Escape, Take Two

Killer Croc was not happy as he was left in his cell again. He could've torn those cops limb from limb if he had to chance, but unfortunately the cattle prods came to play, and a few thousand volts from a few of those were not exactly motivating.

He slumped into his bunk as he mulled over what course of action to take next.

Approach the problem head-on and simply barrel his way out? Impossible. He would leave such a large trail behind even a blind man could follow with ease. Dig his way out? Nix that as well, even with his animalistic strength it would take hours to reach the sewer level, and the cops would find out easily enough. Unfortunately he had only a third option, think his way out.

Fortunately he did not have to think at all as suddenly a vine the size of a minivan tore down the hallway, taking numerous human beings with it, and Croc smiled as he saw the plant matter continue on tearing through the hall.

The villain chuckled as he pulled two bars apart before stepping out and grabbing onto the moving plant, and let it carry him away for a few moments before he threw himself away and landed in an adjoining corridor.

A cop stood before him, his unusual-looking police-issued handgun that looked more like it was supposed to be in a sci-fi flick pointed at him.

Croc more than happily took on a few bullets and barreled on through the guy, rolling on through like a train and ignoring the sickening crack of bones.

He slowed in his rampage long enough to grab onto a door handle as a brake, taking the whole door with him as he turned around long enough to peer into an room labeled EVIDENCE LOCKER in big bold letters on the opaque glass.

He grumbled as he strode through the room, and chuckled as he stopped before a skinny young man at a desk, and upon the desk was none other than his personal piece of evidence.

"I'll be taking my gun with me, boy." The criminal informed the man with a Southern drawl before picking him up by the neck with one claw. "Or say hello to becoming so Cajun chow."

The man kicked out for a few moments before he was thrown in the racks of evidence around him, coming to rest unconscious against an unyielding brick wall.

Waylon picked up his shotgun and hefted it over his shoulder as he snarled at the small piece of damage where a Batarang hit it before charging through the brick wall as if there was no tomorrow.

He charged into the police department's underground parking garage of all things, and was satisfied to see that plant matter was all around: Ivy's work.

The large criminal strolled among the vehicles, as if being picky about which on to take, before more police opened fire on him, this time the SWAT team opening up with assault rifles and submachine guns, not to mention the handguns and shotguns most cops carried.

Croc ducked behind a Crown Victoria in time to watch the windows get blown off by a few shotgun shells and cursed that his weapon was unloaded. Hell, even he wouldn't live under a sustained barrage of fire.

Luckily he saw a cop car rolling by at high speeds, apparently coming in judging from the direction it came from, and hid behind it was the driver unknowing saved his ass.

The driver was not as fortunate as the driver's door was torn off and the driver himself hurled onto the hood of a car as Croc commandeered the vehicle and put his webbed foot onto the accelerator.

The black car jumped at the sudden acceleration and screeched as Croc made complete 360, attempting to leave even as he exposed himself to fire.

He remedied the problem by grabbing a cop that got too close and held him in front of him, watching him kick and struggle against his iron grip as the police immediately held their fire so as not to hit their fellow man.

It was also a plus that the guy had a shotgun and was too surprised to use it, and Croc took advantage of it by letting go of the cop long enough to get a hold on the satchel of shotgun shells at the cops waist and hurling said satchel into the vehicle before reacquiring his grip on his victim, now holding him by the seat of his pants.

The car finally burst out of the garage and Waylon was shocked for a moment as cars zoomed by him, barely missing his own car by inches as he was caught in the other lane, and let the cop go.

The unfortunate soul hit the pavement only to get run over by an SUV a moment later, but helped the escaped convict by causing a three-car pileup, ensuring Croc's immediate escape.

The beast chuckled as he laid his Mossberg across his lap and shoved shell into it while driving with one clawed hand, before hefting the shotgun in one hand and letting it stay outside the vehicle, the wet air around pelting the steely weapon as the vehicle chaotically navigated the streets of Gotham, before coming to a stop in a deserted parking lot, where only another cop car lay in wait.

Croc killed the engine and let the car skid to a stop in front of the cop car, and got a good look at the two surprised cops inside, one eating a doughnut and another with a cup of coffee in hand, and roared in defiance as he leveled his shotgun at them and unloaded a shell into them.

One of them went down without a sound, the other screamed in pain as the pellets slammed into his bodice before Croc mercifully ended his life with a stomp of his foot only a few moments after.

Croc hauled the two bodies out of the car and decided to change his ride to the cop car; it would be less conspicuous excluding the blown-out front window.

As the cop car left the lot, Croc was already formulating a plan: screw the past idea, now he would return to his growing business of gun-running and hopefully he could bring it back into full-swing in a few nights.

His gang was only a dozen strong, but with his contacts he was able to smuggle in some of the cheapest or most high-tech weaponry that you could get your hands on, take your pick. Anything that kills a person that a man could carry, he had in store.

He pulled up to a seemingly abandoned warehouse in the harbor storage district, loaded with cargo containers that nobody knew the contents of. He turned away from those in favor of an actual warehouse building sparsely strewn across the docks, and pulled open a large set of doors.

Light flooded his vision as before his eyes he saw a dozen men in their thirties and forties helping each other haul guns from a small fishing boat and onto racks, which were also connected to rollers.

They all stared in surprise at him as he hollered "Boys, Killer Croc is back in business!