30 Impressions #30

As I kicked back and watched the Catwoman vs. Solomon Grundy showdown, I couldn't help but be impressed by the feline agility on display. She was practically waltzing around the undead giant, dodging swings and cracks with ease. It was like watching a dance-off but with way more destruction.

Catwoman was doing her usual routine, making sure the civilians had a front-row seat to the action—safely, of course. Unlike Batman and his sidekicks, who patrolled the entirety of Gotham, she stuck to East End, and her efforts extended to more than vigilantism. 

She was basically a gender-bent, way hotter version of Robin Hood clad in black leather, stealing from the rich and using the money to create charities to help the people of the crime-infested hellhole that was East End. 

I lounged in the shadows, appreciating the show. Catwoman's whip was like a precision instrument, cracking through the air and keeping Grundy at arm's length. You had to hand it to her; she knew how to keep the big guy on his toes.

Now, she wasn't the Justice League type, but she had her moments. Like right now, trying to help some poor soul get away from the undead wrecking ball. That's when Grundy decided to wise up and charge straight at her like a speeding, undead truck while she was occupied. 

The atmosphere shifted from spectacle to concern. I hesitated, debating whether to jump in or keep sipping my metaphorical soda and let things play out. Grundy had upped the ante, and Catwoman was in a tight spot and presented with a difficult choice-- to save her hide or let the poor schmuck get plastered on the asphalt. 

I chuckled to myself. Gotham's nightlife was never dull.

'I suppose now is a good time to make an impression as any...' I mused, springing into action. 

 I activated my Storm Walker Shoes with fluid movement, catapulting myself into the fray. Grundy was barreling toward Catwoman like a freight train, and my intervention was a split-second decision.

I landed in a crouch, activating the shoes again to propel myself right between Grundy and Catwoman. It was a classic superhero entrance, minus the cape and dramatic flair, as I buried my fist into the undead brute's abdomen, doing zero damage by the looks of things. 

Still, the momentum from the speed boost, coupled with the Guardian Veil's barrier, was enough to send Grundy sliding back, giving Catwoman enough time to send the poor schmuck on his way and gather her bearing. 

Solomon Grundy skidded to a halt, confused by the unexpected addition to the scene.

Catwoman sashayed past me with that trademark feline grace, her whip coiled at her side. She shot me a sideways glance that practically said, "You must think you're slick, huh?"

"And here I was wondering why a rando like you was watching the show with a silly grin," she remarked. "Were you trying to impress me by saving me at a critical moment, perchance?" she added, throwing a side-eye that hinted she could read me like an open book. 

She was spot-on with her conclusion, but honesty wasn't on the agenda today. 

"Believe it or not, the grin might be silly, but the intentions are purely noble," I quipped, showcasing my well-honed persuasion and acting skills. "The situation didn't exactly scream 'kitten stuck on a tree,' so I opted for the spectator role..." I continued, moving forward to join her. "You seemed to have things under control until you didn't," I added, letting out a chuckle.

"Oh, you're no fun," Catwoman teased, rolling her eyes at me in mock disappointment. "No one likes a goody two shoes, you know?" she added with a smirk.

I raised an eyebrow. "So Batman is the exception, eh?" I almost let the next remark slip but chose a more diplomatic route. "We do what is right not for applause or adoration, but simply because it is the right thing to do..." I said, offering my best Superman impression, complete with an expression of stoic determination.

Considering I had the acting skills, it might as well have been the best Superman impression out there. 

Catwoman's initial shock at my Superman impression transformed into genuine amusement as she chuckled. "Well, aren't you the man of many talents? Now, how about a Batman impression?" she teased, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

Before I could conjure up my best gravelly Batman voice, our banter was abruptly interrupted by a flying car, courtesy of the undead wrecking ball, Solomon Grundy, who had been temporarily sidelined. The vehicle hurtled towards us, prompting Catwoman to gracefully evade the danger with a skillful swing of her whip.

Meanwhile, I engaged my Storm Walker Shoes, hurtling towards the airborne projectile. A well-timed punch, propelled by momentum and cocooned in the protective embrace of the Guardian Veil, sent the car spiraling backward.

As the vehicle hit Grundy in the face, a sharp jolt of pain shot through my arm. 'Looks like I overdid it this time...' I mused, wincing as I examined my throbbing wrist. 'Probably just a fracture; it'll be good as new in an hour at most...'

While I nursed my impromptu injury, Grundy, visibly disoriented by the unexpected, well, car to the face, staggered backward. I took a deep breath, pushing through the pain, and gearing up for the next round.

Deciding it was time to wrap up this impromptu undead wrestling match, I mulled over my options. Brawling with Grundy had its downsides—I wasn't a fan of collecting fractures as souvenirs. 

Besides, a straightforward brawl wasn't my style. Fighting fair and square? Not my thing. It's a loser's game, trust me.

While I waited for the opportune moment to swoop in and play hero for Catwoman, I also needed Rattigan, my rodent ally, to round up the local rat population. Time, as they say, was of the essence.

"Mind lending a hand? I need to push the big guy that way," I called out to Catwoman, pointing toward a conveniently placed manhole. 

The quirked eyebrow I got in response suggested she was intrigued. "Got a plan, I take it?" she inquired, and I offered a subtle nod. "Alright then, let's see what you've got," she replied, with a confident smirk, gracefully descending from a traffic light.

Giving a mental nod to my imaginary fan club, I activated my trusty Storm Walker shoes, hurtling toward Grundy just as he regained his bearings. Instead of executing another dazzling punch, I opted for a more traditional approach—a well-timed, strategically placed hit right between the legs.

There was no grand moral high ground to be found here. I simply wasn't keen on earning myself another fracture, and there's a limit to how heartless one can be. Punching someone in the balls and super-punching someone in the balls are two entirely different things, you know?

With my impromptu groin strike proving as effective as ever, Grundy's complexion cycled through an impressive spectrum of colors—grey, blue, white, and various other shades reminiscent of a man struggling with constipation. 

Turns out, whether you're a powerful villain, an average Joe, or an undead behemoth, a swift, well-timed hit to the nether regions was a universal equalizer. The woes of being a man, I suppose. 

Showing no sympathy for Grundy's predicament, Catwoman seized the moment. With the giant off balance, she expertly looped her whip around his neck, giving it a forceful yank. As he stumbled backward, teetering on the edge of the manhole, I took my cue.

Sprinting towards Grundy, I delivered a well-placed dropkick to his chest, providing the extra nudge needed to send him hurtling toward the waiting abyss. 

The manhole cover propelled into the air, revealing a legion of Gotham's most sizable and unsavory sewer rats lurking beneath.

With the precision of a well-coordinated heist, the rodents surged forth like a tidal wave, swarming over Grundy's body and enveloping him in their furry embrace. It was a bizarre yet strangely poetic sight—Gotham's most notorious undead being subdued by a legion of oversized sewer rats.

As Grundy struggled against the relentless tide of vermin, Catwoman sauntered over with an amused glint in her eyes. "Did you conjure up this rodent storm?" she inquired, her curiosity genuine.

I shot her a grin and gestured toward Rattigan, who emerged from under a mailbox and scurried towards us. "Nope, it's the little guy over there – Rattigan, rodent royalty," I explained. 

Rattigan, seemingly taking pride in the title, twitched his whiskers and crossed his arms with an air of regality as he climbed over my shoulder.

"Charming little fellow," Catwoman remarked, reaching over to pet the cheeky rat. 

Seizing the opportunity, Rattigan promptly scurried over her arm and found a perch on her shoulder, making himself quite at home.

"Oh? Fearless as well... doesn't he know cats usually hunt rats?" she teased, ticking Rattigan's chin with her finger and shooting me an amused look.

I shrugged nonchalantly. "Not this one. Rattigan would have any cat for breakfast," I replied with a wry grin. 

The audacious rodent seemed to relish the attention, becoming an unexpected star in the peculiar post-battle tableau.

...

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