Battle For The Cowl, if you don’t know, is a current DC Comics storyline about bunch of Gotham City vigilantes  (and maybe Alfred, and Commissioner Gordon), fighting over who will be the next Batman now that Bruce Wayne is dead/sent back in time (I don’t know; ask Grant Morrison).  This ramble was sparked off by a blog post (savblog? find, link) pointing out that with Huntress, Robin, Nightwing, Azrael etc all in the city, that the idea that Gotham would degenerate after one guy is gone doesn’t really hold water.

But maybe it does if you think about it in more illogical, more human terms: we’re talking about the mythology of The Bat, the force of order, like Hobbes’ Leviathan, holding sway to prevent Gotham from reverting to its natural state of chaos.  As much as, or much more than, a person, The Bat is a socially engineered boogyman, a narrative that keeps order in the minds of Gotham’s populace.

If The Bat is around, every crime you commit is likely to fail. Every shipment you unload in a warehouse is likely to result in you, uninsured petty henchmen, ending up in the hospital with bills you cannot pay.  If you are a crimelord, every day you taste the bitter fruit of your checked ambitions; one false move and everything you’ve plotted and worked for is dust. Sure, occasionally, Batman gets taken out for a while, or there’s an earthquake or something you can take advantage of, but eventually, The Bat comes back, and order along with him.

But if The Bat is gone, if The Bat is gone, then suddenly the possibilities open up.  Suddenly ‘Batman stops crime’ is not the only narrative allowed.  That sudden lapse of order, that malignant flowering of possibilities, won’t be stopped just because a bunch of also-rans also wearing costumes show up to fight.  They aren’t The Bat, in the same way Fiery Goddess, Touchy-Feely Jesus, Clockwork Universe and Legion of Assorted Deities aren’t Scary Vengeful Voyeur Father God — they don’t have the same punch, they don’t obviate other potentials like he does.  It’d be tempting for one to think one has better odds.

I dunno, I’m just throwing that out there. But one thing’s for sure, it’s gonna be an uphill battle for anyone else to stake that memetic claim on Gotham as the new Order.  Won’t be the same.  Especially if your name doesn’t mean anything, at all.

“Watch out.  The Nightwing will getcha!”
“The what?  What’s a night-thing?  Is that like wetting your pants?”
“No, it’s like… a… winged thing… nightly… uh, it’s got a symbol!”
“Huh, that could scare me, I’m superstitious, what’s the symbol?”
“It’s kinda like a W? I guess? or maybe it’s like a W that could be an N?”
“that’s uh… clever.”
“yeah.”
“wanna unload these boxes of jeweled AK-47s lightly dusted with crack?”
“yeah, sure.”

We can talk about fear of the unknown all we want, but the unknown still has to have a name, or a logo, or some branding, something.  Like The Huntress.  That’s a good one.  That could go places, knowing that the Huntress is rolling through your city with a crossbow.  Or a high-powered hunting rifle.

Robin… Robin is a tougher sell.  Batman must have picked that name specifically to prevent dude from ever stealing his thunder; and then handicapped him in bright colors and elf shoes.  Way to project your insecurity onto little children, Batman.  You dick.

But even if Robin stepped up the badassery, it wouldn’t be the same.  It could be… awesomely creepy, actually.  You hear the distinctive whistle of the eponymous songbird as a butterfly knife burrows into your ribs, a gleam of red and green body armor and THAT’S GOTTA BE A KID OR A MIDGET OMFG NO WAY and then he’s gone.  A crimelord wakes up to see the explosive Robin’s Egg on his dresser and his eyes widen in horror.  He’s always over your shoulder, it’s real, it’s actual, everything is satisfactual.

“I spread my wings over this city. My city.  It’s still night, and everyone should be asleep, but I can see them, worms, ready to be pulled wriggling from their subterranean lairs, and devoured…  I am the early bird.  I will always catch them.”

Then more whistling, more disembowelments and maiming.  An old transistor radio plays in the background, “He rocks in the treetop/ all day long/ hoppin’ and a boppin’ and a singing his song/ all the little birds on jailbird* street/ love to see the robin go tweet tweet tweet–” and then the last dude gets thrown into the counter, smashing the radio.
Jesus.  I have problems.

*Oooh.  See what I did there?

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