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The "Why So Serious? Gotham City Noir" RPG


Dramatic Example
Oct 1, 2003
Reaction score
Gotham City Police Department Data Files
File #06181989
Subject: Why So Serious?


1. A Message To All And All For One

i'M sUrE yOu'Ve wOnDeReD wHeRe i'Ve bEeN

iN lIgHt oF lEtTiNg yOu dOwN aGain

i'Ve dEcIdEd tO gIvE yOu rEwArD

sOmEtHiNg tO pUt yOuR hOpEs aNd gOaLs tOwArD

a nEw wOrLd

wElCoMe tO gOtHaM.


Mr. Greenlaw was once a young, idealistic lawyer. He truly believed that he could solve all of Gotham's problems with the help of the legal system. He fought corruption, and he defended improperly accused clients. As time went on, the corruption didn't stop. Eventually, it began to wear on Mr. Greenlaw. He lost that youthful optimism about the world around him. He began to realize that most of his clients were guilty. Yet he didn't stop trying to prove their 'innocence.' Now, here he was - defending a true madman. And why would he fight for such an insane man? Money talks, and the Joker has plenty of that.

So now Mr. Greenlaw watched as a psychiatrist questioned the Joker to prove his insanity. If it could be deduced that the client was mentally ill, Greenlaw could go for the insanity plea and trade time in Arkham for time in prison. Yet, deep down, Greenlaw knew that the Joker deserved to fry for all his murders. Hell, Greenlaw would love to watch the sonuvab**** die. But as long as his client kept the money coming, Greenlaw would defend him until the end.

The psychiatrist, Mr. Stevens, flips through the papers in the Joker's file. He stops every so often to examine gruesome crime scene photos. Finally, he speaks up without making eye contact. "Tell me about your childhood."

The Joker sits there calmly - a rarity. One look at the man was enough to realize that he was unstable. His hair was disheveled and dyed a hideous shade of green. His face was smeared with white makeup, and the dark mascara around his eyes gave him a ghoulish appearance. Worst of all was that big, red smile. It extended from cheek-to-cheek, and it stood out - regardless of the Joker's mood. Finally, he leans back in his chair and responds, "Can't say I recall anything."

"Nothing at all?"
Stevens inquires as he looks up from the file. He instantly regrets looking into the eyes of a madman. In an effort to mask his fear and disgust, Stevens looks back down at the file, pretending to be reading intently. He clears his throat before stating, "Surely, you must remember something."

"There is one thing...do you know the story of Oedipus?"

Stevens nods. "The Greek king who killed his father and married his mother?"

"That's the one!"
The Joker replies enthusiastically. He sits forward in his seat, and everything about his demeanor implies that he's now interested in relaying the story. "I remember hearing that, and I remember that I loved the irony of it all. It was so taboo, so unconventional. So one day, when I was alone with my father, I stabbed him to death with a butter knife."

"You murdered your father?"
Stevens asks in shock as he examines a photo of a woman who was almost literally sliced in half.

The Joker shrugs. "That's how I remember it. You'll have to excuse my uncertainty. I'm more a man of the present!"

"How old were you when this alleged murder occurred?"

The Joker stares off into space as he tries to remember. "Oh...I couldn't have been older than, say, 11. I'm something of an early bloomer! HAHA!"

"Did you enjoy killing?"

"Would I be talking to you today if I didn't?"
The Joker responds bluntly.

Ignoring the sarcasm of the Joker's response, Stevens throws out his next, and most obvious, question, "Why do you kill?"

"I'm on a mission,"
The Joker explains.

"From God?"
Stevens asks, clearly interested at the possibility.

"God? HAHAHAHAHA! I don't worry myself with belief in some false deity."

Stevens is visibly disappointed that religion isn't a factor in this man's dementia. Nonetheless, he feels obliged to inquire, "Can you explain your mission to me, then?"

"Mankind is inherently evil. Sanity is a temporary state of mind. A mask, if you will, to hide our true carnal desires. I have made it my goal to prove that any man, no matter how apparently strong-willed, can be broken. Every single person on this planet is on the precipice of insanity - just waiting for something to push them over. I am that something."

"You wish to invoke mass hysteria?"

The Joker shakes his head. He obviously doesn't like explaining his motives to someone - especially when he knows that they'll never understand. Regardless, he humors the psychiatrist. "I wish to free everyone of society's restraints. Long ago, I broke away from normalcy...and do I look like a man who enjoys himself or what? HAHAHA!"

"Can you explain the Joker persona?"

"I tried many different facades before I became the man sitting in front of you. I killed many people in a variety of ways. But I found that none of my attempts truly got my mission across. Until one day..."

"Yes?" Stevens encourages him to continue as he puts down the file.

"One day, I just realized how FUNNY it all is! Mankind's struggle to maintain sanity...it's so pathetic that it's HILARIOUS! And here I am, one man, trying to convert the entire world to my unique philosophy - which is equally laughable! Furthermore, I realized that I needed to increase my ministry."

"How so?"

"Children. If I wanted to achieve my goals, I had to get my point across to the younger generations. How easy it would be to take a beloved children's icon and make it into something so much more! Lots of children love clowns! I had to make everyone realize that my mission wasn't depressing...it's fun!"

"You believe mass murder is 'fun?'" Stevens ask incredulously. It's clear that the psychiatrist is repulsed at this point.

"It can be...if viewed in a certain light. Unfortunately, people take everything too seriously! Why do you think I leave smiles on my victims' faces? They need to lighten up!"

"How many people would you estimate that you've killed?"

"I don't keep track. That would make this seem like work. And it's not work...it's play! HAHAHAHA!"
Mr. Zsasz
Down the Drain
Part 1

I relax the muscles in my upper body as I let the drops of blood rain down over me. It never ceases to amaze, this feeling. This euphoric sense of completion that washes over me every time I release these sheep from their imprisonment.
I wasn't always like this. I wasn't always free. In fact, I was just like them; a simple drone, trudging through life looking for meaning, satisfaction or a sense of belonging, not realizing there's nothing of the sort to be found. So we keep going, isolated and alone.
But not anymore. The people of Gotham City no longer need to dread waking up in the morning. They no longer need to fear facing life on their own. I can help them. Rescue them. And that's what I'll do.

It almost took my own death before I discovered what I could do. What I was meant to do.
But as Woodrow T. Wilson once said, "Never try to murder a man who is committing suicide."


1 Year Ago

"And stay the hell out, punk!"

My body hits the cold, wet ground outside of Gotham City Casino. I'm so drunk I can hardly feel it. I exhale and pull myself to my feet. I turn and scream towards the entrance.

"You cheated me, Cobblepot, you pudgy little *****! I want my damn money back!"

I stumble backwards and crash into a garbage can. With a thud, it tumbles over and so do I. Once again I smack down onto the ground, my head hitting the curb. I think I broke something. I don't know.
I don't care.
I sit up and rub my aching head. It feels like it's going to explode. Like my eyes are going to pop out of their sockets. Like I'm bleeding through the eyes. Nose. Ears. It feels like I'm being trampled.

But then again, it always does.

I grab a hold of a nearby lightpost and heave myself up, stumbling backwards. I raise my fist and scream profanities at the door, but the doorman is long gone.
I put my hand in my pockets and drunkenly make my way down the street. Before I even realize it, I'm walking down the very street my mother told me to avoid when I was a child. I can hear shouts of profanities. Coughing. The sound and smell of vomiting. This is the very worst Gotham has to offer. The lowest of the low.

Might as well join them.


Gotham Lawns

The gray sky gives way to a light snowfall. Alfred pulls the car up to the side of the road.

“I'll wait for you here, Master Bruce.”

"Thank you, Alfred."

I slowly get out the car and pull up my coat to fight the howling wind. Two roses grasped in my hand.

It's a short ways to their place. I trudge through the snow and finally find it.

"Mom. Dad."

I place a rose on each side. One for Thomas, my father. One for my mother Martha.

This is something I've done since my return to Gotham. The anniversary of their deaths I visit. I can never undo the pain of that night, but by remembering, I will always know what it felt like.

I close my eyes for a second, the images flash...



My eyes snap back open.

"It's working...slowly, but the people are believing. Hope is returning. I'm making this world a better place...not a world were another eight year old will have to go through the pain again."

Sometimes I wonder, what I would have been like had my parents not died. No, don't focus on what might have been, focus on what is.

I touch my father's grave and crouch.

"It hasn't been easy. But that's why we choose the things we do. Not because they are easy, but because they are hard."

I kiss my hand and place it on my father's grave. I repeat the act with my mother's grave.

"I love both of you."

I turn to leave, marching through the snow. As much as I want to stay and dwell on my thoughts, night is slowly approaching and I have work to do....

"Please rise for the honorable Judge Larkin," the bailiff commands. Everyone rises to their feet, even the homicidal defendant. With a coy grin on his face, the Joker's eyes followed the Judge as he made his way up the bench. The jury stared in disgust at the repulsive appearance of the defendant. Many of their faces were painted with horror as they made preconceived notions about the kind of man that he is.

Once the judge took his seat, he announced, "You may be seated." Everyone in the courtroom sat back down - the Joker, in particular, dawdling ever slightly before returning to his chair. The Joker's gaze never broke from the judge. "This is the matter of the people of the commonwealth of Gotham City versus...The Joker?"

"That's correct, your Honor," Greenlaw responds, assuring the judge that his client was indeed named 'the Joker.'

Judge Larkin merely shook his head and continued, "Mr. Defendant, how do you plead?"

The Joker opened his mouth with a smile to respond, but Greenlaw cut him off. "Not guilty, your Honor, by reason of insanity," Greenlaw explained. His disgust for his client was palpable, but it would not get in the way of the proceedings. After all, there was a hefty sum of money waiting for Greenlaw if he saved the Joker from capital punishment - a sentence that the Joker surely deserved.

The judge nodded and marked something on his papers. After another quick moment of review, he stated, "The defense may call its first witness."

"I'd like to call Doctor Raymond Stevens to the stand, your Honor," Greenlaw announced matter-of-factly. Stevens got up from his seat and made his way to the witness stand. After Stevens was sworn in, Greenlaw asked, "Can you state your name for the jury?"

"Yes, I'm Doctor Raymond Stevens, Ph.D," he replies, adjusting the microphone while he speaks.

Greenlaw begins to pace as he poses his next question, "You spoke at length with my client. Is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"And based on your interaction, would you agree that my client is mentally unsound?"
Greenlaw inquires, halting for a response.

Stevens clears his throat. "Yes, I would say that is a safe statement to make," he agrees.

"If my client were a patient of yours, how would you diagnose him?"

"Well," Stevens begins while shifting in his seat, "Your client is clearly a schizophrenic. He displays all the trademark symptoms of antisocial disorder, and there's the possibility that he has a lesser form of Dissociative Identity Disorder."

Greenlaw allows this statement to simmer in the jury's mind for a moment before continuing with his examination. "In your medical opinion, does my client realize the repercussions of his actions?"

Stevens shakes his head declaratively. "Not at all."

"And so, would you say that he is capable of distinguishing between right and wrong?"
Greenlaw inquires sharply, skipping right to the point of his defense.

"What the jury, and everyone else, must understand is that there is no 'right' or 'wrong' with this man," Stevens explains. "It would take intensive psychological treatment to try and instill morals into this man - treatment which Arkham has to offer. And I think we can all agree that this is a fate better than death."

Wayne Manor


I stare at the mask. Over my time wearing it, it's been slowly drawing me in. I'm starting to become less Bruce Wanye, and more of The Batman.....but...am I really Bruce Wanye? Is that my mask and The Batman is the real me?....


Alfred snaps me out of my trance, he's across the cave, holding my body armor.

"I was unable to aquire the new model, up to your specifications. These will have to due. They're 30 percent less bullet proof as the new ones."

"Well, they'll have to do,"

"Quite so, Sir. In the mean time, may I suggest you try to not get shot?"

I smile as I turn away from Alfred, he's got the English dry wit down to a tee.


I'm dressed in my full suit, Alfred watches on as I leave the mask off and slip into The Tumbler.

"When can I expect you back?"

"When I'm done."

"I won't wait up, then."

Alfred throws me a sideways glance as he turns to leave the cave through the elevator. The Tumbler's engine roars to life as I close the cockpit and slip on my mask.

The Narrows

I sit and wait in the shadows high above the Narrows. Not too long ago, this place was torn apart by a madman thinking he was healing the world. In many ways, it was my first real test. Through out mi vigil, I have to stop myself from attacking two junkies. I only wait until the mug someone, a married couple and their young boy, that I start my stalk.

I track them all the way to a building top, where they sit and divide up the cash.

"Look, man. We should get outta here."

"Why? We got away. Ain't no uniform gonna bust his ass to track down to muggers."

"I'm just worried...."

"About what?"

"..........The Bat?"

"Ahh, the bat? What's there to be scared about? I hear he's just a idiot in a costume."

"That's not what I heard. What about Matt Byrd?"

"Ahh, don't give me that bull****. Byrd Man got loaded and took a walk off a roof. The Bat didn't have **** to do with it."

I move closer in the shadows, I can smell their sweaty stink and the ruffle of their clothes as they move.

"Look, let's just get outta here."

"Come on! Let's see The Bat get me! He ain't ****!"

That's when I strike, throwing one of my shurikens Alfred dubbed "Bata-rangs" through the air.


The one taunting drops to his knees as the shuriken bounces off his throat and knocks the wind out of him.

The other one jumps to his feet, running as fast as he can. I shoot a grappling line and it attatches to his pants leg, I pull him in and he turns to stare into the shadows.

"Who are you, man!?!?!"

I finally appear, staring at him and making sure I've put the fear of god in him.


"I'm Batman."

Selina walked out of the elevator of her building downtown Gotham, towards the main lobby,

"Good morning Ms. Kyle"
the doorman greeted her with a smile as he opened the door for her.

"Good morning, James"
She smiled back, "Temperature dropping on us again?" Selina said as she buttoned her overcoat.

"I heard it's gonna get colder..." He nodded.

"Better do some shopping then, a lady needs to be prepared."

Selina gave him a nod and a big grin before walking outside in the freezing Gotham weather, it was only 1PM and the weather was this bad, some snow tonight would definitely make her plans a little harder, but nothing she couldn't deal with.

She slid her hands into her coat pockets and walked down the street towards her destination, heels clicking on the ground as she did. She had to make sure the location for tonight still had the same security as it did a couple of weeks ago, surprises were welcomed every now and then but not if it stood in the way of her getting back to her apartment and into her warm bed. Tonight would have to go smoothly and fast.
3 Years Ago

Alberto climbed out of the black sedan, and took a quick look around him at the dirty Gotham street. His gaze passed over a homeless man, sitting with his thin dog tied around his wrist by a piece of string. His gaze passed over him, but it didn't linger. His long black trenchcoat flapped around his knees as he walked into the airport lobby. A hand clasped his shoulder, and he turned to see the pointed face of his older brother, a hint of sadness masked behind his characteristic grin.

"Alberto my brother, today is the day you go out into the world and make yourself a man!" he said, like a father would to a son. Like Alberto's own father should be saying to him. Alberto smiled at his brother.

"Thankyou Mario. I thought Papa forbid everyone from coming to see me off," Alberto said, questioning him slightly. Mario gave a rougish wink.

"What Carmine Falcone don't know can't hurt him," he said. Alberto gave a sad smile.

"I'll miss you Mario,"

"And I you Alberto," Mario said, clapping his hand on his shoulder.

"Give my love to Sofia,"

"I will do. Now go make something out of yourself, and whatever you do, make sure you don't come back to this *****hole of a city," Mario said, turning to go.

A Month Ago

Inmate No.1376 never had any visitors. He had in the first few weeks of his stay, when it was thought he may recover. Now...no one. That's why the clerk at Arkham Asylum had been so suprised that Carmine Falcone had a visitor approved by the powers that be. A warden led the man, who wore sunglasses and a smart black suit, to Falcone's cell.

Carmine Falcone sat huddled in a corner of his padded cell, strapped into his straight-jacket. A thin line of drool hung down his mouth.

"The scarecrow..." he muttered. It was the only thing he could say now. People had reported that he said that sentence in his sleep, over and over again. The man in the shades walked over to him, looked him deep in the eyes, then pulled out a pistol and put it to his temple. The warden didn't even flinch.

"Sal Maroni sent me," the man said, and pulled the trigger.
Alberto sat in his plush oxford apartment reading the financial times over a morning coffee. He had graduated from his law degree a few weeks ago, though none of his relatives were there to see it. He hardly had any contact with them any more. Maybe it was better that way. The Falcone family was notorious for its illegal acts, so a successful lawyer would be best to steer clear of them.

Still...they were family. What could you do?

And then the phone rang. Alberto knew it was a member of his family, it was just too odd. He picked up the receiver.


"Hey Sofia, I was just thinking of - "

"Papa's dead," she stated. Alberto dropped the reciever.


“A man that doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man.”
~ The Godfather (1972)

“Yo Vincent, we got a Sopranos marathon over at Burke’s, we could use your ‘expertise’,” Detective Morgan taunted Del Arrazio as he walked onto the Major Crimes floor “You should come. Tell us all about how the famiglia works.”
“Screw you Morgan.”
“Yeah yeah, it’s not like you’re ‘connected’ are you?”
“Could you shut up, Morgan? I’ve got a case I need to close. Last I checked, you still had five names in red yourself.”
“Way to be a prick, Del Arrazio.”

Morgan mumbled a few more curse words to himself as he walks away. Detective Sergeant Vincent Del Arrazio did the same as he went over the files again. For days now, the Finnegan case was kicking his ass. In fact Del Arrazio hadn’t gotten any further since starting first shift this morning. Sitting across from him was his partner, Detective Joely Bartlett, looking at him amused. After a few minutes of the staring, he finally looked up at her.

“Just funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“Not in the mood, Joely.”
“Then get in the mood.”
“What do you want?”
“You know how you’re always crying about those rumours about your ‘connections’?” she emphasized the word connections by air quoting.
“I don’t ‘cry’ about that,” he replied, imitating the gesture.
“You ever think about letting up? Going over to Burke and watching that ridiculous show with the guys?”
“All I’d get would be agita. Not every Italian-American has a connection to the mob, you know.”
“I know, I know.”
“Then what are you trying to say?”
“That you’re not dispelling any rumours this way.”

Vincent grumbled for a moment as he tried to return his attention to the case files.

“By the way, I think the butler did it.”

Del Arrazio looked at his partner stunned.

“What are you talking about now, Bartlett?”
“Finnegan. He had a butler. Looks like he had an affair with Finnegan’s wife. Finnegan finds out, fires butler, forbids wife from ever seeing the guy again. Instant motive right there.”
“What? Where’d you get that from?”
“Here,” she said as she pointed out the paragraph in the case file.
“You’re a genius, anyone ever tell you that?”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go nail the bastard.”

As fate would have it, it's the prosecution's turn to defend their case. And none other than the Clown Prince of Crime himself is called the stand. The room collectively knew that this wasn't going to end well. The silence was deafening as the defendant made his way to the bailiff.

"Please place your right hand over your heart and your other hand on this Bible," the bailiff commands. The courtroom stares in suspense as they wait for the Joker's next move. Surprisingly, the Joker obliges - although there is an obviously overdramatic nature to the way in which he clutches his own chest. Without saying a word, it's still evident that the Joker is mocking the judicial system. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth - so help you God?"

"God can't help me,"
the Joker responds defiantly, "Any more than He can help you."

"That's enough,"
the judge warns irritably. He, least of all, is not amused by the defendant's antics. "Take your seat."

Rather than push another of Judge Larkin's buttons, the Joker follows instructions and sits casually at the witness stand. He is visibly excited to begin testifying.

"Tell me," the prosecutor begins calmly, "Do you know your real name?"

"It's Joseph," the defendant explains.

The prosecutor spins to look at the Joker. It's clear that he wasn't expecting a response other than 'no' or something witty. "Joseph?" he repeated as if he never heard the name before.

The Joker laughed. But it was different. This was a casual laugh. There was nothing sinister or maniacal about it. For a moment, the Joker sounded like a relatively normal guy. "Oh please...only my mother calls me 'Joseph.' I much prefer Joe."

the prosecutor says aloud. He's completely bewildered by the fact that the Joker is answering him honestly and seriously. Regaining his composure, he asks, "Do you remember your last name?"

"Kerr," the Joker nods. He smiles pleasantly.

"Joe Kerr," the prosecutor announces quietly to himself. But once he hears the two names together, he instantly hangs his head in shame. He had been conned by a killer clown. His revelation was reassuring by the uncontrollable fits of laughter coming from the witness stand. "S***."

"Oh, that was fun," the Joker admits while pretending to wipe a tear out of his eye. "You legal types are so gullible! Thanks for the laugh!"

Determined to redeem himself, the prosecutor goes back on the offensive. "Did killing all those people give you a laugh, too?" he asks sharply with contempt hanging in his tone. He storms over to his desk and grabs a file, flipping through it angrily. "Let's take last week, for instance - the crime that got you caught. You went on a sadistic killing spree in a hotel. In the course of about an hour, you killed seven guests, a room service attendant, and a bellboy."

The Joker frowns. "What about the valet? I remember killing a valet driver, too."

The prosecutor flips frantically through his papers. After an impromptu search of his facts, he has a stern, confused look on his face. "There's nothing in here about killing a valet driver," he explains.

"Oh, don't tell me that you didn't find him yet," the Joker replies. The look of terror on everyone's faces affirms this. "HAHAHAHA! That's rich! Man, I want to be there when you find his body!"

The prosecutor mutters some not-so-subtle profanities under his breath. This case wasn't looking good. First of all, everyone know this guy was insane. But it was the prosecutor's job to get him put down regardless. And that wasn't seeming quite possible.
IC: Harvey Bullock

Gotham is a complicated place, the only thing more complicated than Gotham are the people that live in it; the contrast between the two classes is almost unbelievable, you have the Bruce Waynes of the world and then the rest of us Average Joes who just barely scrape through and just manage to put food on the table.

There was only thing that united Gotham.. Football.

The entirety of MCU (Major Crimes Unit) was in the squad room, staring at the small television in the corner, as the whistled sounded the officers erupted into cheers and hugs all around; there were even a few tears, but you wouldn't understand unless you were a Gothamite, you wouldn't know what these people live and breath.

"Who would of thought it, eh?"

A rather handsome man with thin black hair and a chiselled jaw appeared on the television, he undid his tie and untucked his shirt, throwing his tie in the air and swinging his jacket over his head a few times before letting it fly into the stands.

"It's been fifteen years since I last saw The Gotham Knights beat The Metropolis Planets.."

George Tankerton, the anchorman for Gotham's number one news channel, smiled broadley as he looked at all of the fans in the crowd screaming with jubilance, he saw the girlfriends, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and just about every Gotham fan in the crowd rush onto the field just to get to touch their heroes, to speak to them, to revel in their glory.

"But who would have thought we'd ever do it in such fashion? A week ago, the heart of every single Knights fan across the country sank as they heard the news, we had been drawn against our oldest and fiercest rivals; who, coincidentally, we hadn't beat for a decade and a half. The Planets hadn't lost a game all season, but Gotham hadn't won a game all season, it was the miss-match of the century. Who could have ever thought that the biggest David and Goliath match ever to happen on American soil could turn into an upset of biblical proportions?"

Their were a few whistles from the MCU staff as a man ran towards Tankerton, grabbed him by the collar and kissed him right on the lips passionately, George smiled slightly and chuckled awkwardly.

"Heck, you know what, let's speak to MVP and Captain Kenny Miller to see what he has to say on the subject"

He walked over to the captain, who was busy holding up the game ball and cuddling up to his girlfriend, but smiled and looked absolutely amazed as he saw Tankerton walk towards him; he rushed towards him and bear hugged him, lifting him high into the air before putting him down and shaking his head in disbelief.

"You're George Tankerton!"

"That's right Kenny, I am, and you're Kenny Miller.. Captain and Quarterback of The Gotham Knights, what can you tell us about what was going through your mind at half-time?"

"Well, we were down 24-0 by half-time, and I knew that if we didn't lift our game a little we'd be going home, we'd be out of the competition and going home losers; we'd come too far for that, we'd come worked too hard for it.. So I got the guys in, I had a word with them."

There was a large cheer from the officers in MCU as Kenny Miller came on screen, he was something of a working class hero around here, he was the biggest sucess story since the Waynes and modest as hell, which was why the people loved him.

"Could you tell us what you said, Kenny?"

"I said to them.. We're going to run out on that field, and the next 30 minutes is going to define the rest of our lives, the next 30 minutes is the difference between living and dying, the next 30 minutes will decide whether we make something of our lives or are just another statistic, just another failure from Gotham. I told them we'd made it this far, that we'd worked our asses off and it was too late to turn back now; that we were brothers in arms, we might not share the same blood, we might not even like each other, but we'd made it this far regardless of the colour of our skins, how rich we were, where our parents were from, what language we spoke, how smart we were.. I.. We had to do it for Gotham, for the people of Gotham. We've been through a lot as of late, and I think it's time that we show the Gothamites out there that they can amount to something, that they can make something of their lives.."

There were some loud clapping from the large crowd that had now gathered in the squad room, which slowly died down as Tankerton began talking again.

"And it worked.. 24-27.. How does it feel to have thrown the single most important touchdown in the Gotham Knight's lengthy history?"

"It's a team sport, I don't claim this victory as my own at all, we all contributed, each and every one of us. Each and every Gotham Knight fan out there, even the ones that don't even like football, even the ones that didn't know we existed.. We did it for them, we did it with them, we just hope that today's the start of something new for our city.."

Tankerton smiled, there was some rousing applause from the crowd, which slowly fell silent as Kenny Miller took his girlfriend by the hand, making sure she was infront of the camera as he did so.

He dropped to one knee.

"Caroline Bailey, you're my world.. Will you marry me?"

She screamed loudly, jumping into his arms and kissing him passionately.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

The crowd went wild, as the policemen in the precinct, they might not admit it, but even the old warhorses in the GCPD had hearts; they felt something they hadn't felt something for a long time, true love, it made them sentimental for a second, before snapping into their senses and acting indifferent towards it.

Tankerton turnt towards the camera one final time, the elated husband and wife to be in the background, he looked straight into the lens and began his final monologue.

"Well, folks.. tonight our Knights have shown us what we're all capable of, that Gotham isn't going down with a fight, that-"

Miller lifted his girlfriend high into the air, there was a deafening bang and it took Tankerton a few moments to realise what had happened over the noise of the crowd, he heard the screams of the wife to be behind him and turnt round.

On the floor lay Kenny Miller, a bullet through his head, his young fiance covered in blood. She screamed hysterically, it took the crowd a few seconds to realise what had happened, but as soon as they did so, they screamed at the top of their voices and ran for their lifes; many jumped from the stands to help, but it was too late.

"He's dead.. H.. Stop rolling dammit!"

"But G-"

Tankerton, whom was crouched over the young quarterback, trying to see if he still had a pulse, jumped to his feet and smacked the camera out of the camera-man's hand. There was a final glimpse of Miller, who hauntingly laid with half his head blown off, staring straight into the camera.

MCU, which had been stunned in silence, jumped into life and many detectives jumped to claim the case, to take 'dibs' on it.

A single, large figure kicked open the squad doors and the rest of the officers fell silent.

"This one's mine."

Nobody argued, Kenny Miller's father used to be a police officer, Harvey Bullock had been his partner for several years.. They all knew without it being said that Bullock would get the job done, that even if he didn't have the evidence to put the shooter down, he'd make sure he got what he deserved.

Immoral? Maybe, but that was Harvey.

Nobody could say a word, compared to them, Harvey was the cleanest cop on the force, except Gordon that is.

"Who the hell went and made you God, Bullock?"

A young Timmy Rourke, who'd only just made detective, stepped forward and called out Bullock, who'd turnt to leave, but stood still as he heard the words escape from Rourke's lips.

With a speed that defied his size, he spun round, pulled his gun from his holster and pressed it against Rourke's head, slamming his head against a table as he did so.

"Not so talkative now, eh?"

Marcus Driver stepped through the crowd, placing his hand on Bullock's shoulder and whispering into his ear quietly, Harvey sighed and let go of Rouke, storming out of the squad room. There was silence for a few minutes, as everybody stared at Rourke awkwardly, he looked at them and shrugged, confused.

"What'd I do?"
Harvey Dent

I Believe in Harvey Dent. Part I

I feel a rush as the crowd roars. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I stand up to the podium in front of a gathering of supporters, well wishers and curious passers by.

“Citizens of Gotham…” I begin. “My friends, neighbors and fellow man. I come before you today, as one of you, as a man tired of the harsh realities this city faces everyday. This city is dying; it’s dying of a disease. This disease can be seen all around, when you walk down the street and see a man bleeding to death on the sidewalk, when you walk into a store only to see it robbed, when parents are gunned down in front of their children, you see it. This disease is crime. It has been untreated long enough but let me tell you that today the cure has been found. That cure, my fellow Gothamites… Is Harvey Dent.”

The crowd roars again and applause begins. I raise my hand to quieten the reaction. I wasn’t done wowing the people yet. “So when the time comes, and the people must decide, remember, vote for Harvey Dent, defender of Gotham. Together we can make this city the shining example it used to be. I believe it and deep down so do you. I believe in Gotham City.”


"That went well." I tell my PA confidently as I enter the back of a sleek black sedan.

"Figures show you way above the competition Mr. Dent, you could be running for mayor and get these kind of numbers. It seems they see you as a man of the people. By the way, 'defender of Gotham'? Nice touch, that wasn't in the notes we laid out for you." I smile and look over to the young lady at my side.

"Well my dear, you don't get to were I am today by reading from a piece of paper."

“A man that doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man.”
~ The Godfather (1972)

“You just pissed off Harvey Bullock, kiddo. I’d pack your bags if I were you,” Del Arrazio replied as he took his coat and looked towards his partner, Joely Bartlett. She was smiling, just like him. The rookie obviously had a lot to learn, and odds are he’d be out before he’d learn. Cops didn’t last long in Gotham, especially honest cops. Timmy Rourke would have to prove himself true police.

“Good luck, Bullock,” Joely whispered as she and Vincent walked out of the squad room as well. Bullock was going to have quite a case on his hands, and there’d be a lot of people, detectives and civilians, that would be getting in the way. Right now though, Del Arrazio and Bartlett had to go and catch themselves their own killer.


The East End
1 A.M.

I thought that Carmine Falcone's imprisonment would stop all organized crime in Gotham down to a trickle. Instead, if opend up a can of worms. In one corner, we have what's left of Falcone's empire, in the other corners are Sal Maroni and Rupert Thorne, both of of whom have been lost in Flacone's shadow.

I'm here tonight to try to catch Thorne in the act. Word is, he's got some heavy arms coming in on the docks. I highly dobut Thorne will make the same mistake Flacone did and show up tonight, none of the leaders have been out on the job since I started my patrols.

"Come on. Let's get outta here as quickly as possible."

I sweep through the shadows, stalking the two thugs from high above as they move towards three massive crates on the side of the docks. One of them walks as the other drives a forklift.

"Where's Thorne getting this stuff from, anyway?"

"Hey, man. The less I know about what he does, the less likely I am to get whacked."

The one driving the forklift connects with one of the crates, he's starting to lift the crate when I swoop out of the shadows, gliding on my rigid cape like a monster straight from hell.



I land, in the blink of an eye I swing my leg up, knocking the one operating the forklift off his seat and onto the dock. His friend trys to get away, I quickly grab him by the collar and stare at him with pure hatred.

"What are you doing here?!?!"

"My boss told me to pick up these crates!"

"What's in them?!?!"

"I don't know! Thorne never told me! I don't wanna know."

I don't think he's lying. The less Thorne's monkeys know, the better.

"Lemme go! Please!"

I swiftly head butt him, he loses consciousness and falls to the ground.

I move over to the crates and rip open the top. AK-47's and AR-15's are stacked up inside. My eyes go to something sitting on top of one of the assault rifles.....


A stuffed penguin. Either it's a gift...or a calling card.​
Alberto sat in the library of the Falcone Mansion. The room was huge, and probably stored more books than the Gotham State Library itself. He'd loved this place as a child, when he was either running through it with his two siblings, or trying to bug his mother into reading stories to him. She never had. Both of his parents had never had any time for him. They were almost more focused on Mario and Sofia, the light of their lives.

Alberto strolled along an aisle of books, looking at each cover, whilst he waited for the meeting to finish. Eventually he picked out a volume entitled The Falcones : A Family History. He sat down in one of the comfy arm chairs, and opened it, before a high voice rang through the silence.

"Put it down Alberto," the voice called. Alberto looked up, and saw his mother standing and looking at him, her grey hair tied back in a bun.

"Hello mother. So father didn't want you to listen to the will either?" he asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Apparantley he felt it would...cause undue anugish," she said, and Alberto thought he could hear a slight break in her normal form of the ice queen. Alberto stepped forward.

"Don't," she said, batting his arm away. She looked ready to burst into tears, when the door to the study cracked open. Alberto lost sight of his mother in the crowd that exited. Mario looked at him, but then walked straight past him. Alberto grabbed the elbow of the last person that he knew, Sofia.

"Let go," she mumbled. Alberto kept his grip firm.

"What did it say? Who's in charge now?"

"No one,"


"The old bastard left us to fight it out amongst ourselves. Still he did leave one thing..."

"What's that?"

"He left you the Black Ace Bar. And he requested that you employ Johnny Vito as barman," she said flatly. Alberto's jaw dropped. Sofia walked away quickly. The Black Ace...the one legitimate business in the Falcone Empire...And Carmine had left the twins to fight over the family business itself...this wasn't going to end well.
Mr. Zsasz
Down the Drain
Part 2

The slums of Gotham City are filthy, more so than the city itself. Corruption, deceit, murder and blood run through every vein of the city, from top to bottom.
And this....this is the bottom.

When I was young, I was taught never to veer into this part of the city. And that if, by any chance, I were to find myself walking through, I was to run not walk.
But as I slowly make my way down the dirt-ridden street, I can see that these wretches that lie on in puddles of their own urine and feces are no different than the "higher-ups" of Gotham. Sure, they may wear tattered clothes and smell like alcohol and vomit but they're no different.
They're all the same.

I keep walking until the moans and begs of the homeless fade into the everyday bustle of the city. I look around and find myself alone. Surrounded by nothing but decrepit apartment buildings and wet cement, I decide this is as good a place as any.
I grab the pistol in the pocket of my jacket and take it out. I don't really know what I had planned on doing with it. God knows I wanted to use it on that fat bastard Cobblepot, but before I could reach for it his bodyguard threw me out.
It would have been nice to take him down with me.

I turn the weapon in my hand. The moonlight reflects off the surface as I touch the cold barrel. I look up and realize I know this place.
God, what was it called again?
Something about ...and it comes to me.

"Crime Alley..." the name escapes in a whisper.

I close my eyes and put the gun in my mouth.


“A man that doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man.”
~ The Godfather (1972)

“So what do you think of The Sopranos anyway?” Detective Joely Bartlett asked as she and her partner Vincent Del Arrazio drove through the streets of Gotham. They were on their way to the last known address of Jeeves P. Weathersome, the butler and murderer of James Finnegan.
“Could you give it a rest Jo?” Del Arrazio replied, still sore from Morgan’s taunting in the squad room.
“I’m just saying, what do you think of the show?”
“I think the show’s been off for a year and people should give it a rest already.”
“See the ending yet?”

Del Arrazio hesitated for a moment.

“Of course.”
“What did you think?”
“Hated it.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a very negative person?”
“All the goddamn time.”
“Good. I think that’s the place right there,” she said, pointing to a rather fancy, but not well-kept house “Looks like he hasn’t been home for a while.”
“Didn’t need to while living at the Finnegan’s,” Del Arrazio replied, parking the car “Hope he wasn’t expecting any visitors.”
“Except us?”
“Especially us.”
IC: Harvey Bullock

"Well, well, well.. can't say I'm suprised they sent your ugly mug down here, Bullock"

Calvin James Miller, the head coach of the Gotham Knights sat with his head in his hands, he lifted his head up to acknowledge Harvey slightly before sinking back down. As he wiped away the tears from his eyes, Harvey awkwardly sat down beside him, taking off his hat and placing it underneath his arm.

"It's been a while CJ.."

"Can you blame me? I couldn't deal with having to see boys like Kenny sprawled out on the floor like that, with half their head sprayed across a football field. I couldn't deal with it then, and I can't deal with it now.. Not when it's my own son"

Harvey sighed, he stood up and leaned against the wall that overlooked the pitch, the entire area was cordoned off but big crowds were all over the place, some of the players were still stunned beyond words, sobbing to themselves.

"I'm sorry, Calvin.. You know I loved your boy like he was my own, I'm going to get the bastard that did this, you know I will"

The loss of his son had shook his father so badly, Calvin stood up and grabbed Bullock by his collar and shouted in his face as tears rolled down his cheeks.

"What difference is it going to make whether you put the creeps that did this behind bars or not? MY SON IS DEAD. He's gone.."

Were it any other man, or any other circumstance, Bullock would have retaliated, but for once he used his discretion and said quietly whilst looking at his old friend sincerely.

"Forty-eight hours"

CJ looked confused, his wrinkled brow crumpled and a large frown appeared on his face.


He let go of Harvey, who straightened out his jacket and said quietly again.

"I'll bring you the bastard's head in forty-eight hours"

CJ sighed and shook his head, Bullock was always the same, he took bribes and planted evidence, he acted as if he somehow he was on a higher pedestal then the rest of the men and women in the GCPD, but he wasn't; he was as dirty as the rest of them, especially after the loss of his wife and daughter, especially now that his only love was for the bottle.

"You just don't get it, do you Harvey?"

Harvey turnt away, picked up his hat and placed it on his head, scanning the crime scene as he did so for clues; his gut instinct told him that the killer was still in the stadium, that there as more than met the eye than it seemed.

"Nothing can bring him back.."

Harvey stepped down from the bleachers where the broken father stood, took a cigar from his pocket and put it in his mouth.

"Maybe I don't, what I do know though.. is that whoever's done this is going to pay"

It was time to get to work.

The moment of truth comes - time for sentencing. Hopes are low for the prosecution. Their only shot is to hope that the jury thinks that the defendant was faking his insanity. If so, then he must be the best actor in the world - which very well may be the case. Nonetheless, the general feeling is that they have a snowball's chance in Hell of getting this guy convicted.

"Will the defendant please rise?" the judge orders rather lazily. He absent-mindedly fiddles with his gavel. The Joker stands up as the last of the jury files in to their seats. Once ready, Judge Larkin asks, "Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?"

The Foreman of the jury stands up. His hands are shaking. He glances at the Joker briefly before stammering, "We have, your Honor."

"What say you?"

"In the matter of People v. Joker, on the counts of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant not guilty by reason of insanity," he explains grimly. After another look at the Joker, the Foreman takes his seat.

The judge grimaces. Like the prosecution, this was not the verdict he was hoping for. "Mr. Defendant, you have been found not guilty of the charges for which you were accused..."

The Joker gives a little thumbs-up sign to the jury.

"However, due to the heinous nature of these crimes and your apparent mental state, I am requiring you to undergo intense psychiatric treatment at the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane until it is decided that you are mentally stable enough to return to society," Judge Larkin explains, "At which point, you will be released and cleared of all charges. Members of the jury, your duty with the commonwealth of Gotham City is fulfilled. You are free to go."

Hordes of people begin to leave the courtroom in distress. A self-confessed serial killer has just evaded jail time. Now, he will spent the next portion of his life in an asylum - where his lackeys can easily free him. The world holds its breath until the time when the Joker escapes and continues his terror.

"God bless the legal system."
As a kid I used to watch those old detective movies. You know, The Big Heat, The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep, movies like those. People think being a private detective is like being Sam Spade. Being cool and busting open the cases. Well let me tell you something this people haven't been to Gotham. Being a private detective is not cool. It's not like the movies. The hero doesn't always win. In fact the hero usually loses.

"What the hell do you want Corrigan?" What was suppose to a calm night picking up groceries has turned sour real fast. What a I did to be spending time with the one of the most crooked cops on the force, God I'm sorry.

"Well Sammy once again you stuck your nose in a place where it shouldn't have been."

"I have no idea what you are talking about." I say as calmly as possible.

"I think you damn well know, Bradley."

"Jesus Christ, Corrigan, it was a seventeen year old girl. They killed a seventeen year old girl and you are just going to let this happen. What kind of animal are you?" The blow hits the side of my head. I instantly fall to the ground throwing the brown paper bag into the air. My ear is ringing and I feel a warm liquid flow down the side of my head. My hand covers the wound as Corrigan puts his flashlight away.

"That's enough talk from you, old man. Like I said it would be for the best for you to stay out of it. It's Gotham, this is a very dangerous place. People go missing everyday." He and his partner turn around, snickering under their breath. "Remember Slam it's a very dangerous city." They both hop into the cop car and speed off.

I'm left in a pool of milk, blood, and eggs. I get up brushing my self off, at least I saved the bread. Stumbling into the apartment I notice that there is one message from my son saying that he has some files for me and my old friends back at the station say hi. Putting the surviving bread away I start reading today's paper. Another sighting of the Bat-Man.

This city is changing, I don't know if that is a good or bad thing. This guy dresses up like a bat and takes down one the biggest crime boss in the city. Then there are others but hopefully these are just rumors. One rumor is of a hooded manic who could have been responsible for the attack on the narrows. Then there is the clown. In my time in the city I haven't seen anything like this. My son showed me the crime scene photos. Jesus, this city is turning into a mad house.

Again, my attention turns toward the photo of the girl. What was that last line?

"Forget it, Slam. It's Gotham."

The Cave

"Master Bruce?"

I look up from the cave's recent addition, a brand new computer that has the ablit to hack all the GCPD, FBI, and every goverment agency in America's files, at Alfred.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"For about ten minutes."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Alfred shrugs his shoulders as he walks towards me with a tray full of breakfast food.

"I didn't want to intrude. Besides, you seem to be having fun."

I ignore his comments, instead focusing on the files on the computer infront of me.

"Care for some bacon, sir?"




"I guess I'm off to give these to the dogs..."

I look over at Alfred long enough to see him pick up the tray of food and turn away from me.

"Don't forget, you have a meeting this morning..."

I look up, puzzled.

"With who?"

"Harvey Dent. He's running for District Attorney, remember?"

I nod as I finally tear my eyes away from the computer screen.

"Thank you for the heads up. I should get ready."

I leave the stuffed penguin on the computer and let ir keep on searching for related evidence in all the goverment databanks.

"Care for some breakfast, sir?"

Alfred holds the tray under my nose as I walk past him towards the elevator.

"No thanks. I'm not hungry."

Alfred slumps his shoulders slightly as he joins me on the elevator to the mansion.

I'm already preparing to but on another mask, this one isn't as terrifying. If anything, it lulls people into a sense of false security. That mask if of Bruce Wayne: Playboy and party animal extraordinaire.


"So...as you...can...umm...see...Mr. Maroni...if we go ahead with this tactic...we will...uhh...have...supreme control of...Ggggg.....Gotham."

"Tell me Mr. Morris, are you nervous at all?"

"Just...just a little bit Mr. Maroni."

Sal Maroni looked across the room at Mr. Morris, smiling warmly. He was wearing an extremely expensive suit, accompanied by a magnificent golden tie, and a dazzling navy dress shirt.

"Don't be, Mr. Morris. You have nothing to fear."

"Thhh...thank you sir. Sss...ss..so, do you like my idea? Ddd...do you believe it possible to successfully complete it?"

"Well it's hard to say Mr. Morris. Ever since the fall of Carmine Falcone, I've been searching for several ways, tactics and tools to regain the top. Although we clearly have the edge here, you never know who might step up and try to take us down. We need new and improved methods to ensure a safe and successful future here in Gotham."

"You didn't answer my question. Dddd...did you like it or not?"

"Excuse me?"

Maroni's face turned beat red, however he quickly relaxed, trying to cover up the anger. Although returning to his original shade, not even his best of efforts could prevent the obvious, pulsating vein under his throat.

"So sorry, I didn't mean to take that tone..."

"Mr. Morris, would you follow me please?"


"Come now Mr. Morris, I told you there is nothing to fear. I just want you to meet someone. You will be working together on the operation that you have so graciously presented to me today."

"You've...you've given me the job? You like it?"

"Congratulations Mr. Morris. You've definitely earned it."

Mr. Morris, a mousy looking man in a tattered gray suit, wiped his brow and let out a low sigh.

"Oh thank you Mr. Maroni, thank you! For a moment there, I though you were going to kill me."

Mr. Morris chuckled as he wiped his brow again. Maroni smiled at him and laughed as well.

"Kill you? Kill you? Oh dear Mr. Morris," Maroni said, as he held the door open for Mr. Morris,
"no, no, no. I was just going to break your legs."

Mr. Morris turned around to find himself facing a pistol, dead on in the face.

"But I like your idea much better."


Maroni, holstered his pistol and snapped his fingers.

"Bobby, come here. Take Mr. Morris out back, chop him up, and make sure the pieces don't find their way back together."

"Yes boss."

"Oh and Bobby, I need you to round everyone up. Let them know we're having a meeting tonight. If they miss it they die, understand?"

Bobby nodded, and grabbed the dead Mr. Morris by the arm. As he dragged him out the back door, Maroni walked back into the conference room. He sat at the head of the table, and poured himself a scotch.

"Things have gotta change around here."
IC: James Gordon


It's about four in the morning by the time I make it to the scene. Merkel was the officer on duty, but somehow, I had to be the one dragged out of bed to handle it. If I said I were surprised, I'd be classified a liar... but then again, I've been classified worse. Those thoughts leave my mind the minute I get out of the sedan. Lingering bouts of anger that I've been trying to turn into apologies for last night's fight with Barbara. Nothing to take, when you're on the job. Especially this one.

I still can't get my mind off that call, though. It was from Guiztevez, who's always been a bit of a hardshell around the office. Hard to read, even harder to trust. Some of the boys in Homicide claimed that he was taking bribes from the local church, a jurisdiction Loeb assigned him to personally. More to the point, Guiztevez was always a tough son of a gun. But his tone, when he spoke to me over the phone, well...

Something tells me he's not going to be sleeping well, in the coming weeks.

I do all I can to keep myself from rushing up the steps of the 23 Cooke avenue apartments, as the coffee Barbara harshly made for me seeps down my throat. Even it's alarming heat does little to calm the frigid pit of my stomach. And I don't even know what the hell I'm rushing into, yet. But I know it's bad. And for a Gotham cop to know it's bad, you know it has to be something pretty unorthidoxed.

"Where's Guiztevez?", is the first thing I ask Pratt, entering the hall.

"Took a leave of abscence, Lieutenent. Medical reasons.", He responds, midway through writing up his report.

"Leave of abscence?"

"Couldn't stop himself from throwin' up, I guess.", He shrugs back.

I look to the open doorway of the apartment. Even from here, the smell of a fresh corpse is evident. Almost makes me want to turn back, but I know I'm not the first to consider that. If I don't go in there, nobody's going to be able to identify the poor soul lying within. With a sneer, I hand Pratt my coffee, forgetting to care if it burns his grip. He gives a silent yelp, as I look back.

"That's so you'll stay here until I get back,", I order. "The last thing I want is Loeb asking questions that no one in the department can answer."

Pratt gives me a look, but not for long. He knows how many things I could report him on from the past week alone. A slight smile forms on my mouth, as I push the door open. But as soon as I enter, that all but fades. Mother of God.

It isn't so much the strench, anymore, as it is the look on the face. Or lack, thereof. I had been told the victim had been mutilated beyond physical repair, but this? My god, this city's going to go crazy if we don't identify the killer soon. Because I know for damn sure that this'll spread like a virus to the press, if Merkel was assigned to this.

As I survey the scene, a forensics officer continues taking pictures. It takes me a full minute to even remember that he's even there. I just can't take my eyes off of the victim. I've survived a war, plenty of hostage situations, and going on my thirtieth year on the Gotham force. But this little "work of art", using the term lightly, actually sent a chill up my spine. All I can think is... why here? Why in the city where my little boy and my little girl have to endure growing up, of all places?

"What happened?", is all I can muster up for a question, even though I've considered at least ten.

"Multiple lacerations around the thorax, at least sixty seven identified stab wounds through the cornial opening, a 45 inch gash both through and from the inner skull...", The photographer reads off, as if he'll never forget those details. "To put it lightly, Lieutent Gordon, this takes the cake off of anything I've seen."

"What about any fingerprints? Enterings? Anything like that?"

"Afraid not, sir.", He responds. "It was a skilled job. The only thing we managed to collect was a few shavings off the blade of the knife."

"Then it was just a stabbing.", I murmur.

"You seem surprised."

"In the middle of a season of gun smugglers? Very.", I answer. "What about those samples you talked about? Where are they now?"

"Already sent them down to the lab.", He notes. "I'll have my superiors fax the results to your office by tommorow."


I turn around, literally forcing myself to look away, heading for the door.

"It might be a good idea to send a report of this to the Commisioner, on your way out. I'd ask one of my fellow officers, but..."

"Understood, Lieutenent.", He finishes, as I exit the room.

Dammit. Damn it all, we're dealing with a mob seige after the death of Carmine Falcone, the smugglers, and that Joker character finally stands trial, and now this? It was foolish for any of us to think it'd ever get better this soon, after the Roman's downfall. But I can't blame anyone. After the incident in the Narrows, it seemed like things could only look up from that moment. Not worse. Not like this.

I see Pratt still loitering in the hallway, by the time I make it back outside. He's poured my coffee all over the now damp rug that lies between the hall and the exit. I'd take him up on contaminating a crime scene, but we both know he'd be off the hook within a week. Probably why he did it... just to prove that much. I won't give him the benefit.

"Merkel get a look at that?", I ask, ignoring the obvious.

"Hmm? Oh, Merkel. Nah, nobody else went in there but forensics. Too afraid of the stench alone.", He shrugs off.

So it wasn't an inside job or a cover up. I don't know whether that makes me feel better or worse.

"Keep it that way. I don't want it disappearing on the way to the morgue.", I mention, making my way towards the exit. "And before you ask what any of the boys would do with it, trust me. You don't want to know."

Pratt's face goes pale as a ghost, as I step over the rug. Fitting revenge for the coffee, and the lunch hour I'm going to have to take before I can get another, on my salary. My thoughts keep going back to the victim, though, by the time I actually make it back to the car. And the sick mind that would do something like that.

I certainly hope a certain friend of mine isn't too busy tonight. Knowing Loeb, he won't even touch something like this until next week. And god help me, even if the squad could get a rundown on this, I still think I'd need to turn to him. That's how bad it's getting.

“A man that doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man.”
~ The Godfather (1972)

“Jeeves P. Weathersome? G.C.P.D. Please open the door,” Detective Joely Bartlett said as she and Detective Sergeant Vincent Del Arrazio stood in front of Weathersome’s house. They had their guns drawn. They waited a second. She looked to him. Another second. Del Arrazio kicked in the door.

It was already open.

Cautiously, the two detectives entered the building. Slowly, by the book, the two made their way through the small hallway. The two exchange glances as they approached the living room. There too, the door was open. Again, the two detectives looked at one another. That moment before the entering a room is always tense, even when people have worked together for over a year.

It’s silent in the living room.

Sgt. Del Arrazio entered first.

Weathersome looked up, his eyes red, as he sat in large chair in the centre of the room.

“Mr. Weathersome?”
“We are arresting you for the murder of James Finnegan. You have the right to --”
“I’ll come along. I… I… I killed him.”
“We know, Mr. Weathersome. We are still required to read you your rights.”
“I understand.”
“You have the right to remain silent. You have the right…”


What do you put in boxes, but never take home and open?


The question that perplexed Gotham PD came to an abrupt answer within a week of the surreal note finding it’s way onto the desks of Gotham’s crime fighters.

The scene laid out behind a string of yellow crime scene tape and a horde of photographer’s trying to capture the sight that had been the cause of thirty police officers being woken in the early hours of the morning.

Early rays of sun barely penetrated the thick fog that hung over the cemetery, dancing across the moist blades of grass that edged upwards amongst the graves. Graves which were chillingly nothing more than dirt holes, not a carcass or body in sight. After extensive investigation, the total number of missing bodies tallied at forty two, yet somehow more disturbing was the large green question mark that scrawled it’s way across the entire yard.

A chisel-jawed officer couldn’t restrain his exclamation.

“I think we’re dealing with one sick puppy here.”

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