The door shattered off of it's hinges.
No one in the room was given the time to react to what happened, merely watching in silence as the steel frame of the entrance fell flat onto the floor, sending a vibration up each man's spine with it's weight and impact. Moments ago, the lower five families of Gotham City's East racketeering district - considered the "Unorganized crime of Gotham" - had been in the midst of a heated territory settlement. Nathan Gambol, who had maintained control over a large portion of a territory for the past year, was doing everything in his power to convince the head mafioso of their district that his portion didn't belong to the head families currently running the East End, La Cosa Nostra and The Red Mafiya. Naturally, the gangs that were both loyal and intimidated by the head dons weren't going to back down easily, and neither were the ones that sided with Gambol, so tensions had quickly arose. Arguments had only worsened with every passing second from there, to the point of drawn weapons, when the interruption finally occurred to effectively silence them all.
Now, rather than pointed at eachother, all of their guns were directed towards the towering presence of Killer Croc, who simply snarled at the meaningless threat.
"First one to shoot gets to be dinner."
Some backed down, in clear fright of the beast, but several others locked down the hammers of their weapons. Croc grinned wide, displaying several rows of teeth. He had just ripped nothing less than a solid steel barrier apart, so this was obviously going to only end in two ways - ugly and messy. Beating his chest once, Croc assumed a lunging stance, ready to tear through each gunman as if they were paper.
"Can't say I didn't-..."
"Now, Croco... what did I say about that nasty eating habit of your's?"
The beast froze, hearing the leering jest of a voice echo from the darkened corners behind him. Instinctively, he moved aside to reveal the true threat to the group of mobsters, standing both tall and stout behind his intimidating muscle for hire. His ruby lips pulsated into a kind grin, as he strolled forward, hands in pockets, and casually approached the gentlemen wielding loaded firearms. They all locked at eachother in confusion, seeing the two bizarre looking figures and trying to comprehend them.
Croc rubbed the back of his head, very much like a scolded child.
"Not 'til we introduce ourselves?"
"Not 'til we introduce ourselves."
The clown slicked back his vivid, greased green hair and extended his hand, clad in a purple leather glove. None of the men budged, unsure of what exactly to do. All of their instincts told them to shoot the clown and his pet immediately and take care of the corpses later, but something was stopping any of them from pulling the trigger. The head mafioso in attendance, Nicolai Petrovic, was the first and only one to step forward, adjusting his suit and tie while approaching the uninvited guest.
"Ah, there we go! A volunteer from the audience. Sir, my name is-..."
"This is a private meeting. Take your business someplace else."
Disappointed that he was cut off, the clown lowered his hand.
"Well, that's not going to get me very far. My offer's only going out to you fine gentlemen."
Petrovic raised an eyebrow, as several of the others chuckled at the thought of what the mysterious clown had to offer them. Certainly nothing of value, and probably along the lines of party streamers and balloon animals. But their mockery didn't seem to phase him, as he looked around Petrovic's head and grinned, momentarily silencing them once more. There was something about the smile that was strangely... unsettling.
"You think that's funny? Wait until you see the punchline."
Annoyed, Petrovic narrowed his eyes.
"We're not interested in any offers you got for us. Especially when it's coming from some clown."
The clown raised his chin.
"That so?"
"Yeah. That's so."
But Petrovic's words suddenly tumbled onto themselves, once Croc approached the two and stood firmly behind the clown, his large arms crossing over his chest, in defiance of the mobster's dismissal. The clown simply narrowed his eyes back, and stared right into Petrovic's frightened expression.
"Well, then. How 'bout now?"
Thrown off his guard, Petrovic looked at him, then back up at Croc, who was getting increasingly agitated. Even the gunmen from before were beginning to give into his appearance's clear effect, slowly backing away from the brute as far as they could. The mafioso chose his next few words carefully.
"What... what did you have in mind, exactly?"
The clown brimmed with pleasure, clapping his hands together once, and sending Croc back to the other side of the room with a simple wave. There wasn't any use in trying to get a smooth transaction going when there was an eight foot tall metahuman staring you down like you were a slab of fresh meat.
"Why, I thought you'd never ask! For the strangest reason, I was beginning to get the impression that I wasn't wanted around here..."
He chuckled, but kept his eyes focused on the mobster's own, throwing an arm around Petrovic and directing him towards the nearest table.
"Can't imagine why."
The clown turned and ushered everyone else in the room to join them. They didn't move.
"Sit, sit! You'll want to hear this, trust me!"
Despite their hesitance, they eventually all complied, taking seats at the long table and waiting to hear whatever had driven the costumed nutcase this deep into Gotham's underworld. Few men were privilege to the information of where these five families had usually met, so it was enough of a surprise that the clown had even found them. But to convince them that he was actually worth listening to, when he and the walking alligator could have easily been a stain on the wall? That was a true feat of accomplishment.
Naturally, this fact left them curious enough, as the clown spun the far left chair around and plopped into it.
"See, here's the thing. I've been listening to all of you guys rattle on and on about how the Falcones and the Chechens and the Maronis and the Spongebobs of this city have all been cultivating the profits off of your well-earned scores. A reasonable issue to be had, don't get me wrong... but I think it's about time for the whining to stop. You're big boys, now."
Gambol, the one who had organized this meeting in the first place, leaned forward in his seat and scowled at the insult. He didn't care if this psycho had a guy twice his size under his arm, that was definitely no way to speak to the men that kept the rackets in the city running day and night and away from people who'd misuse them, like Maroni's gang.
"And who the f*** are you supposed to be?"
The clown shrugged.
"Just an observer, I suppose. A merry little stranger who's watched this city's inhabitants very closely for the past few months. And I have to say, you fellows are keeping things pretty tight lipped. Just not tightly lipped enough."
"That supposed to mean something to us?"
"If you want a crack at Falcone's empire, you're damn straight it means something to you."
The thugs looked at eachother. Now the clown was speaking their language.
"Thought that might get a rise out of the room. You're all hot and bothered for that top spot that the old man's been hogging, aren't you? Every two-bit hood in this overstarched potato of a city's got that on his mind. The day that 'The Roman' gets his due and leaves behind a big fat royalty check with your names on it."
Several of them began to nod, though Gambol was clearly the one in the room still unconvinced. The clown nodded with them, then stopped, suddenly. His grin faded, and his eyes burned with hatred.
"Well, dream on! You honestly think any of you would make it a day in their shoes? You meet eachother in a meat freezer! The cops have got your rackets stopped cold to make way for Maroni's people, and you're letting them walk all over you like a swarm of vermin. It's pathetic! It's sick! It's... it's..."
Suddenly, his head slammed onto the table, muffling a scream. Petrovich's men nudged eachother, wondering if the clown had suddenly suffered some kind of aneurysm, or a heart attack. But then, they heard the laughter. The thick, blood-curling laughter that echoed from underneath the purple sleeve. Until he raised his head again, cackling madly and spinning himself around in the chair. Everyone in the room went silent, as he continued like this for half a minute.
Hitting the table with an open palm, he leaned forward and composed himself, wiping away a tear.
"Sorry, I've just always wanted to do that. It's just that it's not every day that you get to sit in a room with real live gangsters... I feel like I'm supposed to break out the coke and do a few lines while quoting Pachino."
Gambol sneered.
"What're you, on something? This is ********."
The clown chuckled hard to himself, still fairly amused.
"There you go again, with that. The 'whine' before dinner. Do you people honestly think anyone in this city respects you?"
Petrovic reached into his pocket and produced a gun. He had listened to enough of this. From the other side of the room, Croc moved to grab him, but the clown raised his hand back, signaling for him to stop. Begrudgingly, the brute complied and walked back to the corner, just as Petrovic leveled the weapon's barrel towards the painted chalk-white face infront of him.
"They don't, and they get capped. We've got a mutual thing going on here. Someone tries to get in the way of our shipments, we simply got to move them out of the way. 'Sway it's always worked, and you're not gonna be an exception."
And he thought he was playing.
"Gee, I never thought of it that way. I mean, it's both painfully unoriginal and dreadfully boring, but you've got to give yourself some credit. You're really committed to the cause."
Petrovich pulled back the hammer.
"Got to ask, though. What do you do when the guy you moved out of the way... moves back in the way?"
And suddenly, Petrovich stopped. Whether it was because he was interested in what the clown was saying, or some other force entirely was at work, the mobster gently lowered the weapon.
"What do you mean?"
Leaning forward, the clown looked across the room, clearly addressing each and every soul that could hear him.
"Can't answer that, can you? Well, I don't think I have to be the one to break it to you, but Falcone's boys? They've thought about that. Maroni's thought about it, too. Because they're thinkers. They over analyze every little detail down it's very basic structure and put together complicated plans to protect even their smallest assets. It's why they're not lying face down in the bay, like many of your men. They're prepared for every eventuality."
Placing his hands together, the clown's true tone of voice was beginning to come out. No longer was he the playful, gingerly grinning freak that had entered the room, but rather a frightfully educated man who knew exactly what he was talking about. The hoods carefully considered his words, as he continued.
"So naturally, they're going to be tough to remove. Maroni, especially... he's the one you've got to look out for. You know what they say about Sicilians."
The clown ran his finger across his own throat, mockingly.
"You want them out of the equation? I can make it so that they're as scattered and defenseless as the Turkish army. And then, all you have to do is seize..."
He slammed his fist onto the table, pushing it side to side.
"And capture."
Gambol looked towards his boys, before moving closer.
"And what would you want in return?"
The crimson of lips peeled themselves back, once more. This was where the fun begins.
"Entertainment."
