Iceberg Lounge

Jude found it strange that Penguin wanted to deal with him. He had only crossed the Foot Clan and Bob Dylan, after all. As Gotham's underground kingpin, Penguin most likely didn't know him. No—he definitely didn't know him.

Then the people Penguin had sent to kill him were probably connected to the Foot Clan and Bob Dylan. Since the grudge had already been formed, he needed to find Penguin and ask him about it. Otherwise, unless he left Gotham, he would surely face assassination attempts every day.

But meeting a big shot like Penguin was not so easy. First of all, no one knew where he lived; people like him always kept their whereabouts secret. But if there was one place where he could be found, it was the Iceberg Lounge.

"The Iceberg Lounge. There must be plenty of good liquor there."

After dissolving the four corpses and mopping the floor clean, Jude felt thirsty. He wanted a drink, only to discover that his stock was completely gone. Helplessly, he could only make do with a night's sleep, restore his energy, and go find Penguin tomorrow.

Nothing happened that night. Jude did not get up until ten the next morning, yawning as he searched for quite a while before finding a wrinkled suit at the bottom of the closet. If he wanted to enter the Iceberg Lounge, wearing jeans or work clothes would only get him turned away as a beggar.

Crossing street after street, Jude gradually approached his destination. As one of Gotham City's landmark buildings, its location was easy enough to learn by asking a few people.

As he walked, he observed the city—the ruined capital, the city of sin, supposedly the city with the highest crime rate in America.

The most immediate impression the city gave was one of division. Luxurious urban districts wrapped around old, impoverished neighborhoods from the last century, creating a powerful sense of contrast, much like Mumbai, Bangalore, and Rio de Janeiro in the real world.

Most of the wealth created by the city was controlled by the rich, especially the four great families: Wayne, Elliot, Kane, and Cobblepot. Most of the rest was held by the elite class, while almost nothing flowed into the hands of ordinary people.

And Batman, DC's golden child, was the representative figure of the Wayne Family. Batman's mother, Martha Wayne, had originally been Martha Kane, a member of the Kane Family.

The first Batwoman was Kathy Kane, the second Batwoman was Kate Kane, and the first Batgirl was Betty Kane. It could be said that the Bat Family had claimed both the Wayne and Kane Families in their entirety.

The Wayne and Kane Families were also among the stronger of the four great families. In other words, nearly half of Gotham City's wealth was concentrated in Batman's hands. The money he spent on equipment and parties would make a circuit and return to his own hands. Once the money circulated, it grew larger before returning to him again, like an ever-expanding boomerang—endless and inexhaustible.

That was the foundation that allowed Batman to become the Justice League's biggest financier, possess seven satellites, and build space stations.

In terms of personal wealth alone, not even Tony Stark or Lex Luthor could compare to him. Not to mention the support of the Kane Family. In the American Comics World, aside from a few monarchs and kings, no one could match him. Of course, Scrooge McDuck had to be excluded. That duck simply defied common sense.

Many people believed that if Batman truly wanted to change this city, the effects of throwing money at the problem would far surpass becoming a vigilante. Unfortunately, the writers would not allow it.

Jude walked quickly and reached the Iceberg Lounge after a little more than half an hour. Along the way, he saw quite a few campaign posters for Penguin's run for mayor.

"Sir, this is a high-end establishment. There is a minimum charge." Seeing Jude's cheap suit, the doorman reminded him with open disdain.

"What? Have you checked my bank card or credit record? Do you know whether I have money?"

"While I cannot see your bank account, sir, my eyes do not lie."

Jude laughed loudly, then suddenly raised his voice. "This is Mr. Oswald's establishment? An establishment that judges people by their appearance? Is this the so-called gentlemanly conduct? A philanthropist about to run for mayor, yet he looks down on the poor? This is naked discrimination!"

Jude's voice grew louder and louder. "Do you know how many poor people there are in Gotham? Let me tell you—countless! We are the ones building Gotham. We hold the votes in our hands. We can decide who truly owns Gotham."

Noticing the commotion, many passersby gathered to watch. Naturally, most of them were from the lower classes.

Seeing this, Jude raised his arm and shouted, "Whose hands hold the votes?"

Inspired, the crowd shouted back, "Ours!"

"Who are Gotham's true masters?"

"Ours!"

"Oppose discrimination!"

"Oppose discrimination!"

The doorman had never seen such a scene. The disdain on his face turned to terror, and he stammered without being able to say a word.

His fear did not last long. The duty manager noticed that something was wrong and had already rushed out to investigate.

After the two whispered for a moment and the manager understood the situation, he hurriedly explained that it was all a misunderstanding. The Iceberg Lounge welcomed everyone. There was absolutely no discrimination here, nor any distinction between high and low status. Otherwise, they would not regularly distribute charity meals.

Jude laughed. "So I can go in?"

"Of course." The duty manager hurriedly said, "Mr. Oswald is a generous philanthropist. He welcomes everyone. Please come in, sir."

Jude walked up the steps and was about to enter through the revolving door when he suddenly asked, "Wait. You are not going to shoot me in the back, are you? Let me get in but make sure I cannot get out?"

The manager said with a face full of black lines, "How could that be? We are legitimate businessmen."

"Good."

Jude stepped into the Iceberg Lounge, looking around as he walked. It truly was magnificent and resplendent. Building a hotel like this must have cost billions.

The duty manager called over a waiter and whispered, "Give him whatever he asks for. Do not worry about anything else."

Then he instructed the others, "If he cannot pay, dig out his organs to settle the bill. The Iceberg Lounge never extends credit."

"Sir, what service do you require?"

"Liquor. The best liquor. Bring one bottle of every kind. I can drink a lot."

Following his request, the waiter soon pushed over a cart filled with precious fine liquors. A single bottle cost as much as an ordinary person's annual salary.

"Let me ask you something. Is Mr. Oswald here?"

The waiter shook his head. "I do not know, sir."

"Does he usually come here?"

"Th-this... I do not know that either, sir."

"Damn it! What do you know?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Get lost!"

After merging with Grandpa Rick, Jude's drinking capacity had become practically bottomless. He drank from morning until evening, finishing a full seventeen bottles, yet he was only slightly drunk.

Hard work paid off. In the end, he still managed to wait for Penguin. The short, fat freak entered with an umbrella, limping along. If anyone dared kindly offer him a hand, they were guaranteed to be sunk at the bottom of the river that very night.

Inside the Iceberg Lounge, everyone who saw him showed respect. Yet someone suddenly shouted, "Hey, little penguin!"

Cold.

Oswald stopped in his tracks, and the atmosphere instantly dropped below freezing.