Creative Writing
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Death of a Superhero By Christopher Fielden
“Name?” “Batman.”
D
eath looked up from where he was seated on the Throne of Bones, behind the Desk of Deliverance, in front of Death’s Door. Although dressed like Batman, the person standing before him didn’t exhibit the level of physical fitness you might expect to see from a successful crime fighting vigilante. For one thing, there was an unacceptable disparity between their height and girth. Said disparity would probably make leaping from buildings, running quickly or fitting into the Batmobile somewhat problematic. The person also seemed to possess a general lack of understanding regarding Batman’s gender. “Nice suit,” said Death. “Thanks.” Batman obviously had no concept of sarcasm either. Death looked back at his Recent Expirees’ Manifest. He tapped the page with a bony finger. “You’re listed here as Doris Claymore,” he said. “Never heard of her,” said Batman. Death reached out and stroked the decaying blade of the scythe that rested against his desk. “This is quite simple, Doris. To progress peacefully into the afterlife, you need to confirm your name. It means I can be certain of who you are, what you’ve achieved in life and, therefore, where you
should spend eternity.” Death dished out his best glare. As glares go, it was pretty impressive. In the past, it’d made stars think twice about shooting. “Can you tell me your real name please?” “Already told you. I’m Batman.” “How can I put this politely?” “No need to be polite,” said Bat-Doris. “Got skin as thick as armadillos, us crime fighters.” Given the invite, Death decided to be blunt. “Not only is Batman fictional, he…” Death left a pause which he hoped would scream with meaning, “… is a man.” “And?” “You have breasts.” “They’re pecs.” “No, they’re breasts,” said Death, “and Lycra does little to mask their magnitude. I feel I should add that Batman was always depicted as an athletic individual, at the peak of physical fitness. Clearly, you’re not.” A tear trickled from beneath Doris’s mask, suggesting her skin might not be as thick as she’d led Death to believe. “OK,” she whispered, “point taken.” Despite the scythe, the rotting cloak and the distinct lack of flesh coating his crumbling bones, Death was a sensitive individual. He
disliked causing upset. Most people found the experience of dying traumatic enough, without him being disagreeable. In a more gentle tone, he said, “Good. What’s your real name?” “Bruce Wayne.” Death took a moment. His was the greatest of jobs, an eternal vocation no other would ever undertake. The pride he felt in this most trusted position was indescribable, the honour overwhelming. Still, on certain days the downsides of immortality became glaringly apparent and he realised how lucky mortals were to die. This was one of them. “You’re not Bruce Wayne,” said Death, deciding it was time to unleash some even harder truths. “Or Batman. Your name is Doris Claymore and in life you were a fat, frumpy nurse.” Another tear appeared beneath the mask and trickled down Doris’s chubby cheek. Death felt guilty. He’d allowed irritation to control his words, creating insults when he should be showing more respect. Eternal life would be dull without the challenges people like Doris presented. One of the lessons he’d learned by existing for as long as things had been dying was the art of patience. It would be a shame to forget that lesson today. There would be a reason why Doris