My Resignation Letter to Wayne Manor
To Whom It May Concern,
(Which I think is just you Mr. Wayne)
Bruce, can I call you Bruce? At this point why not right?
Bruce I gotta tell you that after a career spanning multiple decades as a general contractor and handyman I thought I had landed Wonka’s Golden Ticket when I ended up at your doorstep. Billionaire Bruce Wayne had his people reach out to me for an opportunity to work at the historic Wayne Manor. I gotta tell ya, I saw investment opportunities, bonuses and early retirement in my future. After eighteen months – and yes a couple of “shut the fuck up and don’t talk about it” bonuses – it’s time for me to move on to greener and less fucked up pastures. But before I do I really need to clear the air on some shit that is highly suspicious and will come back to haunt you.
Or would if you weren’t an eccentric, billionaire, orphan with a cadre of flesh eating lawyers at your disposal.
Which is actually my first point of concern.
Alfred
You have an empire of employees. A literal army of human capital at your fingertips; but at your incomprehensibly massive compound there is usually only one person around: Alfred Pennyworth.
Dude, how are you that rich and you have exactly one, extremely elderly, extremely overworked, and somehow extremely loyal, old man on staff? I have been at your palatial estate at all hours of the day and night and not only is he always on call – he’s always in uniform. It would be borderline understandable if all he was doing was toddling around in his tux and tails and bringing you tea, or whatever it is you fancy assholes drink, but that man is doing labor.
We’ve never talked or anything but I have seen that old man, sleeves rolled up, covered in everything from dirt and motor oil to blood. Now I, of all people, understand that work can give a man purpose; but don’t you think this is getting ridiculous? I get that he’s like a father figure to you; but this man should be living in a beach side condo in Boca drinking mojitos. This isn’t just bordering on elder abuse man, it’s setting the fucking bar for it. I’d say it’s time to get someone else to work at the house; but I’m not sure that someone who is not as close to you as Alfred would understand my next big issue.
All The Teen Boys
What’s with all of the very fit, very athletic, problematically young, teens hanging around your house. They clearly don’t work there. You’re famously a reclusive bachelor; so I’m one thousand percent sure that they aren’t your kids. I overheard Alfred calling one of them “Master Dick” which is …
Seriously dude?
SERIOUSLY?
We all know that rich people get up to some weird shit, (everyone’s seen the Epstein and Diddy docs), but either you are a deviant of Epic Proportions or the most oblivious idiot to ever walk the earth. Do your shareholders know about this? How are you so laissez-faire about parading a cadre of young men – some of which have questionable pasts that would be prime targets for exploitation from a rich loner – in front of anyone who just happens to visit your house?
I don’t care if you have a rational explanation for your relationship with these young men; I just know that I can’t afford to be part of whatever Child Protective Services probe lands on your doorstep. I’ll also continue to pretend that the $10,000 spot bonus after retrofitting the gym had nothing to do with this.
Overall though, Bruce, I think the biggest problem that we’re not talking about is your house.
Wayne. Fucking. Manor
What, and I can’t emphasize this enough, THE FUCK is going on with your place?
First of all – the size of the fucking place. I’m not sure how one man (his elderly butler and his harem of “young friends”) can occupy this much square footage. I farted in a hallway once and heard the echo for thirty minutes. You are a reclusive loner; you’re the ideal candidate for a studio loft in downtown Gotham. Other than hosting charity events – which let’s be honest you could just rent a place for the evening – you are one hedge maze away from owning and occupying your own private Overlook Hotel.
Lastly, Bruce, let’s talk about the elephant in the room. The one thing that might actually let me retire to the Bahamas. You know exactly what I’m talking about.
The BatCave.
Buddy I have SOOOOOOOO many questions about what’s going on here; but I’m going to focus on the one thing that I take personal umbrage with.
There is zero god damn chance that you got any of this work permitted through the city, county or the state. This subterranean combat HQ has power, plumbing, hvac, internet and a whole lot of other infrastructure items that require a certain level of skill and speciality to install. This is very clearly not a DYI passion project. There is an industrial sized lazy susan whose only purpose is to turn your super-attack-car around so you can race back out to Batpunch some unfortunate reprobate. There’s no Youtube tutorial for this stuff. You mess up the wiring to the over powered Bat computer and you’re going to burn your place to the ground.
This means you had to hire an army of professional tradesmen. Convince them that even though you do not have any of the appropriate permits for this work; that it is sanctioned and certified by the appropriate planning commissions. You need to bring in resources in a clandestine manner that doesn’t betray your true intentions. And then, once everything is said and done, you have to find a way to keep everyone involved quiet, pacified and ensure that no one goes to the press or local authorities about the well armed, well equipped vigilante hole under your house.
I’m not sure even Bruce Wayne has enough money to keep that many people quiet for that long.
How many bodies are out there Bruce? People who saw the same thing that I did; the dream of the exponential pay day and an end to the toil … only to be betrayed? How much did you spend to not only fortify your cave but protect it?
Did you ever weaponize “Batman’s” enemies to your own ends?
How much blood is on your hands just to craft your very special punchy boy clubhouse?
You have my contact information. My numbered Swiss bank account is attached below. Provide a deposit that assuages my guilty mind and ensures my prosperous retirement somewhere I can spend my days in a hammock over turquoise waters. Otherwise there’s a couple of reporters in Metropolis and a forensic scientist in Central City that are going to get some very incriminating documents.
If you have any questions you know how to reach me “Master Bruce”.
