Not to be too immodest I must say I would make an excellent spy.

I'm resourceful, reasonably intelligent. I speak a smattering of languages and observant. I'm also accustom to world travel which comes in very handy in the life of a spy. I am adaptable. Flexible only metaphorically speaking, of course. I'm not adverse to the notion of serving my country in the necessary capacity.

I had a brief career on the stage so subterfuge is not wholly unfamiliar to me. Also, it is impossible to work in my current occupation and not develop the skills necessary to clean up any mess as discreetly and efficiently as possible.

Just because I may need bifocals to read the hidden microfilm shouldn't have any bearing on whether or not I'm competent to be an International Man of Mystery.

Besides, haven't any of you watched the movies? I'm British. That is all the qualification that I need. And who's to say that I'm not?


Muse: Alfred Pennyworth
Fandom: Batman
Word Count: 162

Fame is hardly the point of a career such as mine. No one becomes a butler with the intention of gaining fame. No one has yet to gain international stardom for knowing how to properly iron and fold cloth napkins. Sad, but true.

Nor did I have a desire for fame during my time in the military. Fame with military service comes at a terrible price - more often than not: one's life.

No, fame has never been something I've sought. Far better minds than mine have commented about the fleeting, fickle kiss of fame. I prefer constancy.

I worked towards another goal: recognition. In every position and rank I have held I have worked, and worked hard for the recognition not of those superior to me by rank but for the recognition of those I respected and admired.

They have been few and far between.

Thomas Wayne was one. His son is another. The recognition of men such as these far outweighs any fame I could never aspire to.

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?
W. H. Davies


Nothing lives in the penthouse. The light is too feeble, the air too recycled and everything is static and sterile.

Alfred has done his best with a variety of types of plants and flowers and yet nothing thrives amid the glass, marble and chrome.

He knows how the plants feel. The cold is beginning to creep into his bones when he sits for too long in one place. The ceilings are lower and the walls are closer together and Alfred hopes he is not developing claustrophobia.

He fancies he misses the gardens at Wayne Manor. He wouldn't dream of claiming the gardens were his. No, that honor went to the landscapers and maintenance crews. But Alfred did his share of watering, weeding, pruning and in general tending. He put his hands in dirt and mulch and and roses bloomed. He doesn't feel so productive now.

Alfred misses the library and the smell of aged leather and the look of dust motes in unfiltered sunlight. He misses the ancient recliner in his apartment and his mother's teakettle. He misses his home.

I haven't got the foggiest idea.

Perhaps that is the greatest gift old age can give you: the blending of your memories that goes beyond 'now' and 'then' or 'good' and 'bad' or even 'pleasurable' or 'painful'. There is just the feeling of satisfaction or dissatisfaction when you look back on the events that have led you to the place you currently occupy.

I don't remember one particular moment where I became aware. The mind of a man my age does not function in that capacity anymore. I could be vague and say that I remember my mother's musical voice or the touch of my father's hand through the bars of my cradle. But I do not. It is enough for me to know that my mother did sing to me and my father most certainly reached for my hand through the bars of my cradle whilst I was rocked to sleep.

Too many people become focused on the past as they age and lose sight of the possibilities that lay in front of them in this new phase of their lives. I never want to become one of those people so my imperfect memory is perfectly suited to me.



Muse: Alfred Pennyworth
Fandom: Batman
Word Count: 206

[PRIVATE]
In my younger days I might have answered with boxing. It's always been a fascination of mine. The idea of two seemingly rational men who agree to meet in a ring and pummel one another until only one is left standing is nothing if not curious. I was even known to practice the art now and again. Perhaps that is part of the foolishness of youth, thinking that you can craft art out of brutality.

Of course that is long past me now. I'm no longer than angry, gangly youth. Whatever desire I may have had to inflict harm on another has been slaked in villages too tiny to be found on maps, in wars that were never fought for reasons that were never disclosed in actions too terrible to name. Whatever appeal wholesale brutality might have had died outside the opera along with the finest man I ever knew.
[/private]

I always fancied myself a fine synchronized swimmer.



Muse: Alfred Pennyworth
Fandom: Batman
Word Count: 160

No one ever notices Alfred Pennyworth's hair.

It's a source of true pride for him because the duty of a man in his position is not to stand out. Rather he works to blend into his environment. A conspicuous butler is a sloppy butler and Alfred is never sloppy. It puts him out of step with most of the rest of the world. Modern culture seems, to him, to be predicated on being noticed by as many people as possible at all times. That is not the way of the butler. More precisely that is not his way.

He knows that there are few people left in the world who consider what he does to be anything close to a source of pride. After all 'servant' is a dirty word. But Alfred doesn't care for the opinion of the fashionable world. He hasn't for more years than most of them have been alive. Instead what he cares about is that every linen that graces Master Bruce's table is pressed to perfection, the candles are at identical heights, and that everything the young master needs is at his disposal without thought, without effort- it is simply taken care of.

He does these things without drawing attention to himself. It isn't his way. His hair is just another reflection of the man he is: meticulous, precise, and unnoticed. Just the way he likes it.


Muse: Alfred Pennyworth
Fandom: Batman
Word Count: 232