Batmish, it’s time. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. DAMN IT.

I’ve summoned my skeletons, and they’ve appeared.

…But the rest is up to me.

I have to enter the fray.

Fuuuuck.

I was Dad’s signature. Always. In the end I was technically his signature. The signer on all his accounts. Because I took care of him. When he wanted to shuffle cash from one card to another, more often than not, I just took the money from my account.

I really did love him.

But when I was a kid, I was the only person who could sign his name just like him. But more importantly, I was also his logic.

Me.

I was his hard, cold, ice bucket of

“if it’s not in writing it’s not real.”

And it was at this point, when I was about seven years old, that he told me his great, big, contract secret:

Always sign in green ink.

But until last month he kept the payoff secret. He never told me how it mattered. That it mattered.

It mattered.

It mattered.

I’m still scared of the whole “fame” thing. In any form.

But I’m out of options. Dad has made it so that I have no choice.

He has deliberately forced my damn hand because he knows my fears.

And my weaknesses.

And where fame and fortune scare me, the way to rope me in, helplessly rope me in, was to do something that made me proud of him.

Very proud of him.

Because the one thing I can’t not do is honor his legacy if the motherfucker did something that made him actually worthy.

And he has, dammit

The Police: When the world is running down you make the best of what’s still around… (like an old VCR tape of James Brown on The T.A.M.I. Show)

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