Previously on The Brave And The Bold Presents: The Batman® And The Three Stooges®: Shemp picked up the phone on the first ring. “Hello? Yes! Yes! YES! No! No.” He hung up the phone.
Moe, impatient as ever, “What was it?”
Shemp smirked, “Wrong number.” Moe responded with a sharp slap to the face.
And now, Part 2, And Then There’s Moe.
Moe was soaked to the bone, his bowl haircut pasted to his forehead. He shared Hitler’s grimace but without the mustache. “What’s the meaning of this, you numbskulls?” He saw his unconscious partners and steam exuded out of his ears. He made his battle cry known, “Why you!” and charged at the Batman with a monkey wrench.
Unlike the previous assailants, Batman recognized a serious threat. The wrench glistened in the moonlight, and the Detective hung back, studying Moe’s fighting style. Always know your enemy. He was not familiar with this combination of the random drunken master and pure buffoonery. Moe took a swipe at the Dark Knight, missing completely. The Batman countered with a roundhouse kick to the wrist, forcing him to drop the wrench.
“Wise guy, eh? Moe held up his hand, and bounced it in front of the Batman’s face. The Batman took the bait and followed Moe’s tantalizing hand, as it went up and down, up and down, side to side, side to side, then up and up, ending with a quick descending hard swipe down.
The Batman’s neck nearly snapped off. Never had he felt such severe pain and embarrassment at the same time.
Moe held out his fist as if preparing to shake hands or ready to play one-potato, two-potato. The very perplexed Batman was compelled to tap the top of his fist, only for Moe to wind his arm as if it were spring-activated clubbing the Gotham Knight squarely on top of his unsuspecting noggin. BONK!
This bended the Batman’s pointed ear, like a cheap old-school TV antenna. He tried to fix it, but it was as limp as most of the U.S. presidents.
Moe held up his hand and growled, “Pick two.” Batman instinctively pointed to the index and middle fingers, only to be poked mercilessly in the eyes. Blood spewed out of the eyeholes.
For nearly four hours, The Batman endured the onslaught of these peculiar attacks, all the while analyzing and categorizing each savage assault. His conclusion was this was not a fighting style at all, just a series of convoluted acts of slapstick. All he could do at this point was wait for the eye poke. After a gut punch, forehead punch, gut punch, forehead punch, Moe went in for the takedown poke.
The Batman grimaced, and vomited a little before lifting his hand up to his face as if saluting crisply, but instead of touching the forehead, his hand went perpendicular in front of his nose, blocking Moe’s rapidly approaching fingers. With every ounce of strength left, he backhand slapped Moe a good ten feet in the air. He landed unconscious.
The Caped Crusader could barely stand. Every step was a symphony of creaking broken bones. He gasped, nearly falling over.
A rotund bald man slapping his forehead quickly and often as if it propelled him forward appeared. In a high-pitched voice, unfitting for a man of his stature, he squealed, “Moe, Larry, the cheese!” The Batman gulped, swallowing a lot of blood and maybe a tooth. He prayed before being pummeled to death by Curly.