DC: I Became A Godfather

Adam had wandered for quite a while through the upper floors of the Zeus Hotel, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive "big shots" the waiter had mentioned—Maxie Zeus, Bruce Wayne, maybe even someone more mysterious. But after circling around without spotting anyone noteworthy, disappointment settled over him like a damp coat.

'Whatever,' he thought, the buzz of alcohol making his steps looser than usual. 'Can't win them all.'

Unfortunately, his drunkenness wasn't just metaphorical.

His head spun. The floor seemed to shift beneath his feet. And just as he turned a corner too fast, bam!—he slammed right into a passing waiter.

And not a light bump, either.

Adam hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, groaning as he landed awkwardly on his backside. His body, dulled by alcohol, had all the resistance of wet paper. Anyone who's ever been blackout drunk knows the feeling—your muscles are jelly, your reflexes worse than a toddler's. And Adam, for all his cleverness and training, was no exception.

"Damn," he mumbled as he blinked up at the ceiling, his vision swimming. "That guy Norton... drinks like a whale. Should've known I couldn't keep up with a soldier. Suicidal, really..."

He pushed himself upright with effort, rubbing his temple with one hand and gesturing vaguely with the other toward the waiter he'd collided with. His words slurred slightly as he apologized.

"Sorry, man... I didn't see where I was going. Drank a little too much. You alright?"

The waiter smiled—high-pitched, a little too theatrical.

"Hahaha! Sir, you're quite the character! You bumped into me and you're the one apologizing?" the man said, still laughing. "Here, let me help you up!"

He extended a hand.

That was when Adam noticed something... off.

The waiter wore gloves—ordinary enough—but the sleeves of his shirt didn't meet the gloves properly. There was a wide, awkward gap between cuff and wrist, like he was wearing a borrowed uniform two sizes too big. The skin peeking out from beneath was strikingly pale. Not just pale—unnaturally pale, the kind of sickly white that looked like it belonged on a corpse that had been floating in formaldehyde for decades.

Adam squinted through the alcohol-induced haze.

'That's weird,' he thought. 'Zeus Hotel's staff uniforms are tailored. No way a place this upscale gives their people secondhand gear.'

And that skin—that skin.

It wasn't right.

The gears turned slowly at first, then faster. Gotham was full of monsters, after all. Could this guy be some forgotten B-list villain? A new mutant freak? Was this Mr. Freeze out of costume? Maybe some white-skinned freak with frostbite issues?

Or worse...

Adam's mind kept spinning. 'Could it be Grundy? That undead meat tank? No, no—he only shows up during thunderstorms, and he's not exactly chatty.'

Then the man laughed again.

"Why so serious?" he said casually, voice curling with that unmistakable note of irony. "Hahaha, what you said earlier had me howling, my guy. Honestly, I wanted to give you a standing ovation."

The color drained from Adam's face.

That voice. That tone. That skin. That laugh.

'No! No fucking way!'

It hit him like a jolt of electricity straight to the spine. A cold wave spread through his chest, icing down his lungs. He stared at the man's outstretched hand as if it were tipped with venomous fangs. His instincts screamed run, but his body wouldn't move.

The Clown.

Not a clown.

The Clown.

The Joker.

Gotham's walking apocalypse. The Prince of Crime. A living catastrophe in purple and greasepaint.

Green hair. Death-white skin. Crimson grin. Eyes that danced with murder and madness.

He had no powers. No mutations. Just an intellect sharper than razor wire, and a mind that spun chaos like a spider weaves webs. A walking contradiction—hilarious and horrifying. A man whose jokes came at the price of lives.

IGN had ranked him the greatest comic book villain of all time. He was more than a character—he was a myth. And here he was, in the flesh, dressed like a waiter, grinning like a lunatic with his hand outstretched to Adam.

Adam's thoughts raced.

'I'm not Batman. I don't have plot armor. If this lunatic decides he wants to snap my neck or stick a pencil in my eye, I'm dead. Especially like this—drunk, slow, and caught off guard.'

He reached instinctively for the holster beneath his coat—but even that was hopeless. Too close. Too fast. The Joker would cut him open before the gun left the leather.

And the worst part?

The Joker was watching him. Smiling. Waiting. Studying his reaction like a cat playing with a stunned mouse.

Adam knew the stories. Joker wasn't just twisted—he was trained. Despite his wiry frame, he was a brutally effective street fighter. In The Dark Knight, he'd manhandled Harvey Dent with ease. In Arkham Origins, he'd ambushed Black Mask and dragged his limp body like yesterday's garbage. If you ever underestimated the Joker because of his theatrics, you were already dead.

Right now, Adam was caught.

Staring at that pale hand like it was a trigger for his own execution.

And the Joker leaned in, whispering with glee:

"Hey now, don't freeze up on me. Didn't you just say something hilarious a second ago? What happened to all that witty banter, hm? Cat got your tongue? Or are you just realizing who you're talking to?"

Adam's heart pounded like a war drum.

The tension was suffocating. What now? He couldn't act hostile. Couldn't run. Couldn't grab his gun. One wrong move, and this "waiter" would turn Zeus Hotel into a bloodbath.

He could already imagine the headlines:

"Tragedy at Gotham Landmark: Dozens Dead in Joker's Latest Joke."

His mind screamed for a plan, a line, a way out.

'What do I say? What do I do?'

He was sweating now—alcohol, panic, and adrenaline swirling into a cocktail of fear.

Only one thing was certain—

This was a bad night to be drunk in Gotham.

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