Night fell as the neon lights flickered to life, and the lion-headed Roman Casino slowly opened its bloody jaws.
Guests of all kinds flowed in and out, with silky shoulders, shapely curves, and charming gentlemen moving through the crowd.
Watching the jewelry and luxury watches glimmering under the lights, Vincent, his back aching from his long shift, was reminded of a certain song lyric.
*At eighteen, at the prom, standing there like a nobody.* Only now, he wasn’t just like a nobody; he was one.
“Relax, Vin!
We aren’t here to play bodyguards.” Oswald appeared from nowhere, holding two glasses of champagne, and handed one to Vincent.
Oswald’s joys were simple; his eyebrows would rise with excitement every time a beautiful socialite passed by.
“Don’t assume we are beneath them just because they’re dressed nice.
We are all in the same dirty business.
In fact, these people might have more blood on their hands than we do.” Oswald took a sip of his champagne.
“Actually,” Vincent interjected.
“More than you.
After all, you’re the one calling me a saint like Jesus.” “I’ll kill if I have to,” Vincent countered, slightly annoyed by the other man’s teasing tone.
“If you *have* to?
You don’t have the faintest idea what that means.” Oswald gave a thin-lipped smile.
“It’s common knowledge that there are two types of people in Gotham you shouldn’t provoke.
But if you must, you’d better be prepared to kill them.” “The first type is the drunk.” Vincent felt that one deeply.
His father had been a raging alcoholic who never knew when to stop swinging his fists after a few drinks.
As a child, Vincent could only endure it, unable to fight back.
It wasn’t until he was seventeen that he finally snapped, sending the old man to the ICU for a week with a flying kick.
Only then did that bastard learn the meaning of ‘control yourself.’ Hearing Vincent’s story, Oswald doubled over with laughter.
“In a way, you’re much fiercer than I am!
If I could live my life over again, I’d certainly follow your lead and give my old man a couple of good kicks.
So, the second type you shouldn’t provoke?” Oswald’s face darkened instantly.
He threw his head back, downed a large gulp of champagne, and wiped his mouth aggressively.
“Technically, it’s just one person: the former leader of the Red Hood Gang.
He’s a certified lunatic.
He knew the Roman had a price on his head, yet he had the balls to disguise himself and sneak into Mr.
Falcone’s residence alone.” “He didn’t die?” “He was strapped with remote-controlled explosives and had Mr.
Falcone under his thumb.
No one dared to make a move.” Vincent started putting the pieces together.
The man Oswald was describing sounded suspiciously like a certain famous villain.
*The Joker.* “And then?” Vincent asked.
“He hijacked Mr.
Falcone’s car and fled.
They eventually found the abandoned vehicle at the North Port, along with Mr.
Falcone, who was completely unharmed.” “Unharmed?
Then why kidnap him?” “Maybe he just thought it was fun.
It’s best not to guess what goes on in a madman’s head.
Mr.
Falcone was physically fine, but the lunatic had strapped a bomb vest to him.
The pin of the vest was connected to the car door handle by a thin string.
When Mr.
Maroni arrived and pulled the door open, a five-minute countdown began.” “Right then, the lunatic called.
He told Maroni that if he wanted to save the Boss, he had to chop off his own left hand.
Or, he could do nothing, let the bomb go off, and naturally take over the throne of the Roman Empire.” *I’m guessing Maroni chose not to save him, and it turned out the bomb was a fake.* Knowing the Joker’s personality, Vincent came to that conclusion easily.
Oswald’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
His expression said it all.
The master of nerves, manipulating everyone around him.
The Joker wasn’t necessarily Gotham’s smartest villain, but he certainly understood human nature best.
Only by doing that could he achieve the ultimate dramatic effect, creating conflict and distrust between the Roman’s top two men.
…
Once the guests had all entered, their small talks came to an end.
There was another group responsible for casino security, Richie’s crew, who also worked under Maroni.
Their leader, Richie Pantone, had far more seniority than Oswald.
In the original comics, Richie was a pathetic loser whose story ended poorly: first, Batman broke his right hand at the docks, then he offended Dr.
Hugo Strange while collecting a debt, and finally, he was torn in two by a bio-human.
However, the Richie standing before Vincent didn’t have a broken arm.
*It seems this version of Gotham really doesn’t have a Batman.* Surrounded by a crowd of lackeys, Richie walked toward Oswald with a loud laugh.
“Hey, look who’s here!
It’s our little…” He reached out to pat Oswald’s gelled hair, but Oswald slapped his hand away.
“I’d advise you not to use that damn nickname!” Oswald’s face was red with anger.
He tried to stand tall, but at 5’6″, standing next to the 6’2″ Richie made him look like a stubborn child arguing with a parent.
“Fine, fine.
So, what did Mr.
Maroni send you here for?
Security?
I think we’ve got it covered.” Richie Pantone tossed out the bait, and a subordinate named Carlo caught it perfectly.
“Mr.
Maroni must be worried about thieves hiding under the gambling tables.
We might miss them, but Mr.
Oswald can see them without even bending down!” Oswald bit his lip and suddenly let out a long breath.
He held back his men who wanted to argue and, for the first time in his life, flashed a smile at Richie.
“You’re right.
We’ll cooperate and split the work.
I’m sure we’ll complete the mission successfully.” But as soon as Richie walked away laughing, Oswald’s expression flipped like a page in a book, turning deathly cold.
“Vin, we’re patrolling the second floor!” …
Inside a stall in the second-floor restroom, Oswald kicked the toilet furiously to release his anger, only stopping once the tiles were shattered and the pipes had burst.
His hatred for Richie went back a long way.
When he first joined the Roman, Oswald had been Richie’s subordinate.
Richie was an absolute scumbag who bullied his men, and Oswald had been his favorite target.
Not only had he given him a disgusting nickname, but physical abuse had been a daily occurrence.
Perhaps that was why Oswald treated his own men relatively well; he refused to become a piece of trash like Richie.
After venting his anger amidst the spraying mist of water, he carefully tucked his messy long hair behind his ears.
“Vin, I want to kill Richie.
Got any good ideas?” The young man gritted his teeth, the murderous intent in his eyes shining brighter as the lights dimmed.
“You’re asking me?
I’ve never even killed a chicken,” Vincent replied.
“All I can do is help you curse him.
Hopefully, he doesn’t survive the night.” Vincent was distracted.
The gambling had been underway for a while now.
Dr.
Hugo Strange and those three monsters could strike at any moment, and he still hadn’t figured out a way to get Oswald out of the way.
Just as he was trying to figure it out, Oswald made a shushing gesture.
“Shh!
There’s something going on in Maroni’s room next door!”