Anyway, back in '86, before Watchmen made him famous, Moore wrote Swamp Thing #53. In a nutshell, Swamp Thing's human wife is locked up in Gotham City for bail jumping after a small-town sheriff cuffs her for relations with her plant husband. (Fun fact: Mrs. Swamp Thing has sex with Mr. Swamp Thing by eating a psychotropic orgasmic yam plucked from his torso. Seriously!) Swamp Thing is mighty pissed, so he turns Gotham into a lush jungle -- at least until authorities drop the yam-cest charges.
Enter Batman. He's not impressed that stamens and pistils and tubers and gourds are holding Gotham hostage, so he rolls up in this magnificent rig.
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"Hi, Lucius, it's Bruce. I'm hosting a bris. Giant Man's. Yeah, he's converting. You call it 'The Bat-Mohel'? I'll swing by at 4."
Negotiations go as well as they can, considering one party is an unmedicated billionaire in a Nosferatu lumberjack car and the other is an exasperated pile of insoluble fiber.
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Y'know, Batman, calling for sober deliberation tends not to work when your bully pulpit is made of chainsaws.
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