Opinion: I’m not a fucktard. I’m Batman

By Batman.

By Batman.

I’ve been silent too long.

But that’s who I am. A silent protector. A watchful guardian. A circumspect observer. An alert custodian. A vigilant sentry. A wary chaperone. A cautious shepherd. A politic bystander. A dark knight.

I’m sorry. Sometimes I get lost in my own publicity.

I was willing to keep things quiet. Because that’s who I am. A discreet sentinel. But now that the world has been told of my involvement in the events that took place in Hanmer Springs twelve days ago, I can no longer maintain my silence.

I was the bartender.

I’m Batman.

Why was I there? That’s not important. Last I was seen, I was in Florence with a freshly reformed cat burglar. But have you ever actually been to Florence? It’s terrible. Everyone speaks Italian.

So I thought long and hard. I threw a batarang at a map and ended up in Hanmer. It was nice. Easy access to remote caves. Limited bat activity.

I thought I’d try something different. So I became a bungee instructor. I figure, I’ve got experience hanging from things. I’m friendly. Got a nice smile. It’d work out. Turns out there are some differences between firing a grappling hook into a psychotic clown’s leg and dropping a Japanese tourist off a bridge. But the police were real understanding about the whole thing.

Hospitality was the next step. I figure, I’ve been in restaurants. I had a butler. I poured orange juice, once. I only spilt a little. I’d know what I was doing. And I did, mostly. The customers loved me. At least, until that night.

I’m not going to go through the whole story. You’ve already heard most of it. He made fun of my voice. I called him a racist. He asked me, did I know who he was? Of course I didn’t know who he was. I’m Batman, and Batman has no limits. Except it turns out I do.

Then this curly-headed fool threatens to have me fired. Me? Batman? Fired? I’m Batman. I saved a city six times the size of this country from nuclear annihilation. I climbed out of a really big hole. I managed to flawlessly apply black makeup around my eyes night after night for years. And he thinks he can have me fired?

But ask yourself this: do you know how hard it is to yell at a six-foot-two, two hundred pound man in a hardened-Kevlar-plated, titanium-dipped tri-weave-fibre combat suit styled after a bat? A man who sounds like he spends his downtime sucking on the exhaust pipe of a Hummer with a faulty catalytic converter? It’s hard. Really hard.

So for that, I had to give him respect. Besides, my hospitality training in the League of Servants kicked in: the customer is always right, except when they’re trying to gas an entire city with a psychotropic panic-inducing fear toxin hallucinogen. Or when they order Rekorderlig.

But it was more than that. The people of Christchurch have had a hard enough time as it is recently. I knew how important Gilmore was to them, because he told me. He was like a hero to them. They must never know what he did. Christchurch needed its white knight. They needed to believe in Aaron Gilmore.

It’s ugly, but you either dine a hero, or you drink long enough to see yourself become the villain.

Gilmore was the customer, so I was whatever he needed me to be. He’d condemn me, set the dogs on me. Because that’s what needed to happen.  Because sometimes the truth isn’t good enough. Sometimes people deserve more. Sometimes people deserve to have their faith rewarded. So I took the fall.

But then he called me a fucktard.

I’m not a fucktard.

I’m Batman.

There’s going to be a 59th slot opening on the National list soon. It’s going to be mine. I’m going to show the people of New Zealand their country doesn’t belong to the dysfunctional and the drunk. People need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy, and I can’t do that as a barman. As a barman, I’m flesh and blood; I can be ignored, I can be insulted. But as an MP, as an MP I can be incorruptible – well, maybe – and I can be everlasting… for three years.

I’m Batman.