The Snitch

“Relax, John-boy,” the Hillbilly Batman said, “the windows are tinted. Nobody can see you.”

“I’ll stay right where I’m at, thanks.” John said in a low voice from his slumped seating position in the 1987 Chevy Silverado “Batmobile”.

The truck, with its primer black paint job, Bat logo front license plate, heavy duty winch, roll bar festooned with spot lights, intimidating lift kit, deafening cat-back dual exhaust, and over-sized mud/snow tires, rolled down the city streets. At home in the trailer park, in the city streets the truck was nearly as outlandish as the actual Batmobile would be.

The truck turned where John instructed, rumbling loudly with acceleration. The Hillbilly Batman rolled down the road, carefully coasting to a stop in front of a high-end apartment complex.

“There,” John pointed, “Krulltar is on the fifteenth floor, apartment 1573.”

“Security?” the Batman asked.

“He’s got some guys, all armed. They’re scumbags, man. Just like Krulltar.”

“I’ll be right back,” the Hillbilly said.

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