Byrd Man

Pax Narcotica: A Narco Cartel RP

Yeah, no other governments involved as factions. Characters from other nationalities can be played, they just need a damn good reason to be in the middle of it all.

Pax Narcotica: A Narco Cartel RP

Pax Narcotica:
A Narco Cartel RP

"The hardest thing in the world isn’t to refrain from committing an evil, it’s to stand up and stop one."
-- Don Winslow

A masked Mexican soldier patrols the streets of Veracruz, on October 10, 2011.

TL;DR Summary:

• Mexico in the late 2000's to early 2010's
• Be it cop, sicario, or kingpin you're involved the Mexican Drug war.
• GM has final say on all character/cartel choices.
• No US faction will be playable.

In Character Info

Mexico, the land of pyramids and palaces, deserts and jungles, mountains and beaches, markets and gardens, boulevards and cobblestone streets, broad plazas and hidden courtyards, is now known as a slaughter ground. The Mexican Drug War is in full force and you're in the middle of it. Bodies and bodies fall day after day in the wars between the narcotraficantes who have formed their own shadow governments across the nation of Mexico. Now these quasi-kingdoms fight and die for the right to fuel the United States' massive drug problem and all the cash that comes with it. Armies pledged to one faction or the other roam the land and fight each other, the Mexican police and army forces, and even the United States in complex, bloody wars that every aspect of society it touches. Join the fight on whatever side you'd like and try to take the crown for yourself. But be careful. People don't run the cartel; the cartel runs people

Out of Character Info:

So essentially this will be an RP set in Mexico during the ongoing drug wars. My wish is to run it as a hybrid of a NRP and a conventional game. There's a focus on the cartels and the factions, but there's also a focus on the individuals within those factions and the toll the war takes on everyone. You've got the option of taking over a faction, but also just being a single character. I just want to let everyone tell good stories.

Faction Sheet

Faction Name:
Territory:
Allies:
Faction History:
Important Characters:

Individual Character Sheet

Name:
Location:
Allegiance:
Personality:
History:

Gotham City: Shadow of the Bat

Sounds like you need ass transmission fluid.

Gotham City: Shadow of the Bat

Bennett Beach

The Beach was Pierogi Paradise. Russian expats and gangsters mingled with the old Jews of the neighborhood. Yiddish and Cyrillic script cohabited on walls and storefronts. Kosher meat hung from store windows. Dig those Hassidic Jews. Dig those wild beards and hats. ZZ Top meets Run DMC. Feature those Russian bears in six thousand dollar suits. Slavic whores walked the streets. Beautiful and wearing cheap clothing, but dead eyes underneath all that makeup. Sinister pimps nearby, drinking strong coffee and smoking Polish cigarettes. Operating with impunity in the early afternoon.

Two-car convoy through the beach, Wise in front and Slam tailing. He gave the guy a long leash. Wise's unmarked made him as a cop from a mile away. Slam smoked cigarettes. Slam chain smoked butt to butt. He craved vodka and avoided hitting babushka's pulling carts. Wise's unmarked pulled in to a restaurant beneath the raised subway track. Slam drove by. The sign out front in English, Yiddish, Cyrillic: Nikola's Tea Room.

Timewarp back to his days on the streets. The Tea Room was where the Chechen ran business. He remembered how the fuck looked. Black suit with no tie, goatee, prison tats on his hands, and looking as Slavic as the chow at Abramowicz's Deli down the street. Slam heard the rumors around town: the Chechen was former Russian intelligence turned Russian Mafiya. No, he was a krusading KGB Kommando who had a kill kount in Afghanistan that approached triple digits. No, he fought the Russians in Chechnya. Ruskies raped his mother and he slaughtered an entire battalion in the name of revenge. The FSB had a six-figure bounty on his head. Putin himself had decreed that the Chechen would be killed if he ever left America.

Slam shook the Chechen down one time. He dunked his head into a fishtank. Two-Gun Grogan roared with delight. Grogan called the move Russian Dip. Slam parked his heap down the block and watched from the rear view mirror. Wise walked out twenty minutes later with a duffel bag. Wise chucked it in the backseat of his unmarked and hauled ass. Slam waited twenty seconds before following.

Back on the highway and across town again. Slam drove with one hand. The other hand groped along the dashboard of the passenger side. He steered with his knees, he swerved, he got beaucoup bad looks from passing motorist. Slam pulled a half-empty bottle of Fireball up from the floor and took slugs from it.

The crusade for booze let Wise get ahead. Slam sped and caught up just in time to see him get off the highway. Two-car convoy into the westside. Racist cops called it the Congo and they always showed up in force. Open air drug markets abound, junkies doing the dope fiend lean ditto. Feature those liquor store/check cashing places. Wise rolled into the Finger and Slam had to call off the tail.

The Finger == The Milton Finger Housing Projects. Six twelve story tall high rises surrounded by twenty low-rise housing projects. A small kingdom for Jefferson Skeevers to rule over. Skeevers, one of the few remaining gangsters from the days before the Bat broke the Mob.

Slam sat in his heap and watched corner boys serve junkies speedballs. The Bennett Beach to the Finger run proved that Wise was dirty. No doubt about it in Slam's eyes. But what in the hell did it have to do with Jim Gordon's disappearance?

Gotham City: Shadow of the Bat

Unincorporated Gotham
2004

They called it Billyland. Rednecks and peckerwoods from all over Appalachia flocked to the city during and after World War II to work the industry jobs all the upstanding crackers left behind when they went off to war. The Hillbillies, Billies to those in the know, made unincorporated Gotham a hicktown haven and had been there ever since. Billyland was a running joke through the city. You going through Billyland and hear banjo music? Roll up those windows and drive faster, boy. How do you castrate a Billy? Kick his sister in the mouth. What do you call a Billy girl who can run faster than her brothers? A virgin. Billyland: 10,000 people and only six teeth.

Slam drove the unmarked car, Two-Gun Jack Grogan rode shotgun. They cruised through Billyland and took in the sights. Dig those trucks and big ass tires. Dig that Billy music blasting out the trucks. Fat girls in tight jean shorts and tighter tops. Muffin tops abound. Tweaker sores abound. Teenage mothers pushing babies, rebel yells, motorcycles, more jacked up trucks. Bush '04 stickers, Confederate Flags and "Heritage, Not Hate" signs as far as the eye can see.

Slam was on a work high. He and Grogan worked over an informant about a diamond heist. Feature:: Two days earlier, an armored car headed for Zinkman & Sons had been robbed by four masked men with assault rifles. Said heisters made off with a half a mil in hot rocks. Grogan's informant, a safe cracker with a dope addiction, spat teeth and spat out a name finally. A guy named Clay from Billyland had been asking around about muscle for a job. The snitch had wanted in, but they turned him down the racist crackers. Never mind anybody with half a brain could tell the informant was a full-blown needle fiend, the last thing you need on a job like that. The informant gave them a basic description and a bar he met the man at. Grogan made a call and a few hours later, here they were.

Two-Gun Jack spit tobacco in a paper cup and said, “Pull over right here.”

Slam parked on the side of the road by another unmarked. Two men got out. A dark haired man with a ‘stache and a red haired man with cruel green eyes. Grogan made introductions.

"Slam, this is Sergeant Tommy Burke and Detective Mal Harris. Guys, this is Detective Slam Bradley, the boxer. He is the latest member of our happy little band."

Harris with a nasally Boston accent, "Is he up to this, skip?"

Two-Gun Jack spat tobacco and chuckled. "I think you’ll be surprised by what Slam is capable of."

Burke’s voice rumbled deep. “He looks the part anyway.”

Grogan said, “Yep. What did your tail job muster?”

Burke lit up a cigarette. “We found that bar you told us about. We sat on it and saw a man matching that description. From there we tailed him to a trailer park. It’s a mile away from here.”

Slam spoke up. “Out here is sheriff’s territory. Do we call them before we move in?”

The three men laughed. Harris held his ribs. Grogan slapped a knee.

Burke wiped his eyes. “Holy shit, you really are virgin.”

Grogan held his hand out. “Now, now. You'll find that Slam is gonna be a quick study. Did you bring the other supplies, boys?”

Harris winked, “It wouldn’t be a party without them, skip.”

Burke popped the trunk. Slam looked in. Four pump-action shotguns, four pairs of leather gloves, and four ski-masks. Slam felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He looked up. Grogan smiled. Harris smiled. Burke fucking grinned.

Grogan said, "Welcome to the Surveillance Unit, son."

Burke slipped on a pair of gloves and racked a shell into a shotgun.

"Heart breakers and life takers."

Slam heard his pulse in his ears. Burke drove the car, Harris in the passenger seat. Slam and Grogan sat in the backseat, shotguns on their laps and ski masks rolled up on their heads. Kevlar vests tight on their chests. Grogan checked his shotgun and quarterbacked the raid.

"Slam, Mal, and I go in through the front. Tommy watches the back door. These men are highly armed and dangerous, so be vigilant. I want to take them all alive if possible. If we succeed then we black bag them and take them across the city line into Gotham City."

Harris chain-smoked from the front seat.

"What about the diamonds?" Slam asked.

Grogan winked.

"What diamonds?"

Slam mounted a flashlight on his shotgun, racked a round into the chamber. Burke pulled into the Jefferson Oaks Trailer Park. He killed the lights and engine and coasted down gravel roads. Grogan rolled his mask on. Slam followed his lead.

They jumped out and ran across gravel. A double-wide with peeling green paint, a USMC flag mounted on the porch. No lights on. Burke sprinted around the back. Slam took the stairs. He stopped by the front door, flicked the flashlight on. A party two trailers over. Skynyrd playing loud. "Saturday Night Special" blasting through the trailer park.

Grogan said go. Slam kicked the cheap door. It bucked. It groaned. It crashed open. He went in fast, Grogan and Harris right behind him.

---

Dutch Hill
9:09 AM

Slam made three passes before he parked his heap. Jim's house sat on a quiet block filled with working stiffs. Nobody around to see him come and go. He sipped Starbucks coffee laced with booze. Dutch Hill was très stylish now thanks to gentrification. Thirty years ago it was Crack City, drug wars dropped at least two bodies a day. Today it was hipsters and artisan cheeses. Slam sipped coffee and wondered if artisan crack was a thing.

He killed his coffee and headed towards the front door. He wore latex gloves. He carried lockpicks, a penknife, a digital camera, and a flashlight in his coat. He picked the lock in thirty seconds and went through the door. Jim's house reeked of cigarettes and TV dinners.

The house was straight bachelor decor: panel wood and flannels. Slam clicked his flashlight on and knew right away the place had been tossed. It was neat, too neat for Jim. Jim was a Felix compared to sloppy Slam, but Slam had been to the house enough times to know Jim wouldn't have left it this pristine. He stepped through the house, caught a trace of a scent underneath the cigarette smoke. Slam pegged it as Clorox. Jim's den was neat and pristine. On the bookshelf: History books, law tomes, criminology books. Books on the desk, books about science, robotics, and philosophy. Odd. A map on the desk beside the books. The Gotham subway and sewage system laid out in grids. Check marks on grids. Slam studied it with his flashlight. It read Greek to him.

Slam snapped pix of the maps with his camera. Pix of the books on the shelf and books for future reference. He went through the house for ten minutes. Wipe marks on surfaces, more cleaning stuff on the floor. Conclusion: Jim's pad was searched by a pro. Said pro went behind the tossing with a Mr. Clean routine. Said pro wiped away any prints or clues with their cleaning. Whatever they were looking for, the maps and books were not it. Slam clicked off his flashlight and headed for the door.

---

The Rose Hill Motel
4:45 PM

Slam sat in his car and eyeballed the dump. The Rose Hill Motel. Twenty years since the city condemned it. A no-tell motel dump before then. Now it was rotting slowly on its foundation. It straddled the line between city and county. Rooms 1-6 were inside Gotham proper, 7-12 in unincorporated county turf. Far away from prying eyes, the place was perfect for the needs of the Surveillance Unit. Slam's "office" had been Room 5 when he was part of the detail.

He'd went back to his flop after tossing Gordon's place. He passed out the bed without bothering to take off his jacket. He'd been running twenty-fours straight on nothing but booze and coffee. No dreams in his sleep, no nightmares. Four unmarked cop cars were parked outside the motel. Two big sons of bitches came out. Shaved heads and tight black t-shirts let Slam know they were cops. He sighed. Young cops all dressed like skinheads. Feature on the man between them: bloodied and bruised with a limp. The Surveillance Unit's mandate: discourage further mob encroachment into the city. "Discouragement" was brass approval to kidnap, beat, and send packing any out of town mobsters who had disillusions of grandeur. The cops took the money the would-be crime lords had on them and donated it to the GCPD widow & orphan fun. After they got their cut, of course.

The two meatheads shoved the beaten man into the backseat of a car and pulled out. They U-turned and headed towards Slam's car. He scrunched down in the seat as they passed. Slam popped back up after they were gone. Feature on a grey-haired man in a plaid short sleeve button-up and jeans with work boots. Slam made out tats on his forearms and a Glock on his left hip. He wore glasses with bulky black frames. To Slam he looked like an aging hipster. Word on the street was that he was a stone killer. Captain Marcus Wise, head of the Surveillance Unit, lit up a cigarette and walked to his car.

Wise drove off away from the Rose Hill, going in the opposite direction of the two meatheads. Slam waited and counted off seconds. At seventy, he started his car and gunned it. He caught up with Wise just as his car got on the highway. Slam hung three cars back and followed the man as he entered the city.

Gotham City: Shadow of the Bat

Westside Gotham
4:35 AM

Blue lights and arc lights illuminated the crime scene. Three prowl cars parked in a semi-circle provided light. Slam stood behind crime scene tape with all the others. Patrolmen directed traffic and kept civilians and reporters at bay. Geeks on the sidewalks peddled merch. They sold cheap Batman t-shirts, cheap Batman capes, chunks of rusty metal claimed to be genuine bullets used in the murder that just happened. Slam smoked with steady hands. A half-pint of Ripple on the drive over steadied him.

FEATURE: A dead body on the pavement. A blue tarp covered him. Crime scene techs and plainclothes officers converged on the scene. He saw Homicide dicks and crime scene techs in windbreakers. He saw Charlie Fields in a sharp suit. Charlie was part of Slam and Jim's squad in Homicide. Charlie loved the Life; capital L, always with a capital L. Charlie loved being a cop and solving murders. Slam used to. Slam told boxing stories to criminals and criminals alike. Slam shadowboxed for effect. Slam used to be all about the Life. The Life turned on him. The Life chewed him up. It was still chewing him. Spitting him back out: TBA.

A crime scene tech was coming out of the scene. Red hair with flecks of gray in them. He carried a camera around his neck. Slam locked eyes. Jim Corrigan was as dirty as the day was long. Slam remembered him going through three different IAD investigations and not a single one touched him. The Teflon Crook. Corrigan was slicker than goose shit.

"Corrigan," he said as the man passed by. He flashed a roll of cash. "A few bucks for your time?"

Corrigan got stiff. Corrigan looked around to make sure the coast was clear.

"Slam fucking Bradley," Corrigan said softly. "Where the fuck does a smokehound like you get a wad like that?"

Slam laughed. "Fairy godmother. She's got redhair and weighs a hundred and twenty, apparently."

Corrigan led Slam to his car. The leaned against the hood. Corrigan bummed a cigarette off Slam and passed him his camera. Slam thumbed through the pix on the digital camera. Crime scene pix showed a dead body face down on the pavement. Shots got in close on the back of the head. Two shots, two entry wounds. No pix of the front because it would be fucking pulp. Slam saw stippling around the wounds. The killer got in close before pulling the trigger.

"Who was he?"

"Some drug dealer," said Corrigan. "Obviously, solving this one is a top priority on the homicide list."

Slam scrolled through the pix faster. Shell casings near the body ruled out a revolver as the primary weapon. Entry wounds looked like either a 9 MM or .40 were used as the murder weapon. It probably didn't matter. If it was a pro job, the gun was already down a storm drain on the other side of town somewhere. He liked reviewing the shots. Years since he flexed his murder police muscle. It felt good.

"What'd you know about Jim Gordon, Corrigan?"

Corrigan shrugged. "He has a mustache."

"No shit?" Slam pulled a couple of twenties out of his wad. "I'm talking about his so-called disappearance. Supposedly, he was hanging out with some shady people. C'mon, Corrigan, you know that's bullshit. This is Father Jim we're talking about."

Corrigan blew out smoke. "What can I say? America loves a fallen idol. It's very poetic."

Slam flicked his cigarette butt across the street and fumed. He pulled out more rolls of bills and laid them in Corrigan's lap.

"The Surveillance Squad is where the intel came from. They were the ones that placed him with the Bertinelli mob."

Goosebumps went up Slam's arm. The Surveillance Squad. His old unit. Chinatown. Two-Gun Grogan. Then: Shakedown artists and two-bit thugs. Now? Who knew what the fuck they were now.

"Can you get your hands on that report?"

Corrigan laughed. "Given my reputation, IAD would be all over me like flies on shit if I got anywhere close to this thing. They probably don't like me even here taking pictures, man. I me--"

"You're right, Officer Corrigan."

Slam and Corrigan turned. A tall, think black man in a three-piece stood close by. His head was shaved and he wore big, black frame glasses. Slam's face flushed and he balled his fists up.

"Mr. Bradley," he said with a grin. "It's been awhile."

"Go fuck yourself, Bock."

McKenzie Bock. IAD captain and all around shit-bird. It was his investigation that ended Slam's career. Once upon a time, it had taken six full-grown men to pull Slam off Bock and to pry his big mitts off the thin man's windpipe.

Bock picked lint from his suit. "You're a civilian now, Bradley. I could have you arrested for making threats to a sworn police officer, but I'll settle for your swift departure from the scene. This is a GCPD matter." Bock flashed a smirk and raised an eyebrow. "Where were you tonight, say around midnight?"

"Ask your mother." Slam grabbed his crotch. "She's my fucking alibi. Literally."

Bock's grin disappeared. He played with a phi beta kappa chain attached to his waistcoat.

"Get the fuck out of here, Bradley, before I get the patrolmen to toss you out. And Officer Corrigan, get back to fucking work."

Bock turned around and headed back to the crime scene. Slam flipped him off. Corrigan stubbed out his cigarette and shrugged at Slam. He followed Bock back to the scene. Slam shook his head. What was an IAD captain during here at this time of night on the scene of a two-bit drug murder? Fuck it, he thought. And fuck Bock. Not his problem anymore.

Slam lit up a fresh cigarette and beat tracks back to his car. He thought about Corrigan's words earlier. The Surveillance Squad had spread word about Jim's dirt. Corrigan said he couldn't get to them. That didn't mean Slam couldn't.

Guild Book Club Suggestions Wanted

I'm still interested.

The Iron Curtain (Cold War NRP)

I'm interested.

Gotham City: Shadow of the Bat

Gotham Central
2005

Slam flipped a quarter.

"Call it in the air."

Jim said. "Tails."

Slam snatched it out the air with his big mitts. It came up tails.

"Damn."

Jim laughed. Slam flipped him off. A man in handcuffs sat on the other side of a two-way mirror. Jim went in with a stack of papers. Slam lit up a smoke and prepared to watch the show.

Jim sat down and offered the kid a smoke. He refused. Jim lit up and took a few puffs before speaking. "Says here you never knew your father. Alcoholic mother, it was your grandmother that raised you. You didn't ask to be brought into this world, Pat. You inherited this shitty place and time from your shitty parents. You were given a raw deal the second you started breathing, son. How else were you supposed to respond but with anger?"

Slam smiled. Fucking Father Jim. That's what the dicks in the homicide pen called him. He was a touch self-righteous like a priest for sure, but goddamn could he work a suspect over. Within a few minutes of talking to a man he could take their measure and figure out exactly what motivated them. He could employ just the right amount of hate and affection to get someone to tell their deepest, darkest secrets. He could cut through all the bullshit and presumptions and false fronts a person showed the world and get down to that bedrock underneath.

Jim said, "We're all trapped by forces that we don't understand, son. You think I want to be in this room, talking to you about beating an old lady to death for her welfare money? No. Fuck no. But here we are. You're not the only one trapped by circumstance, Pat. But you have a chance to break the cycle you are trapped in. Tell me about what you did. Confess and we can get you off drugs and get your life back on a right path, a path that will be of your choosing."

Slam stubbed a cigarette out on the side of the wall. Father Jim. He could sell ice to an Eskimo. In the room, Pat was breaking down in tears while Jim consoled him. The more the kid spoke, the more and more he dug his own grave. Father Jim, the best salesman on the face of the earth: He sells life sentences in prison to a customer base who has no need or want for them.

----

In Collaboration with @Ruby

The Nite-Owl Coffee Shop
3:18 AM

Slam sipped coffee doused with hooch. The caffeine perked him up, the booze leveled him out. Barbara goddamn Gordon, blast from the past right there. Hearing her voice got him spooked, her pitched spooked him even more. Doris walked by his booth. Two hookers and their pimp sat two booths down. The hookers were all legs and halter tops. The hookers had go-go boots on. The hookers had glassy eyes. The hookers vibed smack addicts. The pimp had a purple fur coat. The pimp picked his teeth with a switchblade. The pimp ordered eggs and hashbrowns, no sausage or bacon, he said pork was haramin his religion. At the counter a lush nodded off and took a nosedive into his plate of eggs. The hookers giggled. The pimp roared. Quarter past three in the morning and the Nite-Owl was doing its usual business.

Slam finished off his coffee and waved Doris down. He ordered another coffee and pulled a flask from his jacket. Two plugs to get him level and goosed. He needed the liquid courage if Barbara was going to be face to face with him. He hadn't seen her in, what? Five or ten years? He'd been Uncle Slam once upon a time. Neither of them had siblings growing up. Jim was the smart older brother Slam never had, and Slam was the kid in need of a mentor Jim never had. They gelled, they clicked, they got simpatico. They got spoooky fucking good when it came to police work.

And Slam fucked it all up.

Doris plopped coffee in front of him. He poured the rest of his hooch into it and took a big sip. The bell clattered by the door. He was still sucking down coffee when she slid into the booth in front of him.

"Just a coffee, please."

Barbara Gordon smiled at her dad's old partner, and friend, Slam Bradley as she walked into his view and slid into the both. Palo Alto, California, had been good to her, and good for her. Her skin was tanned, her red hair a little brighter from all the sun she got on such a consistent basis, and the smile came easier to her lips than it would have in living memory. It helped she hadn't been dealing with psychos and murderers on the regular.

Even her style had changed a little bit. Her jeans were a little tighter, her boots a little more Italian leather and polished in appearance, instead of a teeshirt and old jacket she wore a black silk blouse and a fitted, glossy, leather jacket. Her hair looked recently done, her nails were manicured and black and yellow and glittery gold alternating. Even a little eyeshadow, a touch of blush, and slight eyeliner. She'd had fun on the West Coast, she'd been set free and just allowed to be another college kid with tons of talent in Silicon Valley.

She even had a black leather clutch that was slid onto the table, hands slipping under her hair and pushing it free of her jacket collar, waiting for the coffee to arrive. When did she thanked Doris, and immediately went in for a sip. Black coffee didn't bother her. It was the healthiest way to take it, and in her former hobby, that meant everything.

"Thanks for meeting me, Slam. How much do you know about what's going right now?"

Slam almost spit up his Irish coffee. Pigtails. She'd been wearing pigtails and flowery dresses the last time he'd seen her. She'd been a girl back when he'd partnered with Jim. Now? She was a woman. Slam caught a reflection of his face in the window by the booth. Gray -- too much, far too much -- in his hair and stubble. Where the fuck had the years gone?

"Nothing," he said. "I don't know a thing about what's going on with your dad. The last time we spoke--"

Shouting between them. Accusations. "You're a worthless boozehound, now." Slam decked him. Slam drew blood. Jim's glasses cracked. He fought back because Jim had nailed him cold.

"It... didn't go well. That was a few years back, to say the least."

"The department says he was last seen exiting Estrella Tower;" said Barbara. "The corporate headquarters of Estrella Bertinelli, and home to Helena Bertinelli and her cousin, the reported Don Bertinelli, Guiseppe Bertinelli. Yet every shred of evidence I can find says the last time Jim Gordon was seen was when he went to Gotham General's morgue to see about the Joker's autopsy."

Barbara knew the entire dinner; that is to say, she knew what every person was focused on and what they were doing. She knew, deep down, there was no real danger. If you want to be ignored, hang out around Slam Bradley, apparently. But that didn't stop her from leaning up to the table and just over it, lowering her voice just a touch.

"GCPD is lying, Slam, and you can get into doors to talk to people I can't. Ask any old cop friend you can. Maybe go check out Estrella Tower, if you're feeling brave, or head to Gotham General. But the narrative that my dad was last seen walking out of that tower isn't good; it may not be a good lie, but if you're looking to discredit Jim Gordon, trying to create the idea that there's a connection between him and the alpha dog of the resurgent Gotham mafia isn't a bad way to start. Ten thousand up front, that includes operating costs; bribes, any equipment you may need, whatever is left of it is yours. Find out where my dad is, find out who in the department is out to make him look on the take, even better find out why and another ten thousand is all yours. I need this done and done right, and it has to be someone that knows him. Someone that won't believe lies about him......are you that man, Slam?"

Slam lit up a smoke and breathed it in while he took in Barbara's words. The pimp in the booth behind him started doing tricks with his knife. The whores whooped and clapped. Jim Gordon was missing. Nothing wrong with that in itself. He'd just retired, maybe he took a vacation? No. Whatever it was that had Babs spooked was serious. Family knew when something was wrong. The brush-off from the GCPD was SOP for them. They had no love for Jim anymore. None for Slam either. There were millions of stories in the Septic City, and this was but one.

"I'll do it," he said. "I'd do it for free, but if you must pay me just a few thousand to cover some debts. How in the hell do you have twenty grand just lying around?"

"Honestly? Algorithmic function integration, and a few jobs to detect backdoors in cyber security. Sony got tired of getting punked, and Stanford isn't a bad place to find talented coders with a little free time."

It was all true. A few classmates paid her a lot for a few algorithms; they really didn't have to but part of the deal was she not really sharing it with anyone else who asked so their dumb idea for an app could maybe have something of an edge on the third party app market, and maybe get them some summer break cash. Babs honestly never checked back in to see how it turned out, but they were sloppy aglorithms in the first place, so what did she really care? The Sony job was easier than it should've been, even if what she didn't admit is that she used the Batcomputer just a little, to make her life a little easier on that job. Nothing major, really, she had just needed the extra processing power.

"I know you're not always popular, but that's where the cash comes in. I need you doing this. And as strange as this is going to sound, Slam, if you get into trouble I need you to call me. I need you put me on speed dial, and call me. Always have your phone on you, and always have it powered it on."

The way the Batcomputer can track you, and if need be, Batgirl can save you.

"Something isn't right here. Layers of something-isn't-right, if my instincts are right, and I inherited my father's instincts for this sort of thing."

"It's Gotham, kid," Slam blew smoke as he spoke. "It's a rotten town built on a rotten foundation. It's never been right."

Slam stuck the cigarette in his mouth and dug out the phone. It was one of those flip phones that you paid for by the month. It could make calls and texts. He was either too drunk or too hungover to ever hit the buttons just right on texts. The battery on it was half charged.

"My phone will be on and waiting for you, Barbara. I'm sure when the criminal underworld hear I got a hundred and fifteen pound redhead as my muscle they will quake in fear."

"Keep it charged, Slam. And it's a hundred and twenty; crossfit builds muscle like you wouldn't believe. Good luck."

A quick wink, and the clutch was in her hand, her body slid from the booth. The last thing she did was laugh at the pimp as he shot her a 'dangerous' look, and try to hide her even more dangerous grin.

Gotham City: Shadow of the Bat

Dutch Hill
10:15 AM

Detective Sergeant Harrison Doyle sucked on a colorful Starbucks coffee as I slid into the booth across from him. Picture your average Irish cop. Ruddy faced, dark-haired, rumbled suit. That's pretty much Doyle in a nutshell. A squad supervisor in the GCPD's central robbery unit, he's also a crook's best friend. Competent and always looking for a slice of the action.

"Lamonica," he said between sips of his drink.

"Doyle," I said with a scowl towards his drink. "What is that?"

"Unicorn Frap," he said with a shrug.

"Riiight. Got a joke for you, Doyle. How many cops does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"

He burped and said, "None. They just beat the room for being black."

"Heard that one, huh?"

"A time or two. Now what do you want so bad that you call me in the middle of the night?"

I spent five minutes explaining my predicament; getting nabbed at Zinkman & Sons, the ride to Rupert Roth's house and his threat. Doyle took it all in with a look I'm sure school children give their teachers during a long lecture. Doyle slurped down the last of his frap and shrugged.

"So, what does he want you to do, and how much are you gonna pay me to help you with it?"

"I'll give you an even grand."

Doyle raised his eyebrow. "For?"

I leaned across the booth and looked Doyle up and down. "What are you in the pants, Doyle, a 32-30?"

---

Gotham Central
3:45 PM

Okay, Lamonica... you can do this.

I stepped out of my car and looked at myself in the reflection of the driver's side window. I'm a few inches taller than Doyle, so the pants ride up a bit, but otherwise he ended up being a perfect match. To even the most untrained eye, I look like a GCPD uniform officer. The badge and nameplate are fakes, Doyle can be bought but he's not stupid enough to give a crook his badge. The fakes pinned to my chest were damn good ones.

Getting through the front door was gonna be the easy part. Getting into the evidence room? Well, that's going to be another story. And leaving with what Roth wants? That's going to be almost impossible...

Gotham Heights
Last Night

"Black Spider."

"Is that like a cocktail?" I asked Roth.

"No. He was a man."

Roth ordered one of his pet goons to fetch him a drink. A minute later the man returned with a glass of milk that Roth took down in four swift gulps.

"Sorry, kid, I'm getting old. Gotta have my milk. Now, Black Spider was a man. He was like the Bat, only not. Back during the 80's, the town was a huge shit hole thanks to things like crack. Murder rate was through the fucking roof. The Black Spider was a vigilante, like the Bat, except he did not leave any of the scumbags alive. He used a gun and he fucking shot to kill. Summer of... '86, I think it was. He cleaned up whole sections of the Narrows by force. Cops start a manhunt for him, dealers but bounties on his heads. He gets capped right before the fall, two in the back of the head on a street corner. Nobody ever ID'd him so he went into the morgue as a John Doe, and all his belongings are in some GCPD archive somewhere."

"What does this have to do with me?" I asked, but I already had a feeling.

"One of the ways I make money now, a sideline business, is selling crime memorabilia online. You have no idea how much some dumb shit from Iowa will pay for the Penguin's fucking shoe or one of his goofy umbrellas, or some shit like that. If the Joker is good and capped like they say he is then I want something from him, like a lock of his hair or something like that that may be something we work out if this goes well. I want you to break into GCPD and take the Black Spider file, along with the evidence."

"That's over thirty years, Mr. Roth. What makes you think they still have it?"

"For your sake," sneered Roth. "They better have it."

---

Now

I took one last deep breath and started up the steps to Gotham Central. Ever since I was a teenager, I swore I wouldn't come anywhere near a police station if I could help it. And now? Now, I was willing walking into one to do what was without a doubt the dumbest thing I've ever done in my life. No, the dumbest thing I've ever done in my life was go to that Limp Bizkit concert. This was the most dangerous. There we go. That's better.