Prologue

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"And all around these golden beacons I see nothing but black"—Sam Sparro, Black and Gold.


Livin' like I do, I don't sit around dreamin' of getting old and fat with lotsa grand-bastards sittin' around me begging to hear stories about my ass-kicking days. I bet Dickie-bird has those kinda dreams. He's soft like that. Bet Tim does, too. The both of them are probably gonna live to a hundred with no shortage of little blue-eyed buggers trailing after them demanding piggy-back rides.

Me... we'll see. I wouldn't bet on it, but ya never know, huh? Maybe I'll get old and be one of those grouchy assholes with a spiked cane ready to beat the brats that dare step on my property. I dunno; I don't see myself as a guy who lives past thirty. I mean, thirty's pretty damn old, right? Not that Bruce is old or anything, but his joints are creaking a bit is all I'm saying.

Shi-i-it. How'd I get so morbid? I don't usually start thinking about death until after I've snuck a beer or two. But graduation parties are depressing as hell when you're not the one graduating. Dickie-bird's flying, leaving high school behind and moving on to better things, while I still got three more years at Gotham North.

Somebody shoot me.

Please.


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