[ WP ] You are a dark , brooding 90s style anti hero . But much to your annoyance , the setting , other characters , and plot are as campy as the 60s batman show .

`` Tony, have you been drinking again?'' 
 
 Great. That latest waste-of-spandex goofball wore on my nerves and now my senile aunt is getting on my case. I pour myself another whiskey. 
 
 `` It's Richard'', I tell her. That's not exactly a lie. `` I just heard from Bloodnight. Turns out Richard was Kid Night all this time.'' I barely restrain myself from punctuating the phrases -not outright lies, I tell myself- with glasses of whiskey. `` And now he's dead.'' That, at least, is not a lie. Every once in a while, the morons the police labels `` super criminals'' manage to put a lethal component in their Rube Goldberg Guillotines. 
 
 For all that, they might as well be amusement park rides. The Mountebank's contraption was n't even modified when the bank foreclosed on his estate, for fuck's sake. 
 
 `` Who, Bloodnight?'' Aunt Gladys drags me back from my sidetrack. Johnny Walker has probably impeded Bloodnight's work more than the Harlequin, Puffin, Jester, Gentoo and Mountebank combined. 
 
 `` No, you idiot, Richard!'' 
 
 `` You mean that's why... Tony, miss Gadoula from Child protection is here to see you about something. I asked her to wait on the patio.'' 
 
 It ca n't be. I've told them to take me off the foster care registry. I keep sending opt-out letters, I keep telling my lawyer to see that they get me off the registry, I've pointed out that the previous six -make that seven- orphans I've adopted have ended up as Kid Night and consequently dead. But no, there's a clerical error or my PR people intercept it or Aunt Gladys offers me as a foster parent for an orphaned gymnastics prodigy or some fucking thing, and soon enough it's as if the previous Kid Night was still there. 
 
 And where was Reginald? He's the butler, it's his job to tell my guests to sit down while the master pops a caffeine pill and applies aftershave to cover the reek of booze about his person. I faintly recall, in a distant era referred to as `` Sobriety'', telling him to hold all my calls. 
 
 I hastily down the pill, dab on a bit of aftershave and gargle mouthwash, and then stagger to the patio. 
 
 `` Mr. Banner, so kind of you to see me on such short notice'', the foster care clerk tells me. I quickly scan the patio for other people - male, late teens, athletic build, brown hair, a particular idiosyncrasy of speech. None in sight, thankfully. 
 
 `` There has been a tragic accident that left young mr. Blueson here... Winston? Where have you gotten into?'' 
 
 `` Ca n't you stick him to an orphanage?'' I ask. 
 
 `` They're at capacity. Many of Soapsud's henchwomen were single mothers'' 
 
 `` Yes, dreadful business.'' And I do understand - I'm about three drinks short of not understanding. I understand that the theme-goons have families waiting for them. That most of them just do it for a paycheck, and that most of them are working for the less crooked sons of bitches. But after watching Richard dissolved in lye, I was n't in a mood for nonlethal means. 
 
 `` The Frankensons?'' I plead. 
 
 `` Mrs. Frankenson is still in mourning for her late husband'', she tells me. Oh, right. This whiskey is really getting to me if I really suggested foisting whoever this kid is on a pedophile. Lethal or not immediately lethal means, seems like I screw myself either way. 
 
 `` Now listen you stupid cow!'' I know I'm not angry at her, someplace currently buried in smoldering fury. I'm angry at the motherfucker that could n't save his kid sidekick, `` You foist this kid on me, and I might as well stick a fucking gun in his mouth and blow his fucking brains out my own fucking self! Seven of them! That's how many Kid Night's I've had to bury!'' 
 
 `` Holy Bowdler, miz Gadoula, this is supposed to be my foster dad?'' I knew it. I'm starting to suspect Richard was from a set of octuplets separated at birth. 
 
 `` Please...'' Miss Gadoula almost sobs. I'm not usually a sucker for a cute gal's teary-eyed pleading, last night was proof of that, but any of the social services ladies... I've let the previous two die, I hope that she wo n't be next. 
 
 `` Fine, I'll take him. What's your first name, kid?'' 
 
 `` Winston, sir.'' 
 
 Miss Gadoula starts to walk me through the paperwork, and this is when Reginald finally shows up. 
 
 `` I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir, but there has been an urgent call from your office'', he says, `` Mr. F. Ubar, if you know what I mean.'' 
 
 `` I'll have to take this call, miss Gadoula. Come on, Winston.'' 
 
 I race into the drawing room and pull Tolstoy's War and Peace from the shelf to reveal the suit-dispenser firepoles, and slide down the one marked `` Bloodnight''. 
 
 While I'm being worked over by the machinery, Reginald takes the stairs and arrives in the Bloodcave at the same time I do. The name was the first Kid Night's idea. Or the second's, my alcohol-addled brain ca n't quite recollect. 
 
 `` What's the emergency?'' I ask as I race to the Bloodmobile. When the police actually calls Bloodnight for help, I have little 
 
 `` A super-criminal calling himself the Charlatan has taken the city council hostage at the opening of the new shopping mall'', Reginald's voice crackles in my earbud. 
 
 `` The one in Clearview? I'll get there in... Why is this thing not starting.'' 
 
 `` I noticed the state of your liquor cabinet, and I must conclude that you are at least three drinks past the legal limit. I have therefore, regretfully, disabled the Bloodmobile and taken possession of your other car keys.'' 
 
 `` Reginald, are you telling me that you're stopping me from driving out in a piece of misappropriated, nuclear reactor driven military technology, loaded with munitions banned by the Geneva convention, because I'm too drunk to drive?'' 
 
 `` Yes, sir'', my butler says, and proffers a blood-red one speed bicycle with one hand, and a similarly-colored bicycle helmet with the other. 
 
 As I don the helmet and try to mentally prepare for a half-hour bike ride, I hear Reginald say `` And you, young sir, are not going anywhere before I have a chance to properly fit your suit.'' I stop before I realize that he's talking to Winston Blueson, the eighth Kid Night. 
 
 Riding a bike down the tunnel gives me altogether too much time to reflect on how I'm not the hero Gothburg deserves, and that maybe this next moron will finally manage to take me out. That maybe it would be a good thing, that I'm basically the leading cause of violent death in this city. 
 
 I leave the tunnel behind, and with it, my brooding. The deal is simple: They try to bring about anarchy, the rule by the strongest, and I'm going to give them the kind of veto they'll have little choice accept. 
 
 I may fail, and this city may be plunged into a kafkaesque nightmare of spandex-wearing monsters, but as long as I live, that nightmare will be one everyone in this city can wake up from.
