"Struggling desperately to get the situation back under con--""--dozens of officers wounded, and while there is no word yet on any actual deaths, we must assume--"
"--crashed into a high-rise office building. GCPD officers arrived on the scene shortly after, but--""--still at large, and should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Gotham citizens are urged to--"
"--concern that other dangerous super-criminals may have escaped during the mayhem. When asked, Commissioner Gordon--""--response from the Batman or the city's other masked vigilantes, raising questions about their own motives in--"
"If there's one thing I really can't stands," said the deep, grizzled voice with a century old brassy old Gotham accent,
"It's a rat. A stoolie. And youse mooks, you're the biggest friggin' stoolies I ever seen.""Th-that wasn't us, boss!" Vinny sputtered, begging on his knees.
"We never ratted you out!""Y-y-yeah, boss! That was Louie T! He rolled on us so's he could sign on with Penguin! Honest!" Donny Two-Shirts pleaded next to him, his eyes fixed on the barrel of the gun pointed at him.
"Louie T's runnin' for the Penguin now, huh?" the voice asked.
"Funny thing; he told me same thing about youse two before I greased him. Now I don't know who's lyin' an' who ain't. Helluva situation, ain't it?"Before they could respond, the room rang with the sound of automatic gunfire.
RATTTATATTTATTATTATTATTATTAT!
The air hung heavy with the smell of gunsmoke and freshly spilled blood. Trying to shake off the ringing in his ears, the frail, sad-faced man shook his head.
"You know, B-B-Boss," Arnold Wesker muttered,
"they may have been t-t-telling the truth. P-P-Penguin may have been p-playing them ag-g-gainst each other t-t-to--""SHADDAP, YA MUG," the brassy voice barked as the mouth on the wooden dummy of Scarface flapped open and closed.
"I ain't payin' youse ta think.""Y-y-yes, Boss," the Ventriloquist cowered,
"Anything you s-s-say, Boss.""That's more like it," came the response.
"Now, I'm thinkin' we need ta pay Mr. Cobblepot a visit an' teach him a thing or two about--""'Scuse me," came another voice, with a similar old-timey goon's accent. Wesker turned, bringing his submachine guns to bear.
"Mister Scarface?"The Ventriloquist stared for a moment, his fingers tight on the triggers.
"Who's askin'?""I, uh, I come lookin' for ya, on orders of my boss," the thug stated, producing a letter from the inside of his jacket.
"He's got an invitation for, uhh, for the both of youse..."
"--said FREEZE, you freak!" the officer shouted, his pistol visibly shaking in his trembling hands.
"Freeze? Laughed Dr. Alex Sartorious as a fluorescent green light enveloped the surrounding area.
"You're joking, right?"The kick from the pistol nearly caused it to fly out of the officer's hands, but the bullet itself was reduced to dust long before it could reach its target.
"In case you haven't noticed," he said as he stepped forward, the light searing the policeman's eyes,
"The very last thing I could possibly do...is freeze."Doctor Phosphorus, the irradiated madman, pulsed a flash of light, and when it subsided, all that remained of the officer was a silhouette burned into the wall behind him, a phenomenon morbidly referred to as a 'Hiroshima shadow.'
"Got to keep moving," Alex muttered to himself as other sirens approached.
"Burn myself out at this rate. Must find somewhere. Lay low."While it was true that the police couldn't hurt him, he only had a limited amount of reaction mass that he could expend. If he exerted himself too much, the constant nuclear fusion contained in his body would start to consume him whole.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZYYYEEEEEEOOWWWWWWWWWWWW
Above him, a small electric engine whirred. Looking up, Dr. Phosphorous saw what looked like a small toy airplane, making a beeline right for him.
With a casual, almost contemptuous wave of his hand, Phosphorous let fly with another burst of irradiated plasma, sending the toy plane crashing to the ground at his feet. Curiously, tucked under the plane's fuselage was a small block of lead. Upon closer inspection, he saw that the lead block had writing on it.
A note, then. Specifically, one that he could pick up without burning it. Intrigued, he read its contents.
DOC PHOSPHOROUS
THROWING A PARTY
INTERESTED IN A LIGHT SHOW
RSVP AT THIS ADDRESS
Beneath that was an address and a set of map coordinates.
The sirens began growing louder as armored trucks approached. Glancing back and forth between the approaching police and the note, Phosphorous quickly memorized the coordinates, then melted the lead block so they wouldn't find his new destination.
The stereotype of Gotham being a city of darkness and shadows is only partially true. While some of the seedier neighborhoods have their own tangled labyrinths of alleyways and backlots practically submerged in ink-black shadow, other districts are lit up brighter than mid-day even in the small hours of the morning. Street lights, traffic lights, neon and LED signboards, a million internal lights along block after block of cramped commercial, residential, and industrial zones flooded the area with electric illumination. On any given night in Gotham, the total light pollution reflected off of the curtain of smog and smothered the night sky, the moon and stars obscured by a dim wash that gave the sky its infamous reddish hue.
Because of this, rather than skulking about along the ground, the easiest place to move unnoticed at night was in the skies.
Even after letting out another ear-splitting shriek, the figure slipped unseen between two GCPD helicopters, banking to the left to avoid the beams of their searchlights and wheeling in a wide arc over the skyline of Miagami Island. Gliding on huge leathery wings, it only needed the occasional powerful flap to stay airborne, scanning the steel and concrete jungle below for an ideal perch. Finding the tall, sharp spire of an old church bell tower, the figure swooped down, landing on one of the gargoyles.
On most nights, Doctor Kirk Langstrom fought against the beast inside of him, one that was far more literal than metaphorical. The doctors at Arkham were often worse than worthless, their meager understanding of his altered physiology leading to them administering treatments that frequently did more harm than good. Kirk needed to be free of their meddling to better research what he had become. When the opportunity presented itself, he did not fight against the beast's attempts to break loose.
Tonight, Dr. Langstrom was in remission.
Tonight, the Man-Bat was on the hunt.
The monster's hyper-sonic shriek was more than just a terrifying cry across the city; using his superhuman sense of hearing, the Man-Bat's echolocation gave him a detailed map of his surroundings, allowing him to sense potential threats before they could approach him, and potential prey before it could escape.
Several stories below, a drunken old man stumbled out the back of a bar, spitting a curse at the bouncer who had shoved him out the door. He was isolated, disoriented, and weak.
Easy meat.
The Man-Bat spread its wings...
EEEE-EEEE-EEEEE-EEEE-EEEE
....another signal? Perhaps, another of its kind?
Curious, the Man-Bat launched itself from its perch, away from its intended target and toward the source of the mysterious signal.
"Tremble in fear, Gotham!" the costumed lunatic bellowed at the front of the burger shop where he had 'reloaded' his weapons.
"For now the CONDIMENT KING shall reign supreme over--"A wadded-up paper burger wrapper bounced off of the would-be villain's head.
"Get stuffed, will ya?" a random Gothamite heckled.
"We've got enough to worry about with real bad guys on the loose!""B-but....my Ketchup Blasters, my Mustard Mortars, they'll""What are you gonna do, stain my blouse?" a woman jeered.
"Get lost, ya creep!""...n-no, I can--...just you wait, I'll--""BOOOOOO!" Someone else shouted over him.
"Get outta here, LOSER!"Dejected and deflated, the Condiment King sighed, barely noticing the garbage that pelted him from all sides as he hung his head and left the burger joint.
Skulking away into one of the back alleys, he saw a body crumpled up on the ground behind the burger joint's dumpster.
Above the body, scrawled along the wall, was a message.
CONDIMENT KING
HAVING A GET-TOGETHER
WAS HOPING YOU COULD PROVIDE SOME REFRESHMENTS
TIME FOR YOU TO HIT THE BIG LEAGUES
MEET US AT THIS ADDRESS
Beneath that was an address and a set of coordinates, followed by a post-script:
P.S.: THIS ISN'T KETCHUP
His sadness melting into giddy delirium, the Condiment King let out a triumphant, squealing laugh, firing his ketchup-and-mustard guns into the air in celebration. Remembering to erase the address with a squirt of highly-corrosive hot-sauce that melted the brickwork, he scampered off into the alley, elated that someone had finally noticed him.
"He's survived the crash, just as expected. Now I believe, he's recruiting.""Should we be concerned, my lady?""Hardly; this means he'll be surrounded by people who will be all too happy to turn on him when the time comes. He's losing his touch, and it's time the rest of Gotham sees it.""Then I assume we proceed with the next phase?""Not just yet. Next, we do a bit of shopping of our own..."
Hound55,
Cyberlad,
Half Pint,
mickilennial,
Ezekiel,
Master Bruce,
PrinceAlexus,
Pilatus,
Chronic,
MST3K 4ever
