There was just something satisfying about working with your hands. Maybe it was the weight of the motion, or maybe it was simply watching progress unfold right in front of you. Either way, it filled my heart with joy.
Even better when you experimented with something new and it actually worked!
"One hundred!" Red Hood screamed as he swung.
The resonant quack of a rubber duck filled the air as his hammer smashed down.
I couldn't help but close my eyes and appreciate the sound of progress.
"AAGHHHH!" the mobster in front of him screamed bloody murder as something crunched in his legs. The old mobster writhed on the floor. "FUU—"
I smashed my Barbie bat into his groin, and he screamed again.
Truly, it was music to my ears.
"Damn… you weren't kidding." Red Hood exhaled, dropping his ducky-decorated hammer and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "He's really still kicking."
"Told you so." I puffed up.
Honestly, I wasn't entirely sure it would work. Pacifism seemed focused on myself, so I had been a bit worried the trait wouldn't work in tandem with someone else. Not that there would've been much love lost if it didn't. Fuck this guy. Johnny Viti's file had him listed as the scum of scum, a hitman with no morals and a bully on top of that.
The piece of shit's favorite pastime was stealing retirement money from old people, for fuck's sake.
Luckily for me, it seemed a team-up still fell under the trait's purview. As long as the attack was part of "my" efforts, it nullified the killing potential of anyone involved. There were so many applications to this that I couldn't wait to test them out.
"You know I'm a gun buff, but this…" Red Hood inspected his hammer. "I'm starting to see the appeal if we can keep doing this."
"There's plenty of shitbags left, don't worry. We've got a looong schedule today."
I pulled the special potion from my inventory, along with an envelope.
Now where should I put this?
I knelt and eyed the best place to tie it.
"What's that?" Red Hood asked.
"An invitation to parlay… and a little extra surprise."
—
Carmine massaged his brow as he stared at the idiots standing in front of him.
"What happened?"
The two low-level associates were shivering in their boots like they were children rather than the middle-aged men they were.
No wonder these schmucks had never been made if they acted like this.
It took nearly all of Carmine's willpower not to beat the ever-living crap out of these cowards as they glanced at each other, each trying to force the other to speak first.
How low had they fallen that the Falcones had to rely on this crap? The moment he joined the Court of Owls, Carmine would purge these useless stooges.
He pointed a finger at the idiot on his left.
"You. Talk."
"Ugh… well, it's…" The idiot associate refused to meet Carmine's gaze. "We got a couple messages… uh…"
Carmine's fist slammed onto his desk, and he glared at the babbling fool.
"Spit it out!"
"All our guys got jumped!" the idiot said rapidly. "Every enforcer we sent out to deal with those clothes spreading around got beaten black and blue. It wasn't just us either. Every family's people got hit."
"Did that damn union send out a lot of guys to hunt our own?" Carmine frowned.
"Uh… not exactly." The associate pulled out his phone and placed it on the desk. "Everybody was basically taken down by… these two guys."
Carmine could only stare blankly at the photo.
Two crazies stood over one of his men, holding bloodied hammers and bats while wearing creepy baby masks. One of them was even flashing a peace sign at the camera.
He felt like he was going to explode from the sheer disrespect.
With a very forced breath, Carmine grabbed one of his cigars, lit it, and took a long draw.
"They're not dead?"
"Urgh… surprisingly, no." The associate rubbed his hands together nervously. "But… uh, it's pretty bad, boss. Every one of the guys we sent out is gonna be stuck in a cast or a hospital bed for months. Maybe we should—"
"Shut up."
Carmine glared at the coward, and the man instantly clammed up.
He took another long draw from his cigar.
What the hell was going through this brat's mind was anybody's guess. If the brat could pull something like this, then what the fuck would happen if they went to war?
Carmine wasn't stupid. He could see the writing on the wall.
But thankfully, the kid had given him enough rope to hang him with.
Those old codgers and rotten cowards in the other families would be damn near frothing at the mouth after all this. A few words here and there should be enough to draw them into doing something stupid.
Carmine still knew a couple of guys in Metropolis who could get him in contact with some big names, too.
Relying on supervillains wasn't his favorite choice, but if he could get those idiots to pull the trigger for him… yeah, that would work perfectly.
It would depend on how much those loser bastards were willing to shell out, but there were a few big names who could wrap this up cleanly.
He drummed his fingers against his desk. He'd need to make a couple calls.
Carmine shot a disgusted look at the two idiots.
"Anything else I should know? If not, get out."
The idiot on the right tentatively raised his hand.
For the love of God.
"You're not a preschooler," Carmine growled. "What is it?"
"We found this on Johnny Viti for you, sir." The idiot pulled out an envelope and a small bottle.
Carmine glanced at the envelope, but his attention went to the potion first.
The new pain-in-the-ass product muscling its way into Gotham.
"Did you check the envelope for poison?"
Both idiots nodded at the same time.
Carmine sighed and held out his hand.
"Give it here."
The associate handed him the envelope.
Carmine tore it open and pulled out the letter inside.
Greetings, Don Falcone,
In the spirit of peace, progress, and your continued ability to stand upright, I formally invite you to parley with the Goonion at a time of your leisure.
Please accept the enclosed potion as a gift of my sincerity. Consider it proof that I am very reasonable, extremely generous, and deeply respectful of mob traditions. In fact, I think this gift perfectly embodies the spirit of Cosa Nostra.
Looking forward to our cooperative meeting.
Jean Valjean
Carmine's fingers dug into the paper, his hands shaking. He ripped up the letter and tore it to shreds, throwing the pieces everywhere.
"Clean that up, and throw that 'gift' in the trash!"
The idiots scrambled to obey, nearly tripping over each other as they hurried to clean up the mess. The one with the bottle shuffled back too quickly and caught his foot on the edge of the carpet.
The potion slipped from his hands and landed on Carmine's desk.
It shattered.
Carmine nearly went ballistic.
That stupid—
"Eugh."
A scent hit his nose.
It spread through the office with terrifying speed, thick and foul enough to make his eyes water. Carmine stared at the puddle as it hissed into vapor, filling the room with the overpowering stench of shit.
For one horrible second, the words crawled back into his mind.
This gift perfectly embodies the spirit of Cosa Nostra.
Carmine shoved himself out of his chair and fled his own office.
"That… fucking… brat!"