Fools

The dilapidated, boarded up Monarch Theater lobby was far from an ideal office environment, but it was a large enough place for a table and supplies for any and all Red Hood gang missions. After their daily escapades, they would often play a game of cards before they dispersed into the street one at a time, twenty minutes apart. Lucky for them, they were never in a shortage of cards. A waist-high pile of playing card decks was sitting precariously in the corner of the large room. After each day and at the command of their boss, there would usually be several more decks added to the pile. It was a curious request, but one that they overlooked when he slid their paychecks under the door.

One day, the gang spent an exceptionally long time in the lobby; lousy weather kept them in a little longer than usual. As they sat around playing, conversation drifted from baseball to women to the local gang movements, but it never lasted long or drifted into the personal. Everyone at the table knew that they couldn't get too familiar. In fact, they'd been instructed not to know anything about each other, no names or anything, just in case someone got the itch to rat. They'd have each other's back, but that was it. At the end of the day, it was just a job. So, talk was lively but empty, and they certainly did not grumble about their boss, at least, until that night.

The blonde, codename Laurel, looked over to the stack of decks, "What'd you think he's gonna do with all these cards?"

The man with the pencil mustache, Buster, scratched his chin, "Dunno', don't care. He pays me; I pay my rent; that's all that matters."

"But, a thousand deck of cards," Laurel insisted. "He's gotta' be plannin' something. More than just these stupid little shop jobs."

"Don't ask," The guy with a scar, Hardy, muttered. "It's the best policy when dealing with these kinds of people."

"Come on," Laurel sighed. "I like this gig as much as you guys, but it's a little suspicious. This is the only thing he's asked us to buy for our operation outside of guns and ammo. Why?"

Buster shrugged, "Maybe he wants our card games to be more interesting, can't count 'em."

"Well, we're playing with five decks right now," Turpin pushed his glasses back into place, "Mission accomplished."

Laurel glanced over at Turpin, "Ok, egghead. You tellin' me you don't know? He invites you back there all the time. He hasn't told you anythin'?"

"No, not really."

"So, you're just his bitch then. He calls; you come?"

Buster barked.

"He just asks me to hold things while he's working," Turpin shrugged. "Takes off my glasses so I can't see. I don't pay much attention. Smells like a gas station, though."

Laurel raised an eyebrow at that statement, "Look, you guys are treating this like a joke, but I'm not comfortable with all the attention we're getting. Thorne's got it out for us, Penguin's getting on our case now, and the cops are roaming the streets more frequent than ever. It's only a matter of time before they start going door to door or lookin' in abandoned places." He glanced back at the door to the back room of the old concessions stand that now had "manager's office" painted on it. "An' what's he doin'? He's just sittin' in there laughin' it up, makin' whatever the hell back there. Doesn't even talk to us half the time, just slides the money under the door. I haven't even seen his face without the mask!"

"He's got a plan," Turpin added. "Told me so."

"Yeah? Well, that plan's probably a bomb," he whispered. "That's terrorist action—federal prison time. I'm not gettin' mixed up in that."

"Doesn't bother me," Hardy muttered. "Got connections in the hood. I'll disappear if it gets too hot."

"Yeah, but what's the goal?"

"If you're so worried, go ask him then," Buster jabbed his thumb at the door. "While you're there, tell him about how you're going to back out. That worked for the other guy."

Laurel leveled a scowl at the table, "Fine, I will."

He tossed his hand onto the table and stood up. The other three looked up in silent surprise as he made his way to the door. They leaned into the table, watching him as if he were an unarmed gladiator walking up to the lion's cage.

"I'll give you twenty bucks he chickens out," Turpin muttered.

"Fifty," Hardy grumbled. "Boss'll blow his head off."

"No, no, something more creative, a hundred," Buster grinned and put down a Benjamin. "Bets on the table, guys, or you're bluffing."

Meanwhile, Laurel's stomach wound into a knot. He could hear the mumblings of his colleagues and, by Turpin's eerie laugh, could tell they weren't speaking affirmations or prayers over him. Things really got nauseating once he jumped the concession stand. The star tattooed man's corpse flashed into his mind. The bulging eyes, the contorted spasming body, the electric burns that fanned out across his arm: that could happen to him. He had no one really, but he could see his mother's weeping face. The thoughts swirled in his mind. The room was hot now—sweat poured from his temple. His strut slowed to a shuffle as he stood in front of the door. He paused, hand hovering in position to grab the doorknob but miles away from its destination.

BANG!

Laurel flew back and slammed into the counter. The door suddenly swung open, slamming into the wall. The gang at the table sprang to their feet and readied to sweep the cash up. In the doorway, their boss was dressed in a dapper, mismatched suit and was carrying wilting flowers. All he brandished was a crooked smile.

That's what he looks like? Was the only thought that went through Laurel's mind as all courage, and some liquid, left Laurel's body in an instant.

Laurel stood straight from his evasive maneuver, waved, and shuffled to the side, acting as if he were nonchalantly walking by, "Hey—hey Boss, what are the flow—where you goin'?"

Their boss only grinned and offered one reason, "Date night."

With that, their employer left through the side exit door, leaving his henchmen in bewilderment.

Turpin laughed and scooped up the money, "Look, if he's got a date, there's luck for your guys' ugly mugs yet."

Hey! I've been dead for a while. But I'm back from the Lazarus pit and ready to get back to business!

No joke! (Even if it's April 1st.)

I'm going to focus on shorter chapters (not this short but shorter than 7000 words) so that I can update more consistently (like once a month or something).

Anyway, thank you for reading, following this story through the years, or even if you read it just now!