A/N: Sorry for the delay, this chapter took two drafts and peeling myself away from nice weather to complete. With Deadshot dealt with, Gar's next target is F.H. Ripper... but trouble has a way of finding him first, doesn't it? Still, it's funny how sometimes the best way to get little revenges is to cause total chaos. I'm not sure if this chapter is darkly funny or a bit sick (at the end) but there's a reason for this (remember, there's 2 more chapters after this and the Irish aren't done yet).


Under a Blood Red Sky...

Quietly, softly, the footsteps in the alleyway stepping through puddles of recently-fallen rain, Jump's former "vagrant vigilante" walks towards fate incognito. Hands in his coat, chilly from the cool, mid-April air, he doesn't cast the slums around him more than a second glance. Only forward do his green eyes stare though not choosing to see the path before him; only the memories behind him.

"You shot him in the kneecap?"

"Better to shoot him there than to kill him, wasn't it? That bastard was going to kill the Mayor if I…"

"How was he going to kill him from inside a bathroom stall twenty blocks away? Maybe he was there and you chased him back to that bathroom… but you didn't have to SHOOT HIM!"

"He didn't have to shoot at me in that office but he chose to. He would've killed me if I hadn't!"

"You might as well have killed him! It took six days for him just to return to consciousness and an entire lifetime just to learn to walk again!"

"Are you saying it's ok that he's murdered dozens of people in his entire life but because he got a taste of his own medicine, it's suddenly a crime?"

"You're supposed to be a "hero", someone who doesn't stoop to their level! That wasn't "heroic", it was sadistic! You tried to drown him in a dirty toilet and then blew his kneecap apart!"

"Remember what I told you? I'm NOT a "hero" and I'm not here to protect HIS rights!"

"You're right, you're not a hero. You're dangerous, just like a wild animal…"

"YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT I'M LIKE A WILD ANIMAL!"

Two weeks of living on the streets again, brought on by a furious argument between two people who, while technically on the same side of the law, see things in two shades of gray. Two weeks of wandering around one of America's largest cities with nothing but a few dollars in his pocket and a pair of bullets remaining in his M1911. The bullets could be reacquired, money could be stolen from drug pushers, but something important had been lost for good: His moral compass.

Despite the heavy binge he went on the night he shot Deadshot, the fact remained that sometimes people have what's coming to them and that he'd be the one to act out that divine will from time to time. All part of being a "vigilante", right? Or maybe part of being a man driven to his breaking point in search of closure… Although the loose ends still needed to be wrapped up if he'd ever find that closure. The Irish would need to be dealt with, Two Face having kept to his word meant Gar owed him that much, as well as tracking down this elusive "F.H. Ripper"

"F.H. Ripper, that's pretty arrogant of you." Gar speaks aloud to himself, never bothering to care that several homeless look his way with confused stares. "F.H., "From Hell", just like the quote on Kristine's wall. You sure went a long way just to get me pissed off; I hope you're ready then when I find you. I'll tear our your ribcage just to hear you plead for mercy… God might grant you mercy but I won't."


"During my stay in Gotham, Montoya was kind enough to reveal several other pub crawls that known criminals were known to frequent. One establishment, a ratty-looking pug of a place called "Searle's Bar & Grill" was the place I decided to make my return to being more… "Watchman" like."

..

Entering the bar, Gar looks side-to-side to see just who's decided to stop in for a beer. Men in coats, or at least most of them are, line the bar and tables. Some have fits of laughter from their conversations but most seem to be in their own world, saved only by occasional hits on the women behind the bar and/or the beers in their hands. Gotham City's infamous "no smoking" rule for bars seems to have been forgotten as tobacco sits heavy in the atmosphere of classic rock, sports on the television, and bad times on the rise.

"F.H. Ripper!" Gar shouts out, catching the room by surprise at this loud, tall, hulk of a man at the doorway. Not to mention his shabby beard and tired eyes, giving the men the impression this man hasn't seen a shower in some time. "Anybody ever heard that name?"

"Fuck off, piss stain!" is one of the replies from the crowd, an older man with a bottle of beer in his hand. "Go beg for change outside!"

"I'll say it one more time…" Gar begins, before pulling out his gun and holding it up for people to see. "Has anyone ever heard of a "From Hell Ripper?"

The gun has the expected reaction as the bar's occupants, those who notice at first, scurrying away with shouts aimed at diffusing any trouble before Gar shoots. "Put that fucking thing away, you psycho! What the fuck?"

"Has anybody HEARD that name or SEEN him? I'm running out of patience!" Taking a step forward, noticing the two men to his side at the table backing away, he suggests "Give me a clue here and I'll be on my way!"

"Hey, I know you!" a man shouts from the back with an Irish accent. "Hey, you're Logan, ain't ya?"

Lowering the gun at the voice, people moving out of his way, Gar aims the pistol straight at a young bloke in the back, beer falling from his hand in fright. "You're one of Someone's crew, aren't you?"

"Shit!" the young man curses his luck and bolts from the side door.


"I didn't want to follow him in a footrace. So, as I did with Deadshot, I decided to follow him in the air as a bat. The night made it hard for him to tell I was still there but I could "see" him plenty well. We weren't THAT far away from Someone's pub and I was sure he was making a bee-line straight for that Irish prick. Wasn't sure if Two Face began his "revenge" or not but if I beat him to the punch., I wouldn't owe him, would I?

How could I attack a fully-loaded pub with just two bullets in my gun while they probably had dozens? Well, it would be time for some of Question's training for that sort of thing. One man cannot take on an entire army… but if you contain him, narrow his ability to spread out, you have him right where you want him: One on One. The Mad Irish Pub was about to receive a lesson in what they'd been doing to people, both here and in Ireland, for decades.

With all the noise going on in that pub, no one would notice a bug flying through the crowded bar, into the basement door, and floating down to the basement. All those loud insults, that wailing music, no one would hear me break open the fuse box. And with Someone upstairs doing "shot for shot" with some of his buddies, they wouldn't be in the mindset to hear me take aim and fire a single bullet into the box. In an rain of sparks, the lone shot did it's job as the entire bar went dark. Funny how the only person who could see his way out of that hellhole was a spider who could see it's way through the dusty stairwell and back to the main room."

"What the hell's goin' on, boss? You forget to pay the light man?" one of the patrons demands, a combination of intoxication and darkness mixing to form a dangerous condition for walking.

"Power's out but lights are on across the street." Fermanagh calls out, looking out of the window towards the homes across the street.

"So wat in the fuck hap'ened? Did the fuckin' box turn a'trip?" Someone demands, calling out for anyone with a cell phone. "Get a'light an'check down there, aye?"

A slam of the door though, coming from the basement door that is, catches everyone's attention in a heartbeat. The few cell phones people have for light turns towards that direction but nothing seems out of place to cause the noise.

"'ey! Who t'be makin' that noise, aye?" Someone demands, trying to make out the figure.

Nothing outside of the shuffling of several people, the booze really isn't helping in this darkness.

"Hey, who the fuck did that?" Fermanagh warns, reaching for something in his back pocket. "Speak or I'll give ya a reason to hide!"

Beside Someone, a zippo light snaps to life, revealing Garfield Logan's face enough for the boss of the Irish to see. With an evil stare forming a dangerous grin, Logan answers simply "Boo!"


"What happened next can only be described as pandemonium to say the least. Now, for the record, I can see in the dark better than your average human thanks to my condition, my "disguise" be damned. Not that I can see perfectly but I can make out "shades" of peoples' forms in the darkness, just like if you had night-vision goggles for eyes. So, when you're in the middle of a group of nearly a hundred Irishmen, who potentially could be armed, and all you got is one bullet in your gun, you do something crazy. After I slugged Someone in the face, I got to work doing just that.

After the punch, I grabbed the nearest beer bottle I could and chucked it into the crowd, over the bar patrons' heads. Didn't even wait for the bottle to impact, just grabbed a few more and started throwing them in random directions.

"Jesus Christ!" one shouts, the bottle may have hit him, I'll never know.

"He's chuckin' fuckin' glass from the bar!" another one bellowed out but the darkness still gave me the edge.

Figured it was time to get nasty. On the bar was a nearly-empty bottle of Jameson… imagine the pain that sucker gave the poor bastard that got hit with that fifth?

And that's when things got truly weird. Rather than the Irish all bothering to rush the bar and attack this mysterious bastard, they turned on each other. A bad mixture of disorientation, heavy drinking, and hundreds of years of Celtic heritage doesn't make the world's most peaceful combination. The bastards actually started to fight each other, grabbing each other in the dark and punching them, not even knowing who they hit. With Someone down for the moment, I decided to go after my next best choice: "Mad" Michael Fermanagh.

Hopped the bar easily enough but getting through the crowd was… a bit of a challenge. Irish fists swinging in the dark, might as well have been a convention for blind people with anger issues given the environment. Still, there was certainly madness to it all, enough that even I couldn't resist laughing before I got within reach of Fermanagh. I saw the crowd part like the Red Sea, as if on cue, so I took my shot. A running, spearing tackle into that bastard that sent us crashing back down the basement steps, the door splinting around us…

Down into the dark basement, where his eyes would fail to help land a punch. Despite the ruckus carrying on upstairs, I could still hear him enough even if the thicker blackness made him seem more like a shadow than night vision
"You stupid, fucking…"

"Boy?" I dared, wanting to drive his temper up a few more degrees.

"YOU! I fuckin' knew you'd be trouble, boy, but Someone just had to be a regular drunk ass, didn't he?" He was looking around, trying to "feel" me out I suppose but good luck finding me… "Well, I'll do the pleasure of killin' ya for him. It was only a'matter a'time before we put two in yer' head."

"Why kill me? Haven't done anything wrong to you, have I?" I asked, circling slowly, cautious in case he got a bead on my voice and pulled a gun in the darkness.

"First we thought you to be an undercover badge but looks like we to be wrong, ain't we now? We heard about what you did to Deadshot…"

"And?"

"And we know how you managed to find him. Did you really think we wouldn't find out bout ya dealin' with the man of two faces?"

Backing towards the wall, I offered before crouching "I trusted American help because if you're looking for good help then the Irish need not apply."

That did it, set him off nice and loud. He roared pretty loud for a human, throwing his fist right at the spot my voice had come from. Not too smart though if he threw it right at the cement wall, who knows how many bones he damaged with it. Sure sounded angry and in pain though if you ask me.

No time to let up though. Brought one of my knees into his mid-section, bringing a gasp of air and some spit flying. Followed it up with a pistol-whip across the face, letting him taste the cold steel he lent me during that first crime in January.

I took my time beating him up, attacking him from behind and then from the front, kept him off balance while bringing him closer to the basement hatch Someone had warned me about. He told me he'd dump my body down into the sewers from that hatch if I pulled a double-cross. Well, I'd find out just what was in that hatch that night.

With one last charge, he came in swinging. Why did he lose his composure that night, I wish I knew. Swinging like a madman in total darkness like that… Was it because of booze or the darkness? Maybe out of the blind rage that earned him the name "Mad", I'll never know. All I know right now is I dropped to the ground, wrapped my legs around his ankle, and dropped him face-first into the concrete. That did it, knocked the air right out of him and gave me the chance to open the hatch.

"You're…. you're… insane…" he gasped, struggling to catch his breath but still holding that malice in his tone.

"The pot and the kettle?" I asked, lifting him over towards the open sewer shaft and pushing him in. I could hear the metal rungs as he grabbed onto the iron railings, his raspy voice pleading me not to do this. "Begging, Fermanagh? You SHOULD! You've killed so many people, ruined so many lives… Keep begging when you meet the Almighty, it just might earn you a trip to purgatory instead of where you rightfully belong!"

A boot to his face, I sent him down to his concrete hell. Not too far down, maybe fifteen feet, but he managed to survive. I knew this because a series of lights inside the sewer below came to life, illuminating Fermanagh on the ground, he leg bent in a bad way…

But it wasn't the sound of his broken body that started to scare me, it was the sound of something very large, very ominous approaching from somewhere in the sewers. Like the sound of a heavy animal, bestial growling echoing from the thick walls.

"Tick… tock… here comes the CROC!"

I didn't close the hatch, not at first. I watched as Fermanagh screamed for mercy, screamed for his life… Fitting that a man who's caused so much fear and death would howl like a little girl as the monster approached him.

I didn't see Croc in his entire form, outside of a scaly mass of green, reptilian flesh descend on Fermanagh. It only took a few seconds to tear apart his body, greedily gnawing on the dismembered limbs. The sickening sound of slurping, enjoying this fresh feast with all the joy of a hungry lion taking down a large kill.

Then, he sniffed the air, smelling something that must've been as alien to his nose as his appearance was to my eyes. Then, looking up the shaft, he made eye contact with me. Those yellow, reptile-like eyes staring back at me despite my being hidden in the dark basement.

"Thanks for the meal… heheehe… but I'll get you one day… I've got your scent!"


"I left the Mad Irish Pub even as the fight started to wear down. Two Face was right about them being a rowdy group of drunks and small-timers. They didn't even realize their most fear-inspiring goon had been fed to their "pet" while their new biggest enemy had just wandered through their midst, heading for the door as chairs and bottles flew all around…"


A/N2: Yes, "Mad" Michael Fermanagh died. Feel rushed? What, did you expect some big, over-the-top battle? People die just as easily as everyone else... just because they happen to seem important doesn't mean they're immune from plot-death. Hell, Jinx wasn't, Kristine wasn't... who's to say Gar isn't? Gar's now dealt with the Irish... I wonder if he'll be paying "ol' Two-fie" a visit?

Trivia:
- Ah, Croc, I hardly knew ye.

Rhetorical:
Before you judge that barfight... have you ever been drunk in the dark and a bottle (or fist) hits you? As someone in that situation before, I can tell you the first thing I did was punch out the guy next to me... ^_^ fun night.