Jingle Bell Rock

The Joker got away. That’s all there was to say. The gosh-darned Joker got away.

Sure, there was the bit about how Bruce smelled and how Dick laying eggs was responsible for all of that, but the truth of the matter—the undeniable fact—was that the Joker got away.

Bruce stood on the side of the GCH as Dick rushed to put the jack back in the trunk, as that sniveling, gassy, little twerp inspected the replacement wheel one last time. Bruce stood there, and he closed his eyes.

To look at Gotham was too painful, to imagine what chaos his nemesis was wreaking on those streets was just too much. So, he closed his eyes and imagined snowing and blowing and bushels of fun. He conjured in his mind’s eye the one-horse sleigh he’d rode in with his parents to a sock hop, back in the day.

His parents danced again in his mind, cutting a rug. It was so hard to imagine them at a bright time, at the right time, to see them rocking the night away. The sock hop was such a swell time, sipping eggnog with Rachel, playing hide and seek with Alfred. To think of that instead of the alley after the opera. To think of a string of popcorn being hung on a Christmas tree instead of a string of pearls being ripped from his mother’s neck—

“Giddy up, jingle horse,” said Bruce aloud. “Pick up your feet.”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” said Dick, as Bruce opened his eyes.

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