The King Is Back
There was a time when Mitchell would have broken out into a nervous rash at the mere sight of a restaurant. Naturally, this made going outside very difficult, at least until Lexazon began selling groceries online. One might get the mistaken impression that he lived like a hermit, but that is an unfair stereotype about the agoraphobic.
His home was tidy, with an impeccably clean bathroom, pristine bed, and glowing kitchen floor. Really, the only negative emotion a visitor would experience upon visiting would be a well of shame at their own sloppiness. Even the refrigerator hummed serenely, stocked with plenty of food, drink, and assorted toppings. Never mustard, though. Just the taste of the harsh, tangy substance brought back horrifying memories.
Screams surrounded Mitchell as he choked on poisonous, burning air. He gasped for help, but no one came to his assistance. Black smoke billowed about, mixing with the chemicals to create an even deadlier combination of toxins in his system. Winded and breathless, he tore his military gear off and threw aside his well-worn pistol. Clad only in an embarrassing t-shirt and shorts, he stumbled out the Batburger door, only to be tasered by an overly enthusiastic police officer.
Three years later, Mr. Mayo was released from prison, amid a series of taunts and jibes from prisoners and guards alike. One of the town's biggest laughingstocks, he spent his days in another form of solitude confinement, this time self-imposed. On the rare days that he considered going into a restaurant at least to scan the menu, his body would tremor uncontrollably. Gasping, Mitchell would reach for his favorite stress-relieving toy, a little plush ketchup bottle named Kichy. As ironic as it was that the very same substance that plagued his anxiety-ridden mind also provided a soft, squeezable comfort, the truth was even worse.
It spoke to him at night, you see. As part of his strict nighttime routine, Mitchell would shower, brush his teeth, put on a comfy pair of pajamas, and just before lulling himself to sleep with some blathering nightly radio talk show, place Kichy on a shelf just to the left of his pillow. While he slept, the doll would whisper secrets into his ears.
"Mitchell," it would croon, "you're not good enough. Your family abandoned you after the trial. If you even had anyone willing to lend a sympathetic ear after your release, a lack of communication definitely has had to long since drive them away. I am the only one you can trust. With me, you can remold yourself. Revive your past ambitions."
Night after night, Kichy's words sunk into Mitchell's subconscious. Slowly, he began to carry the toy around. During his home shifts as a telemarketer, he would gently set Kichy near the computer, where it could watch him. At some hazy point in time, Mitchell could no longer remember when the plaything had so fully ingrained itself into his life, nor how it had initially been acquired. All he knew was that for the first time in years, his self-confidence was growing. The more he spoke to Kitchy, the more every broken part of his life seemed to mend.
All he had to do was put on the costume again. Oh, sure, a few adjustments had to be made. More body armor, thick enough that not even a point-blank bullet would dent it. Hidden compartments to store special equipment. Voice-masking technology to keep his real identity, such as it was, secure. In precisely two weeks' time, he would be back on the streets. With the guidance of his loyal companion, no one would ever laugh at Mitchell Mayo again.
The Condiment King was back, and he would be the biggest crime boss in Gotham history.