Two weeks had passed since what the news were now calling ‘The Show Stopper’ massacre. With the Joker gone, most of the criminal underworld in Gotham had crawled back under the rocks as it were, even basic crimes like robbery and assault had gone down significantly. Although MANY of the worst offenders in the city had no love for the clown prince of crime, they did understand one fundamental truth; The Joker was a big fish in a small pond. No matter what other crime lords like the Penguin, Black Mask or Two Face were capable of, the Joker knew exactly how to up the ante. He was the top standard for what everyone else thought was absolutely insane or criminal, with no regards for morals or reason. A monster. With him gone, he left a void in the criminal underworld no one wanted to fill, and why would they? Someone or something had finally decided that enough was enough and turned him and his crew into bloody mulch. There was a new player in town, one that had no qualms about killing and whoever it was that killed the Joker and his men killed them all without firing a single shot back.
The Penguin had decided to keep a low profile after the news, shutting down some of his trade routes at the docks until the investigation was done. Sitting back in his leather couch watching the news with a glass of brandy in his gloved hand and a cigarette dangling from his thin lip, his two assistants Tracy and Candy read over the night’s business. Tracy swept her blonde hair out of her eyes, padding down the skirt of her white business suit before lifting a clipboard up to look over reports of the Penguin’s gang. “So, them crews ye got scrounging up de last bit oh yer goods at the docks finally finished… The lazy sods.” Answered Tracy in her cockney accent, checking off some papers while Candy in her dark suit skimmed through reports of her own. “Oh! Baby, that liquor shipment you wanted came in too, want it for the lounge or your private stock?” Asked the caramel skinned beauty, giving her employer a wink when she mentioned ‘private’.
Dashing his cigarette at an ashtray, Oswald sat up from his seat and hobbled over to the list, eyeing the roster with his good eye before taking another puff. “All’s private for now love, we’s gonna keep a low profile…”
“Whateva you say baby.” Turning to leave, both secretaries closed the door behind them, leaving Cobblepot alone to sit back in his chair and watch the news.
*
On the other side of town, in a half-dilapidated warehouse in the industrial sector of Gotham, Harvey Dent looked out from his office window down at the crew of men he had working overtime clearing out their goods from the Joker’s old turf and back to his two storage faculties. Two-Face looked down at the crates of weapons his men managed to make off with before the police had gotten the area cleared, he would have gotten away with more… But he lost the coin toss. Flipping his silver dollar in his left hand, Harvey watched on until one of his men knocked at his office and entered.
“We’ve got all the stuff boxed and ready boss, what’s the plan? We gonna rob a bank or something?”
Looking down to his coin, Harvey gave his father’s trick coin another flip, snatching it in the air and finding it land on its clean unscarred face. “No, we’re going to lay low for a while.”
Scratching his head in confusion, the goon closed the door behind him and stepped inside. “But boss, we’s got enough firepower to burn a good chunk of this city to the ground!”
“Half…” Corrected Two-Face, he had enough to set the lower end of the city up in flames, it was going to be one of his plans when the 22nd of February would come up in a couple months. But right now, things were uneasy, unsure. “We’re laying low until we find out who turned the clown into a damn worm feast.”
“But boss…” Grabbing the man by the scruff of his sweater, Two-Face brought the man up to look him in his eyes, forcing him to turn away at the burn scars of his left side. “I SAID WE’RE LAYING LOW! Or do YOU want to end like that smiling lunatic?”
“N-no Mr. Two-Face!”
Tossing him back hard enough to slam into the door of his office, Harvey didn’t need to look back over his shoulder to know the man ran out and slammed the door behind him. Something was coming, if it wasn’t already here already!
*
In the middle of the night at the Gotham docks, a handful of workers noticed a lone cargo ship drift into harbour, slowly but surely passing the bridge and making its way into the main harbour, where a pair of tug boats came up to steer the derelict ship to port and make dock. With a rough groan of metal, the cargo ship hit the dock and stopped, leaving a crew of workers scrambling to get it secured. “Someone get a walkway ready! See if you can tie this damn thing down.” The chief dock worker barked as his crew went immediately to work. Tipping his hard hat up to look at it, the ship was totally dark, no lights, no beacons and no response from radio when it came into view over the horizon. Like drift wood it floated into the bay without a sound.
When a walkway finally was set up and pressed against the hull of the ship, the crew didn’t know what to expect to find when they got on, but before they could make a step up the portal stairs, a lone figure stood out from the top of the derelict ship and made his way down. Those who weren’t trying to tie the ship, looked up to see a man of middle age heavily bound up in heavy cloths making his way down, almost floating down each step until he reached the bottom of the stairs and stood firmly in place, keeping anyone from heading up the ship. Apart from the black trench coat he wore, underneath he wore an extravagant green suit with a silk scarf wrapped around his neck and hanging down the middle between his coat lapels. A broad rimmed hat tanned the same colour as his suit obscured much of his face in the scant light. But what did get the dock chief’s attention were the yellow tinted sunglasses, which seemed to emit a light of their own even in the shadow of the man’s hat and dark setting.
“I take it I am in Gotham?” Asked the passenger in a thick European accent, slowly undoing his coat and folding it over his arm as he approached the man in charge.
“Yes, who are you? What is the name of this ship and why didn’t it make contact when it berthed the dockyard?”
Waving a white gloved hand up to the man to stop him there, the passenger lifted his other hand to remove his hat with a flourish of his fingers. “I… Am Count Olaf Strigoi, I came here from abroad to visit the city for… Business.” Looking around, the count took a deep breath, taking in the scents and smells of the docks and city before making a sound that seemed comparable to the growl of some jungle cat. “Your city… Is not unfamiliar with death it seems…”
“you still haven’t answered my que-“
“I have travelled the ocean aboard the S.S. Ceres… Onboard you will find a manifesto and cargo to be delivered to the desired locations within the city, I expect this to be done well before day break, do we understand one another?”
“LOOK HERE ASSHOLE! You don’t go giving me orders when you’re not the fucking captain of this floating piss pot you…” snapping back to look the man dead in the eyes, the count let slip his sunglasses to reveal his eyes, glaring into the man’s own with an intensity not unlike a predatory bird. Stunned silent, the dock chief went limp, the fire in his voice going out instantly. “Do we understand one another?” The Count asked again in the same calm tone.
“Yes… It’ll be done before day break…” Answered the man lazily.
“Good… I shall take this time to… Acclimate to my surroundings, do what you will of the ship, I no longer have need of it.” Setting his sunglasses back up and placing his hat and coat back on, the Count made his way out of the docks to disappear once he slipped out of the light of the overhead lamps. Snapping out of what felt like a dream, the chief snapped to a scream from one of his men who made his way up to the deck of the S.S. Ceres. Running up the stairs and joining the rest of his men up the deck, they all recoiled at the sight they all witnessed. One even turned around to throw up over the side.
The crew of the S.S. Ceres looked mummified! Their skin dry and cracked, almost as if they had died years ago, and yet they died still on their post. One dehydrated corpse leaned back against the side of a shipping container with two others, their skeletal hands still holding the playing cards, but the chips scattered on the deck. Another with a mop lay across the deck, where a seagull pecked disinterested at his shirt. Even the captain still had his hands on the steering wheel, his lower jaw barely hanging from its hinges like some permanent scream.
He wasn’t the only one screaming at the state of the ship.