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Chapter 1: Fallen Knight
Fandingo's Fine Meats, Seattle Waterfront, 21:43
Now who's bullshit idea was it to have him hiding out in an abandoned meat-packing plant with an actual goddamn cannibal? This had B-Movie Horror written on every goddamn surface he could think of. Actually, scratch that. If this was some B-Horror, he'd at least be sporting the immaculate jawline of Bruce Goddamn Campbell. Mitch Mayo grimaced quietly as he dabbed at the beads of sweat pouring off his furrowed brow with the tomato-red handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket.
He hadn't clawed his way up from being the Condiment King, the absolute laughing stock of Gotham to put up with this shit.
It was supposed to be his first big break; the bosses in Gotham, reeling from some recent body-blows at home courtesy of the new Mayor, had sent him out here with a few good men, a nice three-piece suit and an open mandate to drum up a new revenue of income far from the reach the Commissioner, the Mayor and especially the Bat. Seattle seemed a good enough place as any to start; far to the north of the more studiously watched ports of San Francisco and Jump City but also close enough to Vancouver to cut into the fentanyl and flesh trade coming in from Asia. The only real obstacle he identified right off the hop were the local Tongs, who, though they'd largely put down their guns at some point in the nineties, still remained the largest presence within the city, acting as both power broker and mediator between the smaller local gangs and the larger groups.
Namely the local branch of the Yakuza, led by some spoiled brat with a fetish for parties and fancy cars while daddy was away overseeing things in Tokyo and the Okhrana, a particularly secretive flavour of Russian that'd been in town since at least the last Tsar kicked the bucket and rumoured to themselves be led by a Romanov. Though details on that last bit were scarce at best.
It was the Tongs, led by their 'Sifu'— a mister Chen 'Shaun' Lao— that kept the peace, kept everyone playing fair and set the rules of the game; No business where kids can see you, absolutely no human trafficking of any kind and don't poke the cops unless they poke you. Reasonable. Noble, even. The words of a man he could work with and make tidy profit alongside, given enough time.
Unfortunately, that shit wasn't gonna fly. The bosses back home wanted money now, not later and weren't at all interested in Lao or his rules. So instead they cracked open the war chest and hired him a 'Specialist' to make the magic happen.
And that's how he wound up sharing a mailing address with Flamingo, some lunatic with a fancy pink jacket and a batshit plan to kidnap the Sifu's daughter, pin it on the Yaks, have a sensible chuckle while the two tore the town apart around them killing eachother and move in on their holdings while they weren't paying attention... mixed up with a bit of going into town every once in a while to scoop up the wounded, the unsuspecting, or just anyone he happened across and fancied, to bring them back here and shove them on a meat-hook for 'Fun times and food'.
...Did he mention the part about being trapped in a meat-packing plant with a cannibal?
Because that was very relevant to how Mitch's life was going right now.
For a solid three days he'd been putting up with this insanity. And at this point, he didn't know what was worse; when Flamingo was gone and they were suddenly vulnerable to the shitstorm they'd served up all over this city and the Okhrana— whom he was convinced at this point had caught onto what they had done with how they couldn't go a block without seeing one of them— or when Flamingo was here. Terrorizing him and his men with every breath he took and occasionally throwing one on a hook when he was offended, hungry or just plain bored... hell, it'd gotten to the point where the hourly check-ins with boys patrolling the grounds was less about security and more about making sure nobody else's face had found it's way into their Specialist's stomach.
Hell, the only reason Mitch himself was probably still around was because he was the one with the paybook.
Nevermind that spot between a rock and a hard place he'd found making sure he was always standing between the Magenta-Clad Cannibal and the six year old girl they had tied up in the back of the main office (whom his own bosses would probably grill him for still being there, irrelevant as she now was) while trying desperately not to look like he was constantly between the madman and a hot meal. Sure, he was a gangster, a crook and all manner of bad shit in between— but he still had principles, dammit.
"Tick, tick, tick..." The object of his terror chided at him from his chair across the table from him, playfully tapping at his wristwatch to remind him it was check-in time.
And the start of another rousing round of 'Who's Food Now?'
Wiping at his brow one last time and swallowing hard, the sharp-dressed, now semi-liquid man picked up the squawk box and tried his level best to at least sound like he had his shit together.
"Okay boys, how are things looking out there?"
"O'Keefe here, nothing to report." Came the first reply, quick and to the point like Dan always was.
"This is Fennech, just us and the roaches out here." Joe was second, casual as ever.
"Seleukos, west side's quiet." And there was Laz. Three down, one to go.
Yup. Just one more. Any second now.
...
...Aaaany second now.
Flamingo's eyes lit up in that creepy little way that made his blood run cold.
"...Waiting on you, Peralta."
The pink-clad cannibal let out a deep, satisfied sigh as he locked his eyes with the former Condiment King. Unblinking. Smiling.
"Peralta."
That smile turned into a grin, wide and unnatural. With bleach white teeth filed down to serrated edges broken up here and there with the odd chunk of flesh sticking to the gaps between.
Mitch suddenly became aware of the sound of his own heart in his ears as a cold, black void rose up from his stomach.
"MARTY!"
More silence. And on shaky legs, Mitch slowly began to rise from his seat.
"Sorry, Boss. Caught me in the middle of takin' a leak."
At once, the shaking stopped. And Mayo flopped back into his chair.
"All's quiet out here."
"Peralta, at the best of times you only need two fingers or a set of tweezers to aim that thing— Answer your damned radio or hand it off to someone else next time."
No sooner had the radio clattered back down to the table as Mitchell visibly deflated and all but collapsed into his clammy palms, did Flamingo let out a loud, barking laugh. A shrill, demented thing.
"Oh, you are just too much fun, Mister Mayo!" The maniac managed between laughs. "I hope this little business venture never ends!"
And that's when the power went out.
"Set of tweezers— Go fuck yourself, Mitch!" Marty Peralta screamed back into the radio with as much vitriol all five and a half feet of him could muster as he hastily zipped up his fly, though he at least had the sense not to have the push-to-talk pressed down when he did so.
Few could blame him though, with just nineteen years and barely a hundred pounds to his existence, the kid had been the butt-monkey for this entire goddamn trip— If it wasn't Mitch chewing him out, it was Danny threatening to kick his teeth in over every little thing, Laz passing all the bitch-work his way while eating his food or, most infuriating of all, Old Man Joe looking him up and down and saying shit like; "Kid, maybe you should go home and take up welding, or something.".
And that was all before the pink guy showed up and started eating his coworkers.
Honestly, if this wasn't his one shot to move up in the family he would've high-tailed it outta here a long time ago. But as things were, he just had to shut up and take it on the chin. Not that the thought made him feel any better as he scratched at his peach fuzz of a beard and stormed back to where him and his crew were hanging out keeping watch, the lad's pace quickening as his stomach growled in want of the food he knew should be there.
At the very least, he could drown his troubles in pizza.
"You fuckers better've saved me a slice of that pie, or SO HELP ME—!" He began to roar, slamming the door open with his boot before the words abruptly died in his throat.
What was supposed to be a room full of some of Gotham's hardest instead looked more like Pablo Picasso's take on domestic abuse; One man with both hands pinned to his ass by his own knife and his face smashed through the wooden table they'd all been playing cards on. Another stuffed head first into a steel drum, the only thing visible of him being his broken, misshapen legs sticking out the top. Some other poor bastard found himself with his head stuffed through the screen of the old CRT television they'd been using, arms so broken, the bones were sticking out of his sleeves, though that little detail didn't stop his attacker from cuffing them behind him either way.
Hell, there was even some poor bastard dangling from the ceiling by his ankles; his face full of bits of glass, and every single one of his fingers bent so far back they were damn near touching his wrists.
All told, if he couldn't hear the groaning, moaning and strained breathing through broken ribs, he'd think they were all dead. If he could think of anything at all over the panicked screaming inside his own head that screamed at his body to move.
And then suddenly the lights went out. And he felt something metallic press into the back of his head.
"Sorry, Kiddo; Think I grabbed the last slice." Came a... alarmingly casual voice from behind him around a mouthful of what the young man suspected to be his pizza. "But in my defence; extra cheese? Double pep? Italian sausage? I couldn't help myself, you guys have good taste."
A cold shudder crept up his spine and he swallowed hard in fear.
...But it was damn near pitch black in here, so maybe this guy wouldn't notice his hands slowly creeping up towards his radio and his gu—
"Marty." The man behind him spoke again to derail that train of thought, making the boy flinch slightly at both the use of his name and the sound and vibration of a hammer cocking behind his skull. "...Seriously, man. How much are these people actually paying you?"
A very good fucking point. And without further ado, complaint, or sound, up went the kid's hands.
"Smart kid." Came the voice again, with a tone that suggested some measure of approval. "You should really think about dropping this gig and taking up welding, or something."
"Oh, FUCK YOU MA—"
*WHAM!*
...And down Marty went like a sack of potatoes.
"Temper, temper..." Jason chided the now very unconscious teenager, before quickly sucking the remnants of that pizza off his fingers, pulling his glove back on and reattaching the lower part of his helmet before kneeling down to relieve the poor kid of his gun. Tossing the mag one way, the slide another and everything else behind him.
Next, he grabbed the kid's radio— which had been dangling off his vest— and started prying the faceplate of it off with his knife.
The job'd already started, after all.
So it was high time that these guys got acquainted with Jay's good pal, Freddie.
"Toniiiiight~ I'm gonna have myself a real good tiiime~" The squawk box suddenly piped up from out of nowhere in the dark, damn near making Mitch brown his pants on the spot. "I feel ali-hi-hi-HIVE!~"
"Oh, what now?" He said, after a few seconds of trying to wrap his head around the fact that not only was he now trapped in a meat packing plant with a cannibal, at night, in the dark, but now the radio was apparently possessed, too.
Fumbling about in the dark, he managed to quickly scoop the thing up and flip it over to channel two.
"And the wooooorld, I'll turn it inside out, yeah!~"
...Just to find more of the same.
*Click!*
"I'm floating around in ecstasy~"
Channel three as well.
*Click!*
"So, don't stop me now~"
*Click!*
"Don't!"
*Click!*
"Stop!"
*Click!*
"Meee~!"
There it was, broadcasting on every goddamn channel. Blocking out any and all means of communication.
"...What in the goddamn?"
"Because I'm having a good time! HAVING A GOOD TIME!"
The room suddenly got a whole lot brighter and louder as a trio of explosions rang out from just outside and what he was sure was bits of his own car went whipping past the nearest window.
"It would appear, Mister Mayo, that we are under attack." Flamingo observed nonchalantly, rising from his seat. "By someone who knows how to weaponize chaos."
"WHAT?" Mitch shouted, all but leaping out of his chair as his ears rang from a combination of the blaring music, the explosions and a very sudden increase in gunfire and screaming in their postal code.
"Just stay here with the girl, I'll go deal with it."
