In a cheap tavern deep within the night of Gotham, the air was thick with the stench of expired french fries mixed with low-grade horse piss.
Several members of the Maroni family, dressed in filthy leather jackets, huddled in a corner booth. Beer bottles cluttered the table in a messy, chaotic heap, and the ashtray was crammed full of cigarette butts burned right down to the filters.
One of the thugs, his face covered in pimples, took a massive swig of beer, slammed his glass onto the table, and wiped the white foam from his mouth.
A whole table of alcohol, yet not a single plate of peanuts.
It was hard to imagine a human being coming up with such a combination.
"Have you guys heard? Scarface is still lying in the ICU. The attending doctor said that tube has to stay plugged into him for the rest of his life, and eating and shitting all depend on machines. Fuck, just thinking about it is sickening."
The bald accomplice across from him grabbed a handful of peanuts, threw them into his mouth, and chimed in mid-chew, "Scarface was just unlucky, running into a tough bastard. Do you guys still remember those few guys gossiping on the streets last week? Saying the boss is done for, and that the Maroni name doesn't hold any weight in the East District anymore."
"How could I forget."
Pimple-face shrank back into the booth, his voice dropping a few notches instinctively. "They were dragged down to the docks by Killer Croc. What a scene. My cousin was unloading cargo next door at the time, and he could hear the bones crushing through two walls. Snapped inch by inch, grinding all the way up from the toes. Only after all four limbs were crushed did he hang them on the telephone poles. They dried up like cured meat in the wind."
The group fell silent for a few seconds. The bald guy swallowed his peanuts and took another swig from his glass, as if trying 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 crouching at the docks these past few days waiting for Batman. If that black-clad psycho actually dares to show up, it's a toss-up who sends whom to Blackgate this time."
"Batman isn't someone to mess with either," a skinny guy who had been quiet in the corner chimed in.
"No shit, who doesn't know Batman isn't someone to mess with."
The bald guy waved his hand impatiently. "But Killer Croc's hide--bullets don't even leave a dent when they hit it. Getting caught by Batman last time was just bad luck. He's been crouching there for so many days this time, resting up and building his strength, just waiting to rip that black cape off to wipe his shoes. You just wait and see, something massive is bound to happen at the docks sooner or later."
Pimple-face took another gulp. As the alcohol kicked in, his courage grew a bit. "But then again, the boss's face has looked really terrible lately. Scarface is crippled, Killer Croc is crouching at the docks refusing to budge, and as for the Penguin's side... I heard from the casino guys that the dead cripple is spreading the word everywhere, saying our Maroni family can't even handle a psycho wearing pajamas now."
The bald guy slammed the table fiercely, making the beer bottles jump. "Bullshit! Batman did that! Scarface was put into the ICU by Batman, what does it have to do with that pajama kid? The Penguin, that venomous snake, just loves to watch a disaster unfold and make up stories everywhere. Once Killer Croc finishes off Batman, he's next."
"What if Killer Croc can't finish him?" the skinny guy asked softly.
The bald guy opened his mouth but couldn't find a response. The booth fell back into silence. The sound of police sirens drifted from outside the tavern, swelling loud before fading into the distance, acting like the background music of a Gotham night.
Pimple-face chugged the last bit of beer and muttered, "Fuck this broken city."
Behind the bar, the bartender's hand never stopped wiping a glass.
He had been wiping that single glass for a full twenty minutes, polishing it until it reflected a clear image of a person.
In Gotham, a bartender was a profession that usually wore multiple hats: mixologist, therapist, and an off-the-books informant for at least three different syndicates.
The words heard tonight would find their way into the Penguin's ears before daybreak.
Meanwhile, at the docks.
Chen Mo crouched on top of a shipping container beneath a gantry crane, looking down from his high vantage point at that pitch-black silhouette.
His current mood was quite complicated, matching that of a child who had worked painstakingly hard to finish his homework and desperately needed a gold star from his parents--or just some direct labor compensation.
Bruce Wayne, I know you're filthy rich, so couldn't you just pretend to mysteriously lose some cash? Then I could return the lost property out of sheer honesty, and then you could give me a massive pile of cash as a reward.
Tsk.
Chen Mo broke the dead silence by pointing down at the oversized mummy tightly bound below.
"Hey, cool guy dressed like a giant moth! Are you planning to just keep staring at me like that?"
Batman did not speak. He merely stood there like a granite statue that could come alive at any moment, his cape fluttering slightly in the sea breeze, his entire being almost dissolving into that ink-like, impenetrable darkness.
Chen Mo let out a sigh, looking utterly exhausted. "Silence means consent. Fine, I get it, you're going for the broody, aloof style. Do you see how beautifully I handled this job? Killer Croc, Gotham's renowned fitness enthusiast, is currently packaged by me as neatly as a Christmas present. By the way, have you ever received a present this big for Christmas?"
Chen Mo pulled a crumpled sticky note from behind his waist and leaped down, using the pulling force of his web-line to draw a graceful arc through the air.
Slap.
He landed steadily right on Killer Croc's scaly face, casually slapping the sticky note onto his forehead. On it, a line of text was written in crooked, messy handwriting: Compliments of your Friendly Neighbor Spider-Man. Includes one piece of raw material for a crocodile leather bag. Note: Processing is not recommended.
Killer Croc's eyeballs bulged so hard they looked ready to pop out, and a beastly low growl rumbled in his throat, but his mouth was sealed shut with high-strength adhesive. If looks could kill, Chen Mo would have already been sliced into sashimi.
Chen Mo patted Killer Croc's head, then turned to face the slowly approaching Batman.
"Cool guy with the dark clothes and the poker face, this guy's hide is too thick to fit inside a spider's nest, so there shouldn't be a problem leaving him for you to handle, right? You seem much more adept at packaging."
Batman stopped in his tracks, his white lenses staring at him coldly.
He bent down to check the displacement angles of those shipping containers. The intersecting angles of the three gantry cranes, the center of gravity of the stacked containers, and the industrial glue precisely adhered to the joints.
This wasn't a chaotic brawl at all; it was a highly rigorous, almost obsessively precise physics experiment site.
It looked exactly like a combat sequence he would calculate using the computers in the Batcave.
Batman straightened his posture, his voice still as cold as ice shards.
"Who on earth are you?"
Chen Mo's frame stiffened slightly, followed by an exaggerated burst of laughter as he gesticulated wildly with his hands.
"Me? I'm your friendly neighbor! An off-the-books vigilante of Gotham City, a member of the Pajama Enthusiasts Association, currently applying for the Outstanding Citizen Award--speaking of which, do we vigilantes have any kind of union? The kind that reimburses equipment expenses? Or is it only you Batman-affiliated vigilantes who get an equipment subsidy?"
Batman remained silent.
"Alright, seeing you like this, I know the answer is no."
Chen Mo began to back away while shooting a web-line to grab a distant crane tower.
"Then I'm taking off. Say hello 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 planning to say a single word back to me? You're so cold, even the criminals on the streets will chat with me a bit."
Chen Mo launched himself into the air, not forgetting to look back and shout mid-flight, "No need to thank me! I know you want to say thanks, but you clearly look like the emotionally repressed type. Just keep it in, just don't bottle it up so much that you explode!"
Batman watched the silhouette swing away into the distance, falling into a prolonged silence.
He looked down at the sticky note, then looked at Killer Croc, who was trapped between the webbing and the containers, entirely unable to move.
"Childish."
He coldly spat out two words.
Then he pressed his communicator. "Gordon, come to the docks to pick someone up. Batman has subdued Killer Croc... and bring some strong solvent while you're at it."
A short while later, the wail of sirens shattered the tranquility of the docks. Commissioner Gordon arrived at the scene with a squad of officers. Looking at the massive creature wrapped into a cocoon by webbing with a sticky note slapped on its forehead, he then glanced toward 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 that sticky note.
"Spider-Man? He really likes leaving notes everywhere." Gordon pointed at the sticky note on Killer Croc's forehead, his expression caught somewhere between wanting to laugh and maintaining professional decorum.
Just as Batman hadn't answered the little spider's words, he likewise did not answer Gordon's.
He turned toward the shadows, his cape swirling one last time in the sea breeze before his entire form vanished without a trace, as if he had never existed at all.
"He's still as tight-lipped as ever."
Gordon sighed and waved his hand to the officers behind him. "Go find a few bottles of strong solvent. Also, take that sticky note down. Don't tear it; this needs to go into the archives."
...
Meanwhile, inside the Maroni Mansion.
Sal Maroni sat in a large leather armchair, two bloody objects laid out across the marble floor in front of him. They were two tongues.
Just half an hour ago, those two fools gossiping in the tavern had been dragged inside.
Maroni held his whiskey glass, the surface of the liquid perfectly still, his eyes so dark they could practically drip ink.
He wasn't angry because he was being called "done for"; he had heard far too many idle rumors from street-level thugs.
He was angry because the rumor was spreading far too quickly.
Scarface had only been in the ICU for a few days, and the streets were already beginning to discuss "how much the Maroni name is still worth."
If that dead cripple, the Penguin, wasn't fueling the fire behind this, he would swallow the glass in his hand alive.
That venomous snake was most adept at this kind of trick--leaking word anonymously and passing it down through layers, making every mouth spreading gossip feel as though they were the first to speak.
By the time the rumors reached his ears, the source had long been diluted into nonexistence.
In fact, just tonight, the Penguin had even sent a hypocritical "condolence email" phrased in an extremely polite manner, asking if there was any need to fund some skin cream for Killer Croc, since the sea breeze at the docks was quite harsh on the skin.
This was hardly a condolence.
This was shoving Maroni's face into a toilet bowl and asking him if the water temperature was comfortable.
Maroni waved his hand as if shooing away two flies.
"Drag them out. Those two should thank me for my mercy."
The two thugs who had lost their tongues were dragged away, overflowing with gratitude.
Maroni picked up his phone and dialed a number.
"Spread the word for me. Whether it's bounty hunters or mercenaries, whoever can bring that spider's head to me, the Maroni family will guarantee him a lifetime of wealth and prosperity."
He paused, his finger slowly tracing the rim of his wine glass. "I want him alive if he's vertical, dead if he's horizontal. I want all of Gotham to know that the wrath of the Maroni family isn't something just anyone can take!"
A brief confirmation came from the other end of the line.
Maroni hung up and raised his whiskey, the surface of the liquid remaining perfectly still.
He looked out the window at Gotham's gloomy, grey night sky.
The Penguin wanted to see him and Spider-Man tear into each other, so he would show everyone exactly that.
As for the Penguin, that account could be settled slowly.