Scoundrel and Old Man

In Little Italy, East End, Gotham City, inside the Johnsonberg Firearms Feast.

The bald owner clutched his coffee mug, his aged eyes scanning the day's news.

He had hoped to see more regarding Bruce Wayne; after all, for an old Gothamite like him, the name Wayne carried significant weight.

Yet, this generation's Wayne seemed far too low-profile. Even after returning to his city for the first time in seven years, he had only appeared at the airport for a fleeting moment before vanishing into Wayne Manor.

There was simply no further news about Bruce Wayne.

As for what was currently playing on the television, it was news regarding a series of gang shootouts in the Burnley District.

Although over seventy people had died in this particular skirmish, the bald owner couldn't care less.

People died in Gotham every day; seventy-odd lives were worth nothing.

Having weathered many storms, the owner wasn't the least bit rattled; he even added a cube of sugar to his coffee.

Seventy-plus thugs fewer in Gotham today—that was certainly something worth celebrating.

Only...

As he stirred his coffee with a spoon, the owner thought of the young Asian robber from not long ago.

The owner's eyes were exceptionally sharp; he had been able to see the fire burning in that young man's gaze.

He just wondered if that fire had been extinguished by now.

That kind of flame was rare, and it would be a real pity if it had just been snuffed out.

Crash!

Just as the owner was dwelling on the Asian youth, his shop door was shoved open with force.

The owner looked toward the entrance and couldn't help but frown. Who else could it be but the very person he had been thinking about?

"Boss, your guns are good. They feel great in the hand."

Downton nodded at the owner with a grin, then tossed his backpack onto the counter and fished out two bundles of cash, placing them before the man.

Looking at the cash in front of him, then glancing at the even larger pile inside the travel bag, the owner let out a breath and said, "Looks like Gotham has one more successful thug. Compared to now, I'd almost prefer you hadn't come back."

"Don't be so sharp, Boss. The 'successful thug' you speak of might just be someone else's future boss.

Just like how we have to call every successful hypocrite 'Mr. Senator.'

Success itself is far more important than the suffix 'thug'!"

Downton retorted unceremoniously, then pulled several more stacks of cash from his bag.

"Instead of preaching to me, why not do more business? Your goods are high quality, so why are there so few customers?

If they won't buy, I will. Show me some grenades."

"Ha, interesting!"

The owner nodded with a smile, then turned to lift a wooden crate.

As he set the crate onto the counter, the bald owner explained, "Why do I have few customers? Because my place is too legitimate.

I'm a proper gun shop that cooperates with our Little Garden State National Guard. Under normal circumstances, I need you bastards to provide proof of legal ownership before I can sell you anything.

Now that I've said that much, don't you understand?"

"I understand—your brain isn't working too well."

Downton nodded and said, "You actually opened a 'legitimate' gun shop in the most illegitimate place in all of Gotham.

I asked a few lucky passersby on my way here and found out that your shop is right next to Little Italy, the headquarters for every Italian in Gotham!

Damn it, the current boss of Gotham, Roman, is Italian. That means this territory is Falcone's nest!

Including the nearby Miller Harbor and the Iceberg Lounge, Falcone's entire foundation is concentrated right here in Little Italy.

Look at that. You're selling guns that require legal permits right in the middle of the strongest gang's base in Gotham.

Isn't that just selling weapons to the honest middle-class folks who are liable to be robbed or kidnapped by the Falcone family at any moment?"

At this, Downton gave the bald owner a thumbs-up.

"Even if your presence doesn't cause any real trouble for their operations, to people like them, even the smallest trouble is still trouble.

Yet, even so, you only have few customers, rather than missing a few organs.

Looks like you really do have a solid background; your cooperation with the National Guard probably isn't just bragging."

As he finished speaking, Downton shoved the grenades from the wooden crate into his backpack, then gave the crate a heavy pat.

"I hear the National Guard's gear is standard military issue. Why don't you bring out some of the good stuff for me to see?

Barretts, rocket launchers—bring them out and let me feast my eyes!

Customers like me aren't easy to find; once you miss this village, you won't find this shop again, old timer."

"Fuck it!"

Hearing Downton's words, the bald boss irritably shoved the wooden crate back behind him and unceremoniously snatched a stack of bills from Downton's bag.

Clutching the money, the bald boss waved a hand at Downton.

"A handgun, a dozen grenades—these can all be reported as damaged or lost. Even if I said I used the grenades at the range myself, no one would come to check on me. But those things you're asking for? My shop doesn't sell them lightly. If you really have a need, I can introduce you to an underground arms dealer. You can trust the quality of the weapons; my son handles that whole black-market operation, and his goods are no different from mine. Remember this, kid: your background outside of Gotham means nothing in this city, and those assumptions you made about me just now are pure bullshit. The reason I can sit here comfortably drinking coffee and watching TV has nothing to do with the National Guard—it's because my son is one of the top five underground arms dealers in Gotham!"

As he finished speaking, the bald old man fished a stiff card from his pocket and tossed it to Downton.

Downton caught the slip of paper and glanced at it, finding only a string of numbers.

"This is the private line between my son and me. You call this number, and he'll know I'm your guarantor."

Hearing this, Downton gave the bald boss a heavy nod of gratitude.

However, even as his body expressed thanks, Downton's mouth remained sharp.

"You old fart are quite interesting. You keep calling me a punk, yet you hand over a private channel like this. I don't have a hobby of finding a sugar daddy, or are you just more interested in the rest of the cash in my bag?"

As he spoke, Downton tucked away the arms dealer's contact information and grabbed another handful of cash, placing it on the counter.

"Haha!"

Hearing Downton's words, the boss across from him burst into laughter, stuffing the money Downton had just put down back into his bag as he chuckled.

"Who wasn't a punk when they were young? Only the punks who survive to the end with a bit of cash in their pockets get to turn into old farts like me. Once you've lived long enough, you'll realize that unless it's a regular paycheck, every bit of money that enters your life is destined to come with a fair degree of risk. Save your money; it's not even enough to fill the gaps in my son's teeth. I just saw that spark of a good enforcer in you and wanted to add a decent hand to my son's crew."

"Tch."

Hearing the boss, Downton gave him a dismissive middle finger.

"You actually want me to be an enforcer for your son? Old fart, you have no idea what kind of trouble you've just found for him. Just wait—your son is going to have a new job. I hope he can adapt to my style of management in the future, haha!"

Amidst his loud laughter, Downton hoisted the backpack full of cash and grenades and turned to walk out of the shop.

But just two steps in, he abruptly spun back around to ask the bald boss a question.

"Right, old fart, where's the Iceberg Lounge? Point the way!"

"You're asking me for the Iceberg Lounge while carrying grenades? Do you really think you have a future left to speak of?"

The boss flipped Downton off, then pointed his middle finger to the left and continued.

"Turn left out the door, walk straight to the waterfront, follow the direction of the harbor toward the warehouses, and find the place where a bunch of thugs are hanging around—you'll find the Iceberg Lounge there!"

"Alright, thanks."

"Don't thank me, just get the hell out of here. I need to pack up and head out of the city to the farm to shear some sheep for a couple of days! If I'd known the target of that fire in your heart was Roman and his family, I should've put a bullet in you the first time you walked through my door, you punk. Now look at this! Once you're dead, Roman is definitely going to track it back to me. I only made twenty thousand off you, but I'm going to owe Falcone hundreds of thousands or millions—I'm taking a massive loss on this deal!"

"Can't you think of something positive, old fart? What if I don't die?"

Downton retorted while smiling and aiming two middle fingers at him.

Looking at Downton's two middle fingers, the bald boss placed his hands on his hips and thrust his pelvis forward aggressively.

"If you can stay alive after all this, then this old prick of mine that hasn't worked in years might just rise to the occasion again. Stop blowing smoke—take your money and your guns, find a new city, and go live a good life!"

"Haha, I'm definitely going to live a good life. Compared to the thrill of right now, the comfort of my past feels like I've never tasted good pork. Enough talk, I'm off. I've got more fun to find. Old fart, let's meet again someday!"

With that, Downton laughed, pushed open the shop door, and walked into Gotham's nearly eternal rain without looking back.

Watching Downton's retreating figure, the bald boss sat back down, a hint of pity in his eyes.

If the Wayne Family was the king of Gotham by day, then Falcone had been the uncrowned king of the night for the last thirty years.

In those three decades, just as every company that dared to challenge Wayne Enterprises ended in bankruptcy, every person who tried to challenge Falcone ended up with their corpse resting on the seabed near Miller Harbor.

As for today...

There would be one more corpse in Miller Harbor.

It was just a pity for another man who tried to challenge authority.