DC: I Became A Godfather

No one noticed Adam's face scrunch up like he'd just swallowed battery acid and realized it was three days past its expiration.

The shoeshine customer seated nearby clutched his chest dramatically, gasping like some horrified schoolboy.

"Sweet Jesus," the man said in a breathy voice. "That Black Mask guy—stuffing people into oil drums and pouring cement on them? That's not just criminal… that's clinical. That's insane."

The kid doing the shining rolled his eyes and scoffed like a street-hardened veteran.

"Tch. That's light work," he said flatly. "That's Black Mask's starter move. You owe him money? That's the tutorial stage. He once turned a businessman into dog food and sold the guy's wife and kids to a Mexican cartel. Now that's a statement." 

He took a breath and added:

"He's even planning to off a cop soon—some dude who didn't pay up. This whole city's off its rocker, but that guy? That guy's Gotham's king of crazy. Not even the cops touch him."

Adam stared at the kid, trying to see if there was any recognition in those young eyes. Did the little bastard know who he was? Was this targeted shade? But no—there was no malice, no mischief. The kid was as sincere as a bedtime story. Just another Gotham child born with no filter and zero fear.

Adam took a slow drag off his cigarette and exhaled through his nose.

"Tch. You're calling that guy crazy? Please."

Everyone within earshot turned toward him with raised eyebrows.

"You serious?" one man asked. "A guy who feeds people to dogs and sells their kids—you don't call that crazy?"

Even the kid leaned back on his heels, skeptical.

Of course, the Joker hadn't officially debuted yet. Gotham hadn't seen real crazy. Not yet.

Adam tilted his head back and stared at the neon sky.

"Black Mask ain't crazy," he said. "He's calculated. He's not some rabid animal—he's a fox in a blood-soaked coat. And every move he makes? It's premeditated."

He paused, let the silence hang, let the weight of those words settle.

Now everyone was listening.

"You think stuffing some poor bastard into a barrel's random?" Adam said, flicking ash. "No. That's theater. Every kill, every freakish display—that's not insanity. It's branding."

The crowd leaned in.

"Everything he does," Adam continued, "has a logic. A twisted one, sure, but logic nonetheless. You miss a payment? You get made into chum. Wife and kids? They become leverage or revenue. Sounds cruel—is cruel—but Gotham has always been a place where skipping debts gets you a one-way trip to the morgue. Hell, Penguin feeds people to sharks. Falcone shoots 'em point blank. Compared to them? Black Mask just adds a bit more... flair."

The boy was nodding now. Thoughtfully.

Adam's eyes narrowed, voice lowering as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"But see—here's the thing. That flair? That's a mask. Same as the one on his face. He wants you to believe he's nuts. Wants the world to think he's untouchable. That if you cross him, he'll skin you alive and sleep like a baby after."

He tapped ash onto the concrete, tone sharpening.

"Truth is, he's just putting on a show. He wants fear to walk into every room before he does. That's the trick—his real power isn't in guns or gangs. It's in reputation. He's built this myth that he's monstrous. But ask yourself this—"

Adam locked eyes with the kid. "Would he really kill a cop without a reason? Would he spray gas in a crowd just to laugh at the chaos? Would he snap a newborn's neck in front of its mom?"

Adam shook his head, eyes haunted by another grinning silhouette. Another madness Gotham hadn't tasted yet.

"Nah. That ain't Black Mask. That's not who he is."

The kid blinked.

"Then what is he?"

Adam smirked.

"He's a fox in a borrowed lion's skin. Walking around shouting, 'Don't mess with me or I'll eat you alive!' But take that mask off, and what you've got underneath? Just another man playing a part."

He didn't say the rest. Didn't tell them how many times Black Mask had embarrassed himself in public—like in Arkham City, where the supposed kingpin had been bodied by prison guards after yelling "No one disrespects me!" and getting bench-slammed like a ragdoll.

They didn't know that. But Adam did.

He leaned forward, letting the red cherry of his cigarette glow beneath his hooded eyes.

The kid—Jason, if he remembered right—just stared at him, blinking in awe. Black Mask, in his young mind, had been a devil made flesh. Now? Just another hustler in a city filled with them.

Adam clapped his hands.

"Hey, shoeshine kid. You done yet? I don't get charged by the hour, do I?"

Jason blinked, shook himself out of the trance, and quickly finished the job. He even gave the shoes a gleaming buff with extra wax.

"One dollar, mister. All the street customers know—Jason's got honest hands. I'm not like some writers who pad out chapters with character analysis to hit word count." He said it earnestly, like this was sacred ground.

Adam laughed.

"Fair enough." He pulled out a five and handed it over. "Keep the change."

"Jason, huh? That's your name? You always tell people that?"

The kid nodded proudly.

"Yup. Too many kids on these corners, sir. If I don't say my name, how'll they remember me next time?"

Adam looked at him, really looked.

There was something there—something rare. Cunning. Intent.

"Smart kid…" he muttered. "This city's full of surprises."