Gotham Harbour

The Penguin was really living up to his name. Locked up in a cold fish cellar until the fuzz cleared out, huddled together with a bunch of smelly goons dressed in black and white who all smelled like salmon and shit all sitting atop crates upon crates of precious Vibranium weaponry, Oswald Cobblepot was truly living the life worthy of the last of the Cobblepots.

And then barged in Fisher. Cobblepot’s only connection with the outside world. A stupid, incapable buffoon who struggled to form a coherent sentence.

“T-the boss,” Fisher stuttered. “Where’s t-the b-boss?”

Fisher was holding a tattered blue paper in his hand and for some reason was shirtless, goose-bumps dotting his body like measles. The goons were used to it, the Penguin, not-so-much.

Penguin huddled through his men, scolding them if they stepped on his foot and hitting the others who were snickering across the head with his umbrella.

“What’s so bloody important?” Penguin asked with his clearly forced British accent.

“T-this,” Fisher stammered, holding up the crumpled blue paper. “I-I found it in my trash can. I r-rushed over when I saw what was on it.”

The Penguin was surprised this idiot could even read and snatched the paper away from his hand.

“For the love of god put a shirt on,” Penguin said. “Nobody wants to see your chest hairs.”

The Penguin uncrumpled the paper. It was an invitation to the Wayne Gala and whoever donated the most gets to have a…

The Penguin smirked. His parents may have been smart enough to steel his family’s fortune but boy was their child stupid.

The Penguin raised his cane, firing a bullet in the air attracting the attention of all of his goons.

“Better dress up fancy boys,” Penguin said. A grin forming across his face.

“We have ourselves a party to attend.”