Chapter 23: Celebrity in Our Midst
Rassmussen has gone and done it. The blasted gargoyle allowed the paparazzo to take a picture of him pissing next to the 7-11 dumpster. Fortunately, the actual stream was hidden by the gas meter, but still not exactly rated PG.
I wouldn't have given them an interview, but they threatened to portray him as the real Batman. Can you imagine all the poor, naïve souls who would show up on my doorstep, expecting Rassmussen to protect them against evil? Then they would see this round-bellied gargoyle: one hand down his skater shorts, scratching himself; the other hand wrapped around a warm beer can. With luck, he wouldn't be due for another bath, and his carcass collection stored in the cellar would remain a secret. They would never believe in superheroes again.
Carcass collection? Oh, don't let that bother you. Rassmussen collects roadkill: rabbits, opossums, cats, frogs—whatever still has its skull intact. He once hung the creatures up from the eaves, but the neighbors complained. It cost me a fortune in fines before I convinced the authorities he wasn't killing the animals and persuaded Rassmussen to keep his collection out of sight in the cellar.
But I digress. I was sure I had convinced the reporter Rassmussen was my brother, an extreme sportsman testing a new type of portable, robotic hang glider. Rassmussen's head appeared dog-like in the photo due to an optical illusion created by his helmet, safety equipment, and the camera flash in the darkness. I even had an explanation for Rassmussen's unnaturally large, clawed feet. Well, unnatural for a human. I understand gargoyles find them quite useful for air attacks.
Then last week, we received a preview copy. Beneath the Enquirer, Esquire, or In the Square banner—I can't be more specific—there he is. Rassmussen in all his glory. There is nothing less attractive than a gargoyle relieving himself in the garbage unless it is a gargoyle's picture interposed in a loving embrace with Oprah Winfrey, in all her glory. Apparently, Rassmussen is the reason Oprah and Stedman have never married.
I would say more, but Oprah's attorneys were pretty specific. A quarter-million in exchange for forgetting everything I'd read, seen, and heard. Now I can afford that handy-dandy air purifier, powerful enough to even overcome gargoyle disgust. Rassmussen was a little more creative with his payoff request. He wanted a role in the next—get this—Batman movie.
Needless to say, the story will never hit the streets, thanks to Oprah and her billions. 7-11 and Batman should be proud.
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