The crushing weight bore relentlessly down upon him, promising to crack his bones and tear his muscles. He would have cried out in pain were the strain of his burden not keeping his lungs heaving too heavily to scream. This was not training! It was brutal, unusual torture, and he didn't know how much longer he could survive it!
"Thank you for your patronage." The store clerk chirped with a peppy smile as the receipt printed out. Medea shot her small smile in thanks, then added the latest bag to the precariously balanced pile in Tio's arms.
From the outside it must have looked like a scene out of one of those old, slightly sexist movies: the woman striding energetically through the clothing store, adding whatever took her fancy to the heap of clothes being carried by the miserable man behind her. That wasn't quite the case here however. Although she might have been picking them out for him, every single garment that Medea had bought this morning was for Tio. Consider the fact that Medea was also the one paying for everything, carrying the damn stuff was probably the least Tio could do.
Later that afternoon the two of them would be getting in contact with a pair of clients for the meditation of some kind of contract dispute, and Tio would be playing Medea's assistant in order to get an introduction to the sort of work The Consiglieres did. Unfortunately Tio was still currently dressed in the cheap, casual clothes he'd switched into during his ill-fated heist yesterday, and the garments he had at home weren't much better. In what had been a blunt, but undeniably effective, show of buying his loyalty, Medea had declared that she would buy all the clothes he'd ever need to work with The Consiglieres for him that very morning, and that he was free to keep them even if he decided not to join after all.
So far it was turning out to be a very expensive gift. They'd trailed around no less than a dozen stores, from high-class boutiques to niche thrift stores, and in each one Medea had quickly and methodically picked on a range of ensembles in various colours and styles that matched his figure.
"Do I-… really need-… this many outfits?" Tio gasped as he staggered towards the door. "I assumed I'd only need one good suit."
Medea smirked knowingly as she moved to hold the door open for him. "Then you assumed wrong. While a good suit certainly has its uses, the true power of clothing lies in how to use it adaptably. Like a chameleon's skin, it can grant you the ability to blend in among any environment. Join us, and I will happily teach you such skills."
"You can teach me how to use disguises?" Tio asked.
Medea hummed. "Of sorts. Though disguises are more for people who aim to conceal their true identity. We specialise more in creating the impression that we come from a certain class, background or social group. I prefer the term masquerade to disguise."
Tio frowned. "I don't quite follow."
Medea's eyes twinkled, and he could almost see the way her posture shifted as she switched into her teaching mode. She stood a little straighter, her eyes fixed more straightforward ahead, and the articulation of her words became ever so slightly slower and clearer. "There are different levels of formality when it comes to dress codes. Politicians and mob bosses are likely to wear anything in between formal business suits to black-ties and dinner jackets, whereas street gangs and mercenaries are more likely to be casual hoodies or uniforms. People are inherently more likely to open up around others who they get the impression are from a similar background to them: they subconsciously recognise that such people are likely to have an easier time empathising with their point of view, and tend to distrust people who appear radically different from them for the opposite reason. If we, as diplomats, went to a meeting with a street gang dressed like we'd just stepped out of a cocktail party, then the minute they laid eyes on us those gangsters would form first impressions such as "they must think they're better than us" or "they don't understand what it's like to be hurting for cash", all of which would make them less open to dealing with us. The reverse would be true if we met with a businessman wearing jeans and hoodies. So we do our research, find out what sort of clients we're dealing with, and present ourselves in such a way as to appear that we are just like them. There's more to it than just the clothes of course: the way we walk and talk, the locations we meet, even the way we handle payments, are all done to create the illusion of similarity."
Tio wasn't quite sure how he felt about that. It was undeniably a smart move, but it also felt more than a little manipulative. Then again they were criminals, so that was almost to be expected.
"Do we wear masks?" He asked, the question suddenly popping into his mind along with an excited little flicker in his gut. Who wouldn't want to try dressing up in a mask like all the cool superheroes on TV once in a while?
Medea turned to look at him, amused. "We may be getting into the business of dealing with masked villains, but I think dressing up in masks, capes and tight spandex is taking it a little too far. Don't you?"
"Well… it would be nice to hide my identity." Tio admitted, feeling a little embarrassed. "Even if we're supposed to stay strictly neutral, I would prefer it if I could keep my personal life hidden."
"I see." Medea pursed her lips, frowning. "Your concerns are fair, but unfortunately they are a little problematic for our line of work." She held up her hand, with three fingers extended, and counted the first one off. "First of all you must remember that many criminals are very cautious, if not outright paranoid. Those who don't stay alert don't stick around for long after all. It is easier to trust a face, and if you show up wearing a mask to a meeting there will always be that doubt in their mind about what lies behind it. Are you perhaps an undercover cop? A hero? Worse? All you'd be giving them is a reason to doubt that you're truly acting in the interests of neutrality."
Medea's second finger slipped down. "Second, wearing a mask would be advertising to every criminal you meet that you want to keep your identity secret. That it's important to you. To criminals, that would smell like an advantage they could exploit in order to gain leverage over you, and by extension whatever negotiations we are hosting. Now we may take precautions to protect our member's safety, but even we can't completely ensure that you won't be tailed home after a meeting if whoever is hired is skilled enough. The best way to prevent people from being interested in your personal life is to not draw attention to it at all."
Medea's last finger dropped. "And finally consider this. Let's say that the worst comes to pass, and somehow the law or a cape somehow learns about one of our meetings and decides to gatecrash it. That is a very rare occurrence, but I'd be lying if I said it hasn't happened before. Now untrained, ordinary people like us aren't going to do much good against guns or meta powers, so our number one priority should always be to flee, but sometimes that's not an option either. So what do you think we do in such cases?"
Tio thought back to what he'd already learned about The Consiglieres. They prized staying away from the attention of the authorities, and used words to get their way. "Do we surrender?" He asked.
"Yep." Medea answered, popping the P deliberately as a sly smirk flashed across her face. "Surrender, then lie through your back teeth and plead innocence. Remember that we always arrange meetings at neutral locations, and that since you don't directly work for a client there won't be any money trails or evidence tying you to them. If the worst comes to pass, claim that you're an innocent bystander who unknowingly got caught up in their business somehow. No court will ever find enough evidence to convict you of anything. Though of course, if you're found wearing something as suspicious as a mask they'll certainly try to use that against you. Normal, law-abiding citizens don't need to hide their faces after all."
Those were all good points, but the thought of exposing his real identity to hardened criminals still made Tio uneasy. Was there another way that he could obscure his face? He'd have to give it some proper thought at a time when his arms didn't feel like they were about to fall off.
After what felt like a lifetime, but was in fact probably little more than a few minutes, the duo arrived at another shop. Medea went to hold the door open for him again, and winked as he passed through.
"This is the last stop now. I'll have the car brought to the front, so you can leave all those bags in the corner.
With a groan of relief Tio did just that, dumping the bags gracelessly against the shop window and giving his noodly arms a little stretch to try and stop them shaking from exertion. God, he needed to work out more. He turned around, and allowed himself to properly examine the store they'd walked into.
It was another clothing shop, decorated in an old English style with polished brown wood, red rugs and curtains, and a couple of hunting trophies displayed on the walls. It looked expensive in a rustic, upper-class Englishman way, but was smaller than the other expensive and modern-looking stores they'd visited. It was also currently empty save for a lone, middle aged woman in spectacles behind the counter.
Medea wasted no time in approaching the counter. "Good morning. We're here to pick up a suit under the name Medea. I sent the details over yesterday."
The shopkeeper smiled warmly. "Of course. Wait here just a moment while I fetch it."
As the lady trundled off to a back room, it started to dawn on Tio just where he was. "Is this a tailor? Am I getting a tailor made suit?!" He asked enthusiastically.
Medea shot him a smile. "Well, tailor customised. We didn't have enough time to get one made from scratch for you, but this one has been modified to your measurements, so it will be just as good. This will be for meetings with our higher-class clientele: the ones who really will respect overt displays of wealth and professionalism."
The shopkeeper returned with a suit carrier, and bustled him into a changing room to try it on. With a giddy little sensation bubbling happily in his stomach at the thought of getting his own nearly-tailor made suit, Tio eagerly began undressing. He had his shirt off in seconds, and had one leg out of his trousers when Medea brazenly strode in through the curtains.
"Medea!" He all but screamed, hands rushing to cover his scrawny chest in embarrassment.
Medea raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. "Oh please, don't be so dramatic. It's not like there's anything I didn't get to see before from your encounter with Superman." She strode over to the suit carrier and unzipped it, pulling out the first item of clothes. "I need to check that it fits as specified. No offence, but I'm not confident you'd notice if the fit was off. Now put this on."
For the sake of covering up as quickly as possible, Tio complied. The first item was a suit shirt, a plain dark pink in colour without any patterns and a small pocket over the left breast. The materials felt smooth as cool against his skin, and Tio assumed it must have been silk or something similarly expensive. He'd never felt anything like it before. Over that came a set of dress pants, a waistcoat and a suit jacket, all a dark midnight blue colour that leaned close to black. They seemed to hug the shape of his body perfectly, and moving in them felt effortlessly easy. Finally came a few accessories to complete the ensemble: black dress shoes polished to a shine, silver cufflinks and matching watch from some designer brand, and a wine-red tie that Medea wrapped up for him without him needing to ask.
"There we are. All done." Medea purred, pinning a silver brooch through the left lapel of his jacket, upon which was inscribed the letter C is a fancy cursive script and surrounded by a ring of what looked like thin vines. Tio noticed a similar pin on her own jacket, and guessed it was probably the symbol of the Consiglieres. Medea then placed her hands on his shoulder and gently nudged him around to face the mirror.
Tio was amazed at what he saw.
He looked… well good wasn't anywhere near enough to describe it. The midnight blue of his suit was professional, yet together with the pink and red of the tie and shirt became stylish in a slightly exotic way. He looked nothing like the desperate boy in a cheap apartment he really was. The boy- no, the man in the mirror looked assured. Important. Maybe even a little dashing. He was someone who belonged at gala dinners, drove sports cars and attended movie premiers.
"It fits you nicely." Medea complimented, taking in his appearance with a more critical eye and finding it satisfactory. "You look ready to do business, Mr Absyrtus."
"Mr Absyrtus?" Tio queried.
Medea smiled at his reflection knowingly. "While we may not wear masks to hide our faces, using our real names at work is not advisable. It is much easier to find someone if you know their name in this day and age. Fortunately the practice of using aliases has existed long before the dawn of superheroes, and is considered an acceptable part of criminal culture. So long as you don't flaunt it by choosing some ridiculous name like 'Captain Cold' none of our clients will mind you using a fake name." She plucked a stray thread from the back of his collar. "We Consiglieres want every member to feel like their own unique person rather than a faceless minion. It helps clients build a rapport with us that can be beneficial. That is one of the reasons why we have no set uniforms. When it comes to code names, we decided to choose ones that were unique enough to give us a sense of individuality, but also shared a theme to subtly remind clients that we were part of a larger, more powerful collective."
"So Medea isn't your real name?" Tio asked.
Medea smirked in silent amusement. "No, it's not."
"So if you're Ms Medea, and I'm Mr Absyrtus, what exactly is the theme our codenames are based around?"
Medea rolled her eyes theatrically. "Ah, but I forget that you are still in education. Medea and Absyrtus are both characters from Greek mythology: to be specific the tale of Jason and the Argonauts. Absyrtus was the prince of Colchis, the home of the Golden Fleece, and younger brother of the witch Medea. He helped his sister and Jason take the fleece and flee Colchis, but was sadly killed. There are many versions of how he died, but the most popular one is that Medea herself killed him, hacked his body apart and scattered his limbs into the ocean, so that the armies of their pursuing father would stop to collect them all up.
Tio gulped nervously. "That sounds… intense."
Medea smirked. "Oh don't worry, it's not meant to be personally significant to you. Most characters in Greek mythology don't exactly have a great time, so we wouldn't pick them if that were the case."
"Oh, right." That made sense, but still left him with a whole host of other questions. Unfortunately in his moment of hesitation Medea had decided that question time was over, and was already halfway out of the changing room. By the time he'd gathered all his clothes and stumbled after her, Medea was already waiting by the front door, watching a burly man in a grey chauffeur uniform pick items up from Tio's pile of new clothes and lug them over to the boot of a sleek black car.
"This fine gentleman is Conrad." Medea introduced, gesturing to the chauffeur. The man in question stopped what he was doing, turned to face Tio and nodded once, then went back to his work without a sound nor a hint of emotion. He was a strong, stocky fellow who Tio would have guessed was eastern european from his features, and held himself in a way that made Tio think of a soldier. "Conrad is one of my office's retainers: people with skills that make my work easier, but don't need to know anything more than the basics of what we do. Every consigliere office has a couple. We pay them well for their services, and their silence." She smiled knowingly. "Though keeping quiet has never been much of an issue for Conrad."
Conrad, who'd just finished closing the car boot, opened his mouth wide without even glancing over at him, revealing an angry pink stump where his tongue should have been.
"As you might imagine, our work requires a lot of meetings at various locations, some of which need to be kept a secret. Conrad here is my number one man for any transportation needs. As our business this afternoon is going to require visiting a number of locales, you'll have ample opportunities to acquaint yourself with his charming personality." Medea continued, strutting over to the car. Conrad opened one of the back doors and offered a hand to help her in, then turned to him expectantly.
"Thank you." Tio said somewhat awkwardly as he followed Medea into the car. Conrad shut the door behind him, and only then did it strike Tio how dark the inside was. The windows were tinted a black so thick that nothing could be seen through them, and the front of the car was sectioned off by a wall of similar smooth black glass. The only illumination came from blue and pink neon lights on the roof, and from the icons of some kind of touch screen control panel built into an armrest that separated the two back seats.
Medea had shuffled over to the other side of the car for him, and was now lounging leisurely in a plush black leather chair. She smiled cheekily at him, pressed one of the icons on the control panel, and a section of the partition wall suddenly opened with a click and a hiss. Inside was a mini-bar fully stocked with a range of small bottles and champagne flutes.
"Please, help yourself." She offered, taking and pouring some kind of white wine for herself. "It's going to be a long drive, and we have a briefing to go through."
Drinking in the morning felt wrong, especially considering that he was underage, but Tio recalled the impromptu lesson Medea had given him yesterday about using drinks in a conversation. He chose a ginger beer for himself, and then sat back into his seat. The seat was unfairly comfortable: soft yet firm, and artificially heated at some point around the lower back, to the point that Tio didn't realise how much he'd allowed himself to relax into it until he felt the gentle shift of the car beginning to move. Either the car's engine was so soft that it didn't make a sound, or more likely this part of the vehicle was very well soundproofed.
Medea tapped another icon, and the glass partition blinked to life like a TV, displaying a mugshot of a criminal. Tio read the words next to the picture as they appeared.
"Name: Mitchell Mayo. Alias: Con-…" He froze, blinked, then double checked the screen again to make sure he'd read it correctly. Upon confirming that he hadn't been mistaken, he turned to Medea. "This is a joke, right?"
Medea's carefully schooled expression gave nothing away. "No."
"Come on, it must be. Some kind of prank for new recruits."
Medea arched an eyebrow at him. "I assure you, the consiglieres are not in the habit of playing pranks."
"You're seriously telling me," Tio gestured to the screen in disbelief, "that there's a guy running around Gotham who calls himself the Condiment King?!"
The mugshot on the screen was of a boy at the end of his teenage years, his gangly limbs lacking in muscle and his face plastered with a bad case of acne. He had oily black hair slicked back, and a wide, slightly loopy grin on his face as he stared at the camera. Two more pictures appeared on the monitor: of the boy squirting a bottle of barbecue sauce at someone as he passed them by, the next of him wearing some kind of skintight black wetsuit and a belt from which hung a range of different condiments, all connected by tubes to some kind of rifle that dripped ketchup from its nozzle.
Medea let out the tiniest of sighs. "Gotham has gotten… weird these past few decades. Mitchell was arrested after a very brief altercation with Robin five years ago, and sent to Arkham Asylum. He's escaped a couple of times since during mass breakouts staged by bigger players, but it never takes very long for him to get caught again."
Tio frowned. "They sent a teenager to Arkham for squirting sauce at people?"
Medea smirked, but this time it was completely lacking in humour and looked more like a wry grimace. "That's just how things work here in Gotham. Mitchell has no powers, talents or anything that makes him especially dangerous. He uses guns that squirt condiments at people which have been known to cause anaphylactic shocks, but that's about it. In other words he's a perfectly safe client for a beginner to sit in on a meeting with."
"I'm surprised you're meeting with him at all." Tio replied, eyeing the pictures critically. "He seems kinda… lame, honestly."
"Oh, I couldn't agree more." Medea rolled her eyes. "But he has come into possession of a rather substantial amount of money recently. I have some contacts asking around as to where this money came from of course, but frankly he's not a big enough fish for anyone to have bothered keeping an eye on before, and even if it turned out that he stole it from somewhere it's not like that matters to us."
Tio raised an eyebrow. "Why does he need your services anyway?"
"Because he's looking to spend some of that money." Medea replied, tapping the control panel again. Another picture appeared, and this time appeared a group of armed men who looked far more like the part of criminals: thuggish, tattooed and muscular. "This is the Penitente Cartel. They're based in Mexico, but have supply lines that bring class A drugs into Gotham. A few years ago they made some sort of play to take over Gotham, got beaten black and blue by the Bat, and never really recovered. Condiment King wants to make an agreement to purchase regular shipments of drugs from them, but although the Penitentes are desperate they haven't lost quite so much pride yet as to be willing to sit down with… well… someone who calls themselves Condiment King. Mitchell hired me to convince them to come to the table, and to help hash out the terms of a deal between them."
"What does Condiment King want drugs for?" Tio asked.
Medea shrugged. "I don't know, and frankly it's not our business. Either he's stupid enough to try taking it all himself, in which case he'll be dead within a week, or more likely he's planning to start his own little gang and deal drugs as a regular stream of income. Most organised crime starts with drug dealing, arms dealing, prostitution or something similar: day-to-day activities that churn out a steady profit to take care of the overheads of the real high-stakes crimes. Robbing a bank every week brings too much heat down on your head, and whatever you steal won't last forever."
Tio fidgeted nervously. He was getting involved in drug dealing? It felt weird to admit considering he'd already tried robbing a casino, but the thought sat uncomfortably with him. If mum could see him now she'd be ashamed of him. She'd always hated drugs.
Medea seemed to pick up on his discontent and offered a sympathetic smile. "Relax. This meeting would have happened eventually, with or without us. All we're doing is facilitating discussions, not pedalling the wares ourselves." She took a sip of her wine. "Besides, at the end of the day most drugs are no more harmful or addictive than alcohol and cigarettes. It's the sawdust and other things drug cartels cut their product with that makes it really harmful. If the government legalised drugs, but placed careful restrictions on how they could be manufactured to prevent unscrupulous companies taking advantage, then people would be able to buy cleaner, safer and cheaper drugs. The only reason they don't is because the small but loud minority that oppose drugs simply because they have been raised to see them as evil would demonise them in the media and cost them precious voters. Drug dealers only supply to a need that has always, and will always, exist, same as any business."
Those were all good points, and logically presented. But despite his head agreeing with Medea's words, his heart could not. Tio took a gulp of ginger beer to mask his unease, and tried to distract his mind from the subject by reading some more through the Condiment King's profile.
What would mum have said if she could see him now?
When the car pulled to a stop and the door swung open, Tio squinted against the bright light of day. They had parked somewhere in the downtown industrial zone, beside some kind of old factory.
"Now remember: always be polite, always respect their privacy, and never tell them that they have to do something." Medea cautioned, accepting Conrad's hand to help her out of the vehicle. "Our job is to-… oh my."
As Tio clambered out the car himself, he looked over to where Medea was looking. The warehouse doors were open, and from somewhere inside the grunts and yells of fighting echoed out.
Suddenly a figure burst through the doors, his face a rictus of pain and the front of his shirt soaked red with blood. He staggered forward drunkenly for a few steps before pain overwhelmed him, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.
"Tio! Wait!" Medea hissed, and only then did Tio realise that he was already rushing over to help. But he wasn't trained in first aid, and as he got closer the realisation that there was nothing he could do left him standing around helplessly while the man writhed in agony. Up close the victim looked even worse: his body battered and bruised, his skin slick with sweat, and the strong smell of tomato clinging to his-…
Wait… tomato?
As gently as he could, Tio rolled the beaten man over and examined the red patch. It looked like blood, but now that he examined it closer Tio realised that there was no tear or hole in the man's clothes that would signify a gunshot or knife wound. All of his injuries seemed more in line with someone who'd been beaten up by a set of fists. Cautiously, Tio dipped a finger in the red patch, then brought it up to his nose and gave it a sniff.
"Ketchup?" He whispered to himself.
A loud groan of pain wailed out from the factory, and with a start Tio realised that the sound of fighting had ceased. Now there was just the sound of footsteps. His instincts started tingling, warning him to flee, as a looming silhouette started to become visible from inside the factory: stomping slowly, ominously, towards them. The silhouette reached the factory doors, and the ray of sunlight peeking through illuminated their feet first before slowly climbing up their body.
Tio gulped in fear at what he saw.
A skintight black stretched around a solid wall of honed, taught muscle, doing nothing to hide the bulging biceps and washboard abs. The man seemed to be at least six foot, but the way he hunched over slightly suggested he'd probably be a good half a foot taller again if he stood up straight, and the sheer mass of muscle he possessed widened him out to an almost bear-like physique. A mane of wild, curly black hair ran down to his shoulders, but was swept back to leave his face uncovered: a face with fairly plain features, but which seemed alive and vibrant due to the wide, toothy grin which just sang of self-assurance.
And hung on a holster strapped to his waist, like a cowboy's revolver, was a gun dripping with fresh ketchup.
"No way… Condiment King?" He whispered to himself.
Condiment King, for he could be no other, had clearly been putting some hours into the Arkham Asylum gym. Even now as he walked, one arm dragged a moaning and beaten thug behind him by the leg as easily as a child dragging a favourite teddy bear. His eyes fixed on Tio, then flicked to Medea, and that confident grin grew just a little wider.
"Aha, you must be the famed Connector." He said to Medea, his voice deep and just a little husky. "Apologies for the mess, I'm just finishing some unplanned cleaning."
With that he heaved his arm around, swinging the thug he was dragging in a wide arc, and bodily lobbed the unfortunate man into the air. Like a shot put, the thug sailed briefly through the air before unceremoniously thudding face-first into the ground, not too far away from his fallen colleagues.
It was shocking how strong Mitchell had become, especially considering how weedy he'd been a few years ago according to the briefing. Too late did Tio realise that he probably shouldn't be letting his surprise show on his face where Condiment King could see. He whipped his head back around, trying to school his expression, only to find that Condiment King's eyes were fixed directly on him. Rather than offence however, Condiment's expression seemed… pleased? His grin had grown even wider yet, beginning to straddle the bounds of uncomfortably wide, and there was a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what Tio was thinking and found the whole thing very amusing.
"Come on in." Condiment announced cheerfully, turning back towards his warehouse and stomping away. The moment he wasn't looking, Tio rushed back to Medea, who had somehow been able to keep her own expression from betraying her surprise.
"That was not in the briefing!" He hissed.
For just a fraction of a second, so quick Tio could possibly have imagined it, he thought he saw a little flash of sheepishness cross Medea's face. Yet if it had ever existed at all, it was soon wrestled back into a look of perfect neutrality.
"Condiment King has been locked up for a long time, and nobody really bothered to keep an eye on him of all people. Not when there are so many more dangerous villains around. There were bound to be some changes." Medea answered, her tone just a little defensive in his opinion. "I'll admit that Mitchell's-… growth spurt is unexpected, but that has little bearing on the plan. Other than taking greater care not to engage him in combat, which we try to avoid anyway, this will have no change on our work today."
Medea led the way forwards into the warehouse, and after a second of hesitation Tio trailed after her like a lost puppy. The inside of the warehouse was spacious, and filled with a range of mishmashed furniture that seemed to follow no colour or style palate, most likely because they'd been stolen. A generator whirred in one corner, hooked up to a couple of laptops and a television mounted atop flat logs, as well as a string of christmas lights that'd been hooked up around half the ceiling. In the middle of the warehouse a set of worn sofa and armchairs, most of which looked and smelled like they belonged in an old folks home, surrounded a pool table with its wooden lid still on and the legs removed to bring it lower to the ground. Against the far wall was a web of whiteboards, maps and posters, all connected together with those little red strings and pins Tio saw in detective shows, to together create what he could only assume was some kind of nonsensical ideas board.
"Have a seat." Condiment King offered gregariously, gesturing to a faded beige sofa. "What're you drinking?"
"A beer for me, please." Medea replied promptly, taking a seat.
"And for me too." Tio echoed, sitting next to her.
Condiment King reached into a nearby fridge, took out a pair of beer bottles, and twisted the caps off with his bare hands before setting them down on the table. Then he reached into the fridge again, withdrew a bottle of supermarket brand mustard, and squirted it into a pint glass. He flopped down into a sofa on the opposite side of the table with a heavy thud, and Tio watched with horrified fascination as he raised the pint of mustard to his lips, grinned at them both, and began to down the entire thing in a few deep gulps. Just seeing it gave Tio the reflexive urge to gag as his imagination unwittingly tried to conjure up the sensation of the viscous, slimy liquid squelching down his own throat.
Medea's knee gently nudged his own, and Tio realised he was gawking. Quickly he tried to mask his sickened fascination by taking a deep swig of his own beer.
Condiment King finished his pint, wiped a thin moustache of yellow sauce off his top lip with his sleeve, and let out a satisfied gasp, as if he'd just been enjoying a cool beverage on a hot day. Then he set his glass to one side and sat up straight, facing them directly. "Alright, let's get down to business, shall we? I'm assuming by the fact that you've come here in person that the Penitente are finally willing to do business?"
Medea nodded and took a delicate sip of her own beer. "They are, but the situation isn't so simple. The Penitente don't have the influence they used to. They still have a couple of smuggling routes left they can use to bring the drugs you need into Gotham, but they can't afford to have them exposed. If the police, or worse Batman, discovers them, they may lose their grip on Gotham entirely. They aren't just looking for money right now, but for assurances that their clients will be discreet with their product."
Condiment King snorted derisively. "In other words, they expect me to be an idiot who'll get caught immediately and expose their smuggling route."
Medea winced. "That's not quite-…"
"No, no, it's fine." Condiment King interrupted. "Their concerns are fair. I'm new to the drug dealing game, and I know what people think of me." There was a hint of something dangerous in his tone that conflicted against his easy smile. "But surely the great Connector has a solution? With such a high price for your services, I assume you've done more than just listen to their excuses?"
If Medea was offended she certainly didn't show it. "Of course." She replied professionally. "The Penitente are willing to sell to you, on the condition that you pay for a number of shipments in advance. That way if there are any… issues… that lead to the discovery of the supply route, they will have enough cash to set up a replacement. In the long term you'll still be paying the same amount."
Condiment King cocked his head to the side. "But in the short-term I'll be very out-of-pocket. If I mess up, or the Penitente double-cross me, I won't see any of that money again. How many payments are they expecting me to make in advance?"
"That exact detail can be settled in discussions later, but the ballpark figure right now is a year."
Condiment King threw his head back suddenly and hooted loudly with laughter, shocking Tio with how vigorous it was. "A year! Now that's funny! If I'm supposed to entrust such a staggering amount of cash to a drug cartel, I expect you must have a very good plan in place to ensure they don't screw me over."
Medea nodded calmly. "We can negotiate for your advance payment to be held in a Consigliere account and paid to the Penitente in increments after each successful delivery, then draw up a contract detailing which party the money will be sent to in the event that all does not go as planned. If the Penitente go back on their word you would lose a single monthly payment, but not the whole pot. I don't believe the Penitente would risk being blacklisted from us and the rest of the Gotham criminal community for that more modest figure. Of course if the fault was yours, as by the wording on the contract, then the Penitente would take everything."
Condiment King mulled it over for a few seconds. "So as long as I'm not the one who screws up, my risk of being betrayed is lessened." He tapped a finger against his chin in thought, then broke out into another freakishly wide grin. "I can live with those terms. So long as the wording is right."
"Wonderful." An easy smirk settled across Medea's face. "In that case could you please show me proof that you have enough money to make the advance payments?"
Mitchell replied by lifting one leg up and bringing it down in a sharp kick on top of the table. The wooden panel on one side of it clicked open, revealing a hidden compartment inside, which Mitchell reached into and hauled a stuffed duffel bag out from. He dumped the bag on the table and pulled the zip open.
Tio audibly gasped at the slight of stacks upon stacks of cash stuffed together within. He didn't think he'd ever seen so much money together in one place outside of movies. How much was in there? A million? Two? He was so taken aback by the sheer amount that he couldn't begin to accurately guess.
Medea gave the cash a brief, critical glance, no doubt able to estimate exactly how much was there in just one look, and nodded. "Wonderful. In that case I'll make a quick call, and we'll proceed to the meeting." She stood up, but as Tio made to follow her she shot him a quick hand gesture to stay seated. "Please keep our host entertained Mr Absyrtus. I won't be long."
Wait, what?! How was he supposed to keep a nutjob who drank a pint of mustard entertained?! Tio started to panic, but before he could say anything Medea had already walked off, her phone brought up to one ear. He glanced over the table at Condiment King, whose eyes and eerily wide smile were now fixed solely on him.
Tio took another long swig of his drink to buy him some time as he desperately tried to think of something to talk about. The problem was that right when he needed it most, his mind had gone completely blank. What did someone like him have to say to a criminal who'd broken out of Arkham Asylum? He couldn't think of anything that the two of them had in common, and whatever small talk topics he could think of just felt downright embarrassing to bring up. Eventually the time he could spend drinking without making it obvious he was trying to avoid conversation came to a close, and Tio set his drink back down to find that Condiment King was still staring at him with that exact same creepy smile, like he hadn't moved a single muscle.
"So-… um-… do you-…" Tio floundered, unable to find a single thing to say to break the silence between them that was rapidly growing unbearably awkward.
Condiment King just chuckled knowingly. "Go ahead and ask. I don't mind."
Tio frowned in confusion. "What?"
Condiment King leaned back in his seat. "Everyone wants to ask, but most feel like it'd be some kind of social faux pas to bring it up. The only people with the balls to just speak their mind are superheroes and villains. Go ahead. Ask that question that's been bugging you since the moment you heard about me."
Tio's cheeks reddened at being caught out so easily. There was one question that had been bothering him ever since he read Medea's report, but it felt rude to bring it up. Yet Condiment was looking at him with that knowing gaze, promising that it was okay to speak, and before he knew it Tio's mouth was open and blurting out the words that were on his mind.
"What the fuck is your deal with condiments?"
He froze in horror as his mind caught up with his mouth, expecting Condiment King to be offended. Yet unexpectedly the burly man began to bellow with laughter, as if he was in on a hilarious joke.
"That's the million dollar question, isn't it? What the fuck is The Riddler's deal with riddles? What the fuck is Mr Freeze's deal with ice? What the fuck is my deal with condiments? It's hard to understand why people would obsess over such seemingly asinine things to the point of theming their entire criminal careers around them, isn't it? In some cases, like mine, it even seems downright silly."
Tio's head told him that the correct thing to do in this situation was to lie, and offer Condiment King meaningless assurances that his condiment theme wasn't silly at all. Yet his gut instinct told him that Mitchell wouldn't appreciate that. He seemed to prefer it when people were brutally honest with him.
"Yeah, kind of." He admitted. "But if you know people think that you're a joke, why do you still do it?"
Condiment King was silent for a moment. Then all of a sudden he stood up, and looked at the wall where all his maps and plans were pinned up. He didn't seem to be looking at the wall itself however, but far off into the distance as his memory overtook him. "Let me answer your question with a question. When you were just a little kid in your first school, did your teachers ever tell you that you can be whatever you want to be."
"Of course." Tio replied. He couldn't remember it happening specifically, but he was sure it must have happened. "They say that to everyone."
Condiment King chuckled wryly. "So they do. Work enough, they say, and you can be a doctor. You can be an astronaut. You can be whatever you want to be, so long as you try hard enough." Mitchell looked back at him. "But of course once you get old enough, you realise that's all a crock of shit. It's impossible for everyone to have their dream job. Society is built like a pyramid: for every one doctor, there are ten janitors. For every one astronaut, there are a hundred binmen. And in the end society needs binmen more than it does astronauts, so in order to keep functioning properly it needs to keep some people wading through sewers each and every day so that those higher up the pyramid than them don't have to."
"So this is about social class?" Tio asked, confused.
For just a moment a flash of annoyance crossed Mitchell's face, and he shook his head. "No no no, not that. That's not the point." He began to pace back and forth behind the sofa. "I don't care that some people use their wealth and connections to get better jobs or education for their children. When securing your kid's future, I wouldn't begrudge anybody using whatever methods they had to to ensure that their loved ones have the best chance at a good life possible. You'd be daft not to. My issue is that our society is built in a way that allows each person to specialise in a particular set of tasks. But that doesn't mean that the worst tasks disappear, they are just shoved down the hierarchy until the people at the bottom are forced to handle the very worst of them. And because nobody would ever want to be given the worst jobs day after day, society has to find a way to keep them in line. So they pass laws that limit their options, charge them rent and taxes to keep them desperate for money, fill their heads with advertising and propaganda to convince them that they should be grateful for having a job at all; all to numb them to the fact that they're being reduced to dull cogs, repetitively turning over and over to scrub up the messes of a civilisation they owe no loyalty to."
Tio shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He could relate to the feeling of being trapped by laws and drowning in an ever-growing sea of debt. It was what had driven him to agree to something as stupid as a heist in Superman's home turf. But he'd never gotten angry about it before. Why get angry at something you couldn't fight back against?
Mitchell suddenly whirled around to face him, catching his uncomfortable expression before Tio could hide it, and his creepy smile flashed back to life. "You're beginning to understand, aren't you? Many villains do. But although you're starting to see it, you haven't had your revelation yet."
"Revelation?" What was he talking about? The way he stressed the word, with a subtle kind of awe, made it sound almost biblical.
Condiment King stood up tall and looked to the side, his smile becoming relaxed and his eyes taking on the glassy sheen of someone reminiscing a fond memory. "I used to be just like you. Weak, scrawny, lacking in confidence; a young boy on the cusp of adulthood who wasn't quite ready yet to take on the world, but was forced to sink or swim ahead of his time. I was no talented genius, no handsome adonis, had no lofty connections to call upon, and so the place in society I fell into was right down at the bottom of their hierarchy: working a hotdog stand. That was what fate had determined my life was destined to amount to: simpering and scraping before every degenerate with a couple of dollars in their pocket as I slammed a sausage between a bread bun for them. I worked all the hours I could just to pay the rent on my apartment, all so that I could get enough rest to go back to work again the next day. I had no time to look for other jobs or get a better education. That was my life: working to sleep, sleeping to work, over and over, turning like a little cog in a machine, my life refitted into a machine to serve hotdogs."
Condiment King was completely lost in his own little world now, staring off into the middle distance. It felt like he was talking to himself more than anyone at this point, but in a strange way Tio found the story a little captivating. Something about it felt just a little too relatable for comfort.
"Then one day I had a particularly bad day. One of those days where nothing just seemed to work out my way. There was this one customer who just seemed to have it out for me. I don't ever remember what it was they were complaining about anymore, but they stood there for what felt like hours, ranting and raving on and on about, driving away other people and yelling so loudly that my ears still itch just thinking about it. Then all of a sudden the sounds around me just went away. I could still hear the customer yelling, still hear the echo of the city around me, but it felt muted. Dull. And all of a sudden I had this moment of true peace, some real buddhist monk introspection shit, where for the first time ever I could truly just think for myself. I asked myself why I just rolled with it. Why I bothered listening to all the noise everyone blasted at me. Why I let my life be enslaved to the service of others. And right then, in that moment, for perhaps the very first time in my life I acted truly of my own free will." Mitchell's fingers twitched with the phantom on movement. "I reached out, grabbed the bottles of condiments in front of me, and I-… I-… I-…"
A smile stretched across Mitchell's face. It wasn't the confident grin from before, or the eerily wide look of amusement. It was slack and instinctual, the kind that came before the primal urge to gasp in pleasure in a moment of rapture, and to Tio's alarm Mitchel shivered in some kind of perverse pleasure.
"… I squeezed."
Tio suddenly felt very uncomfortable. If this was how Mitchell acted at the thought of squirting people with sauce, he could suddenly see why he'd be locked up in Arkham. This dude was nuts!
As if coming down from a high, Mitchell stroked a hand down his face and let out a sigh of pure satisfaction. Then his eyes flicked back to Tio once again, and up came that creepy grin on his. "In my moment of liberation, condiments were the tools that set me free. Other people can laugh and joke about it all they want, but I don't care. Condiments have a personal significance to me, and every time I use them I recall a little taste of that feeling of freedom. That's why I'm the Condiment King."
So that was the reason. Tio couldn't say he fully agreed with Mitchell's reasoning, yet to his surprise a part of him could see where he was coming from. Being a villain was all about putting your own selfish wants above other people, and Mitchell's ridiculous choice of theme was another expression of that. He liked the feeling of using condiments in his crime, and as freaky as that was, there was something admirable about doing what made you truly happy regardless of how other people mocked and judged you for it. Mitchell was most definitely taking it a little too far with his Condiment King persona, but in a sense that was no worse than only wearing the latest fashionable clothing so that other people would think you were cool, even if they had no personal significance to you. Both were on opposite ends of the happy balance between being yourself and conforming to the expectations around you.
The tap of heels against the floor signalled that Medea was returning, and Tio quickly finished his drink as she came to stand behind him. "The Penitente are ready " She announced. "If you'll please come with us, we'll take you to the meeting place. A representative from the cartel will be meeting us there."
"Sounds like a plan!" Condiment King announced brazenly, baring his teeth in a wide smile again. "No sense in wasting time. Let's get this show on the road."
He grabbed the duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder, and swaggered off behind Medea as she began leading the way back to their car. Tio stood up as well and made to follow, when something caught his eye.
All the other furnishings in the warehouse had the look of second-hand, used and probably stolen goods. Tucked away by one of the walls covered in maps and blueprints, Tio spotted what looked to be a hotdog cart. He'd overlooked it on his way in, but after hearing Mitchell's story he couldn't help but look at it a little more closely, and now that he did he noticed something odd. It looked brand new. On the wall beside it was a bird's-eye view map of Gotham City, with a couple of dozen red pins spread out near parks, theatres and tourist hotspots.
Tio wondered for a second what they were supposed to represent, but quickly banished the thought from his mind. It wouldn't be professional to keep Medea and the clients waiting.
He jogged off to follow Medea, leaving the warehouse and the strange map behind.
I have to admit, as cool as the major-league supervillains are, my heart always goes out to the D-listers. The ones who are weak, goofy and know that they don't stand a chance against the heroes, but still give it their best shot anyway. They just feel more human to me. Take Kite Man for example. I learned about him from a Youtube video about a comic series called "The War of Jokes and Riddles", which did an absolutely amazing job of creating a sympathetic and genuinely compelling reason why a man would dress himself up as a kite of all things, and really making the audience root for him. Rooting for a D-lister is like rooting for the underdog.
So since my dear Tio is starting from the bottom of criminal society, I thought this would be a great time to bust out Condiment King. There are two versions of him, one of which is just some old man being mind controlled as a way to humiliate him, and the other being Mitchell Mayo. Mitchell Mayo has no official backstory in the comics as far as I am aware, and for the most part has been a scrawny kid in over his head, so I thought there might be some room to give him a bit of a glow up. Is it canon? No. But I don't think anyone will mind me taking a bit of creative liberty.
See you next time.
