Disclaimer:

All products, places, characters and ideas are all owned by Warner Bros. [All;] of it. I do not seek to profit but expand upon a mythology. Enjoy. I know I will.

For Ms. Black

Chapter One: A Damn Cold Night

It is the Ides of March. A storm is upon Gotham yet to yield rain. Cracks of light and thunder suggest it is just to come. At a large, daunting candle lit window of a mansion, stood a shirtless fellow with formidable form on a corded telephone call. Sweaty and recovering breath from a workout, clutching a towel draped over his shoulders. He spoke softly but with distinction in his voice to the reciever through a mask of black, never to be removed.

"Pardon my French, but are you fucking serious?" A hushed garbled voice replies, the Don sighs. The voice continues, he sighs harder. The voice pauses and utters one more phrase, he groans and slams the phone down. Both hands clasp the towel as he takes shuttering breaths to calm and soothing ones.

The Don claps twice. His overhead chandelier clips on, revealing an inspiring study. The back wall is nothing but shelves of books with a sliding ladder to run along for easy access to all categories. His large desk stood only half a dozen feet away. Paperwork folded and tucked into neat according files, sat cozily on top. A quill and inkwell for taste with four vertical pens for ready use, lay amongst work. A wireless phone at his desk on a modem with buttons for quick, reliable relay.

One last breath out... Don turns to his station and does a quick trot over. He pages his at-home secratary, "Bring Jones in will you? It's urgent."

A swift reply, "Mister Jones is currently in a brawl downstairs--."

Don interrupts, "Now." He hangs up the page and sits on lavish, smooth and comfortable rolling seat. He throws the linen on a space of his desk not consumed by paper. He slides deep into his chair and presses his fingers into his temples, if he only could. Eyes closed he waits patiently.

The double doors of his study slam open. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Four easy steps and the monstorous, scaly giant is at his desk from across the large room. He brings his arms up and falls down to let leash a loud clap on smooth surface. Blowing away all the Don's work in the process. Blood is dripping from the creature's maw, it tounges at its teeth with long, disgusting slippery appendage. Cold, peircing yellow eyes stare hellfully into the Don's calm blue ones, he gulps. Waylon Jones' pupils are slitted into frenzy mode.

"What... boss..." the behemoth asks raspily, yet calmly and respectfully.

"You messed up my paperwork. Apologize," the Don demands.

"I'm... sorry..." the beast groans, growls and hisses. He blinks, eyes are relaxed now, he rises to full heighth and bows his head slightly. Listening.

The Don nods and Waylon stands at full at ease. "Clown boy done himself in real damn good this time. He's in ICU over at Arkham. Hanging on by meer a thread. Full-body cast and--."

"The Hell does this have to do with me?!" Jones hisses.

"Don't. Interrupt..." the Don raises his finger as he would to a child. Jones is silent. Don continues, "Full-body cast and everything. Docs say he's critical and won't last the night. But this is the Jay Man. So, my moneys on a week."

Waylon montions him on, eager for his task, hoping for a more red night.

"Sorry, old friend. This is a social call. Though, you may need to bring in another strong arm."

"Why that much muscle...?" Jones questions, genuinely curious as he swipes his tail back and forth.

"You're gonna be dealin' with HQ with the love of her life near fucking death. Trust me, you may need the hand, friend. I know she has a bit of soft spot for you. It's gonna be all rage and sorrow. She's probably drunk already. Only the Clown kept her off the damn stuff... It won't be pretty and I am hoping you'll be able to bring her down. She's gonna need people. And... she's vulernable," the Don stares longfully at his most trusted enforcer.

Waylon nods and stomps over to his coatrack, right next to his personal guardian's seat. He grabs the gray trench and fedora, dawns them, and picks up a fresh cigar from the box on his sidetable. He looks blankly back to his boss. Puts the cigar in his teeth, shakes his head and moves out. As he is walking away, he mutters, "Gonna be a damn cold night..."