Gallery of the Naughty List

It figured that they would be heading to the Stacked Deck.

When it came to old-time gangsters and goons looking for work, the Stacked Deck was their choice in bars. Hired muscle would come here, waiting for jobs to come in. Mobsters would meet here to relax after a hard day's work of racketeering and theft. Legend has it that some of the old Mob Bosses would broker deals in the back rooms with each other.

At least, that's what Huntress claimed.

Black Canary found herself about a block away from the bar. She and the other Birds had positioned themselves around it, figuring their mark would be coming here. After checking out the motel in South Gotham, they had gotten some intel this Matches Malone was heading in this direction. Huntress had thought of the Stacked Deck, and for lack of anything else to go on, they came here.

Now they were just waiting.

Canary looked down at the street below, seeing a few wise guys milling around. Some were leaving the area while others were heading right for the bar. You could tell they were "family" men by their walk. There was a swagger to them, like they owned the place and knew it. Anybody wanted to mess with them, and their just reward was violence.

The blonde vigilante found herself glance towards the south. She had taken that spot, with the others at the other cardinal directions. They only did this to ensure they didn't miss the guy approaching from another direction. Just because he was last seen in the south didn't mean he would come straight here. He could have gone who knows where into the city, doing anything and everything, and then come here.

It was then that she spotted a lone figure. Everyone so far had been in pairs or threes, so seeing a single person stuck out to her. Focusing on them, Canary waited until she got a better look at him.

The dark trench coat was the first thing she could make out. It wasn't button up, so what looked like a suit was underneath it, at least a dark dress shirt and tie. He wore a hat, which disguised his face from this angle.

However, it was certainly the get-up they knew this Malone guy to be wearing.

"I think I see our target," Canary announced over the comm link. "Heading north…right for the Stacked Deck."

"What did I tell you?" Huntress responded immediately. "Told you he'd be coming here."

Yeah, you said that twenty times already. Canary ignored the sarcasm that was threatening to come out. They were on the job and the time for banter was over. She kept her eyes on the man as he passed by a couple of patrons leaving the bar, his head turning to glance at them before looking back forward. He didn't receive the same look in return.

And then he entered the bar. "Target's entered the bar," she reported. Now they waited.


The sound of billiard balls being broken filled the room. There were tables all over, encircled by chairs. Most were filled with made men, most drinking from glass mugs, others playing poker games. There was a thick cloud of smoke that seemed to cover the ceiling, the result of the bar blatantly ignoring city ordinances for outlawing tobacco products.

The man in the trench coat surveyed the room before he headed for the bar. He received a couple of glances, but that was all. There was nothing too unusual about a man like him coming here.

There was a constant drone of chatter, interrupted only by the games of billiards being played, or someone at one of the poker games shouting with glee as they won a hand. The man reached the bar and took a seat, just staring at the shelves of liquor there, a match sticking out from between his lips.

"...so my old ladies keeps naggin' and naggin', and you know how she is. So I slapped her mouth to shut her up, 'cause that's the only way to get the broad to shut her trap," one man was saying.

"...wouldn't believe the shit I've gotta do. They got me running all the way to Blüdhaven just for…" another one was complaining.

"...so I shot the guy in the face. Damn gun just went off right in the middle of the day. Blood and brains was all over the fuckin' back window. So we had to get out of sight…"

A couple men then appeared, taking a couple stools one down from the man. "Barkeep!" one of them shouted. "Get your ass out here!"

The man stared at them bemused, bobbing his matchstick with his mouth. "Zo there is Zome schmuck 'round here," he remarked.

"Yeah," one of the other men responded. "Usually when he ain't suckin' his own dick. Barkeep!"

"Hold your damn horses!" a boisterous voice shouted back then. "You ain't the only customers I got!"

"Then hire someone else, Dick!"

"Sure, I'll hire ya sistah!"

The man just watched the exchange with the same look of bemusement. Then he turned his entire attention to the gentlemen. "So, youz guyz hear 'bout any good jobz lately? I'm in the market for zome work."

"Nothing for you, jerk," the other man piped up. "Who the hell are you anyways?"

"The name's Matches Malone."

Both men paused before they had their fully attention on. Naturally, that's when the bartender appeared. "What the hell do you ladies want?" he demanded.

"Strongest beer ya got on tap," Malone responded as he pulled out a roll of dollar bills. "And whatever my friendz here want—on me."

The bartender just nodded before looking at the wise guys. They just muttered to get them the same thing and the barkeep took off. "Matches Malone," one of them repeated lowly then. "I heard you got whacked."

Malone smirked. "The reportz of my death are greatly exaggerated—as you can zee."

"I heard you got blown half to Hell," the other one said.

"Oh, there waz an explozion, but I wasn't anywherez near it. Got into zome trouble and thought it best I find myzelf some new zerroudinz."

The bartender reappeared then dropping off three mugs of beer. Malone just thumbed out a couple large bills and tossed them onto the bar. "For the tab," he told the man, who nodded. Then, he thumbed out another bill and handed it to the barkeep. "For you ta keep it comin'."

"I heard you liked throwin' money around. Glad them rumors are true," one of the men said as he picked up his beer and took a healthy swig from.

"Ya get what ya put out. Ya make more friendz if ya get 'em drunk," Malone responded. "All I'ze ask iz ya think of me when somethin' comez up."

"That's a catch I can live with."

Matches leaned back on his stool even as he took his own drink. He removed his match to do so, his fingers grazing over the thin, pencil mustache he wore. His eyes glanced around, looking at some of the faces. He saw a few faces he recognized, but none that he was really interested in talking to. They wouldn't know the information he wanted. He had until closing, so there was still some time.

"So it'z been awhile since I'ze been out in these partz," Malone said after another drink. "Can ya tell me what'z been goin' down?"

"Same old, same old," one of them shrugged. "We get by, but not the way it used ta be. The Bat's seen to that."

"Anyone I should steer clear of?"

Both men snorted. "All them crazies out in Arkham. You'd soonah get ya head blown off then makin' it out alive. Yer better off gettin' arrested cause there ain't no promises with them."

"Good ta know," Malone grunted. "I'ze heard rumahz 'bout them. Half of 'em even true?"

"The ones you heard don't come close to the truth," one of them grumbled. "They should just put a bullet in each and every one of them. They give us wiseguys a bad name."

"Them gangbangahz do that too," Matches responded. "Cheap punk with gunz and no damn sense on how ta use 'em."

"Ain't that the truth."

Suddenly, something—or rather someone—rammed into the bar next to Matches. The three men turned their attention to a young man who was standing right next to the Jersey transplant. "Hey, Dick!" the man shouted.

"The barkeep's name iz Dick?" Matches questioned.

"Nah, that's just the only way to get his attention," one of the gangsters responded.

"And who'z thiz guy?"

"That's just NIck. He's always wasted in here."

Upon hearing his name, Nick turned his head. "Two Toes and Jack! I haven't seen you guys in awhile!" Then he glanced at Malone. "And you I don't recognize!"

"Hey, NIck," either Two Toes or Jack returned the greeting. "This is Matches Malone."

Nick blinked his eyes. "Matches? Malone? You're kidding. That guy got blown to hell months ago!"

"The reports on his death were greatly exaggerated."

NIck stared at him. "You got the look," he admitted before he raised a foot up, hooking it around the leg of a nearby stool, pulling it towards him so he could take a seat in it. "And where do you come from, Matches?"

"Joysey," Matches replied, just as the bartender reappeared. "Put Nick here on my tab," he immediately said.

The bartender nodded, which earned an approving nod from Nick. "My usual, Dick," he said as he stared at the made man. "So, where in Jersey are ya from?"

"Doesn't mattah really," Malone said as he took another drink. It was cold and very bitter, like trying to drink the bark off a tree. "I'm here now. Zidez, it waz gettin' a bit hot fer me down south. Zuffice ta zay, I needed a fresh start."

"So that's what brings you here, Matches."

"It does. Now, who are you, stranger?"

"This is Nick Calabrese," either Two-Toes or Jack told him. "He's made."

Matches glanced at the men. "Ya just needed ta zay Calabrese. It goez without zayin' he'z made." He then returned his attention back to Nick. "It'z been awhile since I had any dealin' with ya family. Back when the Lion was still roarin'. How iz that old guy anywayz?"

"Dead," Nick said bluntly.

"Ah. Sorry fer ya loss."

"Eh, happened a long time ago," the young man shrugged. "Like a year ago…I think. Anyways, what brings you up here?"

"He's lookin' for work, boss," the other gangster said.

"Well now, this sounds promising."


When most people thought about heists, they thought about breaking and entering, finding the one gap in the security and slipping through, dodging and evading the state-of-the-art security measures from motion sensors to security cameras, maybe using acrobatics and flexible poses to do so.

That was more work than it was worth. Besides, there were many other gaps in security most didn't anticipate.

He slipped in days ago as a janitor, scoping out the Gotham Museum of Art, searching for pieces, the rarer the better, and of course those with a demand. Things had aligned that a vase in the Ancient Greece display would be his target, and it took to taking up responsibility for cleaning that area, timing how long he would have between interruptions and unexpected visits. You had to train the rest of the staff to get used to you.

This night would be different. By now, the police had received his clue, and from the walkie talkie he had clipped to his belt, they were setting up outside. Many officers wanted to be on the inside, but it was being determined how many they could stick inside without compromising the existing security measures.

The curator was insistent that all cleaning and janitorial duties were taken care of before locking down the museum in its entirety. Staff was being rushed to finish up, which meant a half-assed job was being done.

Time was of the essence, and so he rolled his trolley into the Ancient Greek exhibit and removing a lengthened sweeper. It took little strength to push it, and to work he went, keeping his speed up while keeping an eye out for anyone who might show up. At the beginning, like always, there was some traffic, though this night he had company in the form of another janitor. This one was also sweeping, so that made cleaning the floor here pass by twice as fast.

With minutes ticking by, the fake janitor would periodically glance up at the cameras watching the exhibit. Part of his training of the staff also included sneaking into security, timing it so that he was in there alone, and making copies of previous nights. After that, it was sneaking in and recording his recorded footage over the present day recording. Three nights in a row, and he hadn't been smoked out yet. This was why he had felt confident in leaving behind his clue.

Now it was waiting for his help to leave, and as he was returning to his trolley, putting his sweeper back on it, he was also pulling out a wad of paper towels and a bottle of cleaning solution.

"I saw some smudges," he told his fellow janitor, holding up the wad of paper towels to emphasize his actions. "I'm going to take care of those real quick. You go ahead."

A nod from the dark-skinned man, one guess to his nationality, and then the fake janitor was alone. Carefully, he returned to his trolley and moved it to where he needed, specially next to a certain display.

Like many in here, it was on a podium, a transparent case securing it within. To anyone not in the know, it was your typical Ancient Greek vase, images of a myth decorating it. Other than it being old, what was so special about this one?

Well, this one was an early example of the artist signing his name on it. There was one particular Greek, Sophilos, who had become synonymous with this practice. While he himself did not know Ancient Greek, he had memorized the particular lettering and sequence that was needed to confirm that the vase in question was one of Sophilos'.

That had been why he had spent the better part of two weeks setting this up. A Sophilos vase was valuable to a collector, though you would need to use black market channels to both sell and buy one. Well, he already had that set up, so now to get the vase.

The lock was handled easily, and no, he won't explain that one. Trade secrets, though if you wanted a clue…

Opening the display, the thief paused long enough to reach into his trolley, in particular the trash bin. Pulling out another vase, one with identical proportions to the one on display, he set it on the transparent case, then reached into the case.

One hand was placed down and around the vase's base. The other hand gingerly grabbed it at the top, fingers slipping into the opening on top. Raising the vase up, he applied pressure with his other hand so as to keep the pressure plate from sounding the alarm. Placing his prize on the trolley, he then reached up to the replica on top of the case.

The last reason for why this little heist had taken so long was getting measurements on the vase itself, figuring out the proportions, what it was made of, and then finding or making something of a similar size and weight. Knowledge of the materials from what the vase was made of to the ancient paint, everything was taken into consideration.

With sweat beading on his forehead, he slipped his replica in, getting it situated right where it needed to be on the pressure plate, and then he pulled both of his hands out. For several seconds he waited, and when there was no alarm, he went to stashing his stolen prize into the trash receptacle on his trolley. Closing the case and locking it up, he took one last second to admire his work.

His replica, same size, same shape, same proportions, but painted in red, blue, and yellow. The question marks he felt were a nice addition. Peeking out from the top of the replica was a rolled up piece of paper, the next clue.

Everything was in order, and now he took his leave, pushing the trolly out of the exhibit. From here it was sneaking the vase out, and in organized chaos that was the police department finally settling on security measures and putting them into place, the fake janitor slipped away with his prize.

Now that had been exhilarating. Everything was going according to plan. With cold air contrasting against his heated face, he walked off into the chilly weather with a gift for a very naughty person who was not going to make Santa's list this year.

That's where he came in, after all.


What do you see?

With his father's words running through his mind, Dam—Redbird investigated the scene of the crime, the basketball court that Spoiler and the annoying Bluebird claimed the assault had happened. The disrepair was obvious. Chainlink fencing had rust on it, from the elements no doubt. The cement that made up the court was worn, cracked, and had countless blemishes on it, the remains of human bodily fluids, perhaps saliva?

What was he looking for? Because he was seeing nothing. Nothing at all. Teeth clenched together in frustration because there was no way he was returning to the Usurper's base of operations empty handed. He could see her now, gloating at his failure, and that was motivation enough to keep trying.

That same motivation also heated his body enough to try and ignore the cold. His uniform provided by his father was insulated, but the skin of his was not. His cape could easily wrap around his body, which is what it was doing, but again his head was exposed. Only the domino mask he wore shielded his eyes, and nothing. There was an argument here about adopting the mask Father wore.

However, with his frustration obvious, he knew he had yet to earn that honor. Father would have found some kind of clue by now. Something that would propel this investigation that the Son had taken upon himself.

What do you see?

Focus; what did he see? Other than disrepair, this open space. Far more open than the murders he had been helping his father investigate. No places to hide, at least not according to the untrained eye. His eyes were trained and…there was no obvious place for a person to hide and lie in wait. No dumpsters, there were streets separating the court from the buildings, though leaping off of a rooftop with the proper equipment was highly risky and people would have seen the landing.

What else? The witnesses were young—kids—and the victims were older, teenagers or young adults. The accounts claimed the older youths were harassing the younger ones with the attacker arrived.

Redbird spun around, looking at his surroundings and scowling. Descriptions of the attacker were that he was big, so how was his approach not noticed? Plenty of space, no way to just sneak up behind the victims, and a big body typically meant heavy footsteps. Without the proper training, someone would have heard the approach.

Witness accounts said nothing about the arrival. Only that the attacker just appeared, there was a warning issued, the victims did not heed the warning, and then they were on the ground. Each one had the word ABUSE imprinted into their skin. That was allegedly from the file

Even with his training as an assassin, the details did not make sense to him.

A large attacker who could not hide, but appeared out of nowhere? No, the attacker had to have been here, within sight, but he would have been noticed…before the attack? And…why only the victims, the older youths? The older teens, the young adults who were over the age of majority? Why only them? Why not the other witnesses? Why leave witnesses?

Now his head was hurting. Perfect. If the Usurper knew, he could just imagine her face…a face he would want to punch as well. Wait, was it anger that led up to the attack? But anger for what?

Come on, Dami—Redbird, think. What do you see? What do you see?

A dead end.

No damage to the chain link fence like at the site of that ambush and murders. Just the rust. And that was snow that was starting to fall. Again. One more look around, and nothing else.

Finally, Redbird retreated, grappling up to a rooftop and giving himself the bird's eye view. Still nothing. What else had he found out about the attack? What about how the attacker had left? According to witnesses, the attacker had walked away. Heading for the street and just…leaving. No attempt to hide either. A lot of confidence there, and no self-respecting assassin would do that. No direction of where the attacker went, and while he still wanted to track him down…

doing a building-by-building search is inefficient.

catch up to them by looking closely at what they left behind.

The attacker had left nothing behind. Not even a footprint. Well, there was some blood, but the amount was too small for it to be anything but superficial. If the accounts were true, then only broken noses or bones, and nothing obviously fatal. In fact, the victims were still alive at his last check. Perhaps he needed to interrogate them? Go to their hospital beds and find out what they remembered…unless the force of the blows caused concussions or any kind of brain injury…

It was a risk he had to take. He would find answers, but first to find where they were taken. His mother might be able to find out…but no. No, he needed to do this on his own. Yet it could take hours to figure out which hospital the victims were taken to.

Hmm, what to do? Father wasn't available either because of his undercover mission. The Usurper was no choice at all. Wait, what about the information broker? What was the name…Oracle? Yes, Spoiler had mentioned that name before in his presence, and Mother would have found out the identity of this broker. Spoiler had mentioned contacting this Oracle before, meaning she had a way to do so. If Spoiler had a way, then it meant it was something within his power to do.

Then the thought occurred to him, words from the Usurper. One of those words was "attacks." Plural. Meaning more than one. Today's attack was the latest in a number of them. That meant more victims to interview…or did it?

When hunting your target, you needed to know their patterns. One of many lessons Mother had tried to teach him. Did this assaulter of the assaulters have a pattern? A hunting ground? A territory? Tempted as he was to return to the Usurper's base, why not get the information faster from the Oracle information broker?

Contact, how to contact… Right, his earpiece. Father had given it to him, and Father had communicated with this Oracle before. At least, the times he had been able to listen in, which meant he himself could use the earpiece to find Oracle.

Putting a hand to his ear, with a finger he began to manipulate it. First, he could hear the Usurper with her team. Changing the frequency, he could hear the other vigilantes his father allowed to operate. A few more frequencies, communications from various police officers, other individuals using radio signals, wait, what was this? Another button? Press it—and silence.

Recalling how his father would just call out Oracle's name, he tried the same, though initially to no success.

Then—

"Who is this?"

A digitally altered voice. There was a feminine quality to it, but that could be on purpose. This Oracle wanted to remain anonymous. Well, he would for now. Until then…

"This is Redbird, I need information," he demanded.

To his irritation, he received no answer. Not for several seconds which was much too long in his opinion. "I don't know anyone by that name."

How didn't he? He should already know it! It was his new moniker, no more the Son of Batman...which he had only told to three other people…who may not have told this Oracle about…

"I am formerly the Son of Batman," Redbird corrected, doing his best to remain stoic just like Father. As much as he would prefer to rip into this information broker, he would abide by his Mother's advice of patience, but it was already to the limit as it was.

"Son of…oh. You. Why are you contacting me? Shouldn't you be with the Batclan?"

This Oracle was more informed than he allowed.

"I am investigating a case of several assaults." Pausing, it took an effort of will to use this name, "Batgirl has relinquished this case to me. I need to know about any and all assaults in which the victims were injured with the word abuse imprinted into their skin."

"And Batman agreed to letting you investigate on your own?"

Stumped, Redbird considered his answer first before saying the first thing that came to mind. The Usurper had challenged him with this case, and then he had left. His father was undercover, which meant no, there had not been any agreement from him. However, this Oracle did not need to know any of that.

"I have all the permission I need."

Automatically, "Call out for help immediately. Do not get in over your head, kid. Sure, follow your leads, but don't try to be a hero without backup." Was this bastard chastising him?! "You're looking at twenty confirmed assaults, Redbird." This—wait, twenty? That was quick. "Is there something specific you are looking for?"

With this haste, perhaps he could grant a temporary stay of execution. "Where did all of these assaults happen? In a specific sector of the city? All over? I want that geographic information."

"You have an interesting way of talking for someone claiming to be Batman's son. And here we are, most of these attacks occurred in East Gotham with some in the Narrows. All the poor neighborhoods."

So there was a territory. Good. That shrank things down. "What other information can you tell me. Is there a certain neighborhood that gets more attention? A street?"

"Three streets. Washington, Martin Luther King, and Hoover. Those three streets have the most occurrences on them."

That narrowed everything down. Three streets with the most attacks happening on them. If Redbird didn't know any better, there was the possibility of this attacker having a patrol of their own.

He still had questions for Oracle, and maybe unlike the real ones, he wouldn't be vague.


"Now I don't know how many farmers you know, but this guy was some salt-of-the-earth mother fucker. Like, he'd been working the land for a century and had the shotgun to prove it. I gotta give props when they're due, but it took three bats and a shovel to bring him down. And that was after he shot three of my boys with the shotgun."

"And youz didn't use yer own guns, why?" Malone questioned unimpressed.

"We had to scatter," Nick Calabrese defended, picking up on the Jersey gangster's mood. "You try getting a shot off on Farmer Joe when he's got pockets full of shells and your boys blow all their loads in the first few minutes. We had to get…inventive."

"Okay, I'ze give ya that. But why were ya tryin' to kill a farmer? Ya lost me there."

"The boss wanted the land. He was a hold out." Nick drank down the last of his beer, slamming the mug down on the bar. "You don't question the boss, am I right?"

"No, youz certainly don't," Malone chuckled. "I'ze guezzin' the land iz for zome hideaway."

"Somethin' like that," Nick grunted as he absently pulled out his phone. He didn't even look at Matches as he turned on the device and began playing with the lit up screen. "I just do what I'm told and it works out, ya know? All these other guys, with the egos, makes no damn sense to me. We're all here to get money, ya know? We got a proven way that doesn't require the dumb 9-to-5, and these schmucks come in, starting swingin' their dicks around, and just make a mess out of everything. Makes no damn sense."

"Clearly they're compensating fer zomethin'."

"You said it, pal."

Matches Malone was losing interest quickly. So far, the Calabrese hadn't told him much of anything he hadn't already known. He knew about Rex Calabrese's demise, how the family kept a low profile, and then he had gone on some tangent about the jobs he had been doing lately. Each one had been less impressive than the last. Apparently, he had been spending a bunch of time in the countryside lately.

Any other time, he would have looked more into these jobs Nick had done, but he was here for a reason. It was clear he wasn't going to learn any more from Nick. He just needed to excuse himself, buy the guy a parting drink, then see what else he could scrounge up.

As he made to pull out his roll of cash, the door to the bar swung open. There was a loud bang! from where the corner of the door hit the wall, causing several people to look towards it, including Malone. Nick hadn't bothered as he stared directly at his mug, seemingly wishing it would magically fill itself up.

Standing in the doorway was one of the largest men he had ever seen. The man's head damn near touched the top of the doorframe, which the man ducked anyways as he entered. He was dressed in a suit, like some of the other better dressed mobsters here, but it didn't quite look right on him. Like he was a kid playing grown-up with dad's suit. His long legs carried him with ease as he reached the bar. "Yo, Dick!" he called out as he slapped down several bills onto the bar. "I want it cold and frequent!"

"Done!' the barkeep shouted back.

"Who iz that?" Malone asked, making a show of looking the towering man up and down, even focusing on the money he had put on the bar counter.

Nick actually swung his head to look, lowering his phone, then snorted. "Eh, that's just Rhino. All muscle, no brains. Ya want him to load up a truck, he's perfect. Kick down a door, grand. Break some legs as a warning, consider it done. Ask him ta rob a bank, and he couldn't find an exit to save his life, so he'll make his own."

"Sounds strong," Malone surmised.

"Definitely. He's been spending money like crazy lately. Must have a few jobs lined up."

"Iz that right?" Matches pulled out a couple bills and tossed them onto the bar next to Nick. He then stood up from his stool. "Sorry to cut thiz short, but I'd like ta have a little chat with 'em. See if I can't get me zome cash like that."

Nick shrugged his shoulders. "You do you. I'll keep ya in mind if any jobs come my way."

Matches slapped the man on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Yer a true Calabrese." Then he sauntered off.

Rhino had left the bar, a couple mugs in hand. The other gangsters got out of his way as he wormed his way between tables, finding an empty one and sitting down in one of the chairs. It was like seeing an adult sit in one of those plastic school chairs for kindergarteners. Malone just walked up to the guy, coming to a stop a foot or so away.

Rhino was taking a deep drink of his beer when he noticed. Lowering the mug to the table, where some beer slouched out over the rim, the monster of a man glared at him. "Can I help you?"

"Couldn't help but notice them bills you paid with," he responded, pulling out a small matchbox from his pocket. Opening it, he pulled out a match and stuck it in his mouth. "I'm new ta town and in need of zome work. Name's Matches Malone."

"Scram. I ain't got no work for you."

"Hey now, don't be that way." Malone took a step closer to Rhino, which only seemed to annoy him more. "I'm just like any other schmuck here, lookin' fer zome scratch, ya know?"

"LIke I said, can't help ya. Now make like a tree and get out of here."

Ah, a Biff Tanner type. Nick Calabrese hadn't been joking about this man not being that smart. He also had to be new considering how many heads he had turned just giving out his name. Rhino hadn't even paused upon hearing it, unlike the rest of the gangsters here.

"It's leave," he couldn't help but correct. "Make like a tree and leave."

"Do I look like I care?"

"No, can't zay that ya do." Malone made to pull out a chair from the table. "Mind if I—"

Rhino immediately shot up onto his feet, causing his chair to fall over behind him. "What did I say, jerk!" He reached a massive hand out and grabbed Malone by the hem of his coat. "I said get lost!"

He then shoved Malone away, the man stumbling backwards from the incredible force used. He ended up crashing into a nearby table, where a few men were playing cards. He fell on top of their game, causing cards and chips to go flying, knocking over drinks, and causing the gangsters to yelp out of surprise as they all shoved themselves away from the table so that they weren't hit or spilled on.

"What the hell?!" one of the men shouted as he threw his hand down to the floor. "What's yer problem, pal?!"

"Sorry, gentlemen," Malone apologized as he began to shove himself off of the table. He immediately found two men close in on either side of him, anger on their faces. "Didn't mean ta crash yer game."

One of the men grabbed onto his coat, which was beginning to become a running theme. "Alright, ya jerk, what's the big deal in interrupting our game?"

"Not my intention at all. I just had a disagreement—"

"I had a straight flush, jackass!" the same man raged. "And yer gonna pay for it out ya nose!" He pulled a fist back before throwing it.

Malone just leaned backwards, avoiding the punch as the fist swung by his face. The fist ended up hitting his friend, who yelped from the blow. "What the hell, Vinny!" he shouted before he shoved Vinny.

"Don't you push me, Paully!" Vinny shoved Paully, who then pushed him back. The next thing anyone knew, the two men tried to tackle each other and crashed into another table, interrupting the card game going on there.

And like a set of dominos, the Stacked Deck was soon an all-out brawl.