Subject: [OTL]: [Robin] In The Blood [7:11] Date: Wed, 18 Jul 2001 08:16:26 -0700 (PDT) From: D Benway In The Blood [7:11] Friday, June 1 drawn from the vein by Benway This story borrows some Bat-characters from DC for not-for-profit use. This story is not recommended for sensitive or innocent readers. _________________________________________________________________ I become known as Superman at school, to everyone except the people in my courtyard. They start calling me Amadeus, and, like everything else in my life, it makes no fucking sense at all. Somehow, none of the staff or Alfred find out about it. I expect some sort of blackmail from the Bradys, but I notice that they stay out of my way, taking off whenever I come near. I also notice that Bradykinin has his arm in a sling. It took two oxycodones from my utility belt to kill the headache last night, and I've taken four since then to keep it away. I know I should see Leslie Tomkins about this, but I have to talk to Dylan Erb first. Buzz told me where to find him. It's a place I've been to before, during undercover ops. I'm dressed for the part: black sunglasses, hair gelled straight up, black leather boots, black latex rubber t-shirt, black leather pants that were too small for me two years ago, and I've grown since then. I couldn't sit down even if I wanted to. Once, Bruce and I came here and I was down on all fours all evening with a collar around my neck while he led me around on a leash. I wonder if he was laughing at me, somewhere deep inside. I don't know what to make of him, any more. They're having a singing contest here tonight. Since I'm here by myself, everyone feels the need to make a pass at me, but no-one gives me any serious trouble. I find a spot near the stage and get a beer from a passing waiter. I can feel the headache trying to come back. I attract another admirer. Don't mind me, says Pittsburgh. I'm not a fag, I'm just here for the music. He's completely wasted. He doesn't recognize me. The most remarkable thing is that he's telling the truth. He doesn't take one look at my crotch, and the moment the first number finishes (from The Producers) and the singer asks the crowd to join in, he starts belting out the tune. He proves to be a very good singer. Dylan Erb is supposed to be on second, but that's asking for too much around here. The song from The Producers is so popular that the contestant plows through six more numbers, and then ends with a rousing all-club version of Springtime for Hitler with a chorus line of six leather men from the audience kicking up their legs out of synch with the music. After that, no Dylan Erb. I have to sit through two Judy Garlands (one 6 foot 5, the other 300 pounds), a Marlene Dietrich, and a chorus singing something monastic and getting as big a cheer as Springtime. Finally, an hour and a half later, Dylan Erb. Of course, he's in drag. Short black hair, not quite cut in my style. I can't think of the name of the actress, but he needs that haircut to look like her. His body is thin like mine, thin like hers, but it's taller than mine, taller like hers. He's wearing a frilly full length Victorian dress and carrying a parasol. Move your bleeding erses! he shouts. I think he's trying to sound Cockney, but failing. I couldn't do it either. I'd fail to do it in exactly the same way. I know that he is my halfbrother. He begins to sing. I can't sing either. Wouldn't it be luverly. Just you wait Henry Higgins, just you wait. I could have danced all night. He's no worse than the Garlands, but the crowd is going wild again. He receives the applause graciously. On the street where you live. Someone else comes on to sing that one, while he watches, rapt, and I watch him. I glance at the singer from time to time. It's a woman in drag. Her voice sounds familiar. It isn't deep or rough enough to be convincing as a man, and she has an accent. She'd have been better doing Dietrich than Rex Harrison. No-one here seems to care, though. I can't take my eyes off his face. He has the same features that I do, only finer. A longer, sharper nose. Small mouth. Same blue eyes. I can't let him get away. The song ends, and they take a bow. The applause rises, Henry Higgins takes off his hat, and bows again. It's Ariana, my first girlfriend. She's cut off her hair. She dumped me into a world of shit by trying to get me into bed before she dumped me and now she's standing on the stage of a gay bar in drag, staring straight at me with her mouth wide open. She flees the stage, while Dylan stares after her looking confused. He shrugs, gives one last bow, and leaves the stage as well. I want to catch him in his dressing room, but that would mean letting Ariana go. I'd let her go too, if I didn't know it will take him at least five minutes to get out of that dress. I ask around. The bouncer says Ari took off out the front door two minutes ago, but the only person I can see in the street is my old friend Pittsburgh, puking into a concrete garbage can. I flag down a passing taxi, and give the driver 50 bucks to take him back to the Waffle House around the corner from Brentwood. I resist the temptation to send it straight to the school gates. Instead, I call Gregory Brady and the first thing he asks is if I've found Dylan, and he makes it sound like a serious question. I tell him where his friend is. I tell him how to get his friend in through the unlocked window in the basement of the cafeteria, and make a mental note never to use that route again. The weird thing is, he's almost pathetically grateful. I hang up while he's still thanking me. The worst thing is, I don't think he's shitting me. I've somehow managed to earn the respect of the most twisted guy in all of Brentwood while out of my mind on something he poisoned me with. I glance at my watch. Ari's had her five minutes, and it's been two hours since my last beer. I take another oxycodone, and go looking for my halfbrother. I didn't dress this way to see the show. There were as many straights as gays in the audience. I dressed this way to get into the big party backstage, where ten guys make passes at me and two of them pinch my butt before I find Dylan's dressing room door. I knock. Enter, of your own will, says someone inside. He's there, and so is someone else. I've interrupted something. I take off my sunglasses. He stares at me. The recognition is immediate. Go, he says to his companion, who closes the door behind us. He hasn't got his costume on, but I'm still in mine. It's the only thing that's protecting me. Dylan Erb, I say. Is dead, he says. Long live Eliza. I think we have the same father, I say. I fucking well hope not, he says. Biological father, I say. He stares at me for some time. That's obvious, he says. Did you at least look like the guy in your house? I used to think so, I say. Henry recognized you, he says. Took off like a rocket. What's her real name? I say. His real name is Henry, he says. And I've never asked about the one that was thrust upon him. Real names are magic, and you never want to lose the magic. Who is our father? I say. Do you know? Not a clue, he says. I'm looking for him, I say. I'd like to meet him, too, he says. If I had the cash, I'd track him down. Guess you have the cash. Yeah, I say. I've got the cash. We'll all have the cash if it works out like I think it will. You have an idea of who it is? he says. Oh yes, I say. You think this is funny? he says. No, I say. Why? The look on your face, he says. It's all so fucking ridiculous, I say. I always wanted a brother when I was small. And I suppose I'm not the kind of brother you wanted, he says. I don't know what kind of brother I wanted, I say. I never had one. I had three, he says. It's not so great. Still, I say. There's more to you than meets the eye, he says. There a look of recognition in his eyes again. You're Robin, he says. Oh fuck, I'm Robin's brother. I laugh, I can't stop myself. He joins in. He has a rich laugh, deeper than I would expect, not girlish at all. Oh my, he says. I don't know what came over me. It's all so fucking ridiculous, I say. Why would you think I was Robin? It was a joke, he says. Oh, I say. They're popular around here, he says. Popular, I say. Last Hallowe'en, half the people at the party here came dressed as them. Dressed as them, I say. Batman and the Boy Wonder, he says. Not me though. I came as Batgirl. Batgirl, I say. Man, you need to go home and get some sleep, he says. Sleep, I say. Here's my number, he says. Call me sometime, when you're less out of it. Call me when you know, or if you decide to give up on it. Give up on it, I say. Might not be a bad idea, he says. [next; Saturday, June 2 (I)]