Post by Firelizard on Aug 12, 2024 20:59:01 GMT
Boats crawled off in the distance, limping away from Gotham’s harbor as their lights glimmered across the icy cold waters of the Atlantic. A security guard, perhaps one of the most bored security guards who ever lived, flipped through a magazine at his post. He hadn’t had to let the gate up for anyone in hours, though he had read through the pulpy pages of the document in his hands more than a dozen times since. His reddish mustache glistened with melted sugar and donut flakes, an empty carcass of a box sitting on an opposite table in the cramped space of the security cubicle. A cellphone sat off to the side, a myriad of missed calls and unanswered texts flashing on its cracked screen. The security guard was too engrossed in the badly written opinion pieces to pay that any mind, though. It might have been the scantily clad women inside that drew his attention, but that was between the security guard, god, and his eternally exasperated wife of twenty years.
“Hey. Hey! My guy, you gonna let us in or what?”
The guard pulled his eyes away from the magnetic writing within the magazine. A jet black sedan sat a foot away from the security booth, spitting exhaust out into the open night air. Its driver side window was nowhere to be seen, revealing a middle aged man with salt and pepper hair. His cheeks betrayed the hint of a five o’clock shadow, and the circles under his eyes betrayed a sleep schedule that hadn’t been respected for years. His left hand was raised in annoyance gesturing at the sleepy eyed security guard, a gold rolex glinting in the moonlight. The driver clicked his fingers, an annoyed set of eyes dressing the guard down.
“Ah, ah, sorry about that. Busy night. Just some ID and a manifest and you’ll be on your way.”
The sedan’s inhabitant grinned in response, putting the vehicle in park as he mimed trying to find a wallet that could hold the things his new nighttime acquaintance had asked for. The passengers of the sedan laughed, now revealed to be three other men dressed just like their driver. Fine wool suits of varying shades of blue or charcoal crinkled as their wearers laughingly shifted in their seats.
“Yeah Bruno, show the man some ID.”
The driver, Bruno allegedly, whipped his head back to glare at his compatriot. He uttered a curse under his breath and turned back, a forced smile plastered across his features. His right hand appeared from its pantomime search, a piece of iron and gunpowder in the shape of a pistol in his once empty hand. The guard yelped at the sight, putting one hand up with the other still tightly gripped onto a magazine.
“Woah, woah, woah! Hey now...”
Bruno looked down at the security guard’s name tag, gleaning a name from the dimly lit shadows of the guard booth.
“...Daniels. No witnesses.”
The gunshot echoed throughout this empty portion of the docks, sending all manner of bird or flying thing into motion to escape the sudden implication of violence. The security guard flew back, a now singular hole ridden magazine tossed to the side as he collapsed to the ground. Bruno put his pistol’s safety on and holstered the weapon, shifting back in his seat and undoing his seatbelt. He slapped his passenger upside the head, making sure the signet ring upon his finger connected with the mouthy oaf’s ear. He was the only original member of Kingpin’s crew to arrive at the docks, the first of many, hopefully. The others had been picked up along the way or pulled from differing crews, and their lack of quality showed.
“No more fucking names, got it? Get the explosives and dump the body in the back. We’ve gotta be quick about this.”
The underlings jumped into motion, taking the guard’s body and lifting the gate in minutes. Pathetic timing, any competent crew in New York would’ve had that done in seconds flat. Bruno walked ahead of the gate, his car now driven by the mouthy idiot who’d blown his cover flying past him and parking just up against the warehouse their new victim had been assigned to. Busted windows, victims of unruly teens or maybe even entropy itself, dotted the exterior. Bricks sapped of color built up what glass or a lack of glass didn’t cover. If he hadn’t known better, Bruno would’ve thought these were the original bricks Gotham must have come with way back when. Damn did he miss civilization and modern architecture, New Jersey seemingly didn’t have either.
“Don’t cross the wires on that C4. Me and the boss are going to beat you to death in heaven if you mess that up. No, no, no, against those columns. We want this building to collapse, not get even more fucking ugly.”
Bruno spent the next few minutes directing the men, checking his golden watch every so often. The Kingpin wanted this job done fast. The opening salvo of the boss’ arrival to this hellhole of a city. The intended seller hadn’t wanted to part with this property. Something about crime going down and property values going up. It would’ve been a sound investment, even a smart business move if it hadn’t meant getting in Fisk’s way. Now they had to do things the hard way. Blow it up, buy it back for pennies, and build it up to Union Allied Construction standard.
Behind Bruno and the open warehouse doors sat the now empty guard booth. A phone vibrated for a few seconds, sending yet another caller to voicemail. Blood from a long since dragged away body gleamed, a singular shell casing sitting upright in its new crimson swimming hole.
“Hey. Hey! My guy, you gonna let us in or what?”
The guard pulled his eyes away from the magnetic writing within the magazine. A jet black sedan sat a foot away from the security booth, spitting exhaust out into the open night air. Its driver side window was nowhere to be seen, revealing a middle aged man with salt and pepper hair. His cheeks betrayed the hint of a five o’clock shadow, and the circles under his eyes betrayed a sleep schedule that hadn’t been respected for years. His left hand was raised in annoyance gesturing at the sleepy eyed security guard, a gold rolex glinting in the moonlight. The driver clicked his fingers, an annoyed set of eyes dressing the guard down.
“Ah, ah, sorry about that. Busy night. Just some ID and a manifest and you’ll be on your way.”
The sedan’s inhabitant grinned in response, putting the vehicle in park as he mimed trying to find a wallet that could hold the things his new nighttime acquaintance had asked for. The passengers of the sedan laughed, now revealed to be three other men dressed just like their driver. Fine wool suits of varying shades of blue or charcoal crinkled as their wearers laughingly shifted in their seats.
“Yeah Bruno, show the man some ID.”
The driver, Bruno allegedly, whipped his head back to glare at his compatriot. He uttered a curse under his breath and turned back, a forced smile plastered across his features. His right hand appeared from its pantomime search, a piece of iron and gunpowder in the shape of a pistol in his once empty hand. The guard yelped at the sight, putting one hand up with the other still tightly gripped onto a magazine.
“Woah, woah, woah! Hey now...”
Bruno looked down at the security guard’s name tag, gleaning a name from the dimly lit shadows of the guard booth.
“...Daniels. No witnesses.”
The gunshot echoed throughout this empty portion of the docks, sending all manner of bird or flying thing into motion to escape the sudden implication of violence. The security guard flew back, a now singular hole ridden magazine tossed to the side as he collapsed to the ground. Bruno put his pistol’s safety on and holstered the weapon, shifting back in his seat and undoing his seatbelt. He slapped his passenger upside the head, making sure the signet ring upon his finger connected with the mouthy oaf’s ear. He was the only original member of Kingpin’s crew to arrive at the docks, the first of many, hopefully. The others had been picked up along the way or pulled from differing crews, and their lack of quality showed.
“No more fucking names, got it? Get the explosives and dump the body in the back. We’ve gotta be quick about this.”
The underlings jumped into motion, taking the guard’s body and lifting the gate in minutes. Pathetic timing, any competent crew in New York would’ve had that done in seconds flat. Bruno walked ahead of the gate, his car now driven by the mouthy idiot who’d blown his cover flying past him and parking just up against the warehouse their new victim had been assigned to. Busted windows, victims of unruly teens or maybe even entropy itself, dotted the exterior. Bricks sapped of color built up what glass or a lack of glass didn’t cover. If he hadn’t known better, Bruno would’ve thought these were the original bricks Gotham must have come with way back when. Damn did he miss civilization and modern architecture, New Jersey seemingly didn’t have either.
“Don’t cross the wires on that C4. Me and the boss are going to beat you to death in heaven if you mess that up. No, no, no, against those columns. We want this building to collapse, not get even more fucking ugly.”
Bruno spent the next few minutes directing the men, checking his golden watch every so often. The Kingpin wanted this job done fast. The opening salvo of the boss’ arrival to this hellhole of a city. The intended seller hadn’t wanted to part with this property. Something about crime going down and property values going up. It would’ve been a sound investment, even a smart business move if it hadn’t meant getting in Fisk’s way. Now they had to do things the hard way. Blow it up, buy it back for pennies, and build it up to Union Allied Construction standard.
Behind Bruno and the open warehouse doors sat the now empty guard booth. A phone vibrated for a few seconds, sending yet another caller to voicemail. Blood from a long since dragged away body gleamed, a singular shell casing sitting upright in its new crimson swimming hole.
