Becoming Batman by Possibly Getting Rabies

And why I avoid going outside in order to avoid a horrible death.

Photo by Geoffrey Moffett on Unsplash

Hola amigas y amigos,

My wife and I love to walk together. Caminar means “to walk” in Spanish. Not too different from camino, is it? A camino is a path on which we can walk. Notice that the language treats verbs and nouns as two sprouts of the same seed — an analogy befitting a verdant spring.

Primavera!

Primavera is almost here, and in Galicia, the greenery is… greenifying. There are dogs (perros) everywhere! Big (grande) dogs, little (pequeño) dogs. Some look like wolves (lobos), but they are very well-behaved. Do you know why? It’s because, in Spain, many people have a Catholic guilt complex that makes them feel ashamed about everything — including having an anxious dog, which motivates them to actually train the damn thing.

But the dogs, you must understand, can’t stop trying to hump each other in this season of hot and wet fertility. And who can blame them? Certainly not the Catholics. Among the humans around here, many of whom are Catholic, the rate of public displays of affection has steadily risen as well. Even in “conservative” areas, Spaniards aren’t particularly shy about their… desires.

But more importantly, my new balcony furniture arrives soon. I’ve been preparing for the warming weather — stocking up on wine to try, friends to share it with, and for times of sober solitude: comic books to translate.

Everyone knows Batman, of course. And a couple of years ago, just before a suburban Chicago primavera, I nearly became something of a bat-man myself. But rather than someone killing my parents in front of me, my origin story was a bit different. It was more like that of Spiderman.

When Americans walk around, they all think, “I just need to watch out for cars and murderers, and I’ll be fine.”

But as I’ve learned, that’s not enough. Tricky Vicky and I had, up until one particular moonlit stroll, walked countless nights without a hitch — in Chicago and beyond. But that doesn’t mean much, considering Chicago didn’t just feel safe… it felt cozy, contrary to what people who’ve never lived there will tell you.

Anyway, it was a chilly night, but all the walking warmed me up, so I unzipped my jacket. Then I tucked my hands in my jacket pockets, and might have been passionately debating my wife on the matter of scissors. Now, this is just my opinion, and other people don’t have to agree — assuming they have no morals or principles — but I think scissors should be returned to the same place every time after they’re used, so they can be found by other people who want to use them.

I wanted to make it very clear that randomizing the position of the scissors, in time and space, was inconsiderate to those of us whose astral projection prowess is not on par with that of Magneto from X-Men.

Then, suddenly, it felt like someone tugged at my jacket from behind! Was I being punished for my hyperobjective rationality? Was it Mothman, a cryptid allegedly sighted in Chicago? Or was it Lobo — of DC Comics fame, much like Batman — who murdered Santa? And brutally so.

This is a comic that inspired me as a child.

If Lobo could murder Santa, he’d murder me. I don’t have a secret polar base, elvish indentured servants, or magical flying reindeer. But despite my apparent worthlessness, did I deserve to be murdered for merely insinuating that shared belongings should have a governance model more sophisticated than barbarism? I think not. And of course, while you and I both know that I will one day be murdered, and probably for speaking truth to power on this very blog, we’re still a long way off from that.

But there was no Lobo. No Mothman. It wasn’t even Batman roundhouse-kicking me in the mouth for the crime of trying to explain how pro-social behaviors work.

Instinctively, I tried to grab at whatever was tugging on me through my jacket, like any practiced kung fu warrior would. Then I felt a bulge on my right side — in my jacket. This was no primavera fertility ritual.

“Ow!” I yelped, as something stung my hip.

Then, out of my jacket flew a winged menace.

PROTIP: if you ever get scratched or bitten by a bat, go to the emergency room E-FUCKING-MEDIATELY. You can literally die… of rabies. You do NOT want to die of rabies. It is not a good time.

Anyway, I was pretty pissed off about the whole scissors thing, so I just went to bed.

The next day, at some point I remembered that I had been scratched or bitten by a bat. Heh, not me, I thought. I’m the main character. The main characters of this universe, like yours truly, have a thing called “plot armor.” Like Batman, we have destinies to fulfill. So what if some destinies involve starting new pandemics and finding ourselves repeatedly in the path of a total solar eclipse? Somebody has to be the main character for that sort of thing. Some of us have to be anti-heroes, like dear old Lobo. And yet there appeared to be a scratch and a couple of bite marks on my hip. Hmm…

I looked up my prognosis online, which immediately prompted me to haul ass to the ER. When they think you might have rabies, you jump the queue (just a little life hack for those of you who live in America). Four different nurses came to see me, ecstatic that I was possibly their first rabies patient. They couldn’t have been more excited, and they all wanted to hear my story. They smiled with undeniable smugness, hoping they’d have front-row seats to watching me die of a terrible disease. Then the doctor injected me with various shots, told me he’d googled my situation, and was pretty sure I’d be fine.

“However,” he said, “you’ll have to come back for more shots.”

And so I did. However, a follow-up nurse administering one of these shots asked me a disturbing question that undermined my confidence in the entire process. This medical professional asked me — the guy who was scratched and bitten by a bat — “So how do you even avoid getting scratched or bitten by a bat?”

Are you fucking serious? I thought. I’M ONE OF THE FEW PEOPLE THIS HAS HAPPENED TO. I’M LITERALLY THE LAST PERSON ANYONE SHOULD ASK.

Photo by Robin Teng on Unsplash

This primavera, remember that it’s not just dogs and Catholics out on the prowl. Don’t let the Easter bunnies and flamenco fool you. The merrymakers come out at night, but so do the bats. The temperature changes between winter and spring confuse these creatures, and if you’re a human radiator like I am, they might want to snuggle inside your jacket. Be mindful of their territories and hours, as the sick ones are more likely to have… encounters.

Just the other day my wife and I were walking around the park at night. And there were creatures flapping around us amidst the street lamps. We gazed upon them with suspicion.

Reese here from Bebop Libre: And then an argument ensued over whether they were bats, according to my wife, or just big black moths, according to me. Besides, I have the rabies shots now. So, what's the worst that could happen? LIKE and SUBSCRIBE if you believe Mothman is real, por favor.