[b]8:30 PM. Somewhere near the docks. [/b]

Like a merciless buzzing drone, the alarm clock hammered into his eardrums. The large man-beast stirred up lazily, a huge paw full of outgrowths reaching for the offending device, as a deep, guttural rumble surged from the depths of his throat. Deftly tapping the crocodile-shaped alarm clock, the man  grumbled and stirred. The bed heaved and creaked under his enormous weight, as his eyelids opened slowly. A couple of slitted, reptilian eyes peeked into the darkness of the room, as his other claw reached for his chin, scratching it. Waylon Jones was finally awake. He slowly got up from his resting place, half due to being careful as to not need a new bed or trespass one of the wafer-thin walls of his cheap lodging, half because his metabolism seemed to go at an snail's pace this eve.

The ever-present ringing of police sirens announced that it was night once again in Gotham city. When all up and nice people slept, and the crooks and the freaks raved, taunting the police. Waylon, the Killer Croc had once been one of them, but now. Now he had a night shift to comply, so he grumbled in his inhumane voice once again as he head for the sink. Spraying an entire toothpaste tub in a custom-made hybrid between toothbrush and [i]toiletbrush[/i] he began to energically tend to his reptilian sharp teeth. Truth to be told, even if his bucal hygiene had been lacking several times because of obvious reasons, and the fact that he could grow teeth, he had coworkers who would rather be spared of his usual sewer breath. Straightening forward, he dared brave to look at himself in the mirror.

[i]Still ugly as sin. But hey, those are the cleanest crocodile teeth ever.[/i] He added, before finally settling for getting dressed. He could always take a shower at work. The communal showers were way more spacious. He did remember ruefully the time he had tried to shower in the shower attached to his room. He had to pay the wall's repairs afterwards. Plus for a time, his neck hurt considerably.

"Hrm." He gutturally growled as he fumbled for his keys as he got into his clothes. Simple jeans and shirts. Durable enough and cheap to replace. He had long forgotten to ever buy shoes. They never fit, and when your soles were made of crocodile skin, there was hardly any point in doing it. The finishing touches were a massive trenchcoat and a fedora. They did hide his most bestial features, but he could hardly hide his size or bulk this way. 

And thus, he braved into the outside space of the apartment in this guise. A couple of neighbours eyed him for a moment, before exchanging customary greetings, to which Waylon answered. There was a perceived tone of deference, but otherwise, he could not feel scorn nor fear from them. Waylon wondered if they had seen too much, or had too much to worry about in their lives to pay attention to the big croc man.

"Well, time to work." The beast-sized man uttered, as he began to walk the streets.

[b]4:30 AM. Somewhere near the docks. [/b]

Tired and cold, the crocodile man sniffed the air of the city. The shift had been long, and it had taken a toll on everyone. Waylon himself could never remember in his short stint as a welder so many crud in the same place. And it had been the Penguin's fault. Well, that or of the Bat himself. Apparently one of the trick umbrellas had fell into the docks, and had rotted for years, before misfiring in a septic sewage and spreading a lot of...well...waste. His nostrils still felt numb for swimming in that kind of stuff. Well, sometime in the past, this had been par for the course, but he couldn't help but see his coworkers reel at the mere sight of him.

The more polite ones (the ones that were not trying to contain their lunches inside their own stomach, who struggled to be free) directed him to the showers after the deed had been done, much to the big reptilian's man grumble. And the secretary, that fiery ginger of Stacey, was nowhere to be seen. How would he ask her out like that? A big, crocodile man, stinking worse than the Mayor's farts.  He sighed, and decided to let it go. Tomorrow would be a new night.

He carefully opened the lid of the massive bucket of Cobbler's Chunky Chicken, and let the oily and crisp aroma awake his sense of smell once more. He had been lucky that such a shop was open at this time of the night (well, probably to cash on nightcrawlers and drunks, much like him). The chicken... well, it didn't look like chicken exactly. Most likely, it was a mix of several creatures (!) that even the smell of the Killer Croc could not tell apart. But they tasted nice enough to his empty stomach. Mindfully, he nibbled the fleshy bits until the bones were stripped out of flesh, and then thoughtfully, eyeing what other people would discard, hurled the small bones into his gargantuan maw, crushing them with a forceful bite, letting the flavour of the marrow seep in his palate. Waste not.

Once upon a time, he had been known as Killer Croc. Now he was just Lonnie, enjoying his crispy chicken after an ardous night shift. He continued to parade around the dark streets, sure and mindful that no one in their right mind would attempt to disturb the half-concealed gargantuan man and his bucket of food. For the sake of old times, he even hummed one of his old phrases...

"Tic toc...feed the croc."