WARNING: This work of fanfiction contains strong sexual content involving several male characters, including scenes of exhibitionism performed before an unwilling audience, implied carnal shenanigans going on between a man and his puppet, and the use of sandwich spreads for grossly inappropriate purposes. It also contains lots and lots of very naughty words. If you're not physically, emotionally, and/or legally old enough to handle these concepts, do us both a big favor and press the Back button NOW.

I don't own Batman: the Animated Series. Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. and its license-holding subsidiaries do. Characters and concepts are being used without permission. No profit is being made from this file. Continuity-wise, this story is set before the B:TAS episode "Read My Lips." Happy Fun Ball cordially invites you to recognize that it is, in fact, the goddamn Batman.

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The New Guy

by Apricot the Gerbil

The thing about Mugsy wasn't that he was stronger than most, or even all that smart, if truth be told. What he did have going for him was more than enough, though. He was the kind of guy who always knew the right horse to back, could pick which schemes were winners before anyone else, and-- most importantly, in a place like Gotham City-- knew to scram by the time everybody else wised up.

Ricky Ratzcinski checked his watch again, then lowered his excuse for an umbrella to shake its runoff over the sidewalk gutter. He still wasn't sure why Mugsy chose to call him from out of the blue, but if Mugsy said "somebody big" was looking to hire a guy, far be it for Ricky to let a friend of Mugsy's down. From what little of his old school buddy's private life Ricky ever got the chance to glimpse, Mugsy tended to run with the kind of crowd that got angry if you didn't follow their requests. Always did wear fancier clothes than Mugsy's family seemed to have the cash for... Even back then, it didn't take Ricky long to figure that asking about his friend's supply of "allowance money" would bring up more questions than he wanted to deal with.    

If nothing else, his pal sure had good timing. Work was hard to find in this town... Honest work, damn near impossible. He'd been down to his landlord's last shred of pity for a while now; the only thing keeping his stuff from being dumped out on the street in a cardboard box was either her rotten memory or his dumb luck.  

A black Bentley cruised up to the curb and stopped, letting the engine idle. The back passenger door opened to show Mugsy's morgue-thin face through the downpour soaking the street.

"Long time, no see," Mugsy said with a smirk. "Hop in."

Ricky couldn't help it-- his first reaction to the inside of the car was a wolf-whistle. He tossed his umbrella to the floor with a squelch and took a seat on the other side of the car, facing Mugsy. "Sheesh. Looks like you been doin' well for yourself," he remarked, eyeing the giant of a driver taking up most of the front seats. "Bodyguard chauffeurs, 'n everything!"

"Who, Rhino? Naw, I don't have it that good. Not yet," said Mugsy. He leaned back to rap his knuckles on the glass dividing the front and back seats, speaking through an open air vent in the middle: "Rhino, this here's the guy I told ya about. Ratso, meet Rhino."

"Nice t'meetcha," the driver said, and steered the car back into East Timm Avenue's steady stream of traffic.

Ricky winced. "Uh, Mugsy? Thought I was done with that name in high school. What gives?"

Mugsy answered with a flat, know-it-all grin, just like the old days. "Nothin' personal, Ratso. We gotta have names to call each other when we're on the inside, is all. Figured this way, you wouldn't have to bother relearnin' anything."

"Wait. How'dja get to keep your name?"

"How do you know my real name's really Mugsy?" his friend countered, his grin turning sly.

Reluctantly, Ratso slumped in his seat. The buck teeth that had haunted his social life since kindergarten poked free from under his upper lip. "Fine, sure. S'just... aww, you know..."

"Hey, look on the bright side," Mugsy offered. "You heard about that guy who's in the joint fer almost icin' the Batman?"

"Who hasn't? Sid the Squid, right?"

Mugsy nodded. "Lots of worse names out there for a fella to have. All I'm sayin'."

"...Yeah, I guess," admitted Ratso. "So what's up with this job, anyhow?"

"Right to business. Boss is gonna like that," Mugsy said, smirking. "Remember Mr. Wesker, in tenth grade?"

"Our woodshop teacher?" Ratso shifted an elbow onto the nearest armrest-- Man, the digs are comfy in here, he thought-- and stroked his fingers through the mustache fighting for life on his face as he puzzled it over. "I think so. Had those huge glasses, kept poppin' pills all the time, even in class? What'd he call 'em... 'They're to help me remember you all're the nice people you really are'!"

"Same one. Disappeared a couple months after you skipped town, too," Mugsy said. "Well, he's still in Gotham. Whatever those pills were for, though, my guess is he's been off 'em for a while."

"Why's that?"

Mugsy's smile vanished. He leaned forward in his seat, folding his fingers together over his lap. "Now, Ratso, lemme say this up front... Mr. Wesker's got himself a new name, too. Works for the Boss, same as us. And the reason I'm tellin' ya this is 'cause the Boss is a little... different. Doesn't let a lot of folks even look at 'im, only us guys in his gang. You'll see him when we get to the hideout, and trust me, you's gonna want to be lookin' at him. Not Mr. Wesker, or Rhino or me or anyone. Once ya figure things out for yerself, keep your eyes on 'im, and you'll do fine."

"Why? What'll he do if I don't?" Ratso asked.

"He'll shoot ya," Mugsy replied cooly.

"Oh." Blink. Blink... squint. "What?!"

"See, but you're gonna look at him. 'Cause you're smart. That's my point," said Mugsy. "And that means you're gonna be rollin' in dough before ya can say Bruce Wayne, eat yer heart out, 'cause all we need on these next jobs is a third set of hands and a brain that knows a thing or two about slippin' through security systems. You, buddy o' mine, have both of 'em."

Ratso scowled, making his eyes look even beadier. "Hey, man, I been clean on the breaking-and-entering rap a while now. How'd you--"

"Listen, don't worry about anyone judging you here. You do what ya know, right?" Mugsy's smirk glinted. "Just like my job used t'be finding folks who liked disappearin', once upon a time."

Ratso fell silent. He watched the rain patter against the Bentley's tinted windows in thick, oily sheets. "So why now?" he finally said. "What's so hot about this Boss guy? There's gotta be something, or you'd never go for it."

"Simple. Think about it: what do all those big-time crooks like Penguin 'n Two-Face 'n Poison Ivy got in common?"

Ratso didn't take long to answer.  "They're complete psychos...?"

"Well, yeah, but you gotta be if ya wanna get anywhere in this city," said Mugsy. "No, I'm talking about why they keep gettin' caught." He shrugged and went on before Ratso could try again. "Batman. Duh. Everyone knows that. But those goofballs make it easy for him, that's what I mean!  They all have a schtick they gotta follow. Ivy only goes for plants, Penguin's got a boner for anything with birds on it, and Two-Face... hell, there's only so many spots with '2' in the name Batman has to track down, y'get me?"

"Yeah. Then what's your boss after?"

Mugsy rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "Money. That's it. Jewels, drugs, paintings, you name it-- anything that'll bring in the most cash without the cops gettin' smart to our racket. That's not counting the knockoffs he's had us sell to folks too dumb to know any better. We're only startin' on our first real big score now, after we pulled off a ton a' small-fry deals without a hitch. I tell ya, this guy's a genius-- we're like ghosts in this city! Gotham P. D. ain't got two clues t'rub together, and the gang's been at it fer months!"

A low rumble from the front seats interrupted him. "One more street to go..."

"Gotcha. Thanks, Rhino," Mugsy said over his shoulder. He turned back to Ratso, scuffing his hands against each other with giddy anticipation. "Almost showtime!"

The building Rhino parked in was nondescript enough. Old warehouse, looked abandoned, still a bit of light leaking out through a window or two... That was half of Gotham City, right there.

The wooden lady mannequins piled everywhere inside? ...Yeah, getting a little weird here. Mugsy and Rhino didn't seem concerned, though, so Ratso kept his mouth shut and followed their lead, heading for the table at the end of the warehouse floor. 

"We got the new guy, boss," said Mugsy. "This here's Ratso. Says he wants in on the deal, just like I told ya!"

Ratso tipped a nod to Mr. Wesker, who was sitting there at the table, balder than ever, with what remained of his now shock-white hair slicked back behind his ears. He wore a tuxedo wrinkled enough to look like he hadn't changed out of it in weeks; a ventriloquil dummy sat perched on his knees. Odd, but... okay, whatever. Ratso was more concerned about where exactly this 'Boss' guy was. The place looked empty. If Mr. Wesker isn't running things, then who? They hiding behind the mannequins, maybe...?

His eyes fell on the puppet. Something about that dummy... A dim memory lurched to life at the sight. That carved-smooth face, taken out from the bottom drawer of Mr. Wesker's desk-- he'd use it to point out this or that example of sanding technique, then stuff the puppet back in its place, brow furrowed with guilt, as though he was a terrible, horrible person for even letting the class see the thing.

It didn't have that gash down one side of its face, back then. Didn't have a full mobster suit on or a cigar clenched in its jaws, either, and Ratso definitely couldn't recall it ever holding a gun.

"Tch..." Ratso snorted. He shot one last look at Mugsy, hoping with all his might that the message in his eyes read as loud and clear as any words: So, where's your genius?

For as quick as the expression crossed his face, Mugsy's reply was just as obvious. The hell are you doing, idiot?!

The bullet fired at Ratso's feet came through loudest of all.

"T'aught ya said dis one was smart, too," said the pupp-- no, wait, that's stupid. It's not the puppet talking!-- said Mr. Wesker through the puppet, as the dummy lowered its tommygun's smoking barrel.  "Not smart enuff, if he can't show a guy some simple freakin' respect!"

...That was Mr. Wesker's voice, right? Had to be. But it sounded completely different, like someone from a New York gangster movie... and his mouth hadn't budged one bit, not that Ratso could see.

Shit. The puppet still had the gun pointed at him, didn't he.

"No, no sir!" Ratso blurted out, bowing to the doll in his old teacher's lap. "I was just, uh-- thinkin' how that's a really nice-lookin' suit you got on, is all. Nice blue... Kinda handsome, even!"

The 'boss's' eyes rolled in their sockets, revealing eyelid lines for it to narrow at him. "Great. He ain't dumb, 'e's just a damn fruit. You 'n Dummy 'ere are gonna get along fine."

"Dummy?" Ratso echoed. "That's what you... Is that his name?"

"Should be," the puppet grumbled.

Rhino spoke up. "That guy there behind da Boss is the Ventriloquist. He works for Mr. Scarface, like us!"

"Why you so concerned 'bout a loser like him, anyhow?" Mr. Wesker's dummy said. "Yuh tryin' t'get inta his pants, don't bother. Trust me, ya can do better, 'n dat's from somebody who ain't even inta dat kinda shit."

"No, it's... I used to know him. Had him as a teacher in school, a long time ago." Ratso knew it was risky to look away, but he did anyhow, if only for a quick glance. He kept his voice in the same tone as with his grandparents, those few times he'd been guilted into visiting them in the dementia ward: "Mr. Wesker...? Do you remember me?"

If there was any recognition sparking in his teacher's eyes, Ratso had to assume it from how the man's mouth jerked open slightly before he spoke; the glasses he wore were even thicker than Ratso remembered them to be, tossing twin reflections of the room's light back at him like giant insect orbs-- like Mr. Wesker might still be in there, somewhere, hiding behind them. "I'm sorry... I..." he mumbled, his voice quivering and weary, showing an age there was no way he could be at yet-- Cripes, thought Ratso, how old was Mr. Wesker back then? Late twenties? Late thirties, maybe? It's only been fifteen years, man! What in the world happened to you?-- "I thought I would've remembered being a teacher before..."

The puppet swiveled its head around to snap at him. "HAW! Dis mook, teachin'? Whadda hell were you tellin' dose poor kids, Dummy? Didn't know dere was a whole class fer Fuckups, 101!"

The Ventriloquist shivered in his chair. "Sorry, Mister Scarface, sir," he murmured quietly, and said nothing more.

Ratso wasn't sure what 'Scarface' was talking about, after that. Important stuff, to be sure-- the ground rules for the group, from what he could make out. He'd have to check with the other two for specifics later... right now, the only words getting through to him were the ones buzzing around inside his brain. Doomed. I'm doomed. I'm so doomed.

He saw his old friend flash a silent thumbs-up his way. Whatever test there was to become part of the gang, he'd apparently passed it.

Instead of pride, all Ratso felt was a chill, deep down in the pit of his stomach.

Dammit, Mugsy, what the hell have you gotten me into?

---

Sure enough, by the end of the week, Ratso had the whole racket figured. 

Not just the rules for the gang itself, like scheduling to make sure at least two of them were in the hideout at all times, though those were smart to begin with. No, Ratso had Mr. Wesker figured out, too. That "Ventriloquist" thing? Making everybody think he was so far off the deep end that they'd rather jump at his dummy's every command than risk going up against 'the crazy guy'? He had to give the man some credit... that was genius, right there. In fact, his act was good enough to have almost had Ratso fooled with the rest.

He still couldn't believe Mugsy and Rhino hadn't noticed. The bedroom Mr. Wesker crept upstairs to every night, extra early, so he could 'tuck Mister Scarface in for the evening'... Ratso'd caught a glimpse of that room. It was posh, four-poster-bed and three-hundred-count-sheets-style posh-- and all while the three of them were tossing dice to see who got the spare room's cots and blankets. Old coot must figure he deserves the fancy stuff more than the puppets he keeps around-- the live ones, that is, Ratso stewed to himself. He might be smart enough to work out how we could rob the Gotham Gardens Arena blind in ten minutes flat, but he's dumber than a plank if he thinks he can keep jerking us around for long.

Ratso slapped a pair of kings onto the card table. "Read 'em and weep, fellas."

"Naaw-- aww, y'gotta be kiddin' me!" Rhino moaned. He caught himself before his own cards were squeezed into red-and-black crinkles, reaching up to take out his fifth loss of the night on his hat instead. As he shoved a short, wobbling pillar of poker chips Ratso's way, the giant grumbled, "Can't believe it... How come you two're so good at this, huh?"

"It's like I keep sayin', Rhino. Luck of the draw. Some folks got it, some don't, that's all it is," said Mugsy. He felt Ratso tapping his leg from under the table. The king of diamonds slid back into his waiting palm. 

Night after night, they'd been pulling this stunt on the big guy. Still no sign of him finding a clue. It was funny at first, but by now, it was just getting kind of sad. 

Then again, the warehouse didn't leave them many options. No phones, no radio sets-- hell, "Mr. Scarface" made it clear he didn't want so much as a clock sucking more power than the place needed to keep the lights on and the one grungy toilet upstairs flushing. It was a good thing they all knew how to play poker, because setting up a bunch of the mannequins to look like they were knocking uglies was only entertaining the first couple times. Sheesh... Never knew being a millionaire could be this boring, Ratso thought.

The only thing out of the ordinary was the racket coming from their boss's bedroom. By the sound of things, Mr. Wesker was having a rough time getting his puppet to fall asleep tonight. 

Rhino and Mugsy barely raised an eyebrow at the noise; hearing Scarface threatening the Ventriloquist was nothing new to them. Ratso, on the other hand, seemed unable to ignore it, glancing over his shoulder towards the staircase at every string of curse words muffling its way down to their table.

"You wanna switch seats, or what?" Mugsy finally said, his smile snide. "S'just the Boss. Gets cranky at night, no big deal."

Ratso flinched, spinning back in his seat to face his fellow goons. "Right, right," he mumbled. "Does he do that a lot, though? Argue with his own left hand...?"

Mugsy was about to answer, but he didn't stand a chance against Rhino's natural volume. "Look, pal," the giant scolded, "You might be new 'n all, but ya gotta 'member the same rules we got. Can't keep talkin' about Mr. Ventriloquist like he's da boss around here, or Scarface is gonna get tired of you real quick!"

Nodding, Mugsy glanced away from Rhino's hand, which had drooped enough to show a four and a two. "Afraid so," he said, and tossed five more chips into the betting pool.

Ratso was saved from having to think up a response. Scarface's gruff shouts suddenly stopped, pierced by the warbly-high falsetto of the Ventriloquist screaming: "Well what am I supposed to do?! You don't want me touching it, but you won't let me go find someone-- s'not like you'll take a couple minutes and help me get rid of it anymore!" The words grew indistinct, their syllables ratcheting together with agitation. "You scared?! Scared m'gonna find somebody who's better at it than you?"

For a moment, the entire warehouse was silent.

"He's not talking about..." Ratso whispered to the others, but couldn't bring himself to finish the question.

"...ah. Oh, my," they heard the Ventriloquist's voice quiver, quiet enough to be lost if they weren't already listening for it. "Sir, I... I don't know what came over me. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean--"

"You. ungrateful. SHIT."

It was the eavesdroppers' only warning before the violence began. The Ventriloquist's voice surfaced only in whimpers between the clatters and thumps that punctuated Scarface's bellowing. Ratso saw Rhino wince at a particularly harsh impact against what sounded like the bedroom door itself. "Boss ain't usually this cranky, huh?" he asked.

Rhino's eyes stayed wide open, staring at the door. He shook his head slowly from side to side.

The three of them waited until the noise returned to its usual half-discernable grumbles and faded away. At this point, the poker game was more or less a draw anyhow. "Should we go check on hi-- uh, on them?" Ratso prodded, fearing the worst.

"Naaah," Mugsy said, though he sounded less than convinced.

Rhino shifted just as awkwardly on the bench that served as his chair. "Can't be too bad. Didn't hear no gun go off," he offered.

Mugsy looked at Ratso and shrugged. "Well... he's got a point."

Ratso sighed. "If I stick with this gang long enough, am I gonna go nuts, too?" he asked. Hopefully, his grin was wide enough to have the dig taken as a joke.

Mugsy smirked back. "Yeah. Probably. But if you gotta be crazy, might as well be crazy 'n rich."

The bedroom door opened and shut with a soft creak.

The trio quieted instantly, making the Ventriloquist's footfalls sound far louder and more determined than could possibly be taken from his posture. His arms were clutched across his chest, held as stiff as his wooden steps downstairs; the yellow nightshirt he wore was bunched tight in his grip at both sleeves like a security blanket.

Rhino hesitated at first, eyeing the bruises streaking the older man's legs. "Did you 'n the Boss have a fight?" he asked.

"I... I yelled at him..." the Ventriloquist mumbled, his voice hushed. He clamped his arms tighter, but his expression remained flat, hidden as it was by thick, blank glasses. His bitten-red lower lip slipped free from his teeth enough for it to wibble as he said it again, still in shock. "I can't believe I yelled at him...!"

"...Wow," Ratso said, though it was meant more as a what the hell than a show of sympathy. 

The Ventriloquist seemed to take his words for the latter, adding, "I was... well, I was alone, and..." The handkerchief crumpled in his left hand leapt to mop away the sweat shining on his forehead. "...And I woke him up. Didn't keep quiet enough, he heard me. H-he got really mad-- said he was trying to sleep, how I was sick for keeping him up like that, and-- and the only brains I've got are what's down there, only he used a lot meaner words than those, and--" He stopped midway, choking on the first in a line of snotty-sounding nose snuffs. "--wasn't even-- I was just trying to keep warm, it's cold up there!"

"Sure!" Rhino said, nodding with keen understanding.

"Makes sense," seconded Mugsy.

Ratso only stared at the welts on the little man's face. Looked raw enough to be brand new, all in the outline of a familiar wooden fist. Did this kook honestly just knock himself black and blue with his own puppet? he thought, but figured it was best to keep mum. If nothing else, maybe he could sneak out for a few hours away from the crazies tonight, now that Scarface was asleep. 

...Wait. Now that the thing's 'asleep'?! Man, I can't believe I just thought that.

Thankfully, Rhino's voice was there to cut off Ratso's inner monologue before it could get any more troubling. "Gee, uh... there anything we can do?"

"Oh, no, it's... You're in the middle of a game. I shouldn't..."

Mugsy's cards flopped face-down onto the tabletop. "Aw, c'mon. You're part of the gang too, y'know!" he assured his would-be superior. "We still got another chair around here somewhere, right, guys?"

"Well, I..." the Ventriloquist began, then shivered, mopping his brow again to keep up with his own fresh sweat. He buried his head in his hands, muffling his moan with yellow flannel. "I'm so awful, even to ask it, but I can't help myself-- right now, I don't care! He never lets me do what I want-- makes me so angry! I just want to-- just once, to..."

With a sob, he fell into a stupified Rhino's arms. His face grew tense before he spoke, as though merely thinking the words strained him. "F..Fuck me. That's all. Please, fellas, I want you to f... ff-- to screw me, hard as you can, any of you!" He arched against Rhino's chest like a rutting rabbit. "He doesn't let me out of the attic when he's in for the night and it's been weeks now-- I get so lonely... I'll do anything you want, anything, just please don't let him know!"

Rhino was a man of few words to begin with, but this surprise struck him all but mute. "Hey, now, Mr. Ventriloquist, I..." he managed to sputter. "If ya need help, I wanna help ya, sure, but..."

This obviously wasn't the answer the old man wanted to hear. He reached for the end of Rhino's tie and gently stroked the cloth through his fingertips. "Come on, Rhino. I've never asked you for anything before, have I? I-- I can make it real good for you. Or if you want me to use my mouth, I can do that, or you can even beat me up, too-- just tell me what you want!"

"I don't wanna fuck you, man. Get off'a me," Rhino said, shoving him away with a scowl.

The rejection only made the Ventriloquist more desperate. "Rhino. Please. I'm begging you!" he whined, and clumsily straddled the goon's knees... a move made all the more inelegant when his fumbling revealed he didn't have a stitch on underneath that yellow nightshirt.

It was hard to tell if the look crossing Rhino's face was disgust or outright fear. "Don't make me slug ya! I ain't kiddin'-- I swear I will, if ya don't get the hell off!" the giant snarled at him.

The Ventriloquist stared up at Rhino through those ridiculous blind-man glasses of his, mouth frozen half-open... and without another word, he gave up, meekly sliding off Rhino's lap as though his survival instinct had only now kicked in. He sank onto hands and knees, huddled and shivering on the bare warehouse floor, and craned his neck to the other two gangsters. "Ratso? Mugsy?" he asked, his voice pleading. "Fellas...?"

Ratso held up his hands and waggled them. "I, uh... I'm good."

"Nnn," was all Mugsy said. He looked away.

And that was that. Ratso smiled at the sniveling heap of Ventriloquist, relieved that the moment was finally over.

Until he heard the slap and jingle of a belt being undone.

"Say, whaddaya think you're doin'?" Rhino demanded, frowning at Mugsy.

"...What?" his partner said, and finished unbuckling the rest of the way. "Don't get me wrong, I ain't no ass-chaser or nothin', just... hey, if Four-Eyes here's offerin' free head, I ain't gonna turn him down. A tongue's a tongue, right?" His hand lingered over the zipper to his pants, then pulled. "'Sides, only thing anybody really knows about this guy is how he's good with his mouth. Wouldn't mind findin' out how good." 

Pausing, he turned to the man in question, who clearly was no stranger to being talked about in conversations as an object. "Uh. You are offerin' free head, aren't ya?" he asked.

"Yes! Oh, yes, anything!" said the Ventriloquist. A smile quirked its way onto his face. "I'll do the best I can, thank you, thank you so--"

"Yeah, yeah," Mugsy interrupted, tugging his prick free from the fly of his heart-patterned red boxers. With a rakish grin, he scooted his chair away from the card table and spread his legs, then snapped his fingers, pointing to his crotch. "Just get to it, already."

The command was given so naturally, Ratso had to stop himself from bursting into stunned laughter. Wow, is he ever cocky! 

...And as soon as the words connected in his brain, Ratso cringed yet again. He was still reeling from the news that his buddy even swung that way... Despite Mugsy's claims, he'd sure dropped his pants for their old teacher awfully quick. Sure, I don't remember him having any girlfriends back in high school, but-- Oh, hell, he didn't ever try hitting on me, did he? He wondered if this might just be Mugsy's way of getting revenge for the insults Scarface lobbed his way the day before, when Mugsy almost tripped an alarm at their art museum heist. That's gotta be why. All those years I knew him, and he never even had a lisp or anything!

Guess you can't blame him for being a showoff, at least, Ratso added begrudgingly. When the guy had to work with a seven-foot wall of muscle who shrugs off gunshot wounds, he figured overcompensation was simply how Mugsy learned to get through each day on the job.

There was silence, at first. The Ventriloquist sat there, looking at Mugsy's dick, his lip trembling. Ratso hadn't seen such dumbfounded awe on someone's face since he'd walked by a couple of tourists handing a street junkie their brand new camera and asking if she could take their picture.

Mugsy grew skittish. He shot the other goons a hasty, defensive glare, then turned his awkwardness onto the reason his cock was out and dangling in the first place. "Well? Ya waitin' for it to cool off, or wh--WHOA!"

Even Rhino and Ratso flinched. The guy dove for it.

Ratso could see the long line of second thoughts speeding through Mugsy's mind, each of which began and ended with the same girly shriek. As the Ventriloquist slurped the head past his lips, gagging his way down with barely a pause to let a pant or mewl slip free, all Mugsy could do through his shock was keep a tight-lipped stare on this animal suddenly in the meek little man's place.

But Mugsy stood his ground. Once there was no more lunging going on around his tender parts, he relaxed fairly quick; in fact, Ratso was dismayed to find his old buddy wouldn't shut up. It started with a dazed-sounding "Damn... he ain't half bad!" and built up arrogance from there.

"Bet you've done this before, haven't ya?"

"Figured your tongue'd be rougher, after all those splinters!"

"Hey. Hey, nod your head if mine's the biggest dick you ever sucked."

"...I said, nod your-- there! See, fellas, didn't that look like a nod? Thought so, heh... and knowing this guy, that's probably sayin' something!"

The Ventriloquist wasn't fazed one bit. He kept going, one hand wrapped around the base, rubbing down the loose skin on the shaft whenever he leaned away to catch his breath and Mugsy's cock reappeared. If he heard the taunts from above at all, he was too busy finding whatever happy place was at the end of a penis to do anything about it.

Mugsy, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the view as much as the attention itself. He whipped back and forth between a flat, know-your-place staredown of a smirk and a grin that raved, hahaha, can you guys believe this, he's actually doing it!!

The scene dragged on for another... well, Ratso didn't particularly feel like getting out a stopwatch to check. Way, way too long. That was enough detail for him. He wasn't sure who he should hate most anymore, either-- the Ventriloquist, for starting this mess, or Mugsy, for taking forever to finish it. He rolled his eyes, then checked in on Rhino, who was making a valiant effort to concentrate on the cards still in his hand. Bet he's trying to add the numbers together, Ratso thought.

"Umph... His technique's pretty good, but these handlebars stink," said Mugsy, tweezering the Ventriloquist's meager tufts of hair with his fingertips.

God, Mugsy. Just shut up and come already! You're not even funny!

As though by Ratso's command, the Ventriloquist ducked his head down further still, doing... 

Wow. The hell is he doing there?

Whatever it was, it sure stopped Mugsy's yapping in a hurry. "Ssh..shit...!!" the goon hissed, his hips wobble-grinding bonelessly for a final few spasms against the Ventriloquist's face... and fell limp in his chair, puffing hard, looking redder than a bloody beet.

Far from feeling relieved, the first thought to cross Ratso's mind was You idiot! Why the hell didn't you try that ten minutes ago?!

Nobody seemed to know what to do next, after that. Ratso and Rhino were both too skeeved to start up any small talk, Mugsy wasn't in any shape to try, and the Ventriloquist had his mouth full anyhow. 

No, wait... Aww, for-- He just swallowed it all, didn't he?

The Ventriloquist made no attempt to move from his spot on the floor. His hands crept upwards, coming to rest over his abdomen; beads of sweat shivered down from his face, ignored. He spoke slowly, like the idea behind the words was trying to sink in. "I've... got another man's sperm... in my stomach..."

Hearing the tremor in his voice, Ratso said, "Little late to figure it out, aren't ya?"

"No. You don't understand." The Ventriloquist looked up at Ratso, his trance apparently broken. "Mister Scarface would kill me if he knew what I just did, especially with someone in his own gang! But he doesn't know. That's the best part... I-I can't even remember the last time I did anything without asking him first!" He sucked in a deep breath, then let it out in an odd sort of giggly wheeze, tipping his head back down to smile at the same small tent in his nightshirt Ratso'd been trying with all his might to ignore.

"Still gotta get rid of that, though," Mugsy remarked. Getting up from his chair, he bent down on one knee before the Ventriloquist, then-- to Ratso's surprise, which Ratso wasn't aware he had any left of-- bundled a layer of yellow shirt-flannel around the bulge and began jerking off the older man with quick, steady pumps of his fist. As the Ventriloquist's first shocked yelps gave way to other, more agreeable sounds, Mugsy smirked at him. "Cover your mouth, will ya? Don't wanna wake up the Boss again," he said.

Batshit insane or not, at least the Ventriloquist wasn't anywhere near as talky as Mugsy. All it took was hearing Mugsy say, "Don't worry... I'll catch it when you come, so go nuts," and the Ventriloquist was already gone, moaning through his teeth and spurting into the goon's waiting hands.

Mugsy gave him a moment to recover, then held up his semen-puddled palms. "There. Now eat it."

The Ventriloquist shrank back from him weakly, sputtering, "Wh..what?!"

Mugsy met his mentor's confusion with a grin that could reassure a tornado into calming down. "Can't have cum from two guys in you if you don't swallow yours, can ya?"

Soon enough, comprehension dawned on the man. "Oh... ohh!" he said, his eyebrows rising above the rims of his glasses in what Ratso could only assume was delight, given how quick he was to crouch in front of Mugsy and lap up the hot speckles from his hands.

"There ya go. That's it," Mugsy said, coaxing the Ventriloquist on. Might be the Boss's bitch, but you're my little slut, ain't ya?"

"Mmm..." the Ventriloquist replied, and leaned in closer.

Ratso nudged Rhino with his elbow. "Uh... don't s'pose this happens too often around here, either, right?" he whispered.

The question was a welcome distraction, judging by the horrified lines disappearing from Rhino's face. "I don't think so. They never done that with me, that's for sure," he said. "Woulda remembered killin' Mugsy if he tried calling me his bitch."

"...Right," said Ratso, and left the subject at that.

---

When nobody brought up the incident the next day, Ratso figured it was a one-time deal. An isolated bit of The Crazy. Plenty of those in Gotham, right? He was home free, with the gang's growing fortune helping to cushion away any bad memories.

Ratso was always wrong about these things.

---

Another damned poker night. Of course. What else would the three of them be doing?

Mugsy saw him first. He always saw him first. 

"Well, well, boys, lookie who's here!" Mugsy piped up. "Back for more, are ya?"

With a darkening blush, the Ventriloquist slunk closer to the table, trembling like a nervous greyhound under his nightshirt.

"Yeah, hold your horses. Still got a round here to finish up first," said Mugsy, waving at him dismissively. "If you keep good 'n quiet, I might let ya crawl under the table." He held up one finger. "Might. If I feel like bein' a nice guy."

The Ventriloquist broke into a deliriously happy smile. Clasping his hands together, he stayed put where he stood, jerking his head up and down.

Rhino narrowed his eyes and snorted. "Mugsy, you're a bastard."

"I might be a bastard, but in a minute I'm gonna be a bastard gettin' his dick sucked to heaven and back," Mugsy said, sporting a winner's smirk.

Ratso shuffled around the cards in his hand and kept quiet. He'd learned that much.

"You're not makin' him suck you off when we're here, too," Rhino declared. "Not no more. Last time was enough." He slapped his cards onto the table. "This whole thing with you 'n him's gettin' weird, anyhow. I don't like it."

"What's the matter, you jealous?" Mugsy replied, still grinning like a fox. "Come on, Rhino. 'Make' him? I'm not making him do anything! I just got 'im figured out, that's all." He paused to smile at the Ventriloquist, then jerked out one arm, pointing at the floor. "On your knees. Now!"

Without a word, the little man obeyed.

Mugsy snickered. "See? You see that? This ain't a guy who likes thinking for himself. I seen his type before... Without the Boss, he ain't such a big shot after all. Just wants someone t'show him what he's really worth, like any other bitch." He patted the Ventriloquist on the top of his balding head, triggering what sounded like a drunken cat's attempt at a purr. "Y'know, some fellas gotta shell out tons of money findin' somebody who'll order 'em around. I'm doin' you a favor, ain't that right?"

"I don't care," said Rhino. "You wanna screw him so bad, go somewhere else and do it. Car's right over there in the corner."

It took Mugsy a moment to realize he'd shied further into his chair at the danger in Rhino's tone. He returned to his usual bluster in record time, as though trying to make up for backing down so quickly. "Fine. Maybe I will," he boasted, and left his seat, snapping his fingers at the Ventriloquist and pointing to the black Bentley parked a ways away.

Rhino watched the older man trot after Mugsy into the car, finally turning his attention to the card game when the door shut behind them. He blinked at the poker chips... at Ratso... at the cards strewn across the table...

"Not so fun playing with just two, is it?" Ratso admitted.

"Yeah," Rhino said, sighing.

They stared at the cards for a while before Ratso started gathering the deck back together. "Well, Slapjack'd probably be too loud... You know how to play Go Fish?" he asked. He already knew Rhino wouldn't notice the sarcasm. Maybe that's why he could never pass up a chance to insult the big galoot.

True to form, Rhino perked up like a kid offered a new box of fingerpaints. "Hey, that's a great idea!" he said, and watched Ratso deal him his seven-card starting hand with rapt interest.

Ratso surveyed his own cards. "Got a five?" he asked.

Squinting at his hand, Rhino mumbled, "Uh... gimme a sec..."

He never noticed how often Ratso rolled his eyes, either.

"Nope, guess not. Go fi--"

The back of the Bentley creaked. Up and down, in a soft, swift jerk.

It creaked again.

And again. Quicker, this time. And didn't stop there.

"Oh for cryin' out loud..." Ratso muttered darkly. He brought his knuckles to rest upon his eyelids and jabbed them against each other, slowly, as if doing so could drain poison from his head if he kept at it long enough.

Rhino said nothing. His eyes were glued to the tabletop, but after an uneasy stretch spent listening to the "anghh-- oh god...!!"s coming faintly from inside the car, he asked, "Uhh. I forgot, whose turn is it?"

"Hell if I know," Ratso replied, and kept stabbing.

---

It didn't really get bad until Rhino started going for the bait, too. 

Ratso wasn't sure when it began; all he knew was what he saw, that one night the gang hadn't saddled him with lookout duty. The wall between the Boss's bed and his own cot in the spare room was thin enough to guarantee Ratso wasn't going to get much sleep either way (...Bedtime stories. The old guy. Read. The puppet. Bedtime stories!), so when he heard what had to be Rhino's footsteps trudging up the stairs and into Scarface's room, he couldn't help wondering what was going on.

The two of them deserved credit for at least trying to be discreet, he would think later. They chose a corner on the far end of the warehouse floor, by one of the shelves for those creepy mannequins piled around the place. They were a fair distance away-- and under bad lighting, at that-- but he could see Rhino, tie loose around the collar of the one dark pink 'fancy' shirt he owned, spreading a blanket over a storage crate, and the Ventriloquist clambering up to sit on the blanket, and... well, Ratso figured his imagination was healthy enough not to need any Polaroid closeups of what was about to be put where, thank you very much.

Still, he found himself lingering behind that sliver of open door, morbid curiosity nibbling at his thoughts. Seeing Rhino's cock split the Ventriloquist from the inside out like a tube sock full of ground beef was an idea far too promising for Ratso to risk missing out on.

So there he sat. Watching, listening... hoping for medical trauma. Like somebody in my spot'd do anything different, he reasoned to himself.

"...really do appreciate you giving it another chance. Again, I'm terribly sorry about last time..." he heard the Ventriloquist say. Barely. Damn it, the guy needs to learn to speak up, thought Ratso, and crouched closer to the door.

Rhino shrugged, sounding unusually glum. "Yeah, well. Wasn't plannin' on it, but... ended up comin' back here early tonight. Went 'n took Rosie to see a show, but she had to go when we got to her place. Said she left the stove on, or somethin'." With a shake of his head, he added, "Wish she'd remember stuff better. Same thing happened the last few times I been ready t'get in the sack with her, too!"

"Rose? You don't mean Miss Thorne? Oh, dear, I thought she--!"

"Nah, not that Rose. Different gal, this one. She's still alive 'n everything." Rhino shuddered. "Whew. Can't ever thank da Boss enough for gettin' that mess off my hands. Dat guy knows how to hide a body so it stays hid!"

The Ventriloquist's mood faltered at the mention of Scarface. "The girl you're seeing now..." he began, keeping his gaze towards the floor. "Is she pretty?"

Rhino took the subject change as obliviously as could be expected, baring his teeth in a dopey grin. "Yeaaah. Rosie's real pretty. She's got a whole ton a' red hair, and the best butt you ever seen," he said, his eyes glazing over like a schoolboy's. Ratso wondered when drool might start dripping down from the lunkhead's mouth. "And she's got great big titties, too! Big mooshy ones-- but they ain't gross or nothin', either. She let me take her shirt off for a while when I saw 'er last weekend, and I tell ya, those things are a hundred per cent real. I'd bet cash on 'em!"

The Ventriloquist smiled politely. "She sounds like a very nice lady."

"Yeah, and she's tiny! Even with a rack like hers! It's great!" Rhino said. He paused, his cheer fading somewhat. "But it means I gotta be extra super careful when I'm holdin' her... Always worryin' I'm gonna catch her home with her stove off one'a these days, and I'll forget an' something awful'll happen." 

He glared at the little man in front of him, suddenly deadly serious. "You ain't much bigger'n she is, neither. I'm sayin' it right now: I'm only gonna put it in a little ways, and I'm stoppin' there," he warned, fumbling to unlatch his belt. "And you better tell me to slow down if you need it, fer once. I'm not gonna risk youse gettin' hurt!"

"Oh, you shouldn't worry about me, Rhino," said the Ventriloquist. "I mean, pardon me for being frank, but even before... you know, lately... this'll hardly be the first time for me." He chuckled lightly as he looked away; Ratso could tell from the man's voice alone that he'd started to blush. "It's been years, of course, but even Mister Scarface can't tell anything's happened when he sees me walking around the next morning!"

Rhino gave him a skeptical-sounding grunt. "Naw, ain't just the Boss worryin' me anymore. I been thinkin', see... Mugsy's always actin' all buddy-buddy 'round me when we get sent up the river. Ain't no way I'm gonna be known for wrecking a guy 'cause I tried fuckin' him, too. That kinda fame, I don't need!" He knelt to grab a container on the floor behind him, then peeled its lid away and dabbed one hand inside. His thumb was covered in a whitish grease when he pulled it out.

"All right. I promise I'll let you know," the Ventriloquist said, leaning back on the blanket... and he gasped, feeling Rhino's thumb begin to press through.

"What, s'it cold?"

"No, it... it's just..." Between his shallow huffs for breath, the older man sighed, sounding blissfully overwhelmed. He stroked his fingers along Rhino's arm. "You've got such great, big, strong hands..."

Ratso felt like he was about to puke, and not from the sappy dialogue.

It wasn't stumbling across their little tryst that disgusted him the most. It wasn't even the realization that he was the only one in the gang not secretly banging their nutcase of a leader... that part was disturbing, sure, but by now, Ratso could handle 'disturbing'.

No, what made his gorge rise was the small plastic tub sitting there on the crate. He'd finally recognized it.

Thought that stuff looked like butter...

Rhino didn't even wipe his hand off first. Just dunked it back into the goop, stirred on another dollop up to his knuckles, and worked his way back inside with a slow, soundless pop.

...the same butter Ratso used on the sandwiches he'd made all week. Had one just a few hours ago, in fact...

"Ohh. Oh my... Yes. Just like that! Wiggle it like-- Yes-- yesAAH--!!"

Rhino seemed bewildered. "Shee whiz, man, I ain't even started yet. That's still my thumb!"

"--don't care!" the Ventriloquist gasped, shoving himself as far down on Rhino's hand as his own weak thrusts could take him. "Keep going please you're so good!"

...Figured the stuff had those flecks in it because it looked like a fancy brand, from the label, Ratso thought...

"Okay. I'm puttin' one finger in with it, then you're gonna be feeling the real thing," Rhino cautioned. "Still doin' all right?"

"M'okay," the Ventriloquist managed, nodding up at him. As Rhino's wrist shifted, he gulped sharply; his own hands grabbed tight lines into the blanket he quivered on, panting out and in. "God, Rhino, I'm so hard right now...!" he whimpered.

"Heh. Can see that," said Rhino. He kept going, shaking his head. "Ain't right for da Boss to keep ya pent up this bad. A guy's got needs. He oughtta know!"

...Herbs, or flavoring, or something. Not...

"Tell me you're here for me," the Ventriloquist moaned softly.

Rhino stopped moving. "But, uh... I am. I'm right--"

The closest thing to anger Ratso had ever heard flickered in the old man's voice. "Just say it!"

"I'm here for you, Mr. Ventrilo--"

"No... My real name. Arnold... Please, call me Arnold!"

Rhino gave a slight shrug at the request. "I'm here for ya, Arnold," he said, and plunged in deeper.

One of the Ventriloquist's slippers toppled to the floor, kicked away by toes shuddering taut as he choked out, "Oh god Rhinunn~nhh...!!"

And then, nothing. Only quiet, flustered panting.

"I'm so sorry," the Ventriloquist mumbled. The usual tinge of panic edged back into his words when he added, "Don't tell me I... hit your tie again?"

Rhino eased his hand away, then flicked his tie over with the other one to check. "Nope. My own fault if you did, though. Shoulda took it off first," he said with a shrug. A chuckle rumbled out as he got to his feet. "Still. Got a finger in with the thumb... that's a finger more'n last time. You're gettin' better."

"No, Rhino-- wait!" The Ventriloquist sat up carefully from the blanket. "Don't leave. Please. You should finish, too. I don't mind, it's only fair..."

"Nah. You got what ya needed. I ain't inta that stuff like you," Rhino said, though Ratso noted he wasn't bothering to pack up.

"Well-- we, we could--" the Ventriloquist stammered, then paused. "You like Rosie a lot, don't you?" he asked.

Rhino halted in place. He turned to face the little man again. "Yeah. So?"

"Well..." said the Ventriloquist, taking on a sappy-sweet tone that was almost harder for Ratso to listen to than the fumbling butt action he'd just seen, "If you want, I could be... practice. For her."

Rhino was quick on the uptake, as usual. "Huh?"

"You said she's about the same size I am, right? So you could... you know, pretend I'm her." The Ventriloquist trailed one finger along the hem of his nightshirt and looked away from Rhino demurely, like a virgin bride.

"...I dunno, Mr. Ventriloquist. Might be kinda tough. I mean, she don't have glasses." The goon squinted, thinking it over. "And she ain't a dude..."

Before the thought of it being loud enough for them to hear had a chance to sneak by, Ratso had already smacked his own forehead.

But no, the two-ring circus of horrors downstairs played on without so much as a 'what was that?' in between. His old teacher sidled down from the crate to curl both arms around one of Rhino's with a strange blend of lust and innocence that had to have been practiced, though Ratso didn't dare wonder where or how. "Come on. You should get something for being so nice to me. I can even get you ready," the Ventriloquist said, and trailed off at that, toying with the ends of Rhino's open belt. He sank to his knees, looking up at him from behind those two blank glass circles...

Rhino reared back, but only at first. With a resigned sigh, he closed his eyes, then unzipped his pants, lifting out the titan inside to let the Ventriloquist's infamous tongue give the tip its first few tickles.

Ratso cupped a hand to his mouth, just in case. The only other time he'd gotten a good look at Rhino's cock was during their midnight stakeout of Gotham Garden Arena's V.I.P. suite; he followed down the alleyway Rhino had snuck off to, only to practically bump into the big guy right there-- teeth gritted, aiming into an open trash can, and geysering piss like a horse. The only thing more unappetizing than seeing another man wrap his mouth over that very same dick was the thought of how many gallons must've gone through the thing since then... not even counting how Rhino showered maybe once every few blue moons. 

Apparently, when you were an abuse-hungry psychopath ruling the underworld from behind a block of wood you not only controlled, but somehow managed to live in fear of, you had more important things to worry about than your random sex partners' hygiene habits, Ratso mused.

If nothing else, the Ventriloquist's target sure seemed to be warming up to the attention. Rhino's eyes were still shut tight, but he found the back of the man's neck and nudged him closer with one meaty hand, growling an "Mm..." through stiffening jaws at every pull from those delicate, learned lips. Then five fingertips joined in, nestling against the jungle-thatch of black hair on his balls, and Rhino didn't mind that, either. Especially not once those fingers started patting. And rubbing. And kneading around, so slow... Another pull from that mouth... another rolling squeeze...

"Stoppit... get off!" Rhino grunted at last. He shoved the little man away.

The Ventriloquist fell with a hurt-sounding whine, pinwheeling his arms for balance until both hands hit concrete. Ratso saw a thin, ropy trail of something globby and clear wobbling between the Ventriloquist's mouth and the head of Rhino's monster-- Aww, man. NO. Sick!-- only to have it snap free, lashing runny splatters back across Mr. Wesker's glasses AAAUGHH--!

And damned if he couldn't pry his eyes away from it. Not for one lousy second.

Rhino's voice came out in a low snarl. "You want it in your ass so bad, shut up 'n turn around now!" he commanded, and dunked his hand into the plastic tub, scooping up all he could. Smearing it on, over the fat beads already starting to ooze down from the end of his cock...

...That butter. Damn it.

For whatever reason, it was that thought, combined with the Ventriloquist's hushed, heaving cry of joy-- joy, at being pushed over the side of a wooden crate and mounted by a man nearly twice his size-- that finally made Ratso's legs obey him. If Rhino was about to pound the old bastard to death, the good news could wait until morning.

After a miserable wait spent hunched over the spare room's sink, Ratso gave up on his gag reflex and slumped into his cot. He still couldn't rest, though. Even worse than before... After all, the tiniest creak he heard might be coming from downstairs. Downstairs. URGH. He yanked his pillow over his head.

He caught one last glimpse of Mugsy, lying there in the neighboring cot. A calm smile on his face. Snoozing like a baby.

Dammit, Mugsy, Ratso thought, you're an asshole.

---

Ratso wasn't sleeping very well lately.

He wasn't eating too well, either, but damn it, paying the extra scratch for takeout every day wasn't some frivolous expense. Not anymore.

Not that the Boss cared either way. Since the Batman showed up to prove he'd traced Rhino to the gang's raid on the City Diamond Exchange, Scarface was on paranoid pins and needles. Ratso had no idea who sold them out, but given how many interrogations at gunpoint he'd been put through in the past twenty-four hours alone, he wished Batman would swoop into the warehouse and start karate-chopping everyone in sight. Maybe even kill the Ventriloquist-- and whatever part of his screwed-up brain was pulling the Boss's strings-- in the process. Anything, if it meant Ratso could get out of this hellhole of a job.

Rhino was still sprawled atop the larger of the two cots, twiddle-wringing his fingers against each other like he'd been doing since Ratso came in with supper and the evening paper. It was distracting, but Ratso didn't waste time bringing it up. Having Rhino in the room meant he could look through the Help Wanted section without any eyebrows raised... That, and Ratso took a sadistic pleasure in seeing Rhino's hungry eyes follow each morsel between his chopsticks from the takeout box to his mouth. Ratso made a point of never offering to share.

The big guy didn't allow him any such happiness tonight. Whatever was on Rhino's mind, not even the scent of chicken fried rice with almonds could snap him out of it.

Hmm. 'Sewage treatment plant hiring pipe scrubbers, full time'... Sounds like a step up.

"Hey," said Rhino, without looking away from his hands. "You noticed anything, uh... wrong... with Mr. Ventriloquist, lately?"

Ratso didn't bother pulling punches with his sarcasm anymore. Not around Rhino. Jaw dropped, eyes bugged out in disbelief, the works. "NAWW! Nothing at ALL! Why?"

"Whew. D'ah-- I mean, nuthin', no reason! Just wonderin' if you... y'know, if ya did," the giant stammered. He took a quick gulp of air, then quieted... only to blurt out a moment later, "Guys can't get knocked up, can they?"

Not long ago, a question like that would've had Ratso snorting an almond. The only reaction he had to it now was a slightly slower-than-average blink. Don't wanna know. Really don't wanna know.

...Oh, what the hell. "Why d'ya ask?"

Rhino's fingers moved to pester the edge of his tie instead. "See, I wouldn't know, 'cause I don't do that with other guys, but..."

"Course you don't," Ratso said, nodding.

"I got a girlfriend 'n everything."

"Yeah. She pretty?"

That same dumb grin. "Real pretty. And she's got--"

"Don't tell me. Big tits?"

Rhino's eyes lit up. "Great big ones, yeah!"

"You don't say!" Wow. It's like tossing a ball to a dog over and over, and it never sees the thing's still in your hand. "Bet they're real."

"That's what I said! Hey, man, you're a good guesser!"

"It's a gift," Ratso said flatly. "So what's this about a guy you didn't have sex with gettin' pregnant?"

"Right, right. Well, it's-- My gal Rosie, she always stops 'n says I gotta put on a rubber first, or she won't let me do it with her, 'cause she don't want no kids. And I was thinkin' how the Ventriloquist... y'know, with what he and Mugsy been doin', I heard him say there's no way he can keep those things around without da Boss finding 'em and gettin' wise. So if Mr. Ventriloquist's takin' it all those times widdout a rubber, and... he ain't lookin' like he's feelin' too good, past couple'a days..."

...No kiddin', Rhino. He's had your battering ram plowing his ass-- I'm surprised he's not stuck on crutches yet!

Ratso gave Rhino another slow blink. What to do, what to do. Oh, the trust in those eyes... Damn, is this tempting. He shoveled a heaping pinch of rice into his mouth, chewing much longer than he needed to before musing out loud, "Wonder what the Boss is gonna say when he finds out he's not the father..."

The look of sheer terror on Rhino's face almost made Ratso loathe his guts a little less. Almost.

With his tree-trunk legs wobbling like cold jelly, Rhino got to his feet and hurried out onto the stairwell, leaving a trail of panicked omigosh!es in his wake. He closed the door behind him.

Ratso lifted his takeout box and tipped the rest of the mash past grinning teeth. He spent the next few want-ad pages chewing in silence. It seemed victory could be sweet, once he finally caught a taste.

The sudden knock on the door startled him, but he managed to rustle the newspaper under his cot's pillow before the Ventriloquist finished asking, "Mr. Ratso? Sorry to bother you..."

"One side, Dummy." The door swung open like it'd been punched. "EY! Rat! Front 'n center, we gotta talk!"

Speak of the devil, Ratso thought, and stared Scarface right in its beady glass eyes from across the room. "Yeah, what's the news?"

"My life's on da line 'ere! When duh Bat's after us, whaddaya tink's on my mind, wise guy?" Scarface complained. Much to Ratso's confusion, as the puppet kept talking, the Ventriloquist walked over to gingerly take a seat next to him on the cot, then lifted a notepad and pencil from his tuxedo's jacket pocket. He began jotting something down on the paper with a shaky, one-hand balance. Ratso squinted, trying to make sense of the psycho's chickenscratch...

Don't worry - play along. We're being monitored.

"Just wanna say, I been watchin' Mugsy lately, 'n somethin's up. Too freakin' smug fer 'is own good, dat guy. Like he knows somethin', get me?" Scarface said. His right eye snapped shut, then open... the most natural-looking wink the mob boss could pull off. Which really wasn't saying much.

The Ventriloquist held out the pencil to Ratso, so he took it, adding: Who? Since when? "You ask me, Mugsy's always too smug for his own good," he said, and nodded to the dummy.

"Yeah? You sound pretty slick 'bout what he's been up to yerself, pal. Almost like you been... commizzeratin', even," Scarface threatened.

Ratso frowned, though he was too busy watching the Ventriloquist scrawl Batman. Snuck in my room - put a bug on my clothes - late last night. Boss is keeping it there - Batman thinks we don't know - Boss says fake info out loud to distract him - till he thinks of what to do next. for him to feel properly annoyed at the puppet's words. "You know I'm loyal, Boss," he said, biting back anything in his tone that might hint he was sick and tired of this double-talk crap. By now, Ratso figured he deserved an Oscar.

"Good for you, Lil' Miss Boy Scout," Scarface shot back. "You just make sure ya lemme know duh second you figure out anyting da gang's up to dey ain't lettin' me in on, or soon dis group's gettin' smaller, random-style!"

Ratso's expression remained numb. "Anything anyone does? What, even him?" he asked, pointing at the Ventriloquist.

"Even duh Dumm--" Scarface began, then stopped, his eyes flapping open like twin shutters. "Why, what's goin' on he ain't tellin' me about?" he demanded.

What, that he's had more dicks crammed down his throat in two weeks than you've had hands up your ass your entire so-called 'life'?

...No, idiot, the thing's got a gun. Stay frosty. 'Nothing, Boss, just sayin'.' Think 'Oscar.' Frosty.

"Nothin', Boss. Just sayin', y'know?"

Whew.

Going by the look on his face, the Ventriloquist couldn't agree with Ratso more.

---

As it turned out, Ratso had his wish granted that very night. He never imagined he'd be happy to get beaten within an inch of brain damage by a man in black tights and a cape before joining Scarface's gang... Hanging around the Ventriloquist sure had ways of changing a guy.

He was lucky, all things considered. One kick from the Batman, and Ratso's gun flew out of his hands; two, and his back was on the ground, his scream knocked right out of him.

Screw this, he thought, and played possum. Like hell he was going to be pulverized trying to protect a man who'd been wrestling the business end of a gun away from his own head only moments ago.

Wrestling. Against a puppet. 

And losing.

It was too bad the crackpot wasn't caught in Mugsy's last-ditch spray of ammo, though to be fair, Ratso wasn't sure what the goon had been aiming for. Batman was standing right there, sure, but if Mugsy was after the biggest threat overall, it made sense that Wesker's dummy ended up taking the whole round.

Ratso heard something heavy hit the floor. That must be Mugsy... He peeked one eye open, just enough to see the Ventriloquist fall to his knees, scoop the smoking wreck of Scarface into his arms, and cradle it to his chest. The way he was bawling, you'd think the thing was his goddamned mother.

Batman didn't move. He didn't have to. The power bristling in his voice held all the authority he needed. "Stay where you are," he told the older man. "I've called the police. They should be here any minute."

The Ventriloquist raised his head. His whole face was glossy from the snot-bubble hiccups dribbling down with his tears. Some of the slime clung stubbornly to Scarface's chest when he pulled away...

Ratso let his eye droop shut. Too much of a flashback.

Sightless or not, he could still hear Mr. Wesker's voice-- such as it was, gurgled through a throatful of fluids. "Shh-shoo... bin..."

That dark rumble, coming softer this time. "What?"

"Should've-- been me!" the Ventriloquist wailed. "If I only-- I shoulda let him shoot me! Or pushed him out of the way... Then he, h-he wouldn't be...!" The two glass circles glimmered as he searched the shadow looming over him for signs of another person inside.

Behind the black cowl, two white slits narrowed. "You're... not well," Batman said. "Take my hand. I know a place where there are doctors." He paused, looking the frightened little man and his puppet up and down. "Very good doctors," he added slowly.

"Noooo...!!" the Ventriloquist whined. Sounds of a scuffle broke out.

Ratso's curiosity won out over months' worth of common sense. He opened his eyes in time to catch his old teacher having a fist-flailing tantrum there on the floor: "You don't get it! He's hurt-- he's really, really hurt! Why do you want to help me?! I'm the awful one... I'm evil! All I've done is lie to him, and-- an' cheat on him, all this time, when-- Mister Scarface, he's the only one I've got, in the whole wide world! Even when--" His head sank against the dummy's broken body once more. "I... l-love him... and now he's..."

Even the Batman didn't seem to have a reply ready for something like that.

It was the click that threw Ratso for a loop, though. He hadn't noticed the Ventriloquist's hand inching towards Scarface's tommygun until the psycho had the barrel pressed tight and shivering under his own chin.

Batman jerked back, as if about to dodge a bullet-- and he froze, his eyeslits widening to stark white circles. "No! Don't--!!"

Ah-HA! Finally! Do it, do it, do it, YES!

No such luck. The Ventriloquist crumbled like a dead leaf; he held out the gun to Batman, handle-first. "Y-you're right... you do it. I'd only mess it up somehow."

Come on, Bats, you can do it! Save yourself a trip to Arkham!

One swat, and the weapon was clattering to the floor, far out of reach.

Two, and the Ventriloquist had a fresh slap mark across his face.

"...Ow," he said, and sniffled, rubbing his cheek.

"Listen to me," the shadow growled. "If you never listen to another word I say, make sure you remember this. Guns don't solve anything. They only create more problems. Trust me. I know."

What?!

"But... Mister Scarface," the Ventriloquist protested, "He's been looking out for me for years now. I don't know what to..." His head rolled weakly from side to side. "Please, just don't let him die. I'm sorry, but... I can't live without him. Not yet."

What the shit is this? A slap? That's it?!

Batman laid a gloved hand on the man's shoulder as he regarded the hole-ridden dummy's corpse. "Don't worry," he said. "From what I've seen tonight, I have a hunch he's too strong to stay away for long. Unfortunately."

You idiot! You got any idea how long I've wanted to blast that sorry freak's head off-- then you get the perfect shot, and you give him a "guns are bad" speech so he'll stop?! Thought you were here to help this town! Waste him already!

The inky silhouette whirled to face Ratso. Its eyes squinted tighter. Within that sleek black cloak, two knuckles cracked against each other, ready for fresh prey.

Through the thuds of the worst headache he could ever remember having, Ratso managed a gulp. Bet I said that last part out loud, didn't I?

His last thought before the walloping began was, Oh, well. There goes my Oscar.

---

"--and this is Jack Ryder for Gotham Insider, live and on the scene, where-- yes, there he is, the Batman is coming out of the building now, with... is that...? Yes, folks, you're seeing it here first on the Insider: he's done it again! Batman has captured the ringleader of the gang that's been terrorizing Gotham these long months without leaving so much as a name for themselves behind! I'm going in for a closer look... All you night owls watching out there, wish me luck!"

The camera wobbles, trying to follow the reporter as he weaves a trail through the media throng, his microphone thrust out before him like the bow of a speedboat. "Batman! Batman, if I could get a quick--"

Jack's mike peeks into view from the bottom corner of the screen. The tuxedoed man Batman's got by the arm darts back from it like a spooked fawn. "Sir! Any comments for our audience?" Jack shouts.

"...said he's... taking us to a doctor..." the man mumbles. Batman raises a finger and holds it over his own frown, giving him a silent signal, but it's too late; the sharks already have their drop of blood.

"A doctor? Did Batman use excessive force during--"

"--is this a doctor at Arkham Asylum we're talking--"

"...what do you mean by 'us'?"

"Sir--! Sir, would you consider yourself a 'costumed extremist,' like others of your criminal caliber in Gotham--"

"...Hey, mister, what's that thing you're holding--"

At some point during the commotion, the man's legs buckle, sending him stumbling. He barely seems aware that he's fallen until Batman hefts him to his feet. Then he clings to the armor on Batman's chest, burying his face against the familiar yellow emblem and crying out pitifully: "I don't know ANYthing! I just want to go HOME...!"

Ah, signs of weakness. They only make the crowd swarm louder.

Careful to use camera-friendly cuss words, Jack grumbles to himself and tries edging closer to the action again...

If anyone cared to look, they would have seen a squat fellow with buck teeth being carried out of the building on a stretcher, unconscious. If they cared to look.

Few paid attention to the thugs in the background, however. The herd of camera crews kept their focus on one person alone-- that small, soggy-eyed wisp of a man who looked ready to wet himself at any moment. As the Dark Knight barged through the crowd, Gotham's newest media darling huddled close to Batman, cowering beneath the cape swept over his shoulders to cover him from a hundred questions barked at once. He shielded his eyes from the flashbulbs' glare by lifting up the mystery object clutched tightly in his hands... A piece of wood, maybe? 

No, a dummy... an ordinary ventriloquil dummy.

Was Gotham City ever in for a surprise.

Still, if there was one guilty pleasure this town enjoyed, it was seeing another display added to the public's very own resident freak show. From a safe distance, of course. None of them were stupid enough to get too close.

---

The jail time didn't bother Ratso much. His sentence was longer than he would have liked, seeing as how all those previous burglary charges had a way of working against a guy... After what he'd just gone through, though, a few years behind bars sounded like an earned vacation.

But, then, this was Gotham. Between the overcrowding, the under-funding, and all the community service he could sign up for, Ratso was back on the street in a matter of months. 

Which brought him here. The Stacked Deck. Best little hellhole the city had to offer, chock full of job opportunities for guys who didn't care to ask their employers too many questions. He sat in a cramped two-person booth near the bar, absent-mindedly turning the single playing card in his hands over and over. Once in a while, he set the card face-up on the table and took another swig from the mug of booze he'd been nursing for the past hour or so, searching the room for recognizing eyes. His contact had to be showing up soon, he just knew it...

Wait a sec. Is that Mugsy?

Oh, hell-- don't look this way, don't look this...

...damn it, he's coming over.

"Ratso! Budd-yyy! Thought that was you!" said the black-suited gangster, sliding casually into the other seat and clapping Ratso on the shoulder. His smirk was as confident and oily-looking as ever. "Ain't you a sight fer sore eyes. How ya been, man?"

Ratso stared at Mugsy. Longer than most friends would consider polite. 

"Fine," he replied. The word was coated in a thick layer of ice. "Meeting someone. Like, any minute now." His nose wrinkled at his ex-partner's breath. "Sheesh, Mugsy. You been drinkin' enough tonight?"

Mugsy snickered. "Yeah, had a few already... Gonna have a few more, by the end'a the night. Good time for celebratin'-- ya see the papers? They let the Ventriloquist outta Arkham yesterday! Got a call from the Boss just a few hours ago. Been workin' on rounding up the old gang ever since." He gave the tabletop a spank with his palm. "And talk about luck, I find the last guy I'm after right here! How'd'ya like that? We're back in business, pal!"

Ratso's stomach lurched. "What's this 'we' crap?" he muttered. "I'm never going fifty feet near that loon again."

"...Really?" Mugsy almost sounded hurt. "That's too bad. Rhino's on board, too, and he wasn't even talkin' to me when we was both shipped off to Stonegate. Why don't you wanna?"

All Ratso could do was shake his head at him, flabbergasted. "Why don't I? Why the hell would you go back?!"

"Aww, come off it, Rats. You ain't dumb." Mugsy's smirk widened lewdly, bringing back memories that made Ratso want to punch the daylights out of him even more. "Ain't just all the cash. Workin' with the Ventriloquist's got... heh. Y'know." He flicked his top row of teeth with his tongue. "Benefits."

"Ugh..." Ratso mumbled. He leaned away, scrubbing at his eyes with suddenly shaky palms. "You're kiddin' me, right? No hummer's worth that much!"

Mugsy snorted. "You ever been married?"

"No, but..."

"Thought so. Oughtta meet my ex," Mugsy said. "Say what you want, this deal's way better'n she ever was."

A terrifying thought occurred to Ratso. He glanced down at the playing card on the table, then at Mugsy, muttering, "Oh, no... You're not the 'Red Queen,' are you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mugsy said, and scowled. "Hey. Listen. The Ventriloquist... he's just the one guy, I swear. If that's all it takes t'start callin' me a queen, lemme tell you a thing'r--"

"Whoa, wait a sec. I didn't mean it like..."

"No, you listen t'me! You know z'well as I do, soon as you start goin' to town on him, he squeals like a chick anyhow--"

Ratso almost spilled his mug right there. "Say what? I never touched that sicko!"

Another smirk crossed Mugsy's haggard face, but this one was different. Like he meant it to look more like a dry half-snarl, for once. "Riiiight. I gotcha. Mister Big Shot's just gonna forget anything happened, now that he's out of the gang." Ignoring Ratso's sputtering, he hunched closer, crossing his arms on the tabletop. "Give it a rest, will ya? Hell, even Rhino 'fessed up to me how he'd been sneaking out t'get some on the side, back then. Can't tell me you weren't breakin' off a piece a' that swishy ass, too."

"No! I--" Ratso began, then stopped, noticing how their argument was drawing eyes from the surrounding tables. "Keep your voice down, okay?"

"Or what? What's Mister Big Shot gonna do about it, huh?" Mugsy said. To his seatmate's horror, he cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed to everyone in earshot, "Hey, FELLAS! Guess who here was bustin' his nuts inta the Ventriloquist's stinkpipe for MONTHS 'n lovin' every second of it, HAHH?"

After a few moments, Ratso slowly lifted his own hands away from his face.

...And put them back. Yup, the whole place was staring now.

A young woman's voice broke the silence. "Hoo, boy! Hope you don't kiss your momma with that mouth, buster!"

Mugsy managed a lopsided swivel without falling out of his seat, but his half-lidded blinks at the lady in red standing beside their booth made it clear there wasn't much rational thought left to hold up the weight of his swagger. He ogled the blonde from her pigtails to her leather pumps, lingering over some parts with similar subtlety. "Lookie here, toots," he said. Unless you're givin' out free blowjobs, too, I don't think you're part'a this here conversation." 

When the lady turned her quirked eyebrows to Ratso, he spoke as quickly and politely as he could. "Ma'am... I don't know, either. He walked up to me and sat down-- I ain't never seen him before."

"Uh huh," she replied, and smiled at the card lying near Ratso's fingers. The crudely-depicted face of a jester, all thick lines and shining teeth...

Her attention returned to Mugsy. She gave him a grin. A sly, dirty grin. Shifting the briefcase she carried against her hip, she sashayed up close to his side of the booth, enough to see the blush creeping into the thug's cheeks. "Well, Romeo, I don't know about handing out one'a those, but I bet there's something else I can give ya," she said. "You know what they say. You just put your lips together, and... blow..."

With one puff, a double palmful of glittery pink powder scattered over him like an estrogen blizzard.

Mugsy sat there, looking as stupified as any man suddenly twinkling like they'd gotten a facial from a dozen Tinkerbelles could expect to be. "What the--" he mumbled...

...and the itchiness hit him.

The next thing anyone knew, Mugsy was spasming on the floor, screeching like a gutted tomcat. He clawed at his face in a vain attempt to scrape the glitter off, seemingly unaware that his nails were taking the top layer of his skin along with it. 

The lady in red hoisted him up by the collar and shoved him towards the Deck's lone doorway. "Now, hush up and go play someplace else, kiddo. Us grownups are talkin'!" she said.

I like this gal, Ratso decided. I like her a lot. 

He watched as Mugsy stumbled out into the night, doubtlessly propelled more by blind agony than any real sense of direction. The screaming continued without a hitch, even when the thump of Mugsy's body hitting the docks soon followed. Another sound joined in, however, that made Ratso squint in confusion.

Hyenas? No... can't be, he thought. What would hyenas be doing in Gotham?

"And besides, I'm taken," the woman added calmly. She scooted into the booth's empty seat.

Damn. Lucky son of a gun, thought Ratso. He tried to ignore the way those perky breasts of hers pressed together like snuggling turtledoves when she sat down. Oy... Keep your eyes up high, you moron. You wanna find out what she does to fellas sportin' wood around her, too? "So, uh. You're the Red Queen, I take it?"

"Right-a-roonie!" She flashed him a dazzlingly white smile. "So what's your story? What makes a guy like you think he should work for a guy like mine?" she asked, resting her elbows on the table with little regard for the drifts of powder still there.

"Well, I know I never worked for him before, but I've got experience with another guy from Arkham. He's kinda new around here. You heard of 'im? The, uh..." He paused, remembering Mugsy's announcement from before, and continued in a whisper: "The Ventriloquist?"

The young woman gasped. "Puppet Head? Oh my gosh, you know Puppet Head?" she chirped, bouncing merrily in place. Her giggles burst from her like a flurry of champagne bubbles. "I know him, too! He's such a sweetheart. If he'd just get rid of that blockhead he's always carrying around, I bet he'd have gals meltin' in his arms like butter!"

Ratso went pale. "Sorry, ma'am, but-- ugh. Please don't mention that guy and food in the same sentence," he pleaded, and waved away her puzzled look with a jittery hand. "No, don't ask. Just trust me."

The lady nodded, then gazed up at the ceiling fan overhead, apparently deep in thought. "Well, I don't know what Mistah J.'ll have to say about ya, but the way I see it, anyone who knows ol' Puppet Head can't be all bad," she said. "Besides, it's not like it's gonna be a long job or anything. I take you to the place he needs you to go, you drop off the package you're s'posed to deliver, and..." She consulted the fan again, tapping a slim index finger to her chin.

"And?" Ratso asked.

"Y'know, he didn't say much about what happens after that," she admitted. "I'm pretty sure he's got somethin' fun planned, though. He always does!"

"Hm," was all Ratso said to that. Well, you knew this Joker guy wasn't going to be the brightest crayon in the box when you came here, he reminded himself. If you're gonna rub elbows with the big-money wackos, you might as well shoot for the top branch. And just look: it's already paying off. Hot lady in front of you. Very hot lady. Not a creepy old man.

His vigor renewed, he asked, "And the money...?"

"Oh, yeah!" she said, and swung her briefcase onto the tabletop; Ratso barely had time to duck the powder eruption when it landed. "Got it right here. Half of it up front, the other half after you're done. Check it out, if you want."

Ratso unlatched the briefcase's bindings and peeked inside.

Rows and rows of bundled fifty-dollar bills. Only the left sides. All trimmed neatly in two, down the middle.

"That part was my job!" the girl said, beaming with pride. "Pretty good, huh?"

"Uh... yeah," he assured her, and fumbled for his most convincing smile. "S'great."

"Yay! Then we're all set! My car's out back." She leaned across the table to pump his hand in hers. "Welcome to the club!"

For someone with such a tiny frame, she had a grip Ratso wasn't expecting. He managed a "M-m-much oblig-ed!" as the lady nearly shook his arm from its socket. At least it made what was left of his hard-on fizzle as well.

He made sure to hold the briefcase near his crotch when he got up and followed her outside, just the same. It never hurt to plan for the worst. Ain't that right, Mugsy? He grinned, hearing snivels still echoing weakly from nearby. Where are ya, you scum-sucking-- holy crap, he's getting roughed up by street dogs!

His first thought was, Serves him right, the bastard.

...followed quickly by, Wait. Those aren't dogs.

Two sets of crazed yellow eyes snapped high as the beasts raised their heads; their ears pricked, zeroing in on the newcomers. Giving Mugsy's bloodied arms one last yank between them with their jaws, they let go, leaving the thug to hit the ground with a falsetto yelp.

What are those things?!

"Aww, look, they're playin' Wishbone!" the woman in red cooed. She bent to one knee and spread out her arms. "C'mere, babies!"

They're... they're heading straight for us. 

A single, exhausted "ha!" forced its way from Ratso's mouth before the monsters pounced...

The lady giggled again. "Now, isn't that precious? That means they like you!"

-fin-