Inside the Johnsonberg Firearms Feast in Little Italy, Gotham's East End.
The bald owner cradled a cup of coffee, watching the day's news through his aged eyes.
He had wanted to find more news about Bruce Wayne. For an old Gothamite like him, the name Wayne carried extraordinary meaning.
But this generation's Wayne seemed far too low-key. Even though it was his first time returning to his city in seven years, he had only appeared briefly at the airport before retreating into Wayne Manor and never coming back out.
There was simply no further news about Bruce Wayne.
What was currently playing on TV, meanwhile, was news about a series of gang shootouts in Burnley District.
Although more than seventy people had died in this shootout, the bald owner did not care about that at all.
People died in Gotham every day. What the hell were seventy more?
Having weathered plenty of storms, the owner was not only unruffled, but even added a cube of sugar to his coffee.
Gotham had seventy fewer punks today. That was certainly worth celebrating.
But...
As he stirred his coffee with a spoon, the owner recalled the young Asian robber from not long ago.
The owner's eyes were especially sharp. He could see the fire burning in that young Asian man's eyes.
He just did not know whether that fire had already gone out.
That kind of flame was not common. It would be a real shame if it was extinguished just like that.
Crash!
Just as the owner was thinking about that Asian man, his shop door was shoved open with force.
The owner looked toward the entrance, then could not help frowning. Who else could have walked into his shop but the very Asian man he had just been thinking of?
"Boss, your gun was pretty good. It felt great in my hand."
Downton grinned and nodded at the owner. Then he tossed the backpack off his back onto the counter, pulled out two bundles of cash, and set them before the man.
Looking at the money in front of him, then glancing at the even greater pile of cash inside the travel bag, the owner let out a breath and said,
"Looks like Gotham has produced another successful punk. Compared to this, I'd rather you had never come back."
"Don't put it so harshly, boss. The successful punk you're talking about might be the future boss in someone else's eyes.
Just like every successful hypocrite has to be called Senator.
Success itself matters far more than the suffix 'punk'!"
Downton fired back without any courtesy, then pulled several more stacks of cash from the travel bag.
"Instead of lecturing me, why not do some more business with me? Your stuff is good quality, so why do you get so few customers?
If they won't buy, I will. Let me see some grenades."
"Ha, interesting!"
The owner laughed and nodded, then turned around and lifted up a wooden crate.
As he carried the crate onto the counter, the bald owner explained,
"Why do I have so few customers? Because this place is too legitimate.
I run a proper gun store that works with the Little Garden State National Guard. Under normal circumstances, I need bastards like you to show the proper paperwork for carrying weapons before I can sell you anything.
I've said this much already. Don't you get it yet?"
"Got it. You're not very bright."
Downton nodded and said,
"You actually opened a legitimate gun store in what is currently the most illegitimate part of all Gotham.
When I was coming over here, I asked a few lucky passersby and found out that your shop is right next to Little Italy, the home base of all Gotham's Italian community!
Fuck, Gotham's current top dog, Roman, is Italian. That means this turf is the Falcone Family's home ground!
Including nearby Miller Harbor and the Iceberg Lounge, the Falcone Family's entire power base is concentrated in Little Italy.
See? You're selling guns that require legal permits to own right in the headquarters of Gotham's strongest gang.
Isn't that basically selling weapons to decent middle-class folks who could be robbed or kidnapped by the Falcone Family at any time?"
At that, Downton gave the bald owner a thumbs-up.
"Your existence might not cause much trouble for their operations, but for people like them, even the smallest inconvenience is still an inconvenience.
And yet you only have few customers instead of missing a few organs.
Looks like your backing really is impressive. Your partnership with the National Guard probably isn't bullshit either."
As his words fell, Downton swept all the grenades from the crate into his backpack, then gave the crate a heavy pat.
"I heard National Guard gear uses standard military equipment. Why not show me something fun?
A Barrett, a rocket launcher, anything like that. Let me broaden my horizons!
Customers like me are hard to find. Miss this chance, and there won't be another, old buddy."
"Fuck you!"
Hearing Downton's words, the bald owner irritably put the wooden crate back behind him, then unceremoniously pulled another stack of U.S. dollars from Downton's bag.
Holding the money, the bald owner waved Downton off.
"One handgun and a dozen or so grenades can all be reported as damaged or missing. Even if I said I used the grenades myself at the range, nobody would investigate.
But the stuff you mentioned is absolutely not something my shop sells casually. If you really need it, I can introduce you to an underground arms dealer.
You can trust the quality. My son handles the black-market side of things, and his merchandise is no different from mine.
Remember this, kid: connections outside Gotham mean jack shit in this city, and your guesses about me were all bullshit.
The reason I can sit here drinking coffee and watching TV in peace has fuck all to do with the National Guard. It's because my son is one of Gotham's top five underground arms dealers!"
With that, the bald old man pulled a stiff card from his pocket and tossed it to Downton.
Downton caught the card and looked at it. There was only one line of numbers on it.
"This is the private contact method between my son and me. Call this number, and he'll know I'm vouching for you."
Hearing that, Downton gave the bald owner a heavy nod of thanks.
But although his body was expressing gratitude, his mouth still did not spare the man.
"You're an interesting old fart. You keep calling me a punk, but you're giving me a private channel like this.
I don't have a hobby of taking godfathers. Or do you just care more about the money left in my bag?"
As he spoke, Downton put away the arms dealer's contact information, then grabbed another handful of cash and placed it on the counter.
"Ha ha!"
Hearing Downton's words, the owner immediately laughed. As he laughed, he stuffed the last of the money Downton had taken out back into his bag.
"Who wasn't a punk when they were young? Only punks who survive to the end and still have a little money in their hands can become old farts like me.
Live long enough and you'll understand: as long as it isn't ordinary wages, every dollar that appears in your life is destined to come with a considerable degree of risk.
Save your money. It wouldn't even fill the gaps between my son's teeth. I just saw you had the makings of a good enforcer and wanted to give my son a decent subordinate."
"Tch."
Hearing the owner's words, Downton disdainfully gave him the finger.
"You actually want me to work as your son's enforcer? Old fart, you have no idea how much trouble you've found for your son.
Just wait. Your son will have a new job soon enough. I only hope he can adapt to my style as a boss, hahaha!"
Laughing loudly, Downton picked up the backpack full of cash and grenades, then turned and headed out of the shop.
But after only two steps, he suddenly turned back and asked the bald owner,
"Oh, right, old fart. Where's the Iceberg Lounge? Point me in the right direction!"
"You're carrying grenades and asking me about the Iceberg Lounge. Do you really think you'll still have a future?"
The owner gave Downton the finger in return, then pointed that finger to the left and continued,
"Go left when you leave and keep walking until you reach the waterfront. Head toward the docks and the warehouses. Find the place with lots of enforcers hanging around, and you'll find the Iceberg Lounge!"
"Got it. Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Just get the hell out of here already. I need to pack up and head out of town to a farm to shear sheep for a couple days!
If I'd known the fire in your heart was aimed at Roman and his Family, I should have shot you dead the first time you walked through my door.
Now look what happened!
After you die, Roman will definitely trace things back to me. I only made a little over twenty thousand from you, but I'll owe Falcone hundreds of thousands, maybe millions. I'm taking a huge loss on this deal!"
"Can't you think a little more positively, old fart? What if I don't die?"
Downton shot back at the owner while smiling and aiming two middle fingers at him.
Looking at Downton's two middle fingers, the bald owner planted both hands on his hips and thrust his crotch forward hard.
"If you can keep living after this, then this old dick of mine, useless for years, will rise to glory again.
Stop talking shit. Take your money and guns, sneak off to another city, and live a good life!"
"Haha, I do need to live a good life. Compared to the excitement now, my old comfort was like someone who'd never tasted good pork.
Enough talking. I'm off. I need to keep looking for some fun.
Old fart, we'll meet again someday!"
With that, Downton laughed loudly, pushed open the shop door, and walked without looking back into Gotham's nearly endless rain.
Watching Downton's back, the bald owner returned to his seat, his eyes carrying a hint of regret.
If the Wayne Family was Gotham's king by day, then Falcone had been the uncrowned king of Gotham's night for nearly thirty years.
Over the past thirty years, just as every company that tried to challenge Wayne Enterprises had ended in bankruptcy, every person who tried to challenge Falcone had ended with their corpse resting on the seabed near Miller Harbor.
As for today...
Today, Miller Harbor would gain another corpse.
What a pity. Another person trying to challenge authority.
Before you continue