Batman & Robin the re-Novelization
Part 10
last time, we left you on the verge of a revelation, a NEW character entering the scene.
What is Dr. Woodrue doing in his secret laboratory? Will Dr. Pamela Isley be able to find out without being caught herself?
What IS this milky white substance everyone is obsessed with?
Don’t google that last one.
A door in the far wall opened, and several gun-toting foot soldiers dragged a scrawny prisoner in a too-large tank suit into the room. Probably not foot soldiers from TMNT, but you know what? Anything’s possible at this point, so go ahead and picture those purple robot guys if it does something for you.
Quickly, efficiently, the guards shackled him to a gurney. Okay, I guess I should’ve read a little further, those TMNT foot soldiers didn’t really do anything quickly or efficiently. One of their many flaws. So this can’t be them.
The prisoner’s shaven skull was adorned with three surgically implanted ducts.
“May I present Antonio Diego, serial murderer serving life in prison — and sole surviving volunteer. And possessor of a name that sounds like someone pretty unfamiliar with Latin names using a first name as a last name.” Woodrue broke off as Diego spat harshly at the doctor. “And what a charmer he is!”
Every eye was on the prisoner, and Pamela took the opportunity to slip into the room, hiding herself behind a large stack of circuit boxes. Well, not that large. She’s got a fairly slim figure, unlike a certain Batgirl we’ll get to later.
She watched with a mixture of horror and growing understanding as Woodrue help up the jar of milky venom, which is what one of the producers on this film called his semen repeatedly until a lawyer got involved and slapped him with a cease and desist.
“My super-soldier serum,” he was saying. “Code named Venom. Patent pending, of course. But I don’t see how I wouldn’t get that patent. It’s not like some comics company has trademarked Venom. And even if they have, I’ll just go with Super Soldier Serum for now. And if THAT doesn’t work, third choice, ‘With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility Juice.’”
Swiftly, Woodrue poured the Venom into a state-of-the-art injector pack strapped to the back of the gurney. He lifted an open-front black-and-white mask attached by snaking tubes to the injector pack.
“Not the hassle-free zipper.” Woodrue pulled the oversize mask over Diego’s head. The tubes fitted directly and neatly into the ducts in the prisoner’s skull. Most people can’t get a Halloween mask with eye holes that line up, but Woodrue’s a doctor, so I guess he’s a little better at this stuff than most. Plus, he had experience from making a similar device to engage in a kink involving pumping farts directly from—you know what? He made a similar device. You can look it up. He called it The Infinity Gauntlet.
Immediately the injector pack began to pump Venom into Diego’s skull, Diego’s face hidden by the mask in a very PG way, which was surprisingly sensitive of Woodrue.
Diego screamed, his body arching with pain, but the shackles pulled him back onto the gurney.
Her eyes widening with horror, hardly daring to breathe, Pamela watched as something incredible began to happen. Diego’s body began to pulsate, as if it was swelling. His chest enlarged. His neck thickened, and his forearms grew. Every muscle rippled and bulged, and some things that weren’t necessarily muscles REALLY bulged.
Pamela pretended she wasn’t aroused, but let’s face it, she was. Ladies, especially science ladies, like to pretend they are turned off by huge, ripped bodybuilders, but we all know they love it. They tell us, “Oh, I like YOUR body, I like a guy with a little something to grab onto.” But they don’t. They don’t like it one bit. And it’s not like you can’t grab onto a muscle. It’s pretty easy, and in fact provides an easier surface for a firm grip.
“Behold — the ideal killing machine,” Woodrue said with pride in his voice, gesturing to a missile he’d also made. “Oh, sorry, we’re not to that project yet, we’re still looking at this monster I made. I call him…Bane. Bane of humanity.”
Woodrue looked up at the audience on the small bridge and waited for someone to ask him if “of Humanity” was Bane’s proper name or just a clever little joke. When he practiced his speech, he kind of expected the question, and now that it wasn’t coming, he was a little disappointed.
“Imagine it — your own personal army made up of thousands of these meaty boys.” He paused for effect and also to make sure he’d actually just said, “Meaty Boys.” That was NOT in the script. But, let’s face it, it had always been on his mind.
“Bidding begins at a mere ten million.”
Woodrue hit the remote button again, upping the flow of the milky drug to Bane’s mask. Impossibly, the prisoner grew even larger. His arm muscles strained, tendons standing out — and suddenly his shackles snapped. Pamela gave a silent gasp as the leg restraints quickly followed. Growling like an animal in pain, Bane lurched off the gurney and reached toward the Venom pump. His wildly thrashing hand struck a console and electric sparks fizzed and crackled.
Pamela screamed as spitting electrical components rained down around her. The foot soldiers rushed to subdue Bane, while Woodrue strode toward the source of the scream. The Source of the Scream being the title of the tell-all book someone on set wrote about the producer who insisted on calling his semen “milky venom.”
“Welcome to my parlor,” he snapped, and grabbed her by the arm.