C H A P T E R O N E : T H E D O G B I T E S B A C KHERMAN’S GAMBIT
H E R M A N S C H U L T Z ’ S A P A R T M E N T
November 11th, 2017 | 7:42p.m. | Brooklyn, New York City
You’re pathetic.
The suit protected Herman from the majority of his punishment. Montana’s whip was cushioned by its multi-layered insulation, designed to protect Herman from the intensity of his shock gauntlets’ concentrated blasts. Ox’s blows, though he was huge and had the strength of what seemed like ten bulldozers behind him, were largely absorbed by the padding as well, taking much of the pain out of the beating. A stabbing pain in Herman’s side suggested a fractured rib, but that was fine. It would heal. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and all that crap.
Quit while you’re behind, Herman.
His face, however, was a whole other story. With nothing to cover it, it had received no protection. His jaw, while it ached before, now flared with pain at the slightest of movement. The cuts on his lips were joined by even more, and bled in thin lines down his chin; he could no longer see through the swelling in his right eye, and he was pretty damn sure that his nose was broken.
Ten years. Ten damn years doing this crap, and this is all you have to show for it.
With a pained groan, Herman lifted himself up from the floor. The Enforcers had left him lying next to the kitchen counter, tap still running, his blood collecting in tiny pools around his face. He grimaced as he stood up, every breath pushing his lung towards jagged bone. Slowly, with effort, he turned the tap off.
Look at yourself. Do you really think you’re on the same level as Ock?
He shivered. A cold chill had settled in the apartment – winter had come a little early this year. He limped towards the fire escape window, closing it; he was beaten to a pulp, yes, but he wasn’t about to freeze, too. He had no central heating system, but at least the cold breeze couldn’t enter anymore.
The same level as Osborn?
His fists clenched. These thoughts – he didn’t want them.
The same level as Fisk?
He tensed his jaw, crying out at the wave of pain that it brought.
No. You’re not on their level. You’re not even on the same rung as the damn Condiment King.
“Screw him,” said Herman, to no one in particular. Pain flared through his jaw with every word. “Screw Ock. Screw Osborn. Screw Fisk. I’m more… I’m more than this. More than them.”
Heat spread through his body, frustration sparking anger, anger sparking a rush of adrenalin.
“I’m the Shocker. I have a PhD. I made my gauntlets, designed my suit. I shouldn’t have to answer to guys like Fisk.”
No, agreed his thoughts.
Guys like Fisk should answer to you.
Herman limped to his bathroom, stripping off his suit with delicate care. His thoughts ran in and out of his head at speeds that seemed to match the Flash’s, and as he stepped into a shower that was a few degrees too hot, he was absorbed in the cyclone that was a wronged man’s mind.
A few minutes later, drying himself off with an unwashed towel, he would decide to kill the Kingpin.
November 12th, 2017 | 6:02p.m. | Manhattan, New York City
Six miles from the United Nations fiasco, which had only just begun to unfold, Wilson Fisk savoured his dinner as if it was his last.
Le Bernardin’s merluza was a delicacy from which he gained no small amount of pleasure; it was no secret that the French restaurant was amongst his favourite places to dine – quite an obvious fact when one knew that Fisk Industries had acquired it some fifteen years ago, shortly after he’d first eaten there. He never wasted a mouthful – the flavour was too rich, too great, to waste with a few hasty chews. He let it wash over him, the bitter tang of the ginger-red wine sauce helping him forget, for just a few seconds, the frustrations that drove him here tonight.
His business partners in Gotham were being… difficult. Bringing their cheap derivative of Venom, the drug that the infamous Bane thrived off of, to New York was proving to be a very profitable endeavour, but the suppliers weren’t satisfied with their cut. They were making demands, threatening to bring an end to their partnership, something that Wilson would not let stand under any other circumstances. But these were Gothamites, businessmen who lived under the constant threat of the Batman – intimidation proved to be fruitless game with them, even for the Kingpin. And then there were the issues closer to home: the heroin operation’s expansion back into Hell’s Kitchen was hindered, once again, by the Devil, and Isabella Gnucci was attempting, futilely, to regain her family’s territory. The latter was taken care of, for the most part, but the headache remained. If only all of Fisk’s problems were like Herman Schultz.
Owed money was easy. You send your enforcers to collect it, and that’s that. With someone like Schultz, the question of whether you even need enforcers was a valid one.
Vanessa, Wilson’s darling wife, looked at him from across the table. Dom Pérignon sparkled in her champagne glass, bubbles rising to her lips as she sipped.
“Talk to me, Wilson,” she said, eyebrows raised inquisitively, “What’s going through your head?”
Fisk let out a throaty chuckle, swallowing his mouthful of sautéed fish. “How delicious this food is,” he answered, “And how fortunate I am to share it with you.”
She beamed at him. Beautiful, elegant; dressed in the classiest of dresses, she never failed to take his breath away. They’d been through so much together, the good and the bad – Wilson couldn’t imagine going through it all without her. He loved his wife with all his heart, and he knew that she did the same to him. Through thick and thin, they were each other’s rock.
She took his hand. “We’re both fortunate.”
Just like that, everything faded away. Thoughts of his empire, of Fisk Industries, the Gotham issue – all gone, dispelled from his mind by a single touch. All that was left was Vanessa. All that was left was his –
“Fisk.”
A man limped towards their table, ignoring the protests of the waiter who stood at the restaurant’s door. He was dressed in a black hooded coat, his face obscured, drawing suspicious looks from the diners he brushed past. He walked slowly, the limp pronounced; it seemed as though he was in great pain, but was trying his best to hide it.
“You – argh,” he grimaced, massaging his jaw as he stopped beside Wilson and Vanessa. “You arrogant prick. Thinking you’re so – nngh – so untouchable that you don’t even need men to watch your back.”
Wilson looked at his wife. She looked bemused, if a little annoyed.
“Who are you?” asked Fisk.
“That’s not – not your concern,” said the man.
Fisk stood up. His towering 6’ 7” form dwarfed the man, who took a step back, his fear taking hold for a moment. Standing, Wilson had a better view of his face; a menagerie of cuts and bruises, his right eye swollen, the man had taken a severe beating. And through all the injuries, Fisk thought that he could recognise him – someone that he’d seen before, worked with in the past, even.
Oh, for the love of –
It was Herman Schultz.
“You made it my concern the moment you walked into this restaurant and mouthed off to me, Mr. Schultz.” The Shocker’s un-swollen eye widened. “Explain yourself.”
“You – you think you’re so untouchable,” Schultz said, “You’re not. I – I came here to show you that.”
“Did you now?” smiled Fisk, eyebrows raised in amusement. “How so?”
“Wilson,” said Vanessa, “Don’t indulge him. Your dinner’s getting cold.”
“No, no, honey. I want to see what he has to say.”
Schultz was shaking. Whether it was out of fear or anger, or both, Wilson didn’t know. Truth be told, he didn’t care. Schultz was beneath him. Everything he did was beneath him. To say that he was worth Fisk’s time would be to tell the most outrageous lie, and so claiming that he was here to teach Fisk a lesson was so hilarious – so ridiculous – that Wilson wondered whether it was real, or whether he was dreaming.
“You think I’m a joke,” said Schultz. “I’m not. You’re the joke. Sitting here, with your – your –”
“My what? Don’t be shy. Tell me.”
Schultz’s lip quivered, struggling to form any words. Beneath all the bruising, his face was flushed red.
“Okay. I’m going to speak now,” continued Fisk. “You’re right. I think you’re a joke. You’re nothing but a two-bit crook, a has-been too shallow to understand that he’s insignificant. Your time has been and gone, Mr. Schultz. It was done the moment you first ran into Spider-Man, and now you’re desperately trying to regain even a fraction of your reputation, doing anything that might put you back on the map. And now you come here with your tail between your legs and a chip on your shoulder, because why exactly? My enforcers came to collect my money? Grow the hell up. That’s business. You should have known that when you borrowed from me.”
He sighed.
“You’re pathetic. A dog that’s been kicked, lashing out at the first thing it sees. Now please,” he pointed his arm towards the door, “I’d like to finish my dinner.”
“Yeah,” said Schultz, raising his fists towards Fisk’s chest. “Okay. Enjoy your meal.”
Schultz pressed his gauntlets’ triggers with his thumbs. A blast of intensely concentrated air shot out.
And Fisk learned...
The dog bites back.
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