#this stupid batman in his stupid clunky boots

[majorxmaggiexboy]

Unironically Wednesday as this idiot’s Robin

[scribblesofanaricat]

The Middle

(title taken from the Jimmy Eat World song of the same name (I posted this yesterday and then realised it was the rough unedited version, so I panic-deleted it hhhhhh- ;-;))

~

Louise has always liked the sound doors make when slammed. To her, the way it rings out shouts on her behalf for the world to go to Hell.

It’s her so-called kitchen cupboards this time, each one jerked open and then flung shut at least twice over, as if something worth eating will magically materialise in there if she just looks again. As if she hasn’t gone through this whole song and dance a hundred times by now.

Stupid.

In the end, she resigns herself to shoving a couple of squashed, half-stale pieces of bread into the clunky toaster, arms aching up to her shoulders in protest. Just another day. Hours and hours of getting pushed around by managers who wear their fancy watches like the bloody crown jewels, made to take care of other people’s work as well as her own without a word of thanks, screamed and sworn at down the phone over things that’re (well) above her pay grade – and, worse than anything, called by that name, the one she’s told them isn’t hers…but it conveniently keeps slipping their minds anyway.

So the usual crap, really.

A crooked smile tugs at the corners of Louise’s lips. All of that – day in, day out – for the sake of this shoebox of a flat, not worth the paper the lease was drawn up on, and whatever’s on clearance at the supermarket. It’s so stupid.

But…maybe not for much longer. Maybe. She rubs the bridge of her nose between stiff fingers, her mind turning its back on the never-ending daily grind, on the limp combover of the mouth-breathing landlord who’d make a better magpie than a human and the gutters clogged with burnt-out cigarette ends and dirty needles. It wanders through new lands of the kind that’ve sneered down at people like her for so long. New streets she can stroll down without snotty faces glaring at her back and new alleys that’re safe to cut through. And…if she can just do this, then she’ll finally have a chance to pursue that part of herself which everyone who thinks it’s their business have always dangled out of her reach, that body, that identity-

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP

Louise jerks like some kid just let off a firework right next to her. Grey smoke curls through the measly excuse for a kitchen, pricking its fingers into her eyes. She snatches up a tea towel from the pile on the floor and flaps at the smoke alarm with it like a lunatic (while muttering every curse she knows through her teeth) until the stupid shrieking finally dies down.

And – she lets out a mirthless snort at the sight, burying both hands in her hair – of course, of course the toast has decided to burn to a crisp. In one movement, she rips the slices out of the toaster, even though the heat sears into her bare skin, and tosses them across the room into the bin. Whatever. She’ll survive.

Because that’s what Louise has always had to do. Survive. Especially when it became more and more obvious that nobody was planning on swooping in to help anytime soon.

Stupid…so, so stupid.

An hour or two later, curled up on the mangy sofa patterned like an old biddy’s blouse (where the landlord got his hands on something so horrible, Louise never wants to know), she wonders idly what all those managers are dining on tonight. Probably salmon or something, with posh chocolates to stuff their smug faces with afterwards and congratulate themselves on how hard they’ve worked to get there.

After all, the lot of them probably think as the next course is delivered on nothing less than a silver plate, nobody ever handed anything to me on a plate. Because they’re obviously the ones who have to fight tooth and nail every single day just to make some sort of life for themselves – with all the odds stacked against them right from the start to boot.

Ha.

Louise mechanically tugs the blankets a bit higher around herself in a half-hearted effort to both hold back the urge to beat her fists against the floor like a toddler and block out the familiar chill in the air. How likely is it that she has enough left in her wallet to pick up some food and (gasp) top up the gas meter? Somehow, she thinks not very.

That’s a nice little snag, isn’t it? She tries hard too. From the second she pries herself out of bed ‘til she can finally crawl back into it; even then, she lies awake time and time again, tormenting herself over the bills and the bugs. Yet who’s busy snatching up the rewards for all that? For the long grinding hours, the festering rubbish pile stinking up the street corner and gaggles of teenagers dogging her every step with slurs and threats whenever she has to wade through it, for bloody everything? Who wins? The system, always. Leeching off the blood and sweat and tears of all the ones who can’t protect themselves, because the damn thing has no face and a million faces at the same time.

That system, and everyone who pulls its strings and makes it dance its little dance, is just plain broken – maybe beyond repair at this point. And stupid. So very stupid. Why should she pander to it?

Reality comes to bite Louise yet again, this time in the form of BANG after muffled BANG, juddering the ceiling above her head. The people responsible – and she knows damn well who – aren’t troubling to keep their voices down, either.

Something spikes hot as lava in her chest. She hurls the blankets away, slams her hand down on the tatty arm of the sofa, pushes herself to her feet. No. No, nope, no. Not this, not tonight.

Within seconds, she’s out of her flat and up the dingy stairs (who’d they pull in as an interior designer? Batman?) onto the next floor. Before she can hammer on the door of Flat 3B and bellow shut it!, though, one of its denizens comes staggering out, clothes hanging off her and reeking of sweat.

She gnashes her teeth as soon as she spots Louise standing there with her fists clenched. ‘Don’ yer go puttin’ yer dir’y fingers anywhere near our door.’ The words are a lot less impressive than the old bat probably thinks. For one thing, they’re the kind of garbled that can only come from the bottom of a bottle; for another, the precious door she’s so protective of is already chipped and dented to all hell.

‘Are you really this thick or are you just too bladdered to get it through your skull?’ Louise retorts, chin jutting. Her shoulder gives another reproachful twinge as she stabs her finger in the direction of her own flat on the floor below. ‘Nice for the pair of you that you’ve worked out how to turn into a herd of elephants every bloody night, but none of us want to hear it.’

The other woman’s bloodshot eyes widen, face wheeling through an interesting spectrum of reds. ‘Yer think yer c’n stan’ there an’ tell me what ter do, do yer? DO YER? Yer little…yer stupid…fag!’

There it is. The low blow. It doesn’t send Louise reeling anymore; she’s been living with it way too long for that. Doesn’t stop it from being something that always manages to pierce the armour she’s had to build around herself, though.

She knows fine well what kind of poison everyone drips about her – muttered into the backs of their hands or hollered in her face, it’s all the same. Still, she wouldn’t have thought a bit of peace would really be so much to ask for. Another thing she must be wrong about.

So she turns and walks away, the mixture of gleeful cackles and slurred threats from behind her breaking through the brittle air. Sounds like Louise can expect egg splattered onto every inch of her own door tomorrow morning.

She just loves it when her neighbours greet her with breakfast. What a friendly, cosy little community the lot of them have here.

That flare of satisfaction darts through her veins again when she kicks her door shut. It makes the raging storm inside her audible and helps her to blot out the outside world as best she can. Who cares if someone out there might hear her? Who listens anyway?

Nobody. That’s who.

Louise stands there for a few minutes, just stands, with ringing ears. Her head gives a random little spasm in a certain direction. Maybe some twisted part of her is just instinctively drawn to it at this point.

She doesn’t want to. But as if by a magnet, her gaze is dragged over there anyway – towards the mirror hanging askew across the room. She puts it off for as long as she can, picking restlessly a pockmark on the frame. Mirrors. She hates them. All they’ve ever done is show her…this.

Her eyes zero in on everything humanly possible. From tracing every wrong curve in her face, every wrong line of her chest and shoulders and legs, and right down to marking the size and shape of her hands- God, it’s all wrong- and stupid, stupid-

The air’s too thick.

Her hands clasp themselves together over her head as if to somehow shield her. There’s no hiding from the prickling beneath her skin. Not right now. Even so, her legs begin to carry her up and down. Up and down. A bit like what’s going on inside her head.

Just a little bit extra a month. That’s all she needs. Her heart picks up speed at that thought. Nine pounds for the mirror to reflect back at her the image she’s wanted so much, for so long. And then…and then…what? What then?

Louise slowly lowers her hands, staring at the dusty specks swirling their sluggish way through the air without really seeing them. She knows how the world views her – hell, more like looks down on her. Why should she expect some injections, no matter how precious they are to her, to burst whatever nice thick bubble they’re all living in?

(So very stupid.)

But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t.

The sofa cushions catch her as the bones seem to disappear out of her legs. She will not end up like her mother: ducking in and out of people’s lives, spending her days glued to godawful chat shows, running away at the tiniest bit of hassle. And besides…soon, there won’t be any need for tossing and turning at night over stuff like the pitch of her voice. Or the awkward hang of her clothes. Or strangers throwing her a death stare in the street and tugging their kids away from her, like she’s about to eat the little darlings alive when all she’s trying to do is get home. Soon, she’ll be tearing down the barriers they think they can obstruct her with.

She clutches the bundle of blankets against her empty stomach and clings onto that promise.

*

Stares, from every corner. They burn into the back of her head and follow her into the room until she pushes the door shut in their faces with one clumsy hand. The other just about manages to keep hold of the papers.

Those papers.

The interviewer hardly bothers to glance up at Louise. Obviously she’s just another little bump in his morning, another bit of business for him to get rid of. She slaps on a smile (and tucks her fingers in as best she can to hide the frayed ends of her nails) all the same.

He gives a vague gesture, which she can only assume is his way of directing her to take the chair across from him – one of those stiff plastic jobs that look as if they were nicked from some preschool, which is just great – without wasting his breath on her. Somehow, she plants herself down on it while miraculously avoiding actually biting her tongue in two. This place should hire her just for that, she reflects grimly.

Now here it is. The Moment, as Louise has been calling it. She blows out a shuddery breath and slackens her grip on the papers, instead sliding them across the table. One is her CV. Meagre, hastily compiled, but at least it has Louise Deegan printed on in black and white.

And the other…the other is her birth certificate. Which says something different. Different in a way she can hardly bring herself to look at.

His Highandmightyness glances over both, expression never so much as twitching. Until it does. Louise watches with a tight throat. She’s used to this: the moment where the penny drops and people cotton on to who – or what, since this one thing tends to automatically brand her as something subhuman in their eyes – they’ve got in front of them.

If only that could make it any easier. If bloody only.

He says nothing. He’s probably not allowed to. Not to her face, anyway. Something in the room still shifts, as though the table separating them has suddenly grown another twenty feet. Louise is used to that too. All those faces thinking how much better than her they are. It’s just…stupid.

She jumps through the usual hoops: her (short) employment history, why she wants to leave her current job (she thought up some generic answer ahead of time) and the rest. She needs this. So badly. Yet there he sits, not taking the trouble to nod at anything she says, letting silence hang between them as soon as he’s asked all the questions on his little script.

Then he finally sees fit to raise his head – but it’s like he’s looking straight through Louise, at the grey and ivory wallpaper behind her. Her heart throws itself against the cage of her chest. Sweat creeps across her clenched palms.

His words are cool and steady; careful, even. But they fall like a hammer blow. ‘I believe I’ve heard enough for now. If you could close the door on your way out?’

His monotone ‘thank you for thinking of us’ spiel rushes past Louise’s ears like the water she dipped her head into this morning (how else could she make any attempt at scrubbing her hair when the landlord won’t get off his arse and fix her shower?). She barely remembers to retrieve those fatal papers before she all but dives back into the waiting room, where that sea of withering stares surges higher and higher, freezing every limb so she can’t even smash her knuckles into those stupid faces, blurring her vision, smothering her nose and mouth…

*

It always circles back to this. No matter what she tries to do; no matter how many backbreaking days or sleepless nights she passes. Here she is again, slumped at the same old table while muffled thuds and drunken bawling from the floor above echo around her skull and a phone she doesn’t think will be ringing anytime soon watches her from the corner. The same old bills are spread out in front of her, cold as a death warrant. And the same old tears sting her eyes.

Stupid. So stupid.

[frasier-crane-style]

Black Lightning 1x01

Well, it’s a CW superhero show about black people. So at least you can’t accuse it of false advertising.

-Just in case you thought this was, like, TNT or something, the first ten minutes hint at a love triangle and feature a bangin’ club scene. But they do hold off on a gratuitous six-pack shirtless scene until late in the episode.

-Whenever someone says that a series is mature or adult, it’s code for having a lot of scenes where someone pours themselves a glass of whiskey or bourbon or something, then drinks it soulfully. If you added a lot of scenes like that to Tiny Toons, it would count as prestige television. (I kid, I kid. There’s also a scene where someone smokes reefer.)

-Black Lightning has his own I’m Gonna Git You Sucka theme rap that plays when he does something cool, which walks the line between fun and cheesy. I can’t help but think it’s gonna get dated soon if this is one of those CW shows that runs for twelve seasons. “Black Lightning’s back!” Yes, we know, it’s been a decade. He wasn’t here in the first place for that long!

-I get that they’re trying to be topical with political protests and police brutality, but a protest march against a specific gang? I’ve heard of general anti-crime/stop the violence type marches, but this seems a bit over-the-top for a pretty ‘real world’ show. 

-Why do we need a bratty teenager in this? They’re always just there to do stupid bullshit that causes conflict. Like, not only is Vanessa dumb enough to go to a club literally named after a crime syndicate, but while there, she is abducted at gunpoint and nearly forced into prostitution. Her response? “Why are you making such a big deal about this?” Yeah, no teenager in history is that vapid (and no, show, I’m not gonna count you saying that she was traumatized off-screen).

-And it’s not like this is such a lighthearted show that characters just shrug off this kind of thing, because we see Anissa at the very end traumatized by her experience. So I guess Jennifer is just weirdly shallow as a person?

(-Maybe it’s some karmic balance for Jefferson’s ex-wife being understanding and supportive of him going back into action when their daughters are in danger instead of making a big to-do about it. Someone gotta hold the ball.)

-Although I did think the whole plot about BL having to rescue his daughters was pretty contrived (is this guy determined to prostitute Jennifer because he’s still under orders to or does he just feel slighted? If we have to put his daughters in danger to get BL into action, why not do something with Anissa being so political and vehemently anti-100?) and unoriginal (again, is having to rescue your kids from the bad guys really any different from having to rescue your girlfriend?). Hopefully now that the whole thing has served the purpose of getting BL back into costume, we can move on to something better.

-Was I following things wrong, or did Black Lightning say he’d killed Tobias Whale while Tobias Whale said he’d killed Black Lightning? Because that’s got to be a wacky chains of events that would lead to them believing that of each other.

-I doubt ‘Harriet Tubman’ is the kind of nickname a modern teenager would come up with. “Yeah, Bill over there is a total poonhound, so we call him Benjamin Franklin!”

-I probably owe the old comics a read, but I haven’t gotten to it yet, so not much to say about canon--other than that it’s a bit unfortunate that one of the themes here is, obviously, the evils of judging people based on skin color and then the big villain is the five thousandth evil albino in pop culture. Like, there’s never a sassy gay albino friend, they’re always preternaturally determined assassins and shit. Well, there was a wacky comic relief albino in The Princess Bride, but he was evil comic relief. He helped torture Wesley!

-This is more of a nitpick, but casting James Remar as Jefferson’s fatherly crime-fighting mentor, when he played pretty much the exact same role in the hugely popular Dexter within recent memory, kinda takes me right out of the story (although I get why they’d cast him, he’s fine actor, probably a lot of fun to work with, not complaining about Remar as a performer). I kept expecting him to say something about Jefferson’s dark passenger.

(Black Lightning: Say WHAT, honky?)

-For a guy who’s characterized as pretty consistently peaceable and thoughtful in his civilian life, Black Lightning has a pretty ‘shoot first, ask questions never’ mentality when he suits up. He seems to have a ‘shit happens’ approach to his no-kill policy (surely, when you’re wearing bulletproof armor, there’s no need to use someone as a human shield!), blasts an unarmed john (albeit one who is visiting a brothel with unwilling sex workers), and blows up a police car for no reason. Yeah, I get that it’s supposed to be cathartic after the racial profiling in the pre-credits, but in the second instance, the (different) cops are after anyone who was involved in the Club 100 shootout and he was involved (to put it mildly). I know, I know, it’s standard superhero procedure to avoid getting arrested by knocking out cops, but going the extra step of blowing up their car for doing their job seems petty. Imagine if in The Dark Knight, Batman disabled the SWAT team trying to arrest him and then said “HOW DARE YOU COME AFTER ME!?” and broke all their cell phones or something.

-So, maybe Pierce’s characterization just is that he’s a pacifist by day, unleashed rage monster by night, but that seems pretty far afield of the character and a little cliched to boot. Haven’t we seen the put-upon goody-two-shoes who lets it all out as his alter-ego enough times?

-It’s weird that the old ‘lame’ suit looks actually pretty good, while the new one looks overdesigned and clunky, with cheesy light-up bits. Also, the Kingsman are not going to be happy to find out what James Remar is doing with their secret hide-out when they’re not there.