2. Dues
Dora's family owned the Montgomery Building, a small five-story walk-up with run-down studio apartments on the upper four floors and a bar on the first. However, that didn't mean Dora's family was well off. The bar, called the Alibi, had seen better days. Many people considered it the epitome of dive bars, an impressive title if one bore in mind the competition it had being located on Park Row—a street so derelict and dangerous it was nicknamed "Crime Alley" by Gotham's residents.
The brick walls of the Montgomery Building were chipped, crumbling, and graffitied. Cracks and smudges covered the plate glass window on the first floor and the iron bars in front of it were red with rust. Inside the bar, the furniture's upholstery was torn and threadbare, all the mismatched tables wobbled, and several of the billiard balls were cracked. The bathrooms reeked, the pipes groaned, and the taps had little pressure. The toilets clogged and leaked no matter how hard Dora and her sole employee Rochelle worked at fixing them.
Rochelle was the closest thing Dora had to a best friend. Originally, she was the Alibi's resident cook, back when it could have been considered a pub. However, since then the stove, the oven, and the deep fryer had all fallen into disrepair, and Dora couldn't afford to fix them all. Afterward, Rochelle transitioned into the role of bartender, which suited her just as well as cook had. As time passed, Dora and Rochelle bonded over the shared stress of bartending in a dive. Rochelle proved to be a better mixologist than Dora and was especially popular with the male customers because of her blonde hair, sparkling green eyes, and petite stature. Her Australian accent, good humor, an knowledge of nearly every sport played with a ball enhanced her already magnetic allure.
That sometimes concerned Dora, given the nature of their usual clientele. The Alibi was the local watering hole for the typical minimum wage earners of Park Row during the afternoon, but at night it also served the gangsters, addicts, ex-cons, parolees, and the various other dissident riffraff that plagued Gotham—not unlike the men Dora had found Carla hanging out with earlier that day. However, Rochelle was tough and could handle the rough customers.
"One of those dudes was older than me. Can you believe that?" Dora grunted from under the bar counter. She was tangled in hoses and pulling on a wrench. One of the beer taps had been leaking. She had called it in, but once the repair guy had realized where the Alibi was located, he promptly cancelled, leaving Dora and Rochelle to figure it out on their own.
"How the hell did she even meet those guys?" Rochelle asked, cleaning some mugs.
"Believe me, I wish I knew. I should've known. I'm supposed to take care of her." It was hours after Dora had taken Carla home from the NA meeting, but she was still reeling from everything that had happened. Working did not distract her like it usually did.
A slender girl with strawberry blonde hair sat across the counter, drinking a bottle of cider—Holly, Dora's only other friend. "Did you forget we live on Park Row?" she asked.
"No." Hoping that she had fixed the tap, Dora stood and lugged a keg under the bar. "But somehow I managed to keep my nose out of trouble when I was her age… Mostly."
"Well, times have changed." Rochelle shrugged, helping Dora with the keg. "The Odessa Mob ran most of the neighborhood back when you were a kid, but Black Mask is in control now."
"I bet you anything those dealers were part of his False Face Society," Holly added.
Dora grunted, pumping the tap. "Most False Facers wear leather masks. Not these guys. They had on orange gear and 'L.U.' neck tattoos."
Holly frowned, concerned. "Latino United? Whoa. Those were serious gangbangers Carla was smoking with. They're street dealers for the Escabedo Cartel, and the cartel works with the False Facers, so... just as bad, I guess. Ironic, isn't it? It's like all the gangs in Gotham are more organized than the fucking cops—or the local government."
"I know, right?" Dora tapped the keg. "Hey, give it a go, Rocky."
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I liked it better when Kosov and the Odessa Mob were in charge." Rochelle pulled the tap handle and poured a foamy mug of beer. "At least Kosov had standards. Kept the drug trade clean for what it was."
"Wouldn't say that Kosov had standards." Dora looked at the mug in disapproval and poured it down the drain.
"Yeah, he was just small-time compared to Black Mask," Holly added. "The cops and the Bats had an easier time keeping him under control. He wasn't as ambitious as the Mask."
Dora let out an exasperated breath. "Black Mask is on a whole other level. The Bat Crew are barely making a dent in his organization."
"That's because they're not even trying anymore!" Rochelle said, frustrated, her Australian accent more apparent than ever. "Fucking Bats. I used to have faith in them, but the gang war scared them off. It was practically their fault it broke out in the first place."
Dora didn't agree, but she didn't say anything. Even months after the gang war, there was still debate and speculation among the whole city as to which of Gotham's myriad gangs lit the spark that ignited the war—but almost everyone agreed that Batman and his crew added fuel to the fire and hadn't done nearly enough to put it out. The war had only lasted three days, but... the death toll was heavy.
Rochelle handed a new mug of beer to Dora. "How's this?" That brought Dora's mind back to the task at hand. The draft had a nice thin head of foam, so she took a swig. It tasted full and rich (for well draft, anyway), so she was satisfied that she had fixed the tap.
Even still, she couldn't help but groan. She took a longer draw to calm her nerves. "That's still no excuse! Carla knows better!" She grunted, slamming her mug on the counter, making Rochelle and Holly flinch. "Crack? Really? I kept that detail from my mom, but she still almost had a heart attack when I told her how much school Carla's been missing. My ears are still ringing from all the shouting! The Alibi is barely getting by as is; we can't afford rehab, guys. I don't want Carla to turn out like… like…" Dora locked eyes with Holly for a second and she couldn't finish the sentence. She quickly switched her gaze to Rochelle, who could not hold eye contact either.
Holly frowned and chipped the polish off her fingernail. "Like me?" she finally said.
Dora exchanged a look with Rochelle. "No, Holly," she said hurriedly. "That's not what I meant… What I meant to say was… was…"
Holly shrugged. "Hey, I'm a hooker, but I'm not—or ever was, or will be—a junkie. At least I got that goin' for me."
"You know she didn't mean it like that," Rochelle said.
Holly reached across the counter and held both their hands. "Don't worry about it, Dee. At least Carla still has a choice. It's not too late for her to turn things around. Plus, she's got you two watching her back. Wish I had big sisters like you that gave a fuck while I was growing up."
Dora hoped it wasn't too late for her little sister. Although Holly had become a dear friend to Dora since the end of the gang war, she had to admit that she didn't want Carla to turn out like her.
Holly was sixteen, only two years older than Carla, but despite that she was a dropout and already turning tricks in a dive bar, where all her johns were either gang enforcers or drug dealers. Dora normally wouldn't allow Holly to solicit johns in her bar, let alone any prostitute, but that decision wasn't up to her since Black Mask took over Kosov's racket.
Dora decided that she had wallowed in her own problems long enough for one day. "Hey… how about you?" she asked Holly. "How are you holding up now that Stan works for Black Mask?"
"Getting by, I guess." Holly sighed, stretching her arms behind her back. Dora heard her shoulders pop. "Yesterday was my first night alone in weeks. I'm on the rag, so Stan gave me a few days off."
"Why are you here then?" Rochelle asked. "You should be at home relaxing."
Holly smiled and shrugged. "I live in a seedy motel with hookers that work around the clock, so I'd rather be here. I like hanging out with you guys. Sometimes it seems like you two are the last decent people in this neighborhood."
Taking a moment, Dora could see how even a short respite from sex work had refreshed Holly. Her pixie-cut red-blonde hair wasn't greasy like it usually was, her skin looked fresh, the bags under her eyes were all but gone—she wasn't even wearing make-up or a slinky dress today and looked better because of it. Jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers were what every teenage girl should be wearing, not bodycon dresses and platform heels.
But Dora couldn't stop the disgusted shudder that rippled throughout her body. She knew Holly's youthful vitality and natural beauty would be spoiled by the next john soon enough, if not Stan himself.
"Okay, Holly, I know you say you're not, but you are better than this. Why don't you just quit? You can stay with me till you get on your feet. I've got some extra space here." Dora was prepared to move heaven and earth to keep Carla clean. If even a fraction of that effort could help Holly, then she could at least try.
"I appreciate the offer, but I can't." Holly ran a trembling hand through her short hair, making it stand on end. "Black Mask has a leash on every working girl, one way or another."
Debt, drugs, family, shelter—Dora knew about the influence pimps typically held over their prostitutes. She now regretted mentioning it, realizing that she had reminded Holly about whatever leverage Black Mask had on her. Dora felt a pang in her chest as well. Black Mask had a leash on her too, a leash that could tighten into a noose if she stepped even an inch out of line. She knew the consequences full well.
The doorbell jingled as a group of men entered the bar.
"Fuck," Rochelle cursed aloud. Dora echoed silently, recalling something her abuela had once said. "Tenga cuidado, mija. Sabes lo que pasa cuando se habla del diablo." Be careful, sweetheart. You know what happens when you speak of the devil.
Dora knew the group of men. Mikhail, Yevy, and Sergei—former enforcers of the Odessa Mob that had joined Black Mask's False Face Society when he won the gang war. Mikhail and Yevy were both over six feet tall and 250 pounds, at least—your typical Ukrainian bruisers; young, cocky, boisterous, and quick to anger.
On the other hand, Sergei was much older and a little shorter, although not by much. He was the de facto leader of this little posse and the most patient, but only because age and experience made him relatively wise and level-headed—but he still wasn't a nice man by any stretch.
"Hm. New guy," Rochelle pointed out.
A fourth man had walked into the bar that wasn't usually part of Sergei's entourage—a Latino, shorter, slimmer, and younger than the others. The absence of tattoos and lack of sporty orange clothing suggested he was a member of the Escabedo Cartel, not the Latino United gang. During the gang war last year, Black Mask had done something unprecedented in Gotham—he had brought together all the gangs and crews in the city and created a united criminal syndicate that ran the streets and answered ultimately to him—and only him. Neither Falcone or Maroni, even in their primes, had managed to do that.
"Ah, shit." Rochelle frowned. "Dee, I think you should split. Get out of here."
"Why?" She paid close attention to the men's conversation.
Mikhail was relating a story to the new guy as they approached the counter. Once Dora realized what was being said, she felt the floor sink underneath her.
"So the boss lays into Monty," Mikhail said, smirk on his face, "just pounds on the poor bastard, curb-stomps the man, makes his face look like a fucking Picasso or some shit. Asshole's head is bouncing off the ground, teeth are flying, ribs are popping… Pretty soon I just feel sorry for the bastard, eh?"
Dora's stomach clenched and coiled tighter at every word.
"So I tell the boss to give him a break, y'know," Mikhail went on, "and so he does, and ol' Monty just lays there and whimpers and twitches, right? The guy used to be a fucking Marine, so we thought he could take a beating like a man, right? But I swear he pissed his pants! Ah haha! Didn't he, Yevy? Pissed his pants like fucking little baby. Haha! Total pussy! No balls on that piece of shit! Pathetic!"
Dora's heart was on the verge of exploding. Her eyes stung painfully from stifled tears. The things they were saying—she wanted to retch. It was only Rochelle's hand grasping hers that kept her in check.
"Don't listen to them," Rochelle whispered. "Just leave. I've got this."
Mikhail's distasteful recollection was getting so out of line that the bar's already few customers started leaving, not bothering to settle their tabs face-to-face—they just left crumpled dollars on the table. But Dora couldn't bring herself to listen to Rochelle's advice and leave as well. Grief and rage had welded her feet to the floor. She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose to stanch the tears trying to escape.
"And this is the poor bastard's daughter, she runs the bar now." Mikhail tapped his knuckles on the countertop. He looked at Dora, cracking a lecherous and thoroughly unappealing smile. "Hiya, sweetheart."
In that instant, Dora wanted to claw his eyes out—she spent three whole seconds imagining it in explicit and satisfying detail—but she forced herself to say, "Hi, Mikhail." Her stomach lurched. Bile burned the back of her throat, but she didn't let it show.
"A round of Goose, would ya, babe?"
"I'll get it," Rochelle offered, her eyes pleading Dora. "Take a break," she mouthed silently.
But Dora's pride wouldn't let her walk away. "No." She went to the end of the bar for the men's favorite imported Goose. Every step she took seemed to be on her own aching heart. The bottle was at the top of the shelf, so she had to use a step ladder to reach it.
"Ah, man, look at that ass. Umph!"
Dora's back turned to the ice and she almost dropped the bottle. It wasn't Mikhail that had spoken this time, it was Yevy. "What did I tell you, newbie? Gets it from her mother. Old Monty had a taste for them thick Latinas."
"The feisty kind too," Mikhail chimed in. "Priscan. Right, sweetcheeks?"
It took every last bit of strength Dora had to keep her face straight and her voice calm. "Yeah, my mom is from Santa Prisca."
"Mm-mm. What a piece Anita was back in day," Sergei, the oldest, said with a throaty chuckle.
"Me, though? I like my bitches lily white," said the new Latino guy. He turned to Rochelle and smiled. If not for the filthy way he spoke, Dora might have considered him cute. "Hey, babe. Seen you around," he said to Rochelle. "Name's Rafael. Or Rafi. Your choice."
Rochelle gave him a polite but strained smile, not saying a word as she put out glasses for their drinks.
"What's your name, honey?" Rafi asked.
"Rachel or whatever," Sergei interjected. "But trust me, boy, this is one you want a taste of." He slid onto a bar stool next to Holly. "Her name's Kitty." Both Dora and Rochelle knew that "Kitty" was Holly's working name. "How's it going, baby? How about you introduce yourself and take my friend Rafi out back?"
"It's my night off, Sergei. Sorry."
"I'm sure you can make exception for your favorite customer." He placed his large calloused hand on her thigh and slid it up toward the button of her jeans.
Holly swatted his hand away. "You lay a hand on me tonight, Sergei, and Stan will skin your ass tomorrow morning. It's my night off."
"Oh! Kitty has claws!" Rafi laughed. "Better be careful, old man. I heard Stan doesn't fuck around."
"Fuck off, spic. I ain't that old," Sergei barked. He shoved Holly aside and sat down in her barstool. "Ungrateful little cunt." He tossed back his shot of vodka and slammed the glass on the countertop. "More, now."
Dora had enough. As inconspicuous as she could, she headed straight for the kitchen, then slipped out the back door.
Once she was in the back alley, the levee broke.
Her breath came in heaving gasps and tears poured out of her so fast, so hard, she thought her eyes would burst. Every sob was a quake that shook throughout her whole body and resonated in her chest, building up grief, rage, and hatred until she was on the verge of vomiting. Sergei and his men never left the bar without at least a few catcalls at her and Rochelle, or a jab or two at her father, but today was unprecedented and especially brutal. Was it just because they wanted to brag to the new guy?
It was sickening. They were proud of what they had done to her father.
A racking groan finally ripped itself free from Dora's lungs, but was muffled by Rochelle's chest as she wrapped Dora in her arms. Rochelle had come from nowhere and Dora couldn't have been more grateful. Gripping onto her tightly, Dora had never loved her more than right at that moment.
"Shh…" Rochelle cooed. "Don't listen to those dirt bags. Just ignore them."
Easier said than done, Dora thought as she soaked Rochelle's shirt with her tears. "Those… assholes… k-killed my… my dad…" she stammered between sobs.
"I know, but…" Rochelle tried, but failed to find words to console her.
How could she? There was no hope, no justice, no good in Gotham. All Rochelle could do was hold Dora until the ache became numb again and her tears filled the gaping hole in her heart again. That was all Dora could ask for—time, the only thing that seemed to work now. The longer no one brought up her father, the better she felt. It allowed her to forget—but even the slightest hint at what had happened brought it all back and darkened her whole world again.
It seemed like Dora and Rochelle were out there for hours, in the back alley, leaning against the graffitied wall next to the rusting dumpsters and dented trash bins. Above, Dora noticed the stars had disappeared, making the sky pitch black. From between the tightly packed multi-story buildings bordering the alley, Dora could only tell it was raining by the water dripping off the fire escapes and spouting out of the gutter pipes. A typical gloomy night in Gotham.
The bar's back door slammed open, startling both the girls.
"There they are," Mikhail said. "Boys, out back!"
Dora got to her feet, wiping tears from her cheeks and replacing her glasses. She sniffled. "Sorry, guys. I was on my break. Do you need another round?"
"No, babe, not now," Sergei said as he lumbered out into the alley. "Time for business."
"Business?"
"Yeah, your taxes are due," Mikhail said.
Dora frowned, confused. "But I got another week."
Mikhail shrugged, uncaring. "Something's come up. We're collecting early."
"Why?" Rochelle asked. "What's come up?"
"None of your fucking business." Mikhail shoved her aside. "Your boss just has to pay up."
Dora didn't even need to make a mental count of the bar's books. She already knew she didn't have the protection money ready. She looked over Mikhail's shoulder to Sergei. "Is he serious?"
"Over my head. Sorry, Dora," he said, shrugging. "The Mask wants you to pay up."
Dora was at a loss. "I… I don't have it, guys. I'm sorry."
Mikhail snickered and shared a look with Yevy and Rafi. "I'm sure we can work something out."
"Yeah, just wait until next week like you're supposed to." She would have collected the rent from the tenants in the apartments above the bar by then.
"No, babe, I mean now."
Mikhail took a step toward her. Dora took a step back—only to realize she was being cornered between the wall and a dumpster. She reached for her belt loop, but her keychain and its little can of pepper spray weren't there. The dull ache of grief in her chest was replaced by a sharp pang of fear. Mikhail was a foot taller than her and twice her weight. What could she do?
She held her ground. "Back off, Mikhail." She tried to sound tough. Mikhail took a step and feinted. Dora flinched despite herself. "W-what are you doing?" she stammered, though she already knew.
"Offering you a discount." Mikhail closed in on her. He took away her glasses before Dora could stop him. The world faded away and all she could see was him, looming over her.
"No… don't." Dora turned away, reeling from his nasty vodka-scented breath. Mikhail didn't have it in him, he would never…
But he grabbed her chin, yanked her head around, and kissed her.
Dora kept her lips shut tight—as much to deny him the satisfaction as to stop herself from puking.
Mikhail pulled away. "Just do me this favor. It'll cost you nothing," he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and putrid. His hand slid down her body, going from her neck, to her shoulder… lingering for an extra moment on her breast… then her stomach, until he finally grabbed a handful of her butt. Dora felt as though he left a trail of slime the whole way. "Relax, baby. This could be fun for the both of us."
Dora had always been able to keep her mask on in front of these guys, but she couldn't stop the frightened whimper that escaped her lips or the fresh tears that streamed from her eyes. Clearly, Black Mask forcing them to take the money was bullshit. The only reason why Mikhail wanted to collect on protection early was to extort sex from her.
Rochelle wasn't faring any better. Yevy had cozied up to her in much the same way, ripping off her hoodie and cornering her against a wall. He pulled the tie out of her hair so hard she yelped.
Panic set in. Dora's heart beat so hard, her ears hurt. She didn't know what to do. She was frozen.
"Hey, Mikhail! Back off!" Holly's voice broke the illusion of solitude Mikhail and Yevy had somehow created. Dora remembered she and Rochelle weren't alone. "I said back the fuck off!"
"Why should I? I ain't done yet." Mikhail still had not let go of Dora's butt, so he gave it a firm squeeze. "I haven't even started." And to that, Dora squirmed.
"Look…" Holly sighed. "If you're itching for it that bad, I… I'll take care of you. No charge."
Mikhail guffawed, but backed off Dora a bit. "Ha! And why would I want your bony little ass instead of Dora's over here?" He smacked Dora's butt for emphasis; she yelped in pain and disgust.
"Yeah, and I got myself a British girl that isn't a twig," Yevy sneered.
"I'm Australian, asshole!" Rochelle spat at him.
"Shut the fuck up." Yevy shook her. "You're a limey bitch all the same."
"I'm not…" Rochelle tried, but her words were cut off. Yevy's large hand encircled her neck.
"See, I would never give either of you any attitude like that," Holly said, tying the back of her t-shirt in a knot, exposing her midriff.
"But I like it when they squirm…" Mikhail growled.
Sergei chuckled, finally stepping in. "Don't knock till you tried it, boy."
"Yeah, Mikhail, why would you have her over me?" Holly asked, wiggling her hips so her jeans sat lower on her waist. "You knew her dad. How he raised her. Dee's a total prude; I mean, look at her. She's probably still a virgin. I know how to work a man. Tell him, Sergei. I take good care of you, don't I?"
Now without Mikhail's massive body blocking her view, Dora saw a debauched quiver of lust pass through the old man. He reached into his pocket and adjusted himself. "She ain't kidding. She's young but she ain't green; knows her way around a cock. Tightest pussy on the block, too."
Mikhail took a step back, looking back and forth between the Dora and Holly. He lingered on Holly. "How old are you, Kitty?"
Holly sauntered over to Mikhail, trying to put all her sex appeal into each step. "As young as you want me to be… Daddy."
Mikhail cracked a twisted smile. "Oooh man, I like that. Rrrr…"
"Hol—Kitty, don't…" Dora said out of reflex. Not me… Take Yevy instead, let Rochelle get away… I'll be fine.
"Don't worry about it, Dee. This is what I do for a living. Come with me, Mikhail." Holly waved him over on the way to the pub's back door. Mikhail let go of Dora and followed her, unbuckling his belt as he walked. "You're next," Holly told Yevy—as much with her voice as with her eyes. Yevy's grip on Rochelle loosened.
"You know what, Micky? Do you mind if I join in?" asked Rafi, the new guy.
Mikhail chucked. "What the heck, why not? I like the idea of double teaming the little bitch."
Holly stopped, hand on the door handle. "Hey, wait just a minute. I never said I'd blow two of you at the same time." She tried to move away, but Mikhail grabbed her and bent her over a trash bin.
"Do you think we give a shit? Hold her down, Rafi."
"Here?" Rafi asked, but he had already grabbed what little he could of Holly's pixie short hair to rein her. She cried out in pain.
For an instant, Dora imagined her father lying on the pavement, broken—it was the same spot. She could not stand by and let that happen again.
"Let her go!" Dora cried. Before she could second-guess herself, she barreled towards Mikhail and Rafi, hoping to pry them off her. However, Sergei's elbow appeared out of nowhere and caught her in the neck. She hit the ground hard.
Lightning flashed and blinded her, but she heard no thunder. She realized that her vision strobed because her head had hit the concrete—most likely giving her a concussion. Only then did the pain set in.
"Kitty's doing you favor, Dora," Sergei said above her, wrapping his hand around her neck. "Let boys have their fun… or do you want it to be you instead?"
Dora couldn't have answered even if she wanted to, Sergei's grip was cutting off her breath, whether he realized it or not.
"Ah! No!" Holly screamed. "I can hook you up with my girlfriends! They'll take care of you, I promise! Please don't!"
With her glasses gone, coupled with the concussion, Dora couldn't make out Holly's image clearly, but she could make out that her jeans were around her knees.
Mikhail dropped his pants. "Hold her steady, Rafi."
"No!" Dora managed to croak, and she heard Rochelle echo. Dora was completely overtaken by rage and desperation. She would not let more people she cared about be harmed in this alley. She squirmed under Sergei's grasp, found leverage, and brought her knee up into his groin. Sergei wheezed in pain and his grip around her neck loosened. Dora bit his hand as hard as she could. She heard a satisfying crack come from Sergei's knuckles.
"Argh! You stupid cunt!" Sergei ripped his hand out of Dora's mouth, but brought the other around in a backhand punch hit her straight on the jaw, snapping her head to the side.
Sergei replaced his grip around her throat with his remaining good hand, laughing. "Didn't know I was southpaw, did ya, bitch?"
"Everything alright there, Sergei?" Mikhail asked. He had turned his attention away from Holly, so Dora felt that little distraction was worth the beating—they hadn't started. She tried to tell Holly to run, but she choked on the blood in her mouth. Sergei's punch had made her bite her tongue.
"Yeah, it's alright," Sergei told Mikhail. "Just beating some respect into little spic." He looked back down at Dora and smiled. "You gonna piss your pants like your father?"
At the mention of her father, Dora cried out in renewed rage. She lashed out with all her limbs—punching, kicking, gnashing her teeth, clawing at his arm with her nails… but it was futile, every blow glanced off, ineffectual.
Sergei raised his fist. Dora stopped struggling and braced herself.
"Hey! Hands off the girls! Now!"
Sergei lowered his arm. Mikhail, Rafi, and Yevy looked around the alley. With them distracted, Rochelle and Holly both tried to wriggle away, but their captors kept a film hold on them.
"Who said that?" Sergei called out.
"Me."
Looking up because she was still pinned to the ground, Dora was the first to realize the voice was coming from above.
A man was perched on a fire escape. Dora could just barely make out a motorcycle jacket and faceless red mask—or was it a helmet?
"It's one of the Bats!" Mikhail shouted.
The masked man chuckled, his voice somehow both muffled and sharply clear. "I'm not one of the Bats," he said. To Dora's amazement, he almost sounded bored.
Drawing his gun, Sergei jabbed the muzzle into Dora's cheek and her chest tightened in dread. Sergei signaled Rafi and Yevy to do the same to Holly and Rochelle. "Not part of Batman crew, eh? Then leave, asshole, or we shoot their pretty little faces off."
The masked man stood up straight, rolled his shoulders, and popped his gloved knuckles. His nonchalant manner was gone.
"If you touch any of them again…" His voice took on a guttural undertone. "… I'll cut your dicks off and make you eat them."
Notes
Version 41.1