Here's another chapter, and just as a forewarning I'll be taking a while to post the next chapter because I normally try and get two or three chapters ahead of the latest chapter I post so I can look over the chapters a bit and post them one at a time. I'll be taking a little while to write out the next chapter or so because it lays down a lot of groundwork for later chapters. Anyway's, read, review, and enjoy.

Gotham City, Iceberg Lounge, the next day

Croc walked along the rear loading ramp of the Iceberg Lounge, .45 openly displayed in its shoulder holster as he checked to make sure everything was being loaded correctly. Noting that some of the hired help was slowing down he decided to bribe them.

Pulling out a few twenty-dollar bills, he let them be openly displayed in his hand before saying "Whoever get's done loading the fastest gets a few extra twenties in their pocket tonight."

That sent the men into overdrive, the trucks suddenly getting packed at a lightning pace, and at the rate they were going they would be out of here ahead of schedule.

Looking around, Croc noted his visage also helped in motivating the hired hands. Without the coat and hat his claws, teeth, and tail seemed to help intimidate the men to work harder. That and a nice scar along the left of his face certainly helped give him some character.

Tapping his foot impatiently, he ordered for some of the men to get in the driver's seat while others closed themselves inside the trucks, providing onboard security for what they had inside.

But before he could get into the shotgun seat a trio of black cars came around the corner and gunfire erupted. The trucks were peppered with rounds as one of the hired hands went down with a trio of rounds in his torso.

Diving away and rolling behind some crates he drew his pistol and returned fire, lining the sights up with a driver's window and pulling the trigger.

He must have hit the person behind the wheel as the driver twisted the car and sent it crashing into the loading wall, the front end of the car smashed to bits as smoke came out and two more men stumbled out, armed with submachine guns before taking a bullet apiece from Croc.

Then a shootout began as the other two cars came to a complete stop and four more guys got out, firing their Tommy Guns at them. Croc's own men returned fire with an array of pistols, with one man pulling out a sawn-off shotgun and blasting out shells of buckshot with it.

Croc snarled as he saw the man behind the operation. A certain balding man with a gangster-styled puppet was amongst the shooters, a demonic cackle coming from the smaller of the two figures.

"Somebody shoot Scarface's wooden brains out!" he hollered, trying to find a clear shot at the infamous mobster but instead having to live with putting down another shooter with a trio of .45 rounds to the chest.

His 1911 locking back empty he dumped the magazine onto the ground, shoving in his reserve magazine as another of his hired hands went down and he saw a familiar object sail through the air.

"Grenade, get down!" he roared at the top of his lungs, already diving further behind the crates and making as small a figure as he could before it went off.

The boom and explosions that followed rattled the reptilian man's frame, before he looked up to see one of the two trucks ablaze.

"Everyone get the hell away!" he roared, knowing full well the gas tank could go off at any moment. Then he returned his attention to the remaining shooters and lined up his sights on Scarface before pulling the trigger.

Instead his aim was slightly off and the round slammed into the Ventriloquist's hip, sending him twirling to the side, behind one of the black cars, but Croc had already moved onto another target, putting two more shots into one of the remaining shooters.

Hearing some yells he saw the remaining shooter fall back and open a door, piling into one of the two remaining vehicles before the two cars started to drive in reverse, Croc firing shots into the windshield of one of them the entire time before his gun clicked empty once more and the two cars vanished into the street.

Turning around Croc was able to catch the explosion just in time, the shockwave knocking him off his feet and landing him on his ass.

Cursing and swearing the entire time, Cajun criminal got onto his feet in time to hear the sounds of police sirens, and seconds later the Gotham City Police Department had arrived in multiple squad cars.

Turning to face the sirens he came face to face with an older, wider cop with a grey trench coat and a matching fedora. If it weren't for the .357 magnum revolver pointed at his face he would have certainly found it humorous.

"Your under arrest, freak job." The man snapped at him, his mouth moving to chew on the end of a toothpick.

Behind the man he could see at least a half dozen officers coming out, most of them with Colt 1911's with a pair of pump shotguns completing the array of weapons in the general vicinity.

Groaning in defeat he set his unloaded gun on the ground before raising his large arms above his head, already knowing by heart that they would tell him his rights while they clamped the cuff's on him.

"Fan-fucking-tastic…." He muttered out as he realized that chances were he would most likely get blamed for the mess and get a few months in Blackgate Penitentiary, though that would be if he was lucky.