City of Chaos: Enforcers/Scarface

"So..." the man with the battered cowboy hat and the Marlboro Man bone structure said, cigarette smoke flowing out of his nostrils and wreathing his hat-band.

"So?" the little man replied, limber as a cat and dressed to the nines or possibly the tens depending on your scale.

"So. As in, 'so, who we working for?'," the cowboy said, punctuating with his coffin-nail. They walked side-by-side down the street, hands in pockets, hard men. Behind them, a big man lumbered, quiet and dull.

"Guy calls himself Scarface," the little man said.

“Scarface,” the cowboy said, a hint of a question dangling in the smoke.

“Scarface. What?”

“Nothing.”

“What?” the little man hissed, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing, I said.”

“Obviously you’d like to say something.”

“No, no...no.”

“Really? Cause, ya look like ya do.”

“Do I?”

“You got that constipated look.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Talk.”

“Fine. Scarface? Really? Is that what we’re reduced to now, Dan?” the cowboy said bitterly. “Pacino-wannabes?”

“It’s money, Montana. Money is green, regardless.”

“British money is pretty,” the big man, heretofore silent, spoke up, his voice like the grinding of stones. “It has a lady on it.”

“When has he been to England?” Montana hiked a thumb at the big man. Dan shrugged, hands in his pockets.

“Don’t look at me. Miami is as foreign as I like to get.” Dan looked up. “We’re here.” He pointed at the flickering neon sign, a black dog running forever across its surface.

“I-” Montana began, then stopped.

The sky pulled a Technicolor wash and fade, going from familiar night to blackest in seconds and a sound like the crack of doom made time shudder. The trio looked around. Looked up and looked down.

“Anybody see that?” Montana said, tipping his hat back up on his head. Dan shook his head.

“No.”

“Yes you did.”

“No. No I did not. Nothing to see. Not our business. Probably just the capes playing with the fabric of time and space and such again.”

“That don’t worry you?”

“I don’t worry about things I can’t hit, shoot or bribe. And neither should you. Head in the game, Jackie. Head in the game.” Dan looked up. “Hunh.”

“Hunh what?”

“I thought this place was the Black Dog Bar.”

“And?” Montana looked up. “Hunh.”

“Yeah.”

They stepped through the door, single file, smallest to tallest beneath the sign with its black cat running forever through neon fields.

"Okay. I'm reasonably sure we ain't in Kansas," Montana said, looking around. Dan nodded, mouth open. The bar was an almost exact copy of the bar they remembered. 'Almost' being the operative word. Posters for strange bands and movies that had never been made littered the ragged, termite addled walls and while the smoke was familiar with the tang of nicotine and opium, there were other scents as well. Strange ones.

"Okay. This is definitely not the Black Dog," Dan said.

"Youse the three mooks I ordered?" a harsh, high-pitched band-saw of a voice inquired. A tiny form, sitting quietly at a corner table leaned forward, gun in hand.

Dan squinted. “Depends.”

“On?”

“You Scarface?”

“Who else would I be? Tell ‘em dummy.” A balding, perspiring, chub of a man leaned forward beside the tiny figure, nodding like a puppet on a string.

“O-o-oh yes. Yes. Mhm-hmh. He’s Mr. Scarface. Mhm-hmh.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, dummy.” Scarface stepped up onto the table, tiny feet tap-tapping towards Dan, who watched, wide-eyed. “What’re you looking at?”

“You’re a puppet,” Dan said. “A little wooden puppet-”

“With a gun.” Scarface hefted the old model Thompson, scaled down to fit his tiny puppet-hands. His painted eyes seemed to flash. “See?”

The Thompson burped and the Enforcers hit the floor as the wall behind them spat splinters. Dan rolled to his feet, pistol appearing in his hand as if by magic. He aimed at Scarface, blinked, switched targets to the sweating lard-bucket.

“N-no! Not me! Him!” the fat man squealed, pointing at Scarface.

“Shaddup dummy!” Scarface rasped. He laid his tiny weapon across his tiny shoulder and grinned insofar as he was able at Dan. “Did I make my point, dummy?”

“Hunh.” Dan stepped back, pistol held loosely. He looked at Montana and Ox. “Guys?”

“We used to work for the Green Goblin, Dan. At least he’s wearing a suit,” Montana said.

“Little puppet-man,” Ox said happily.

“Sounds like a round of assent ta me, dummy,” Scarface said. Dan grunted.

“Dan, not dummy.”

“Welcome ta Gotham, Dan-not-dummy.”

“Goth-” Montana and Dan looked at each other, but before they could say anything more, the door to the Black Cat opened again, revealing a short, plump man, dressed to the nines, spats, top-hat and gentleman’s umbrella.

“Waugh-waugh-waugh...see you got here first, Wesker.”

“It’s Scarface, Cobblepot, and you’d best remember dat!” Scarface snarled. The fancy man waved a broad, gloved hand, his pointed nose wrinkling.

“Yes, yes.” the Penguin looked up at Ox, eyebrow raised. “He’s new.”

“The Bat got my other boys. Dese guys are the replacements.” Scarface waved his Tommy gun. “Figured I might need dem.”

“Perish the thought. We’re on scared ground,” the Penguin said, gesturing with his umbrella. “A temple of hops and barley. The Egyptians-”

“Aren’t here right now.” A nasty, snide, stiletto of a voice said, cutting the Penguin off. At the back of the bar, languid set of fingers drew a curtain back from hidden table and a face straight out of the grave fixed dark eyes on them.

“Cobblepot. Wes-Scarface, I mean to say.” Fleshless jaws clicked. The Penguin tapped the brim of his top-hat with his umbrella.

“Black Mask. You’re here very early indeed.”

“Maybe you’re just late.”

“I am never late.”

“Fine. Get back here already. And bring the tiny terror. We got business to discuss.” Black Mask slid back into the alcove. The Penguin looked at Scarface, then started towards the back. Scarface looked up at Dan.

“Youse three do what I’m paying ya for. Keep watch, don’t let nobody interrupt us. Anybody but me pulls a gat, waste ‘em.”

“But we’re-” Montana spoke up, but Dan elbowed him.

“We’re on it.”

The Enforcers watched the current jerk closed and took up positions around it. Montana rubbed his side.

“Why’d you elbow me?”

“Because you were about to blow the whole deal.”

“What deal? Where are we? What’s a Gotham and who are those whack-jobs?” Montana whispered and hiked a thumb at the curtain.

“Probably a parallel dimension or something like that,” Dan said, shrugging. “Happens all the time.”

“To who?”

“Spider-Man.”

“We’re not Spider-Man!” Montana exploded. “Even the damn television stations are different!” he continued, pointing at the screen over the bar where a football game was in progress. “Who the hell are the Coast City Rollers and why are they playing the Metropolis Steelers in the Superbowl?”

“You know, you really should try and keep your cool. I mean, wherever you are, there you‘re at, right? Act professional.”

“We’re working for a puppet!”

“Puppet with a gun,” Dan corrected. “Professional.”

“Dan, I-”

"Gentlemen." A heavy voice rumbled. It was almost familiar, that voice. A similar weight, a similar texture. But it wasn't the voice of Wilson Fisk.

The man known as Blockbuster looked down at Dan and Montana, bald head gleaming, side-burns delicately trimmed, suit pressed and creased. He was larger than Ox, though not quite as wide. Two lithe, dangerous looking women clad in identical yellow spandex stood a little behind him, hands dangerously empty.

"One assumes that the, ah, 'peace-talks' are taking place just behind that curtain?" Blockbuster said, gesturing lazily with a wide, spade-shaped hand.

"Ye-eah," Dan said, standing, looking up, up, up. Montana kept his eyes on the women. Twins. That was always trouble. The spandex screamed ‘special abilities‘. His gloved hands tightened on his lasso.

“But, I was told not to let anybody back there. I don’t think they were expecting you-” Dan said, as politely as possible. Blockbuster smiled.

It was not a pleasant expression.

“Oh, I wasn’t. But then, neither were my associates.” He waved a hand again and bodies moved out of shadowed booths, coats tossed aside and garish colors revealed. “Allow me to introduce them-Deadshot. Fire-bug. And, of course, the incomparable Lady Vic.” He swept a hand across the air between them, indicating first the silver masked, crimson body-suited man leaning casually against the dartboard. Deadshot waved. Beside him was a more colorful character, clad in a union suit patterned to look like dancing flames. Real flames danced around curled fingers as the man called Fire-bug smiled. In front of both of them, sitting on the edge of a table and sipping from a beer was a woman clad in red leather and a silver half-helmet, her long plait of golden-blond hair curling around her shoulder. She raised the beer in salute.

Blockbuster looked back down at Dan. “I have simply come to represent the interests of Bludhaven in this...diplomatic joust. Surely you cannot deny us that? Step aside, little man.”

“I have no idea what a Bludhaven is. Ox?” Dan said, licking his lips. The only reason a guy in a suit brought costumes anywhere was to cause trouble. That’s all the costumes were good for.

“Yeah, Dan?”

“Punch him.” Dan threw himself backwards, clawing for the pistol under his coat as Ox lunged forward, oh-so swiftly. Blockbuster’s eyes widened, the hint of a smile on his face. After all, men broke their hands on his jaw as a matter of routine.

The smile went out the window, along with Blockbuster.

Hell surged in to replace him. Outside, things were popping. Chaos reigned and was hitting the atmosphere with her scepter. Fire, looting, madness. Worlds had collided, strangeness was heavy on the air.

Inside the Black Cat, in contrast, everyone was very quiet.

Lady Vic blinked. “Bloody hell,” she said. “That was-”

“A helluva punch,” Fire-bug finished, flames forgotten, jaw hanging.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.” Dan rolled to his feet. The pistol in his hand barked and a rupture appeared in Fire-bug’s suit, right in the center of one of his gauzy wings. Right, as a fact, where his reservoir of propellant was stored. Fire-bug didn’t even get a chance to scream as he exploded into flames.

Deadshot hit the ground and came up, his wrist guns popping. Dan threw himself behind an upturned table, flames crackling hungrily on its edge. Lady Vic charged towards Montana, who stretched his lasso between both hands, the steel wire threaded through the hemp sparking as the katar Vic carried struck it, slicing towards his face.

“Can’t we talk about this ma’am?” Montana asked, lashing out with a boot. He caught the assassin in the gut and spun his lasso around the blade of her weapon. He stumbled back, yanking the weapon from her grip. “Maybe over a drink?”

“Lovely idea. But no, I think not,” Vic said, Cambridge vowels dripping from her ruby lips. Her hands darted to the harness that covered her chest and yanked twin kris daggers free. “Professional ethics, darling, wot?”

“What?”

“What?” Vic cocked her head, daggers spinning. Montana stepped back, eyes narrowed. A barrier of language, a wall of ethics.

Nearby, Ox was contending with Blockbuster’s bodyguards-the twin assassins known as Double Dare. Acrobats, martial artists and limber as rubber snakes, the women were a yellow blur, moving like greased lightning around the rock that was Ox. Blows smacked into him, digging for nerve endings, sensitive spots and weak points that Ox, thanks to his unique physiology, simply did not possess. He staggered forward, clutching for the women, but they deftly avoided him. A stalemate.

Dan hurled his small frame onto the bar, sliding down its length, pulling the trigger as fast as he could. Deadshot did the same from the other end. They collided, gun-barrels pressed to temples. Two clicks echoed. Dan blew out a breath. Deadshot muttered, “Damn.”

“That mask metal?” Dan asked.

“No.”

“Good.” Dan slugged Deadshot with his empty pistol, sending the other man crashing to the floor off of the bar. Dan rolled off on top of him, bringing the pistol down again and again, clutching it by the barrel like a club.

“Professionalism, professionalism, professionalism,” Montana said, lean frame moving aside as the daggers chewed air. “I mean honestly, that goes right out the window when you’re wearing a silver spittoon on your head-”

“Says the man dressed like a stereotype,” Lady Vic shot back. She slashed upwards viciously and Montana’s back bumped into the bar. He rolled aside as her blades came down, digging into the wood. Montana swung around as she jerked at the daggers and looped the lasso around her throat, pulling it tight.

“I ain’t a stereotype. I’m a prototype,” Montana said as he drove a thin knee into the small of her back, driving the air out of her lungs. “I’ve fought men who could turn into sand and others who could pop my head with a thought. Never needed a silver bucket on my head either.”

Ox swept his arms wide as experience kicked in. He’d fought fast people before. Everyone was faster than him. But they had to get close to hit him. And he had long arms. He waited until the twins were in front of him and then charged, arms wide, fingers spread. They had no where to go and were smashed backwards into the wall, squeezed into unconsciousness by Ox’s weight. He stepped back and the women fell limp to the floor.

The engine block of a car caught him on the side of his head and he fell against the bar with a grunt, clawing at it to hold himself up. Blockbuster stalked into the bar, jaw already purpling, eyes angry. His coat was off, sleeves rolled up.

“You-”

He stopped, eyes widening. His hired muscle was, without exception, down for the count. The Enforcers closed ranks, facing him. Dan spun one of Lady Vic’s daggers on the tip of his index fingers, eyes not even glancing at Blockbuster.

“You can leave, or be carried. Your choice.”

“I will remember this,” Blockbuster snarled. Dan patted his pockets.

“And me without a business card.”

Blockbuster slowly unrolled his sleeves, turned, and left without a word. Dan let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Whew. Big guy.”

“Very big,” Montana agreed. “Don’t often see them that big.”

“Yeah, I-”

The sound of wood bouncing against wood caught their attention. The trio turned as one to watch Scarface’s detached head bounce past. Wesker stumbled after it, clutching the limp body of the puppet to his chest. Dan opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Guess the negotiations ain’t going well.”

“Uhm...Mister Scarface wants to say-” Wesker said, standing, holding the head towards them.

“Shaddup, dummy! Youse three, yer fired!”

“But we-”

“Where was ya when I needed ya?” Scarface rasped, wooden jaws snapping. “Lazy bums!”

“But we-”

“Get out of Gotham if ya know what’s good for ya!”

“But-”

“Amscray!” Despite having no head, Scarface could shoot just fine. The ceiling wept splinters and the Enforcers scrambled for the street, ducking and dodging as Scarface ranted behind them.

“You know what Dan?” Montana asked as they fled. Dan glared at him.

“What?”

“You’re right. Don’t matter much where we are...there we at. Broke and dodging bullets.”

“Oh shut up!”