Post by Oswald Cobblepot on Dec 30, 2020 7:48:26 GMT -5
Participants: John Constantine | Oswald Cobblepot
Open/Closed: Closed
Location(s): The Iceberg Lounge
Time of Day: Dreary Gotham Night
Weather: Clear skies but rather chilly air
Summary: A nightmarish creature stalks the Iceberg Lounge and frightens away the Penguin’s clientele. Desperate times call for desperate measures
Twilight sparkled across the effervescent gloom of Gotham. Derelict pillars of ruin rising high and horrific, a cesspool of mortar and cobble with leering demonic gargoyles and festering alleyway shades. Smog clouded the air, smoldering the decrepit stone towers in a blanket of grey and black. Darkness, everlasting darkness enveloping the looming pillars in a derelict shade, with only man made starlight twinkling from the brick and mortar. Gleams of yellow shined up from searchlights and spotlights into the blanketing fog, with obese blimps glaring yellow eyes down ‘pon the hellscape below. Bellowing smoke, and chill, and a false starlight high and low across slush and brick and litter. The lights danced and twinkled in a grim competition for supremacy, but none, no single bit of starlight could match one hopeful magnanimous gleam. The hopeful magnanimous gleam, the oval of yellow which pierced through the clouds, a darkly shape at the center, the emblem of some flying rodent. It sparkled high in the air, effervescent and unlimited like the sun itself. The sun to the solar system of Gotham, casting a judgmental glimmer of light upon the shadows and trash below.
Red eyes, as cold as an icicle and as evil as a cobra flared sharply at the Bat Signal. Warped and oh so vile, they burned like hellfire in an intense and unfathomable hatred. A hood of red with a golden skull and crossbones emblem glanced hatefully over scarlet shoulders. Tattered robes of red slouched over and hobbled desperately through wet and slushy slums. Barefoot green flesh with mangled toenails trudged through watery snow and slush and limped across a cobbled alley. It shuffled across like a corpse, past an old dumpster and some homeless codger. It’s gaze, finally cast upon a glittery white sign which read Iceberg Lounge. It shimmered dully in the creature’s red eyes, just it and the sign, for it took a moment for the creature to swallow it’s own pride and enter the establishment.
That was the metaphorical and literal “back door” into the Penguin’s casino. House and home to many a criminal guild. The creature hobbled forwards through a clean and silvery kitchen, a head chef barking orders with cleaners and cooks sautéing various fishes and meats with a peppering of spices and creams and various expensive but rather tasteless garnishes. The staff payed the monster little mind, for they were at that point quite used to the maniacs and madmen which frequented what the simple employees referred to as “the crypt”. Yes, apart from a suspicious glance from a well armed and well trained blonde waitress, none even noticed the creature. It carried on with it’s business, trudging rudely past a dishwasher, around a corner, and finally to a small room in the back, cozy and quaint with a few bookshelves, glass cases and an ornamental marble penguin statue at the center of the room. Inside was a man with a tail coated tuxedo, and a Tommy gun. His hair slick and black, rather oily in fact, the sort you’d typically find in a greasy Gotham goon. He stood before an old bookshelf, chewing on a toothpick with a rather disinterested glance at the cloaked creature. With an eye roll he tapped a button on the side of the bookshelf, it creaked open revealing some decrepit looking tunnel haphazardly held together by old wooden beams. This was the converging point for a series of sprawling underground networks beneath Gotham and beyond. The Penguin’s gunrunning and drug smuggling tunnels which curled outwards like tendrils. A sprawling maze which stretched and crept through sewers and beneath alleyways and interconnecting all of the Penguin’s various enterprises. The trek was long and arduous, lined with guards and crossing through sewer paths. His bare feet sloshing through sewer water, trudging through muck and past Gotham sewer rats (the human and rodent kind). Finally, the Monk in red reached a tattered wooden door resting before an old sewer junction. He could hear some gaudy music and see the flickering of lights beyond it. This was “the Crypt”.
“The Crypt” was not some undead mausoleum, no it was something much worse. A rave. Penguin had his lounge above for the upstanding and rich folk, and then beneath he ruled the gutters, a shantytown of supervillains in the sewers where Cobblepot could act as a fence, distribute experimental weapons, and barter goods and services in the underworld. The maroon monk lurched forwards, crossing over a dilapidated wooden bridge towards an island of concrete. Tranquil sewer water danced and swayed around it, with flocks of penguins and puffins playfully swimming around the pool. Villains and goons in various glowing hues of green and purple and orange danced and drank and reveled, bartering in stolen goods as they boozed up and got high. Colorful lights flickered and glared with obnoxious blood pounding music roaring through the air. There were a few ramshackle wooden buildings scattered around the island, rotting with a few barnacles and seaweed smeared across the sides. These were venders and barkeeps under the Penguin’s employments. Barkeeps peddling out liquor and drugs, fences claiming diamonds and jewels, and arms dealers handing out weapons ranging from antique to even military grade. At the center of it all was a plastic and foam spire in the shape of some tundra mountain. At the top of it was a throne, with Penguin’s rotund form nestled atop. He had goons and turrets speckled all over the room, and especially around him. Ever the dapper gentleman, Cobblepot was dressed in an elegant black tailcoat tuxedo which sparkled in the rave lights and was buttoned rather snugly at six points, just faintly outlining his collared shirt beneath. There was a bit of red fur draped over his shoulders, what exactly the dead animal was, none were sure. Few creatures had a natural hue of maroon to them, and even fewer came without hefty cost. It could, in all likelihood, have come from something otherworldly, but who really knows for sure? There was large jabot tie, in bright red, unfurled all across his upper chest just between the fur and suit. Beneath it all was a gigot sleeve button up, the wrists of the shirt frocking outwards like some nineteenth century dandy. His legs were crossed opulently (a surprising feat considering the girth in his thighs) with a pair of black trousers that had thin red vertical lines rhythmically speckled across. His mangled flipper like hands were guided under black gloves, his left fingers pinching a diamond, and his right with a jeweler loupe. With it pressed between his pale skin and Roman nose, he rather crudely scrutinized it he gem. It jagged cut and glimmering luster faintly reflecting long flowing black hair which looked surprisingly neat, and on any other man, perhaps would have appeared rather attractive. But, on this black lipped creature? Lipstick on a pig. Penguin chuckled sleazily, flicking the gem back to the criminal which Penguin was currently in the act of parlay. "I’m sorry, but I’m afraid this is quite worthless - and I think you know that too.” It was not even close to worthless, actually. It was worth quite the pretty penny in fact, and Oswald of course knew this. He mocked a disheartened gesture, glancing up as though a quick thought came to mind. "How about this, since we are, of course, friends, I’ll forgo, oh? Four thousand for the diamond. Not a penny more."
The fellow in question was a relatively famous master thief who went by the alias Citizen Abra, perhaps better known as Abra Kadabra. Infamous in Central City for his class act of making diamonds disappear. He was fall and proud looking fellow, in a glistening white cape with snugly enveloped his spindly form. The cape fell just beneath his knees, draping over his legs like a cloak. He wore a black tuxedo beneath, with only his trousers and polished shoes visible beneath the cape. A few of Penguin’s goons glanced and the disgruntled figure suspiciously, quietly reaching towards their weapons, just in case... "Oh, come now... My offer is more than generous, Mr. Kadabra! You know your jewels, just look at how hideous it is!" Kadabra was not amongst the foul feathered fowl’s usual clientele. Mainly, Penguin only fenced for Gothamites with a few rare exceptions. But, times were different, things were changing. Some recent dealings with @reverseflash meant that the nefarious Penguin needed to bolster relations in Keystone and Central City. Mirror Master was currently under his employment, and of course there was the aforementioned association with the Reverse Flash, then there was some shall we say juicy gossip which he planned to use against the Trickster, and now there was Abra Kadabra... Yes, his operations were finally beginning to take off. ”This diamond has a retail value of at least one hundred thousand, you cheat!” Kadabra’s eyes burned like fire, teeth clenched beneath a black goatee and mustache. The collar of his cape rose high behind his particularly unhappy face, all the way up to his hair in fact. His hair took the shape of devil horns, though somewhat frazzled. Half was white, and half was black, each horn an opposing color. ”I want seventy five thousand. In cash.” Penguin chuckled, for he cared very little about the diamond. The true treasure was forging business relations with another Central City rogue. "One hundred thousand is auction value." Penguin’s expression was disgusting. It poorly feigned pity to the point that it seemed almost sarcastic. But Oswald, in his own social ineptitude, thought it would appear empathetic. "But since we’re now both friends....." This “friendship” being the true bargain at hand. "Fifty thousand, or you can take your transactions elsewhere." It wasn’t a particularly good deal, but Abra relented that it may be the best the bird will offer. Resigning himself to fate, he planted the diamond on a table between himself and the bird’s throne, gesturing for the money. ”You are a scoundrel, Oswald Cobblepot.” Penguin grinned.
In a roar of smoke, the magical figure dispersed with a briefcase of cash. In his place, the Mad Monk lurched forwards. The creature’s journey had concluded, and now he stood, a humble monk before a king. Cobblepot half assed a grin. This was not a new player in Gotham, in fact this creature was from before even Penguin’s rise. In the days of Dr. Death and Carmine Falcone, that is what this hideous creature was from. Cobblepot had few interactions with it, even fewer were cordial, but recently the crimson cloaked creature saw fit to form business relations with the old bird. Perhaps it had finally realized that times had changed? That the dark age of the “Roman Empire” were over and Pax Penguina was now at hand? Whatever the case, this mad monk offered some intriguing business proposals, though not all were as lucrative as Cobblepot would have liked. "Aaaah, my new friend! Most unexpected, but fortuitous all the same~" The garish gentleman of Gotham cordially welcomed the creepish fellow with open arms, sliding down the slope of his tundra throne to meet face to face with the fanged fiend. "And what exquisite enterprise have you to extend today, my fine fellow?" The Mad Monk glared at Cobblepot, fantasizing eons of ceaseless agony for the would-be tsar. The black around it’s eyes narrowing as a show of obvious disgust and disdain for the dapper degenerate. After a long and arduous and oh so awkward silence, the creature relented, creakily reaching into its cloak with cracking and snapping bones, as if every movement were bone breaking pain. Oswald struggled not to wince, he’d of course seen and in fact inflicted much gore and suffering upon others, but this creature? It was a different breed of disgusting. It smelled like a rotting corpse, with flesh wounds on every hand and shriveled up rotting flesh on every arm. All together, it looked so dead (or rather undead) that it was a mere seconds away from disintegrating. To say fresh corpses were far more pleasant would be an understatement. Finally, after what felt like a century long journey of watching the creature creak and rustle through it’s own tattered robes, it pulled out a dingy old vial rack, housing fourteen vials with some hazy crimson liquid... Penguin knew what that was. Not blood, but something... Worse. Something very awful, with very awful methods of procurement, and very awful people who desire it. "Oh." Penguin was evil for sure, but even he had his limits. He was an evil with some twisted honor, which was at the very least something. Not to mention, Penguin simply didn’t have the clientele for that sort of... Commodity. "Monsieur... Monk, was it? My analysts have most recently purported that the risks and reward for throwing my metaphorical mitre into this particular market are dubious at best. There is simply not enough monetary gain to be garnished on my end. You are, of course, free to take your parlay elsewhere (assuming of course there is even a market), but you’ll not see a penny from me." He shouldn’t have even bought the first set from this creature. ”WHAT!?” To say it was seething with rage would be an understatement. "I think you should leave." Enraged, the Monk slammed his clawed fist to Cobblepot’s ramshackle table. Penguin’s goons reacted immediately, one drawing a shotgun, the other a Tommy, and the third a rather theatrical looking dagger. The dagger was unusual, but Penguin didn’t pay it any mind. All three weapons were pressed to the Monk’s neck, but it did not relent. ”I’ll rip your throat out with my bare teeth, Penguin. HsssssSsSssssss!” Amused by the threat, Penguin places both flippers to the table, leaning in to the beast with a smug grin oozing in hubris. "Right now, I have twenty armed guards and three military grade turrets, and that’s just what is plainly visible. I would like to see you try."
The Monk gave an audible growl, but resigned himself to failure. It hobbled away, seething with anger but unable to commit any violent acts. Two unhappy customers, all in a days work. That is Gotham. Penguin turned away with an exasperated eye roll, the freaks he had to deal with on a day to day basis were exhausting to say the least, and that Monk in particular? What few interactions they’d exchanged were nothing but hostile and aggravating. That being said, the list of banned clientele had just expanded. Limping away, back towards his throne, the insufferable king of Gotham decided to make a decree. "Penn! Let it be known, forthwith: that Mad Monk is no lo-" But the decree was cut short, by a relatively recognizable voice shouting from across the island. "AWAY! AWAY! Aten’s faithful kneel and gangway, I will speak with Oswald Cobblepot!" Penguin winced with an internal scream. "What now!?" The Penguin hissed, ever so aggravated by the scum and villainy this s#!thole had to offer. As if the Monk wasn’t enough, now it was one of those lunatics from Arkham. King Tut, Cobblepot could tell just by the insane ramblings. Cobbling together a falsely pleasant face, he turned to greet the would-be “pharaoh”. "What luck. What fortuitous luck. My good friend, Dr. Goodman...” Yes, luck. All of it bad. Goodman has been there about three days before, peddling off some Egyptian phylactery, which Cobblepot in turn sold to an anonymous collector. "And what brings such a seraphic and supreme sovereign to my humble Nile nest?" It helped with these transactions to play into their delusions, and just look at how delusional this fellow was..... White eyes flared almost blindingly from a golden mask with tranquil expressionless features. Penguin gave a slight grimace at the sight, a barefoot lean form enveloped in naught but a headdress, jewels and some velvety loin cloth. Shirtless and barefoot in the frigid winter cold, what a #%$&ing lunatic he mused to himself. "The phylactery! Give it back! Please!" The phylactery... Some Egyptian bauble Tut fenced off to the old bird a few days prior. "Oh?" Be cordial Oswald, mo matter how difficult it may be... Cobblepot was not a fan of clients who wanted a refund. Not that Goodman would be getting one, mind you... That “phylactery” sold almost immediately. "You don’t understand! It’s cursed! I must return it to my forefather so that he may be one with Aten once more!" Penguin feigned a kindly smile, but let it be known that it was physically painful to do so. "Cursed? Ho-ho~ Come now, Dr. Goodman! A feeble mortal such as myself could not possibly fathom what ‘curse’ could fetter the might of Aten’s faithful!" Just leave. Please leave. Go. Away. These characters were always so draining to deal with, especially the mind numbing hoops Oswald always had to hop through just to have a civil conversation with them... Though, despite his better efforts, these sort of engagements often fell to become remarkably uncivilized. As was the case now, actually.... For Tut’s immediate response was to lunge at Oswald from across the table, grabbing hold of his tuxedo’s lapels. The goons surrounding Penguin instinctively drew their weapons. Memory might serve of a shotgun, Tommy, and theatrical dagger... There was that dagger again... The goon wielding it appeared to be unremarkable, but... Why a dagger like that? Like a prop from some Shakespearean drama? Perhaps now wasn’t a good time to muse over such things... "Give it now! Don’t you understand!? He’ll kill me!! And then YOU!!" For better or worse, is he Penguin ignored the palpable tings of sheer unbridled terror in the man’s voice. Retorting with anger rather than the song and dance of lunacy they’d been having thus far. "Even if I wanted to help you (which I don’t) I. Sold. It. To an anonymous buyer, actually. I wouldn’t be able to find it again no matter how hard I tried.... Maybe next time, don’t fence something your delusions are hinged on! No!?" Horrified by Penguin’s answer, Tut released him. The phony pharaoh took a step back, Cobblepot half tempted execute the impudent nutcase there and then. But ... Patience is a virtue they say. "Then we are doomed.... You’ve killed us, Oswald Cobblepot! We’re doomed!!" As abruptly as the ordeal started, it ended, with King Tut frantically fleeing the crypt to Lord only knows where. Penguin was annoyed to say the least, but at least the ordeal was over.
Three unsatisfied customers, all in a days work. But a forth came that night, this one having taken the form of that questionable goon with a dagger. As Oswald glared at Tut frantically fleeing the Crypt, the goon chimed in with his own unwanted two cents. ”Lo, the shrill winds of Gotham gangway for the wallows of three loathsome souls. Loathsome souls, who’s insatiable quest for capital hath gifted naught but dissatisfaction.” That voice... This was not one of Penguin’s goons. No, that voice was recognizable to anyone! Penguin faced the fellow before him, appearing as a large and oafish mook. He had no hair and simply wore a suit, a typical gangster by appearance. But, appearances could be all to deceiving, for that sultry voice did not belong to a bald thug of the Crypt. It was melodic and dramatic, beautiful, even. It was the voice of... ".....Clayface." Clayface... A force to be reckoned with like few in the Batman’s rogues gallery. A goliath of mud, able to mold himself into any form he so chooses. A fearsome foe for sure, but also... Always a useful pawn, perhaps even a mighty rook? “‘But not I’, says Basil Karlo, for the thrill of a hunt and the role of a lifetime satiates this illicit thirst....” The degenerate of dirt stepped forwards, that bald head being suddenly warped by tendrils of slushy brown writhing out and taking form. The burly body melting into brown slime, with crumbling arms and crippled legs suddenly slushing about on the floor. The head took a vague shape of some gooey grin, with fat jagged tooth and drooping slimy flesh. Yellow eyes burned like embers as the behemoth sloshed forwards. Penguin was taken aback by the malformed malefactors muddy appearance, but pressed on nonetheless. "Scrumptious soliloquy, my dear malefactor of mud. But, what business have you with this old bird?” Clayface struggled to take shape, his body twisting and writhing like puddy, bones and teeth spattered amongst blood flesh and clay writhing about red and brown jello, it oscillated in place, a lump of grotesque curdy flesh without form, speaking to Penguin, and for perhaps the very first time, Penguin was not the most hideous thing in the room. ”Spoken like a true thespian, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot! For is not the false face of theater the way in which you interact with all man? The way in which you dance with the devil and commit your dubious dealings?” Oswald cringed in disgust at the putrid sight before him, the jiggly beast writhing in place as a lump of flesh and mud. It molded itself together, horrifically disgusting, flesh piling on flesh brown and red and tan sloshing against itself rearranging bones and body back into the vague shape of a humanoid, into the vague shape of Basil Karlo. "In a manner of speaking, yes." Penguin winced as he spoke, Basil Karlo birthing himself from clay. It molded together, so dapper, so debonaire the charming actor which Gotham once knew and loved took shape. His flowing locks, then came his flawless eyes which could make you feel both dread and allurement, then finally his pencil thin mustache which fit on so perfectly with his eloquent sultry voice. The sort of voice which added such elegant regality to horror, which felt like silk to the ears but also told a story of dread and terror like none before or after. ”We all put on an act, O’ hideous Penguin Man, but none commit to the craft better than I!” The beast formed some plaid suit over itself, with a white button up and a red ascot, eloquent attire which it had at one point been quite accustom to. But that was a long time ago, before the Clayface Murders and before the melding of four Clayfaces into one. "Well, there it is. What can I do for you?" The delighted man of mud simply extended an empty palm out towards the bird, the hand split apart, like threads from cloth ripping apart at the seams. Clay began to bubble and broth quietly, and from it all a pearl necklace arose from the slime. Cobblepot took the pearls and scrutinized them for but a mere moment. "Six thousand dollars" the kingpin declares, to which the clay golem immediately replied: ”Sold! To you, oh King of slums, I say auf wiedersehen!” Clayface cares little about money, only the hunt and the acting required to achieve his ends. He collected his cash and gave a theatrical bow to the penguin-man, and as suddenly as he appeared, he began melting away into slush, flesh and blood splattering against the floor as his whole body decomposed before Penguin’s very eyes. The gloop became a puddle of grotesquery, which simply slithered away into the sewers without a word.
It was approximately one day later, when.... Whispers, dreadful horrid whispers festered deep within the bowels of this pharaoh’s kingdom. Deep below, within the catacombs, some horrific tomb for which that hideous fat fowl used to smuggle in weapons and guns and other illicit products too and fro his kingdom of rot. An unnatural wind at first came as whispers, faintly dancing from ear to ear with the sultry hymn of a siren. That whisper soon evolved into a low growl, rumbling deep within the chests and souls of the Penguin’s minions and briskly chilling their necks and lips. From a whisper to a growl, the metamorphoses soon complete, it’s final phase becoming some ear damning howl. A shriek, like that of a banshee toppling over henchmen as though they were twigs and leaves. Gusts of wind, like that of a hurricane slamming into their chests and slamming them from wall to wall ever downwards. The first plague of Seti has come... Wallow in disgust, and cringe in terror at the raw and horrific power of the mummy’s curse.
Oswald did not heed the warning, he laughed his gaudy chortles and went about with his revelries and sinful merriment, and so has forced Seti’s hand. Cobblepot was squatted on the first floor of his Lounge, his rotund rear nestled within a posh booth with some cavalcade of criminal cronies convening by his side. Thugs and bastard psychopathic wiseguys of the gangland underworld. Elderly Italian creeps, some with large glasses and all with even larger egos. Drinks and various pasta dishes danced around the table with laughter and merriment abound, all centered around this pharaoh of fowl. "So, I said... Joker, that’s his mother!" The bird quipped, and his merry band of sycophants howled with laughter. All of them, utterly unaware of the horror which went on below... And... Evidently above.
Charred and mangled fingertips, black and red like a steak burnt to a crisp, coiled upon the railing and scratched against the brass. Seti sent the Plague. Croaking creeped up from above, raspy crowing snarling from above, but they did not notice. It was sudden, and bizarre. Penguin did a double take... A frog. It plummeted from the rafters and splattered across Cobblepot’s platter. His eyes widened as a second one hurdled down upon his steak, and splashed his fries across the table. Shock and confusion overtook the king of crime, the gangsters scratched their heads and looked all around when suddenly a third frog plummeted like a comet, followed by a fourth, then a fifth and a sixth and so on. A flotilla of frogs came crashing in from the skies. Penguin, in a panic fell out of his booth, scurrying away as the frogs came to life, hopping forwards like a flood. Hundreds of them crashing down and charging forwards. Goons and thugs fired at will, but the frogs were too many. Frogs came from every corner, every crack and every crevices. Kitchen staff screamed in disgust and horror, charging out into the main hall as an army of frogs came careening out. The head chef cursed like he’d never cursed before, for a surge of frogs heralded something horrific. Penguin looked on in absolute unfathomable horror, disgust and fear, for from the kitchen there cane a flash of white, and the horrific blinding visage of king Seti II Pharaoh of Egypt.
Open/Closed: Closed
Location(s): The Iceberg Lounge
Time of Day: Dreary Gotham Night
Weather: Clear skies but rather chilly air
Summary: A nightmarish creature stalks the Iceberg Lounge and frightens away the Penguin’s clientele. Desperate times call for desperate measures
Twilight sparkled across the effervescent gloom of Gotham. Derelict pillars of ruin rising high and horrific, a cesspool of mortar and cobble with leering demonic gargoyles and festering alleyway shades. Smog clouded the air, smoldering the decrepit stone towers in a blanket of grey and black. Darkness, everlasting darkness enveloping the looming pillars in a derelict shade, with only man made starlight twinkling from the brick and mortar. Gleams of yellow shined up from searchlights and spotlights into the blanketing fog, with obese blimps glaring yellow eyes down ‘pon the hellscape below. Bellowing smoke, and chill, and a false starlight high and low across slush and brick and litter. The lights danced and twinkled in a grim competition for supremacy, but none, no single bit of starlight could match one hopeful magnanimous gleam. The hopeful magnanimous gleam, the oval of yellow which pierced through the clouds, a darkly shape at the center, the emblem of some flying rodent. It sparkled high in the air, effervescent and unlimited like the sun itself. The sun to the solar system of Gotham, casting a judgmental glimmer of light upon the shadows and trash below.
Red eyes, as cold as an icicle and as evil as a cobra flared sharply at the Bat Signal. Warped and oh so vile, they burned like hellfire in an intense and unfathomable hatred. A hood of red with a golden skull and crossbones emblem glanced hatefully over scarlet shoulders. Tattered robes of red slouched over and hobbled desperately through wet and slushy slums. Barefoot green flesh with mangled toenails trudged through watery snow and slush and limped across a cobbled alley. It shuffled across like a corpse, past an old dumpster and some homeless codger. It’s gaze, finally cast upon a glittery white sign which read Iceberg Lounge. It shimmered dully in the creature’s red eyes, just it and the sign, for it took a moment for the creature to swallow it’s own pride and enter the establishment.
That was the metaphorical and literal “back door” into the Penguin’s casino. House and home to many a criminal guild. The creature hobbled forwards through a clean and silvery kitchen, a head chef barking orders with cleaners and cooks sautéing various fishes and meats with a peppering of spices and creams and various expensive but rather tasteless garnishes. The staff payed the monster little mind, for they were at that point quite used to the maniacs and madmen which frequented what the simple employees referred to as “the crypt”. Yes, apart from a suspicious glance from a well armed and well trained blonde waitress, none even noticed the creature. It carried on with it’s business, trudging rudely past a dishwasher, around a corner, and finally to a small room in the back, cozy and quaint with a few bookshelves, glass cases and an ornamental marble penguin statue at the center of the room. Inside was a man with a tail coated tuxedo, and a Tommy gun. His hair slick and black, rather oily in fact, the sort you’d typically find in a greasy Gotham goon. He stood before an old bookshelf, chewing on a toothpick with a rather disinterested glance at the cloaked creature. With an eye roll he tapped a button on the side of the bookshelf, it creaked open revealing some decrepit looking tunnel haphazardly held together by old wooden beams. This was the converging point for a series of sprawling underground networks beneath Gotham and beyond. The Penguin’s gunrunning and drug smuggling tunnels which curled outwards like tendrils. A sprawling maze which stretched and crept through sewers and beneath alleyways and interconnecting all of the Penguin’s various enterprises. The trek was long and arduous, lined with guards and crossing through sewer paths. His bare feet sloshing through sewer water, trudging through muck and past Gotham sewer rats (the human and rodent kind). Finally, the Monk in red reached a tattered wooden door resting before an old sewer junction. He could hear some gaudy music and see the flickering of lights beyond it. This was “the Crypt”.
“The Crypt” was not some undead mausoleum, no it was something much worse. A rave. Penguin had his lounge above for the upstanding and rich folk, and then beneath he ruled the gutters, a shantytown of supervillains in the sewers where Cobblepot could act as a fence, distribute experimental weapons, and barter goods and services in the underworld. The maroon monk lurched forwards, crossing over a dilapidated wooden bridge towards an island of concrete. Tranquil sewer water danced and swayed around it, with flocks of penguins and puffins playfully swimming around the pool. Villains and goons in various glowing hues of green and purple and orange danced and drank and reveled, bartering in stolen goods as they boozed up and got high. Colorful lights flickered and glared with obnoxious blood pounding music roaring through the air. There were a few ramshackle wooden buildings scattered around the island, rotting with a few barnacles and seaweed smeared across the sides. These were venders and barkeeps under the Penguin’s employments. Barkeeps peddling out liquor and drugs, fences claiming diamonds and jewels, and arms dealers handing out weapons ranging from antique to even military grade. At the center of it all was a plastic and foam spire in the shape of some tundra mountain. At the top of it was a throne, with Penguin’s rotund form nestled atop. He had goons and turrets speckled all over the room, and especially around him. Ever the dapper gentleman, Cobblepot was dressed in an elegant black tailcoat tuxedo which sparkled in the rave lights and was buttoned rather snugly at six points, just faintly outlining his collared shirt beneath. There was a bit of red fur draped over his shoulders, what exactly the dead animal was, none were sure. Few creatures had a natural hue of maroon to them, and even fewer came without hefty cost. It could, in all likelihood, have come from something otherworldly, but who really knows for sure? There was large jabot tie, in bright red, unfurled all across his upper chest just between the fur and suit. Beneath it all was a gigot sleeve button up, the wrists of the shirt frocking outwards like some nineteenth century dandy. His legs were crossed opulently (a surprising feat considering the girth in his thighs) with a pair of black trousers that had thin red vertical lines rhythmically speckled across. His mangled flipper like hands were guided under black gloves, his left fingers pinching a diamond, and his right with a jeweler loupe. With it pressed between his pale skin and Roman nose, he rather crudely scrutinized it he gem. It jagged cut and glimmering luster faintly reflecting long flowing black hair which looked surprisingly neat, and on any other man, perhaps would have appeared rather attractive. But, on this black lipped creature? Lipstick on a pig. Penguin chuckled sleazily, flicking the gem back to the criminal which Penguin was currently in the act of parlay. "I’m sorry, but I’m afraid this is quite worthless - and I think you know that too.” It was not even close to worthless, actually. It was worth quite the pretty penny in fact, and Oswald of course knew this. He mocked a disheartened gesture, glancing up as though a quick thought came to mind. "How about this, since we are, of course, friends, I’ll forgo, oh? Four thousand for the diamond. Not a penny more."
”That is LUDICROUS!”
The fellow in question was a relatively famous master thief who went by the alias Citizen Abra, perhaps better known as Abra Kadabra. Infamous in Central City for his class act of making diamonds disappear. He was fall and proud looking fellow, in a glistening white cape with snugly enveloped his spindly form. The cape fell just beneath his knees, draping over his legs like a cloak. He wore a black tuxedo beneath, with only his trousers and polished shoes visible beneath the cape. A few of Penguin’s goons glanced and the disgruntled figure suspiciously, quietly reaching towards their weapons, just in case... "Oh, come now... My offer is more than generous, Mr. Kadabra! You know your jewels, just look at how hideous it is!" Kadabra was not amongst the foul feathered fowl’s usual clientele. Mainly, Penguin only fenced for Gothamites with a few rare exceptions. But, times were different, things were changing. Some recent dealings with @reverseflash meant that the nefarious Penguin needed to bolster relations in Keystone and Central City. Mirror Master was currently under his employment, and of course there was the aforementioned association with the Reverse Flash, then there was some shall we say juicy gossip which he planned to use against the Trickster, and now there was Abra Kadabra... Yes, his operations were finally beginning to take off. ”This diamond has a retail value of at least one hundred thousand, you cheat!” Kadabra’s eyes burned like fire, teeth clenched beneath a black goatee and mustache. The collar of his cape rose high behind his particularly unhappy face, all the way up to his hair in fact. His hair took the shape of devil horns, though somewhat frazzled. Half was white, and half was black, each horn an opposing color. ”I want seventy five thousand. In cash.” Penguin chuckled, for he cared very little about the diamond. The true treasure was forging business relations with another Central City rogue. "One hundred thousand is auction value." Penguin’s expression was disgusting. It poorly feigned pity to the point that it seemed almost sarcastic. But Oswald, in his own social ineptitude, thought it would appear empathetic. "But since we’re now both friends....." This “friendship” being the true bargain at hand. "Fifty thousand, or you can take your transactions elsewhere." It wasn’t a particularly good deal, but Abra relented that it may be the best the bird will offer. Resigning himself to fate, he planted the diamond on a table between himself and the bird’s throne, gesturing for the money. ”You are a scoundrel, Oswald Cobblepot.” Penguin grinned.
In a roar of smoke, the magical figure dispersed with a briefcase of cash. In his place, the Mad Monk lurched forwards. The creature’s journey had concluded, and now he stood, a humble monk before a king. Cobblepot half assed a grin. This was not a new player in Gotham, in fact this creature was from before even Penguin’s rise. In the days of Dr. Death and Carmine Falcone, that is what this hideous creature was from. Cobblepot had few interactions with it, even fewer were cordial, but recently the crimson cloaked creature saw fit to form business relations with the old bird. Perhaps it had finally realized that times had changed? That the dark age of the “Roman Empire” were over and Pax Penguina was now at hand? Whatever the case, this mad monk offered some intriguing business proposals, though not all were as lucrative as Cobblepot would have liked. "Aaaah, my new friend! Most unexpected, but fortuitous all the same~" The garish gentleman of Gotham cordially welcomed the creepish fellow with open arms, sliding down the slope of his tundra throne to meet face to face with the fanged fiend. "And what exquisite enterprise have you to extend today, my fine fellow?" The Mad Monk glared at Cobblepot, fantasizing eons of ceaseless agony for the would-be tsar. The black around it’s eyes narrowing as a show of obvious disgust and disdain for the dapper degenerate. After a long and arduous and oh so awkward silence, the creature relented, creakily reaching into its cloak with cracking and snapping bones, as if every movement were bone breaking pain. Oswald struggled not to wince, he’d of course seen and in fact inflicted much gore and suffering upon others, but this creature? It was a different breed of disgusting. It smelled like a rotting corpse, with flesh wounds on every hand and shriveled up rotting flesh on every arm. All together, it looked so dead (or rather undead) that it was a mere seconds away from disintegrating. To say fresh corpses were far more pleasant would be an understatement. Finally, after what felt like a century long journey of watching the creature creak and rustle through it’s own tattered robes, it pulled out a dingy old vial rack, housing fourteen vials with some hazy crimson liquid... Penguin knew what that was. Not blood, but something... Worse. Something very awful, with very awful methods of procurement, and very awful people who desire it. "Oh." Penguin was evil for sure, but even he had his limits. He was an evil with some twisted honor, which was at the very least something. Not to mention, Penguin simply didn’t have the clientele for that sort of... Commodity. "Monsieur... Monk, was it? My analysts have most recently purported that the risks and reward for throwing my metaphorical mitre into this particular market are dubious at best. There is simply not enough monetary gain to be garnished on my end. You are, of course, free to take your parlay elsewhere (assuming of course there is even a market), but you’ll not see a penny from me." He shouldn’t have even bought the first set from this creature. ”WHAT!?” To say it was seething with rage would be an understatement. "I think you should leave." Enraged, the Monk slammed his clawed fist to Cobblepot’s ramshackle table. Penguin’s goons reacted immediately, one drawing a shotgun, the other a Tommy, and the third a rather theatrical looking dagger. The dagger was unusual, but Penguin didn’t pay it any mind. All three weapons were pressed to the Monk’s neck, but it did not relent. ”I’ll rip your throat out with my bare teeth, Penguin. HsssssSsSssssss!” Amused by the threat, Penguin places both flippers to the table, leaning in to the beast with a smug grin oozing in hubris. "Right now, I have twenty armed guards and three military grade turrets, and that’s just what is plainly visible. I would like to see you try."
The Monk gave an audible growl, but resigned himself to failure. It hobbled away, seething with anger but unable to commit any violent acts. Two unhappy customers, all in a days work. That is Gotham. Penguin turned away with an exasperated eye roll, the freaks he had to deal with on a day to day basis were exhausting to say the least, and that Monk in particular? What few interactions they’d exchanged were nothing but hostile and aggravating. That being said, the list of banned clientele had just expanded. Limping away, back towards his throne, the insufferable king of Gotham decided to make a decree. "Penn! Let it be known, forthwith: that Mad Monk is no lo-" But the decree was cut short, by a relatively recognizable voice shouting from across the island. "AWAY! AWAY! Aten’s faithful kneel and gangway, I will speak with Oswald Cobblepot!" Penguin winced with an internal scream. "What now!?" The Penguin hissed, ever so aggravated by the scum and villainy this s#!thole had to offer. As if the Monk wasn’t enough, now it was one of those lunatics from Arkham. King Tut, Cobblepot could tell just by the insane ramblings. Cobbling together a falsely pleasant face, he turned to greet the would-be “pharaoh”. "What luck. What fortuitous luck. My good friend, Dr. Goodman...” Yes, luck. All of it bad. Goodman has been there about three days before, peddling off some Egyptian phylactery, which Cobblepot in turn sold to an anonymous collector. "And what brings such a seraphic and supreme sovereign to my humble Nile nest?" It helped with these transactions to play into their delusions, and just look at how delusional this fellow was..... White eyes flared almost blindingly from a golden mask with tranquil expressionless features. Penguin gave a slight grimace at the sight, a barefoot lean form enveloped in naught but a headdress, jewels and some velvety loin cloth. Shirtless and barefoot in the frigid winter cold, what a #%$&ing lunatic he mused to himself. "The phylactery! Give it back! Please!" The phylactery... Some Egyptian bauble Tut fenced off to the old bird a few days prior. "Oh?" Be cordial Oswald, mo matter how difficult it may be... Cobblepot was not a fan of clients who wanted a refund. Not that Goodman would be getting one, mind you... That “phylactery” sold almost immediately. "You don’t understand! It’s cursed! I must return it to my forefather so that he may be one with Aten once more!" Penguin feigned a kindly smile, but let it be known that it was physically painful to do so. "Cursed? Ho-ho~ Come now, Dr. Goodman! A feeble mortal such as myself could not possibly fathom what ‘curse’ could fetter the might of Aten’s faithful!" Just leave. Please leave. Go. Away. These characters were always so draining to deal with, especially the mind numbing hoops Oswald always had to hop through just to have a civil conversation with them... Though, despite his better efforts, these sort of engagements often fell to become remarkably uncivilized. As was the case now, actually.... For Tut’s immediate response was to lunge at Oswald from across the table, grabbing hold of his tuxedo’s lapels. The goons surrounding Penguin instinctively drew their weapons. Memory might serve of a shotgun, Tommy, and theatrical dagger... There was that dagger again... The goon wielding it appeared to be unremarkable, but... Why a dagger like that? Like a prop from some Shakespearean drama? Perhaps now wasn’t a good time to muse over such things... "Give it now! Don’t you understand!? He’ll kill me!! And then YOU!!" For better or worse, is he Penguin ignored the palpable tings of sheer unbridled terror in the man’s voice. Retorting with anger rather than the song and dance of lunacy they’d been having thus far. "Even if I wanted to help you (which I don’t) I. Sold. It. To an anonymous buyer, actually. I wouldn’t be able to find it again no matter how hard I tried.... Maybe next time, don’t fence something your delusions are hinged on! No!?" Horrified by Penguin’s answer, Tut released him. The phony pharaoh took a step back, Cobblepot half tempted execute the impudent nutcase there and then. But ... Patience is a virtue they say. "Then we are doomed.... You’ve killed us, Oswald Cobblepot! We’re doomed!!" As abruptly as the ordeal started, it ended, with King Tut frantically fleeing the crypt to Lord only knows where. Penguin was annoyed to say the least, but at least the ordeal was over.
Three unsatisfied customers, all in a days work. But a forth came that night, this one having taken the form of that questionable goon with a dagger. As Oswald glared at Tut frantically fleeing the Crypt, the goon chimed in with his own unwanted two cents. ”Lo, the shrill winds of Gotham gangway for the wallows of three loathsome souls. Loathsome souls, who’s insatiable quest for capital hath gifted naught but dissatisfaction.” That voice... This was not one of Penguin’s goons. No, that voice was recognizable to anyone! Penguin faced the fellow before him, appearing as a large and oafish mook. He had no hair and simply wore a suit, a typical gangster by appearance. But, appearances could be all to deceiving, for that sultry voice did not belong to a bald thug of the Crypt. It was melodic and dramatic, beautiful, even. It was the voice of... ".....Clayface." Clayface... A force to be reckoned with like few in the Batman’s rogues gallery. A goliath of mud, able to mold himself into any form he so chooses. A fearsome foe for sure, but also... Always a useful pawn, perhaps even a mighty rook? “‘But not I’, says Basil Karlo, for the thrill of a hunt and the role of a lifetime satiates this illicit thirst....” The degenerate of dirt stepped forwards, that bald head being suddenly warped by tendrils of slushy brown writhing out and taking form. The burly body melting into brown slime, with crumbling arms and crippled legs suddenly slushing about on the floor. The head took a vague shape of some gooey grin, with fat jagged tooth and drooping slimy flesh. Yellow eyes burned like embers as the behemoth sloshed forwards. Penguin was taken aback by the malformed malefactors muddy appearance, but pressed on nonetheless. "Scrumptious soliloquy, my dear malefactor of mud. But, what business have you with this old bird?” Clayface struggled to take shape, his body twisting and writhing like puddy, bones and teeth spattered amongst blood flesh and clay writhing about red and brown jello, it oscillated in place, a lump of grotesque curdy flesh without form, speaking to Penguin, and for perhaps the very first time, Penguin was not the most hideous thing in the room. ”Spoken like a true thespian, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot! For is not the false face of theater the way in which you interact with all man? The way in which you dance with the devil and commit your dubious dealings?” Oswald cringed in disgust at the putrid sight before him, the jiggly beast writhing in place as a lump of flesh and mud. It molded itself together, horrifically disgusting, flesh piling on flesh brown and red and tan sloshing against itself rearranging bones and body back into the vague shape of a humanoid, into the vague shape of Basil Karlo. "In a manner of speaking, yes." Penguin winced as he spoke, Basil Karlo birthing himself from clay. It molded together, so dapper, so debonaire the charming actor which Gotham once knew and loved took shape. His flowing locks, then came his flawless eyes which could make you feel both dread and allurement, then finally his pencil thin mustache which fit on so perfectly with his eloquent sultry voice. The sort of voice which added such elegant regality to horror, which felt like silk to the ears but also told a story of dread and terror like none before or after. ”We all put on an act, O’ hideous Penguin Man, but none commit to the craft better than I!” The beast formed some plaid suit over itself, with a white button up and a red ascot, eloquent attire which it had at one point been quite accustom to. But that was a long time ago, before the Clayface Murders and before the melding of four Clayfaces into one. "Well, there it is. What can I do for you?" The delighted man of mud simply extended an empty palm out towards the bird, the hand split apart, like threads from cloth ripping apart at the seams. Clay began to bubble and broth quietly, and from it all a pearl necklace arose from the slime. Cobblepot took the pearls and scrutinized them for but a mere moment. "Six thousand dollars" the kingpin declares, to which the clay golem immediately replied: ”Sold! To you, oh King of slums, I say auf wiedersehen!” Clayface cares little about money, only the hunt and the acting required to achieve his ends. He collected his cash and gave a theatrical bow to the penguin-man, and as suddenly as he appeared, he began melting away into slush, flesh and blood splattering against the floor as his whole body decomposed before Penguin’s very eyes. The gloop became a puddle of grotesquery, which simply slithered away into the sewers without a word.
Dawn of the first plague
It was approximately one day later, when.... Whispers, dreadful horrid whispers festered deep within the bowels of this pharaoh’s kingdom. Deep below, within the catacombs, some horrific tomb for which that hideous fat fowl used to smuggle in weapons and guns and other illicit products too and fro his kingdom of rot. An unnatural wind at first came as whispers, faintly dancing from ear to ear with the sultry hymn of a siren. That whisper soon evolved into a low growl, rumbling deep within the chests and souls of the Penguin’s minions and briskly chilling their necks and lips. From a whisper to a growl, the metamorphoses soon complete, it’s final phase becoming some ear damning howl. A shriek, like that of a banshee toppling over henchmen as though they were twigs and leaves. Gusts of wind, like that of a hurricane slamming into their chests and slamming them from wall to wall ever downwards. The first plague of Seti has come... Wallow in disgust, and cringe in terror at the raw and horrific power of the mummy’s curse.
Oswald did not heed the warning, he laughed his gaudy chortles and went about with his revelries and sinful merriment, and so has forced Seti’s hand. Cobblepot was squatted on the first floor of his Lounge, his rotund rear nestled within a posh booth with some cavalcade of criminal cronies convening by his side. Thugs and bastard psychopathic wiseguys of the gangland underworld. Elderly Italian creeps, some with large glasses and all with even larger egos. Drinks and various pasta dishes danced around the table with laughter and merriment abound, all centered around this pharaoh of fowl. "So, I said... Joker, that’s his mother!" The bird quipped, and his merry band of sycophants howled with laughter. All of them, utterly unaware of the horror which went on below... And... Evidently above.
Charred and mangled fingertips, black and red like a steak burnt to a crisp, coiled upon the railing and scratched against the brass. Seti sent the Plague. Croaking creeped up from above, raspy crowing snarling from above, but they did not notice. It was sudden, and bizarre. Penguin did a double take... A frog. It plummeted from the rafters and splattered across Cobblepot’s platter. His eyes widened as a second one hurdled down upon his steak, and splashed his fries across the table. Shock and confusion overtook the king of crime, the gangsters scratched their heads and looked all around when suddenly a third frog plummeted like a comet, followed by a fourth, then a fifth and a sixth and so on. A flotilla of frogs came crashing in from the skies. Penguin, in a panic fell out of his booth, scurrying away as the frogs came to life, hopping forwards like a flood. Hundreds of them crashing down and charging forwards. Goons and thugs fired at will, but the frogs were too many. Frogs came from every corner, every crack and every crevices. Kitchen staff screamed in disgust and horror, charging out into the main hall as an army of frogs came careening out. The head chef cursed like he’d never cursed before, for a surge of frogs heralded something horrific. Penguin looked on in absolute unfathomable horror, disgust and fear, for from the kitchen there cane a flash of white, and the horrific blinding visage of king Seti II Pharaoh of Egypt.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph..........."
| John Constantine |
(Permission for the characters and events described in this thread granted by: Jason Todd )
| John Constantine |
(Permission for the characters and events described in this thread granted by: Jason Todd )
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