1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?
2. Who is the most interesting person the woman wearing you has ever dated?
3. Ew… Are you joking?
Oh no. She dated Bane. And with a face like a viperfish codpiece, he is, hands down, thee most interesting person she has, and probably will ever date. Their love affair started over pointed, sexual implication and a common love of shearling coats. His? Journeyed and real. And hers? Why, inverse, laundered and faux, of course. You’d be wise to never underestimate the shared love of a statement piece. It knows no… Well, disturbing face like viperfish codpiece.
4. How in the hell does one even begin to date Bane? Walk me through this. I’m begging you.
You start by being the receptionist at Goldman Sachs on the day Bane comes round asking questions and not leaving until he gets some answers. My girl refused to let him through. She actually stood up, got in his face and refused to let him through. After all, beyond those doors, in those hallowed halls people were in meetings, discussing things like taking advantage of Brazil’s record low-interest rates by tripling the capital investment of their Brazilian unit by year-end, their work contra fiscal responsibility, how spot-on the dominatrix was at ball-gagging last night and how fun it would be to light three Gulfstreams on fire to see which one would burn faster. Of course, Bane knew all about the tomfoolery happening beyond the corrupt, frosted doors, which is why he was there to regulate, to restore natural order, to give industry back to its rightful owners: the people. He relayed to my girl all of this in his respiratorily challenged, region of accent: the pits of hell voice. Good on ya, Bane, but she still wasn’t letting you through. As a matter of fact, she repeated herself and, this time poked his shoulder for emphasis. Naturally, he grabbed her by the wrist, but just as he was about to snap it back and simultaneously head-butt her, he saw it! Behind the fear and trepidation was a questioning twinkle in her eye that said, “Hmmm… I wonder what sex with him is like. Also, his jacket is fantastic!” He was right. That’s exactly what she was thinking. The heady thought was cross-pollinated by the realization that she was sick of the nonexistent muscle mass she was used to dating. The men who somehow managed to pull things during Hatha for beginners. The men who took Hatha for beginners. And since Bane was, dare I say, a little too yolked and would be more likely to detonate Hatha for beginners rather than take it, dating him felt like a liberating departure. Case in point, her previous beau was in-house counsel for an accounting firm. You do the math. Nevermind, I’ll help ya. Sex exclusively on Wednesdays. What does that even mean?! To go from that to Bane? Well, it was pretty huge. Speaking of–
5. Let’s keep it clean, okay?
Sorry. Anyway, he left the regulating of Goldman Sachs to his minions while he and my girl ventured up to Momofuku Milk Bar for Crack Pie and pretzel milk. Bane’s a foodie. Who knew? And so, over more free Crack Pie than one could shake a stick at, Bane and my girl got to know each other on levels neither ever thought possible. He shared tales of growing up in a dungeon and getting his face ripped to shreds by rabid, lost souls, while she told him about her first pet, Snowflake — a.k.a. Snowy –a white bunny who followed her to school and coaxed her awake by wiggling his wet nose against her ear every morning, “Can you believe he loved me that much?!” A tear streamed down Bane’s face. “This is what love feels like,” he thought. He was home. It had been a long, arduous journey but he was finally home. Before long, she was leaving work early, forgoing SoulCycle and drinks with friends to join him on excursions for justice and retribution. Her nights and a few sick days (wink!) were now spent driving tanks and semis through the walls of banks and other financial institutions, melting bullion only to release the liquid gold down into the sewers, unlocking the doors to Ryker’s and the Tombs! It was a natural high she couldn’t have imagined in the wildest of dreams. This was living and let nobody tell ya different! Unfortunately, it wasn’t all just fun and games. Work suffered– she found herself catching up on sleep at her desk– and the continual adrenaline rushes took their toll on her skin but they were all worth it. And anyway, the skin troubles could be easily remedied by sneaking a few bills from the bank raids and putting them toward weekly sessions with the master herself, Ms. Isabelle Bellis. Problem solved! My girl soon realized a lot of her problems were solved with Bane in her life as both a lover and a friend.
6. Hold up. How in hell are they getting free Crack Pie?
Bane and Chef Tosi go way back. I never got the full story but all I know is the past between those two was dark, to say the least. Christina emerged the doyenne of desserts while Bane, well, we know how that story ends. But moving on, I guess you could say it was kismet between Bane and my lady, written in the stars, if I’m in the business of being trite. It seemed like a weird pairing, however, you have to keep in mind my girl hails from Detroit, the daughter of two high school social workers who summered as NGO volunteers. All four grandparents were Freedom Riders and both great grandmothers Suffragettes. My girl was actually conceived while her parents were on a break from building the bonus room for a Habitat for Humanity abode. Moreover, not only did her parents not leave their fair city after the bottom fell way out, they started Detroit’s Occupy Wall Street chapter. Now tell me, who’s a bigger 99-percenter than Bane? No one, that’s who. Screw “we,” he was the 99 percent! For my girl, everything in toto made a life with Bane familiar in a familial way, yet edgy and infused with intrigue and danger to the rest of the world. It was a win-win. Needless to say, the family loved him from the start. Thanksgiving, everyone jumping up to help him get Aunt Cleo’s stuffing into that industrial maw. Christmas, allowing him the honor of placing Santa atop the tree. Sitting around the fire, he was the center of attention as everyone shared stories of how they each contributed to making the world a better place. My girl was living the dream–or so she thought. Things began to wane with Bane around her birthday. It all started when she simply requested, up front, for her family to all pitch in and purchase for her a pair of Pierre Hardy pumps. A gauche request, yes, but when one knows what they want, one knows what they want. Unfortunately, without her knowledge and at the behest of Bane, the family took the money and instead donated it to an ailing soybean farm in Frankenmuth. On the day of her birthday, my girl, in turn, received a card telling her that this had been done in her name which naturally lead to two simple thoughts, “Where the fuck is fucking Frankenmuth and why do their beans have the cash for my Hardys?!” She looked up from the card to him, Bane, leaning against the mantel, one hand on his hip, the other swirling a glass of their homemade wine, The Lovers Vintner’s Blend #1. Bane raised his glass, smized. She wanted to snarl in return but forced a smile instead. That night, while lying in bed, watching “Girls,” she looked to him furtively. Was this the man she had fallen so madly for? The man who now wore “Keep Calm and Carry On” T-shirts and got his kicks oscillating between laughter and furrowed brows because he was that caught up in the minutia of Hannah’s life? It dawned on her. My girl had done the unfathomable. She had domesticated Bane. Yeah, sure, she wasn’t gonna lie, she had fleeting daydreams of moments such as this when gone was the luster for base jumping off of skyscrapers, crashing into the offices of moneyed tycoons only to take them hostage and make their assistants turn on them — something a lot of assistants were a little too eager to do, “Now, I’m gonna want you to take your boss and-” “K!” But now, now that the dream was a reality? Sitting there, watching him watch Hannah war through the trials of a young woman in the big city, the dream didn’t taste so sweet, rather, it was pretty damn bitter. But it wasn’t just that; there were other things gnawing at my girl. For instance, the man’s put-upon, okay? There, I said it. Bane is put-upon. So much so, he made Joseph Merrick come off downright Clooney-esque. It’s like, come on, guy. At a certain point get over it or find a therapist and beat their ear off about it. Fine… breathing’s not your strong suit due to the fact people you thought were friends ripped your face off, you lived in darkness until you were 28, light’s your enemy… Messaged received. And while we get it, one can only hear so much. Take me as a for instance! I’m currently marked down! Soon to be obsolete! But do you see me bellyaching about it? Uh uh. And that’s because you take the licks life hands you and you keep it moving. It’s simple. And let’s not even discuss the horrible friends. I ask you, how many people does one person need to hang out with at a time? Loud, messy, sycophantic man-boys? Yep, that pretty much sums up that lot. And they were always there. Eating everything in sight, feet on the table, peeing on the seat, not cleaning up the kitchen after Molotov cocktail-making during the time they actually made Molotov cocktails. She had to do something. This good thing had jumped the tracks at some point and she wanted off the line. For god’s sake, “Girls” had become Bane’s favorite show! That and “Homeland.” Oh yeah, and “Breaking Bad.” Oh yeah, and “The Walking Dead.” Oh yeah, and “Justified.” Oh yeah, and “Parks and Rec.” Oh yeah, and “Louie.” Oh yeah, and “Game of Thrones.” Okay, this was it! If it was gonna happen it had to happen now. She had to break up with him. It wasn’t gonna be easy but hopefully, he would acquiesce like a good sport as opposed to dressing her in burlap, locking her away in a crawl space, leagues below ground, with only her thoughts, hissing beetles and scabby knuckles for company. At least that was the hope. She took a deep breath and she told him, just laid it out there, “Bane, I think we need to break up.” Cue the timpani, bnrnrnrnrnrnrnrnrnrnr… Man, wouldn’t you know it?! Surprisingly, ol’ Bane took it like a champ, right on the chin! But after all was said and done, I’d be lying if a part of me wasn’t a tad devastated that my time with mangy, shearling outerwear had come to a close. Our love was a dangerous love– also a little ripe, no thanks to me–but our love was love still.
6. Now, I know this is none of my business, not to mention tangential to where you were going, but what was that like in the bedroom?
Well… for starters, he’s a talker, and not in the run-of-the-mill “Oh baby, right there. Mmm hhmm mmm hhmm mmm hhhmm mmm hmmm… That’s the spot. Point your toes. Oh no, I love it when chicks are on their period” sorta way. Every move, and I mean every move, was prefaced by some wheeze-laden soliloquy having to do with miscarriages of justice, rebalancing social discourse and the meek inheriting the earth. How someone can work “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows” into a simple nipple tweak is beyond me, but Bane made it happen. But, with that said, I will say this , repeating “Don’t tread on me” while doing the exact opposite to my girl was pret-ty interesting. That aside, you should know that sex with a healthy splattering of political theory and an acute, social agenda, minus destroying everything in sight proves to be not a lot of fun in the end.
7. So, where’s Bane now?
Well, with the old Bane forced into obsolescence by the awakening of his heart, he walked the streets lost and disillusioned. For the first time in his life, he had no purpose. Nothing felt organic because, unfortunately for him, he had tapped into a part of himself he wasn’t ready to relinquish and the people weren’t ready to accept: the pacifist. He finally found sanctuary in Central Park’s 37-acre parcel known to bird-watchers and men out for quickies alike as The Ramble. He wasn’t interested in the birds nor the quickies but he was interested in the solitude the place granted him; therefore, he made The Ramble his home. He would wake with the sun, live in the light. It was pretty lonesome and the mondo gaggle of friends eventually fell off, save for one: Christina. Always there for a comrade, she would steal away from the scorching ovens of Momofuku and deliver to her friend Crack Pie and pretzel milk to ease his sorrows. “It’s times like these you find you need your friends most,” he would tell her. One day, while pressing his fingers against the container in an effort to get every last crumb of Crack Pie, he saw, walking toward him, a creature so beautiful she made Joan Smalls look like Madame — a virtually impossible feat. Her name was Beatrice and she was blind and she too would come to the Ramble for solitude, but her solitude came in the form of listening to the call of the migrating warblers fresh from their sojourn in Central and South America. But if you ask me, I think she’s putting the whole thing on and she can really see. Yep, that’s just what I think. We ran into them at brunch and there was something about ol’ Beatrice that wasn’t quite right if you know what I’m say-eeeng.
8. What are you say-eeeng?
*deep breath* I’m saying I’m almost positive Beatrice’s fiance was one of the One Percenters Bane left in his wake and she’s back for retribution! Sexy retribution because she’s a throwback and there’s no other kind as far as she’s concerned! And so, just when they’ve settled into domestic life in Yonkers, and they’re sitting at home one evening, reclined in neighboring easy chairs — she’ll be running fingers over “The Magus” and he’ll be working on a crossword — she’ll excuse herself to go to the bathroom! He’ll kiss her hand, bidding her farewell, and watch with utter contentment as she moves out of the room! Ten minutes later, with her site back up and running, she’ll return wearing a mask, sick, stiletto booties and something orange and insanely tight that enhances both her boobs and butt! She’ll proceed to do two back handsprings, a round off back tuck, twisting on the landing and land inches away from his face and in one swift motion, tie both his arms and torso to the easy chair! Bane will not be smizing! She’ll make a sound, “kee-kee-kee-kee…” What’s that sound you ask! Why, it was the sound the robin, her protector, made outside of her window at the asylum she was committed to after witnessing her fiance gunned down in cold blood! It was in that padded room her alter ego was born! Robin! No, wait. That’s taken. Robin… um… Woman! Yes! Perfect! Anyway, Robinwoman will tell Bane, oscillating between whispers and a breathy voice about an octave lower than the voice he’s used to, ” You think you know me, kee-kee-kee-kee… You think that day in the park, in the Ramble, was the first day we met but it wasn’t. I met you long before that day in the Ramble, dear heart. As a matter of fact, life as I know it ended the indelible day I met you. You’ve no idea the damage you left in your wake. Just like you’ve no idea what you did to me the day you killed Saxby. The one person who meant more to me than life itself you stole without a care in the world. To you, Saxby’s demise was just another peccadillo of little to no importance. But to me? Down deep in my heart, consuming my soul? He was everything. And you did it for what, Mr. Bane? For the sake of “the people”? What people? The same people whom despise you? Fear you? The same people you had to overcome, to coerce in order to get them to heed your message?” Bane’ll shake his head! He won’t believe this is happening! “But that’s no longer me. I don’t know who that person is– was,” he’ll weep, tears streaming down his cheek then kind of off-roading down into the codpiece, I mean mouthpiece,”I’m a pacifist now. In it to just be. Nothing more.” “You’re pathetic now,” she’ll reply. Trying with all of his might to break free, Bane’ll bellow, “I loved you, Beatrice!” Then, with a grin laying claim to her face, she’ll say, “Ha! You loved me? Everyone, gather round for he loved me!” Then she’ll narrow a glare and ask, rhetorically of course, “Or did you love how loving a blind woman looked on you?” Then, in it to make Tennessee Williams proud, she’ll drawl, “Look at Mr. Bane. Now ain’t he just ’bout the sweetest ol’ thang for lovin’ that poor, sightless creatuh?” Then, back to her normal, sexy cadence, ” Nooo, I think that’s what you loved because even when cloaked in pacifism it remains all about you. It’s sad really. The only thing those years in the dark managed to do was craft for the world the ultimate, emboldened victim. And now you want us all to cry. For you. Weak. Helpless. Hapless. Bane.” She’ll be interrupted by a knock on the door! She’ll quickly grab a handkerchief and stuff it into Bane’s cod– I mean, mouthpiece! She’ll then thrust toward the door to see who’s called upon them! It’ll be the landlord, Simon, wanting the rent! Still reeling from overhearing the hot, collegiate renters over at the apartment building owned by his mother refer to him earlier that day as a “smelly douche-canoe,” Simon’ll start in on how both Bane and Beatrice’s credit histories were less than favorable but how he let them rent anyway because he trusted them to pay on time and figured they were nice folks and how his mother gifted him the house as an investment property! It’ll be here that he’ll notice exactly what Beatrice-cum-Robinwoman’s wearing! He’ll then peer inside the house to see Bane tied to the chair, gag stuffed into his cod– Gah! I keep doing that! I mean, mouthpiece! Bane’s mouthpiece! Simon’ll look back to Beatrice-cum-Robinwoman and say, “Now, and I don’t know what kinda game you people are runnin’ here but it’ll be a cold day in hell before…” Unfortunately, we won’t know how the story ends because our foe, Beatrice-cum-Robinwoman, will grab our friend, Simon the landlord, by the neck, lift him up over her head and seductively say, “Mr. Porter, you’re in luck. It’s a cold day in hell.” She’ll drop Simon to the ground and with eyes wide, Simon’ll clutch his throat and rasp, “You can see!” She’ll produce a lopsided smirk and seductively sing her response to the tune of “How Deep Is Your Love,” “If you know what is good for you, Mr. Porter, you will run far, far away from here…” Simon will heed the command with a quickness while surmising that her voice ain’t too shabby! Beatrice-cum-Robinwoman will continue out of the house with a strut that’ll make Tony Manero weep, and once down the driveway, she’ll give us a “kee kee kee kee kee” before pressing a red button on a handheld detonator, causing the rental property to explode, thus killing Bane, thus *catches breath* restoring natural order to her broken heart!
9. Uh huh… And all of this based on a hunch that took form after running into them at brunch?
Totally! In the meantime, over in Park Slope, it’s 10 PM, a Wednesday and my girl will be back together with in-house counsel! You do the math! Or don’t! Just know it’s a real bleak scene! So, as in-house counsel bobs around on top with eyes firmly closed, looking like he’s in the final, uphill stretch of the Tour de France in his mind, my girl’s thoughts will travel from exactly what hypothetical fixin’s she would order in a breakfast burrito to that one bead of sweat on in-house counsel’s chin, “You’re really hanging on for dear life aren’t ya? Just drop already, evolve… At least, give me something to do. *sigh* Which will naturally be wiping you away. From my chin. This is too tragic. And why’re his eyes always slammed shut? Wonder what he’s thinking about. Maybe breakfast burritos too. Maybe why that bead isn’t dropping. Can you feel beads of sweat? Can’t remember. *sigh* I’m so hungry.” Then suddenly the entire train’ll jump the tracks to Bane and what he must be up to! Does he ever think about her?! Is he happy?! Sad?! Still with the insanely gorgeous, blind woman?! Who’re we kidding?! She’ll know her name! Her name’s Beatrice and she’s insanely gorgeous! My girl will hate herself for remembering, so she’ll feign forgetfulness to herself, to everyone! Anyway, the Tappan Zee’s still intact, therefore, Bane’s clearly still taking a powder on the tricks of yore! Then she’ll spot it! Crawling across the ceiling will be a teeny, tiny silver fish! The epiphany will hit her at Mach speed! Who’s out there regulating if not Bane?! No one! So, she’ll flee this life, leave in-house counsel, allowing him to take up with someone more his speed, someone who can mold a life of passion and fulfillment around rogue, iron-willed, sweat beads and my girl’ll take up residence on the streets, with the people, below ground if need be! Of course she’ll know her true identity, but to the people dependent on her for safety and moderately sexy justice– because she’s totally modern, ya know? That means she’ll have, like, killer legs but also be an avid reader of the classics when not going balls-to-the-wall for society– well, to all of those people, she’ll be known simply as… the Silver Fi–
10 . O-kay, this is all making me a little mental. Can we just end it?