is to cause maximum offense. It's not okay to know something is wrong but wait until next year to fix it. Every single issue of every single comic is an opportunity to win or lose. And like life, you simply don't know how many chances you have left. The Reaper is out there, folks, and there are major titles whistling in the graveyard, acting like it doesn't matter, they'll fix it next year. It really doesn't seem to occur to them that there may not be a next year.

It's a new year, and I wanted this entry to be an optimistic one. I want to offer more encouragement to those pros out there who honestly do seem to be trying to fix this. I know things that have been breaking for 20-plus years can't be fixed in a day, but unfortunately, that's what's required here.

There's another theatre principle: the miracle. It's 30 minutes to curtain, the paint is still wet, they're finishing off the second act costumes with a glue gun, the props table fell over, breaking the decanter we need for the first scene, the leads are having a shouting match in their dressing rooms, the fire marshall is seizing all the pyro earmarked for the end of the first act, and the ASM is locked in the costume loft. But the show goes on because even though it is f-ing IMPOSSIBLE to overcome all that in less than half an hour, we dig in and do it, because we gotta. Because we give a damn.

So maybe, just maybe, this can be an optimistic entry after all. All you guys need to do is dig in and give us a miracle. If it sounds like a lot to ask, look at your cousins in theatre who've been doing it for just over 5,000 years.

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.

You're a fine one, Mr. Grinch

I never watched Glee, but I was in the room recently when a friend was watching the latest episode on Hulu. On headphones, I didn’t hear a thing apart from the occasional laugh, muted. Then there was a loud one. I looked up and saw this…

I didn't have to watch the show, I knew EXACTLY what they were doing. That's The Grinch That Stole Christmas, fondly remembered Dr. Seuss Xmas tale from all our childhoods. Later my friend talked about "how well they did it" and how they "did the whole thing" - from a character wearing the reindeer antlers and dog ears pulling the sleigh to plucking the ornaments off the tree.

Friend: And just when you're thinking "There should be a Cindy Lou Whoo"...

I mention this because there is a misconception out there among some big names in comics that people are "bored" with the very elements that MAKE THE STORYVERSE WHAT IT IS. That's why there is a wail of protest every time they announce the next big stunt that will fuck up the comics for another year and postpone the return to what it is SUPPOSED TO BE. Because these core things they are changing are not repetitive and boring, they are ritual and reassuring.

Bruce Wayne is Batman. Joker is his nemesis. Catwoman is his adversary/love interest. Jason Todd is dead.
Last year, next year and always.

If you don't want to do that, don't write Batman.

"Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine."
"Keep it?" repeated Scrooge's nephew. "But you don't keep it."
Last year, next year and always.

If you don't want to do that, don't perform A Christmas
Carol.

"Face it, Tiger... you just hit the jackpot!"

Last year, next year and always.

If you don't want to do that, don't write Spiderman.

"It doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world." "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." "Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope." Nobody is looking for reinvention here. They got it right the first time, and that's why these stories last.

When it's right, don't reinvent, recapitulate:

Here endeth the lesson.

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.

Please Drink Responsibly

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

There is something profoundly wrong with people who don’t like Dickens, but even they allow that A Tale of Two Cities has one of the greatest openings in the English language. The Great Gatsby opens well too, and is also one of the rarest of rarities: a spot on perfect movie. AMC has a collection of films called “Essentials,” films from Casablanca to Close Encounters of the Third Kind that everyone should know. They are part of the collective vocabulary. They are required for cultural literacy. In literature there’s the Five Foot Shelf. In music, it’s Synchronicity and The White Album, South Pacific and Into the Woods. If you seek out what’s good in many fields, you feed your imagination and will be a better artist for it.

That’s the positive side. The flip side is also true. Imagine a professional athlete that ate nothing but Big Macs and smoked two packs of cigarettes a day. Would any of us be surprised if this guy failed to win the New York marathon? For that matter, would any of us be surprised if he failed to finish and fell down dead at Mile 18? No, of course not. Because this guy who uses his body to do what he does has been pouring poison into it.

If you’re a writer, an artist, a musician, a composer, a creative in any field, then your imagination is the bread and butter machine. Since you’re also a human being, it is the most magical and sacred part of you. That alone is a good enough reason not to flood it with poisons, but I’m talking about something beyond just being human. I am talking about being a creative. The imagination is what stretches beyond the literal and mundane and the goings on in your digestive tract. It is what connects with something higher and better, and channels a little piece of the infinite when you make something that wasn’t there before. If you pollute it with garbage, the result will be the artistic version of that wheezing pathetic “athlete” gasping his way through the race.

No, I do not read comics anymore. It’s more than not giving DC even $2.95 worth of encouragement for something that is truly bad, it is declining to live on a toxic waste dump. It is refusing to take poison into my imagination. Not only is it bad for me, it’s going to be bad for anything I write.

You are what you eat. And drink. We’ve all seen the creative output of the drunk drivers out there, professional and amateur. It’s time for those of us who are not three sheets to the wind to start staging some interventions.

But let’s return to the Best of Times, because there is a new artist to welcome to the Fan Art Gallery, and she’s certainly kept her imagination fueled with the best of raw materials. Check out the beautiful work of Anya Uribe, an absolute master of feminine curves, color and form.

The Virtual Visitor Center is decked out for the holidays. In Second Life, as in Cattitude, as in Real Life, Cartier wraps itself up in a bow for Christmas. More information on the Cat-Tales website, or residents may teleport directly to the Visitor Center.

Random Equinox even has an update for his spinoff fic: Don't Fear the Z.  And as if that wasn't enough, we had two lovely developments over the Thanksgiving break: The Macy's parade was good enough to open with Aviator Snoopy, providing yet another opportunity for the slow-witted to realize that the inspiration for the Catwoman abomination--the virtual SIGNATURE of the new direction that failed to grasp anything that defined Catwoman and got absolutely everything wrong--was, in fact, based on a cartoon dog. How symbolic do you want it? They didn't understand anything at all about Selina, right down to the CAT in Catwoman. A symmetry such as makes the angels weep, if it wasn't so effing sad. And, finally, the forum's running gag of Batman's Black Friday Protocol finally has some artwork:

Chris Dee
www.catwoman-cattales.com
cattales.yuku.com
cattales.wikispaces.com

Thank you for reading. If you are viewing this post anywhere other than The Catitat you are reading a mirror. Please visit the original posting in The Catitat to leave a comment.