Timothy Dalton stood proudly in the breeze with a white towel gently wrapped around his supple waist. Gazing out of his Gotham City penthouse (which he called “The Octagon”) had recently become one of his favorite pleasures to partake in and he took every opportunity to prance and play amidst the dark pendulous glory of his manhood. The taint of his ecrow account’s ballistic management had finally begun fading from his memory and visions of a bright future for Dalton’s Balls Sports Manufacturing Etc., LLC.

“This will be the last time Wayne Corporation ever steal one of my precious ball making contracts… Bruce doesn’t understand the manufacturing of balls like I do! Bruce learned balls from me. ME! Now he wanna go around talkin’ bout balls like I ain’t got none! What he think I sold em all?”

A sudden gust of wind interrupted Mr. Dalton’s bellowing. Curious to discover the source of interruption, he asks:

“What is all this about?”

“Nothing, Timmy,” said a dark voice from the shadows.