Author's note: Let the fun begin!

Bruce Wayne is a f****** rip-off.

One of the most-beloved American superhero characters, Batman, is according to the words of his own creator, Bob Kane, at least partially inspired by Zorro.

The resemblance was easy to spot-a suave, wealthy vigilante living in an era full of corruption and crime initially seeking vengeance, but ultimately learning justice was the answer all along.

Now, Zorro, known as a Spanish California hero, isn't even actually Spanish. He was created by an American, probably basing it off tales of the Old Wild West.

However, most people assume that Batman is wholly original, and that Zorro is a Spanish creation when in fact, he isn't.

Little known facts like these came to his mind when Agent Flores was put in a situation where others started making assumptions that aren't true.

Take this fellow in front of him for example.

"Are you sure you ain't at least one-part Mexican?", a tall freckled Southerner hollered, drawling his Southern accent for emphasis.

Agent Flores sighed. "I'm not Mexican," he answered for the umpteenth time.

The prolific DEA agent had originally come to this hole-in-the-wall bar next to a local pizza shop in an out-of-the-way strip mall because a tip from an ongoing case had led him there.

Peering inside, he had been greeted by bright neon lighting, dark wooden panels and a dirty atmosphere that caused him to hack for quite a bit. Just being in here was upsetting his former childhood dust allergy that he had thought conquered long ago.

Stepping through the entrance, a bell had rung causing a bartender with a sweaty scarlet bandanna to look up at him, point at an empty booth and go back to wiping an empty glass all in the span of a few seconds.

Sitting down at a booth by himself, he had observed the environment and noticed that the type of people that infested these waters seemed to be none other than 2nd-amendment toting rednecks which usually meant trouble for him.

Sometimes it pays not to be Hispanic, he thought.

Add that to the fact that he had spent an hour sipping water out of a straw waiting for his informant made this federal agent's day go from bad to worse.

Well, if the guy hadn't come by now, that probably meant his informant was a no-show.

So much time wasted, and on his day off no less.

"Well, you're speaking Mexican, so you have to be Mexican then," the guy deadpanned related to him.

Oh, this guy was being serious.

"Sir, the language I was just speaking previously in is Spanish, not Mexican," he explained, rubbing exasperatedly through his chestnut locks.

Having snapped back to the present harsh reality, he was reminded of why he didn't associate with drunks.

During the time he had adequately wasted in this joint, he got himself into this mess after a rude, belligerent customer had almost hit the poor kid mopping up the tables.

"LET ME DRINK! You spics' don't know when a man ain't done yet!", the savage giant roared.

Naturally, he intervened, calmed the would-be Tarzan and shooed the kid away in his native tongue.

Shouldn't have done that apparently because most of the people in this place were Aryan race sympathizers.

That's where this fellow came in-bumped into him while on the way out of this hellhole-and got a tip from his other drinking buddies to make his day harder than it already is.

"Where ya from then?", the Southerner inquired, scratching the hair under his cap.

Flores almost smirked, thinking on what his godmother would say if she caught a man wearing a hat indoors...no.

There would be no reminiscing on old memories tonight.

Let the past die, he thought.

"San Antonio," Agent Flores responded.

"But you don't sound plain honest-to-God born-and-bred Amurican'? I mean...no disrespect, but where ya pick up that tongue if you ain't a wetback?"

Without breaking a sweat, he replied, "Texas by way of Chile."

"Chile...Where's that in Mexico?"

For the first time in a very long time, Flores had the urge to sucker punch an ignoramus. Unfortunately, that rage fantasy was dashed the minute he looked at his DEA badge and realized that would cost him his badge and maybe his life if the folks around here jumped him for hitting one of 'them'.

Taking a deep breath in, he opened his mouth just to be dragged by the guy into the outside seating area.

Judging by the shadows at his feet, he surmised it was dusk. They were alone since no one sat outside lest the mosquitoes start biting them.

Even Neo-Nazis feared something.

Only then in the dim remains of sunlight did he recognize the ruffian for who he really is.

"Scott?"

"Long time no see, Pablo," his former college roommate replied with a cheeky grin.

Right before his eyes stood a living, breathing relic of his past.

Quick, burn it alive, he thought to himself.

Pablo started, "But...I thought after college you entered the FBI academy..."

"Dude, have we met before? I mean I know we joked around that out of all of us I was most likely to end up being a Ku Klux Clan member, but did you really believe I would do that after all we've been through?"

Pablo stayed silent, remembering a first-generation college student whose family wished for him to climb them out of poverty only to meet an FBI recruiter senior year and dash their dreams of him going to law school.

"I'm working undercover with a white supremacy group, you see?"

"So that's why..."

"Sorry, I called you names though..."

Chuckling nervously, Pablo added, "I mean I know you meant no harm..."

Pablo was interrupted when Scott chimed in, "I know you're not really a beaner..."

Flores changed his tune and remarked, "Scott, you haven't changed."

"I know. Behind this new scruffy beard, and rented cap, I'm Old Faithful, aren't I?"

Pablo grunted when Scott slapped him on the shoulder like old times.

Still hurt like hell.

"Actually, I can't believe that the getup fooled you. That's good. Wouldn't want my superiors thinking I blew my cover while giving an old buddy of mine a favor."

"Wait...what?"

Now it was Scott's turn to sigh. "I got you a lead."

Pablo paled at the implication.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but I didn't know that Mexican chick had anything to do with your case and the white supremacists aren't exactly friends with the cops so......"

Slamming his old college classmate into the brick wall, he hissed,

"Where is she?"

Author's note:  Let me state this again, I do not condone racism. Do not be racist, k?

Also the bleep is not a bad word...it's freaking. Don't know what y'all were thinking! This is an agent of the law here...*loses it and starts laughing*