Mustafa and The Bat

Mustafa and the Bat

            The following evening, Dinarzad and her sister Shahrazad again joined the King for yet another story. “Oh great King, could you spare me just one more night so I can tell you and my sister another tale?” asked Shahrazad. “Well as long as it keeps me as entertained as the previous tales you have shared, I suppose I can have you last just one more night”, said the King. “What shall it be this time?” “Why Mustafa and the Bat,” replied Shahrzad, her sister staring rejoiced at her, and the King settled in for another tale.

[Mustafa and the Bat]

Long ago a big powerful figure named Mustafa ruled the land and all the people within its walls. Mustafa was a wealthy and powerful man; he stole from the poor to feed his hungry belly. This palace was cased in gold and marble, floor to ceiling, wall to wall. 360 degrees of riches in every direction, diamonds and gems littered the decorations. Paintings of Mustafa’s family lined the walls of the Great Hall.

            Mustafa was a big man, a self elected king of the land. He was so feared and powerful that nobody towered him or even stood up to him for that matter. For laughs, every Saturday afternoon Mustafa and his posse roamed the streets of Gathoom, feeding on the poor to fill their egos. He would take food or heirlooms from the peasants and keeps for himself, not that he needed these things; he was the wealthiest man for 1,000 miles. He would take the heirlooms or “rubbish” as he referred to it and throw it in a pile with the others in a room in the palace.

            Mustafa’s right hand man did all of the dirty work and all that he was asked to do; mostly killing anyone who defied the Great Mustafa. The right hand man was his Jester, foreseeing peasants murdered on the palace grounds was some vile sort of amusement, while reinforcing his sliver of power within the city. The Jester was almost as vile as the King; he had no problem killing innocent people to feed his own powerful ego, as well as guarantee himself a room of riches in the king’s palace.

            One afternoon King Mustafa was about on his horse when he stumbled upon a small family; a mother, father, and a young boy leaving a small town gathering, a play as it were. The King fancied the wife’s pearl necklace she was wearing around her neck; when she did not relinquish it fast enough the King ordered the man and wife to be executed by the Jester at once. The young boy, their son, was forced to watch this; King Mustafa said “we will show the young boy that defiance is not an act of bravery, but of stupidity.” The boy watched as the Jester decapitated both his parents. “Now throw that “street rat orphan out of here” referring to the boy, “he is making my palace ugly with his rags.”

            The poor boy roamed the streets for years, homeless, living on scraps to eat and rags to dress warm with. At first he only stole to survive, until he grew old enough to find a home, something reasonable, but alone and dark like his life had grown after watching his parents die. Ever since that day the young boy had a seething hatred for both Mustafa and the Jester, wanting his vengeance.

            Ten years passed since that horrible day. The boy, now man, climbed the nearby mountains, overlooking the small town and more importantly the palace of the King. On this mountain the man found a cave, a vacant cave. The only thing living in there was bats; well after his parent’s deaths he grew fear of nothing, so living among bats were nothing he feared.

            As the night grew on, Shahrazad longed for sleep, as well as the King. “I would love to continue dear King, but I am so tired, I feel as if I may drift off. If you shall spare me, I can finish on the next moon,” explained Shahrazad. “Again you have peaked my interest, I will grant you just one more day,” yawned the King.

            The man cleared out the cave of rocks and dirt and gathered a collection of rags. He still roamed the streets for scrap food and rags regularly. One day he stumbled upon a black ski-mask and black trousers. He took anything he could get to keep himself warm. He took them back to his cave and put them with the others. A few days passed and he looked at the mask and trousers, black as the bats, hardly noticeable. That gave him the idea of how he could get over the walls, into the palace virtually undetected and fulfill the revenge of his parents. As soon as he could, he searched and found a black baggy shirt along with a black robe in a pile of garbage in the city. He made the robe a cape to conceal him in the darkness. The man had a plan; he worked out furiously for 2 months until he grew strong, lifting rocks. Although to be a bat, he thought, you need to act like one, undetected and hanging above ones enemies’ heads, the element of surprise. He soon learned how to hang from walls with great strength; he figured he could climb up the side of the palace, through the high windows, dangle from above the enemy and seek his revenge.

            He was set to seek his revenge for his parents. The man would plan his attack at night for obvious reasons. The day he was set to seek his revenge he could see from the opening of his cave, the palace. In the yard of the palace he caught a glimpse of another execution, no doubt another unfortunate peasant. It was then that he realized that he was not a symbol of revenge but one of hope, not only for his parents, but for the countless other peasants who were murdered on the palace grounds. He was a symbol of good and hope.

            As the night fell he made his way down the mountain. He was armed with knives and deadly hands and a strong body and of course, the element of surprise. Nobody would expect an attack on the palace; this has never been done, out of fear.

            He crept to the outside of the walls in darkness, scaled the brick wall, running across the wall and leaping onto the first floor roof of the palace. He could see below the posse of King Mustafa enjoying drinks and smokes. He pulled himself over the railing of a balcony, peering in the windows seeing that it was empty. He climbed up the wall on to another balcony. The window dressed with the linens; this, he thought, is where that bastard sleeps. Inside he could see Mustafa wandering around his room, half drunk. Ready for an attack, the Bat climbed into the window high above the King’s bed and hung there. He got out his knife and released his feet from the window ledge, landing on his feet behind the King, who was still unaware of his guest and continued to wander and ramble.

            The Bat grabbed the King, turned him around with his knife to his chubby neck. The King screamed “who the hell are you?” The Bat in turn said “I am an orphan thanks to you, you had my parents killed you bastard, for that and every other peasant you killed, it’s your turn.” “Nobody attacks me!” the King roared. He tried to grab the knife; the Bat smiled and pushed the knife through the Kings Adam’s apple and through his throat, killing the King.

            Next was the Jester. He could hear walking down stairs, the posse probably getting more scotch to drink. The Bat scaled up the wall, out of the window where he just entered and onto the balcony. Looking down he could see a puddle of blood growing around the late tyrant.

            Shahrazad slowly sighed and let out a great yawn. “Oh Kind, would you mind terribly if we continued tomorrow evening?” looking at the King with dark bags under her eyes, “I promise tomorrow you will not be disappointed.” “Well, I suppose I could wait just one more day, this is a great story my dear,” explained the King already coiled in his sheets. “Tomorrow my King, tomorrow,” yawned Shahrazad.

            With the knife still in hand he climbed the walls around the palace, his dark clothes concealing him in the night, looking from window to window. At last he came to the Jester in the hallway on the third floor. The Bat stormed the window hiding himself in his cape as not to get out and attacked the Jester.

            “Well well who is this dark fellow!” grinned the Jester.

            “Your end; you murdered my parents!”

            “Oh did I, which ones? I’ve had the privilege of spilling much blood in my day on these grounds.”

            “10 years ago! You made a boy watch his parents being decapitated at the hand of nut.”

            “A nut you say? Well looks like you didn’t learn anything about respect did you?”

            “You will soon enough.”

            “Oh will I? I will enjoy killing you too! Did you say your parents lost their heads?”

The man just stared, black, his eyes beaming.

            “Well what’s one more? Hahaha”

The Bat charged the Jester, wearing a smirk. They wrestled on the floor, knives and punches being exchanged. The Bat dodged a jab of a knife by the Jester. The Jester may have had quick knife skills but the Bat was running on pure determination and muscle. After about a minute of constant jabs and swipes back and forth the Bat had the Jester in a headlock.

            “So you really will kill won’t you?” said the Jester.

            “You murdered my parents and God knows how many others!”

            “It was Mustafa’s idea, but I did take full pleasure”

With that the Bat snapped the neck of the Jester, but didn’t kill him, only paralyzed him. The Bat took the knife and did to the Jester what the Jester did to his parents 10 years ago. He took the headless body of the Jester, dragged it out to the yard, and tossed it over the wall, leaving a trail of blood; he left the body along the wall. A homeless man witnessed what the Bat did, stopped and stared.
            “What are you?” said the man.

 Looking at the bloody, headless body, still wearing the jester suit.

“The Batman!”

He then quickly took off down a dark alley up the mountain side and into the cave, watching over the town of Gothoom from all evil. The Batman grew to be a well known symbol of hope and justice. The poor gained hope of a better life and fear lessened in the streets. Never again will the King or his Jester spread fear into Gothoom.

“What a great tale,” remarked the King. “One of the best yet I have heard from you.” “Why thank you, but you have not heard the end,” exclaimed Shahrazad, excited to keep the King interested in more tales. “There are more tales of the Batman, that was just one.” “Oh” replied the King, “well I would certainly like to hear the rest of his adventures,” explained the King, rising off his pillow. “Tomorrow, tomorrow I will tell you another tale of the Batman, but tonight, I am far too tired.”