In a cheap tavern in the middle of the night in Gotham City, the air was thick with the smell of expired fries mixed with low-grade horse piss.
A few Maroni Family members wearing dirty leather jackets were huddled in a corner booth.
Beer bottles were strewn haphazardly across the table, and the ashtray was filled with cigarette butts smoked down to the filters.
One of the thugs, his face covered in acne, gulped down a large mouthful of beer, slammed the glass onto the table, and wiped the foam from his mouth.
A whole table of booze and not even a single plate of peanuts.
It was hard to imagine a human being coming up with such a pairing.
“Have you heard? Scarface is still lying in the ICU. The attending physician said that tube has to stay in for the rest of his life; he’ll need machines to eat and shit. Fuck, just thinking about it is disgusting.”
The bald accomplice opposite him grabbed a handful of peanuts, threw them into his mouth, and replied indistinctly, “Scarface was just unlucky to run into a hard case. You guys remember those guys gossiping on the street last week? Saying the Boss is finished, that the name Maroni doesn’t mean shit in the East End anymore.”
“How could I forget?”
Acne-face shrank back into the booth, his voice unconsciously dropping a few notches.
“Killer Croc hauled them off to The Docks. My cousin was unloading cargo next door at the time; he could hear the sound of bones shattering through two walls. They were crushed inch by inch, starting from the toes and grinding upwards. Only after their limbs were pulverized were they hung on the power poles. They were dried out like cured meat.”
The group fell silent for a few seconds.
The bald man swallowed his peanuts and took another gulp from his glass, as if to bolster his courage.
“Killer Croc is a monster. A real fucking monster. The kind of guy who eats people alive. I heard he’s been lurking at The Docks these past few days waiting for Batman. If that dark freak actually dares to show up, it’s not certain who’s sending whom to Blackgate Prison this time.”
“Batman isn’t someone to mess with either,” a skinny man who had been silent in the corner chimed in.
“No shit, everyone knows Batman isn’t to be messed with.”
The bald man waved his hand impatiently.
“But Killer Croc’s hide… bullets don’t even leave a dent. Last time he got caught by Batman, it was just bad luck. He’s been lying in wait for days now, fully rested and ready to rip that black cape off to wipe his shoes. Just you wait and see, something big is going to happen at The Docks sooner or later.”
Acne-face took another gulp.
As the alcohol kicked in, he became bolder.
“But then again, the Boss’s face has looked really bad lately. Scarface is crippled, Killer Croc is stuck at The Docks and won’t budge, and as for the Penguin… I heard from the guys at the casino that the dead cripple is spreading word everywhere that our Maroni Family can’t even handle a freak in pajamas.”
The bald man slammed the table hard, making the beer bottles jump.
“That’s a load of bullshit! Batman did that! Scarface was put in the ICU by Batman; what does that pajama kid have to do with it? That viper Penguin just loves watching the world burn and making up stories. Once Killer Croc finishes off Batman, he’s next.”
“And what if Killer Croc can’t finish him?” the skinny man asked softly.
The bald man opened his mouth but couldn’t find a reply.
Silence returned to the booth.
The sound of a police siren drifted in from outside the tavern, growing louder and then fading away, like the background music of a Gotham night.
Acne-face downed the last of his beer and muttered, “Fuck, this shitty city.”
Behind the bar, the bartender’s hand never stopped wiping a glass.
He had been wiping that same glass for a full twenty minutes, polishing it until it could reflect a person’s image.
In Gotham, a bartender usually wears many hats: mixologist, psychiatrist, and an unofficial informant for at least three different gangs.
The words heard tonight would reach the Penguin’s ears before dawn.
Meanwhile, at The Docks.
Leon crouched atop a container under a gantry crane, looking down from his high vantage point at the dark silhouette.
His current mood was complicated, like a child who had worked hard to finish his homework and desperately needed a gold star from his parents—or just some labor fees.
Bruce Wayne, I know you’re rich.
Couldn’t you just pretend to lose some cash for no reason?
Then I could return it as an honest citizen, and you could give me a huge sum of cash as a reward.
Tsk. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
Leon pointed down at the oversized mummy tied up securely, breaking the deathly silence.
“Hey, you cool guy dressed like a giant moth! You plan on just staring at me forever?”
Batman didn’t speak.
He just stood there like a granite statue that could come to life at any moment, his cape swaying slightly in the sea breeze, his entire being almost merging into the impenetrable darkness.
Leon sighed, looking like his heart was weary.
“Silence means consent. Fine, I get it, you’re going for the ‘cool and aloof’ route. Don’t you think I did a great job? Killer Croc, Gotham’s famous fitness enthusiast, is now packaged as neatly as a Christmas present. By the way, have you ever received such a big gift for Christmas?”
Leon pulled a crumpled sticky note from behind him and leaped down, using the tension of a Spider-web to trace a graceful arc in the air.
Slap.
He landed steadily on Killer Croc’s scale-covered face and slapped the sticky note onto the man’s forehead.
On it was a line of crookedly written words: A gift from your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, including one set of raw materials for a crocodile skin bag.
Note: Processing not recommended.
Killer Croc’s eyes bulged as if they were about to pop out, and a beastly growl issued from his throat,
But his mouth was sealed shut with high-strength adhesive.
If looks could kill, Leon would have been turned into sashimi by now.
Leon patted Killer Croc on the head and turned to look at the slowly approaching Batman.
“Cool guy in black, this fellow’s skin is too thick for a spider’s nest. Is it okay to leave him to you? You seem to be better at packaging.”
Batman stopped in his tracks, his white lenses staring at him coldly.
He leaned down to check the displacement angles of the containers.
The angles of the three gantry cranes, the center of gravity of the stacked containers, and the industrial glue precisely applied to the joints.
This wasn’t a chaotic brawl at all; it was an extremely rigorous, almost perversely precise physics experiment site.
It looked like a combat sequence he would have calculated using the computer in the Batcave.
Batman straightened up, his voice still as cold as ice shards.
“Who exactly are you?”
Leon’s body stiffened for a moment before he let out an exaggerated laugh, gesturing wildly with his hands.
“Me? I’m your Friendly Neighborhood! Unofficial Gotham City vigilante, member of the Pajama Enthusiasts Association, currently applying for the Outstanding Citizen Award—speaking of which, do we vigilantes have a union or something? The kind that can reimburse equipment costs? Or is it only you Bat-type vigilantes who get equipment subsidies?”
Batman didn’t speak.
“Fine, I can tell from your face that there isn’t one.”
Leon backed away while shooting a strand of Spider-web to latch onto a distant crane tower.
“Then I’m off. Say hi to Commissioner Gordon for me. You’re pretty close with Commissioner Gordon, right? All of Gotham knows he turns on the bat-signal for you… Are you really not going to say a single word back? You’re so cold; even the criminals on the street chat with me sometimes.”
Leon soared into the air, not forgetting to shout back as he went: “No need to thank me! I know you want to say thanks, but you’re clearly the’strong and silent’ type. Just keep it in, just don’t let it burst!”
Batman watched the figure swing away and fell into a long silence.
He looked down at the sticky note, then at Killer Croc, who was pinned immovably between the webs and the containers.
“Childish.”
He spat out the word coldly.
Then he pressed his communicator.
“Gordon, come to The Docks to pick someone up. Batman has subdued Killer Croc… and bring some strong solvent.”
Commissioner Gordon arrived with a group of officers and saw the massive creature wrapped in webs like a cocoon with a sticky note on its forehead, then looked at Batman standing in the shadows.
He took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on to confirm he hadn’t misread the words on the note.
“Spider-Man? He really likes leaving notes everywhere.” Gordon pointed at the sticky note on Killer Croc’s forehead, his expression caught between a smile and professional decorum.
Just as Batman hadn’t answered the little Spider’s words, he likewise didn’t answer Gordon.
He turned into the shadows, his cape billowing one last time in the sea breeze, and then he vanished without a trace, as if he had never existed.
“He’s still as tight-lipped as ever.”
Gordon sighed and waved to the officers behind him.
“Go find some strong solvent. And take that sticky note down—don’t tear it, this needs to be filed.”
…
Meanwhile, inside the Maroni Manor.
Sal Maroni sat in a large leather chair, two bloody objects spread out on the marble floor before him.
They were two tongues.
Just half an hour ago, those two idiots from the tavern who had been gossiping were dragged in.
Maroni held a whiskey glass, the surface of the liquid perfectly still, his eyes so dark they seemed to drip with malice.
He wasn’t angry because he was being called “finished”; he had heard far too much idle chatter from street thugs.
He was angry because the rumors were spreading too fast.
Scarface had only been in the ICU for a few days, and the streets were already debating “how much the name Maroni is still worth.”
If that dead cripple Penguin wasn’t behind this, pushing the narrative, he’d swallow the glass in his hand.
That viper’s specialty was this kind of trick: leaking information anonymously and letting it pass through layers until every mouth spreading the gossip thought they were the first to speak.
By the time the rumors reached his ears, the source had long since been diluted into nothingness.
Even tonight, the Penguin had hypocritically sent a “condolence email,” worded extremely politely, asking if Killer Croc needed some skin cream since the sea breeze at The Docks is quite harsh on the skin.
This wasn’t a condolence.
This was shoving Maroni’s face into a toilet and then asking if the water temperature was comfortable.
Maroni waved his hand as if shooing away two flies.
“Drag them out. They should be grateful for my mercy.”
The two tongueless thugs were dragged away, overflowing with gratitude.
Maroni picked up his phone and dialed a number.
“Put the word out. I don’t care if it’s a bounty hunter or a mercenary, whoever brings me that spider’s head will be guaranteed a life of wealth and honor by the Maroni Family.”
He paused, his finger slowly tracing the rim of the wine glass.
“I want him alive or dead. I want all of Gotham to know that the wrath of the Maroni Family is not something just anyone can withstand!”
A brief confirmation came from the other end of the line.
Maroni hung up and raised his whiskey; the surface of the liquid remained perfectly still.
He looked out the window at Gotham’s grey night sky.
The Penguin wanted to see him and Spider-Man tear into each other?
Then he would bite for everyone to see.
As for the Penguin, that debt could be settled slowly.