In Bane’s twisted world, upside down was right side up: There is no global warming, the rich need not pay taxes, the poor do not deserve universal healthcare.
And Bane set about to bring his dim worldview to a scorched nation of debtors and the indentured.
He raised more money than hope.
He told more scathing lies than any ordinary man ever could — and thought nobody noticed the contradictions in his incoherence against humanity.
However, Bane could not run from his past: The trail of blood in paper was too thick to escape, and the heft of lost lives pulled him deeper down into the tar like a moral anchor from which there was no redemption.
The people rose up to strike him down and down and down again.
As Bane lay dying — last gasping for the sweet scent of fresh air from an alive world above him — he was overtaken with the loneliness of his cruel deceptions and the breath of life threaded from his lips like a final wisp of smoke from a dying coal mine.
As the world danced on Bane’s grave, the wise and the foreseers stood watch, knowing he would be back soon, but in a different form, and be more dangerous than ever.
Money never dies; it only regurgitates into inherited wealth: Bane is dead; but never gone.