Trump tariffed the chapters.
. . .
Vampire Rule N°69: Be yourself, unless you can be Alucard.
… … … … … … … … …
Outside a laundromat, a balding gentleman named Ray sat on an upturned milk crate, a cigarette burning low between two fingers.
Raymond McBride, or just Old Man Ray to everyone in the neighborhood, was one of those people whose routine was so rock solid they became a permanent fixture.
For nearly forty years he'd been sitting in front of the same building, saw it change owners dozens of times, burn down two times, and turn from barbershops to sports bars to grocery stores until it became the local laundromat it is today.
Today people used Old Man Ray as a landmark, the Irish grandpa with his never ending pack of smokes, daily issue of the Gotham Gazette and an assortment of utterly revolting jokes was there everyday of the week, sitting vigil exactly fifteen minutes before the shift of dock workers start going home.
He even doubled as an economic indicator.
If times were good, he and his union friends would turn that lone crate into a small friendly hang out, playing checkers and obscure card games for pennies, candies and a whole lot of cancer sticks, laughing until the moon said hi and entertaining the locals.
If times were bad, he would be sitting alone, the only dock hands who could afford to do the same amount of hours every day due to some lucky investment his father made back during the prohibition.
If times were really bad, then his friend would come back, but the games and smokes would turn into bottles and curses.
Today he was sitting alone, there was still some left for the dock workers to come back, and while it would have alarmed the old heads a couple months ago, now the mere mention of trouble was enough to bring an immediate and reassuring response.
"John will take care of it." Followed by a pat on the back and a promise to call this or that friend who could make sure Harker would hear about their grievances.
He was their very own Bruce Wayne, dark hair and blue eyes, a body that no paper pushing business person should have, and that little voice in their head that made them do nice things for people who very much do not deserve it.
Except that he was far younger, probably younger than most of the neighborhood women would like if some rumours were right, not that it could ever stop them from trying.
Infinitely poorer and lacking in the whole rich industrialist parents department, Johnny Blue Eyes didn't go to no fancy private schools. Has a former crackhead for a personal assistant instead of some British butler, and he probably personally buried at least a couple hardcore drug peddlers who just couldn't tell their time in Brideshead was gone.
As far as Old Ray and every sensible person he knew were concerned, it was much better that way.
Sitting in his spot, Ray watched the lad clean the district one block at a time, neighborhood by neighborhood, doing more to help folks that their own parents did, and making sure they didn't mess it up because their sickness was frying their nerves and turning them even dumber than usual.
He watched people go from stealing pipes to installing them, from jacking cars to fixing them, from living their life chasing that 10$ high to dedicating their time to helping others overcome it.
It could make a grown man cry.
Not him though, he was no fuckin' pansy.
Today, he was still watching as the first of his mates swung by, having made too much money to quit his job, but too little to actually like it.
He watched as they traded jokes and barbs, pondered whether they should play something or just relax and wait for the rest of the boys showed up.
Until he saw something that made him want to rip out his already thinning red hair, to stop watching and go introduce a few apparently brainless heads to the brick wall.
He watched as a trio of young men in baggy clothes loitered near the curb, swaggering as if to convince themselves and others that they were actually somebody, whispering and touting to anyone who passed by.
Of course, everyone could see what they really were.
Fresh dealers, barely out of school.
Ray took a drag and exhaled.
"That's the fifth time this week," he muttered.
Behind him, a younger man leaned against the laundromat's brick wall, arms crossed and face hard,"Shit, I'll call Goaty."
Goaty wasn't a real name. None of them used real names anymore, not for this sort of thing.
Goaty ran with the neighborhood watch, full time, Harker's guy got him the job and a steady check as thanks for helping them out with a pickle back when things were much rougher and people a lot less trusting of them and their work.
The watch was a collection of reformed ex-cons, ex-junkies, and men who didn't want their kids growing up in the war zone they once did.
They weren't cops. They weren't vigilantes, and most of them didn't do it as a full time job.
Just a bunch of men with phones, nickel, legally owned guns and a deep, burning hatred for what Brideshead used to be.
And tonight, they were getting real tired of these kids showing up where they weren't wanted.
"No need, they are already here." Old Ray could almost smile, if the whole thing wasn't so darn depressing.
Across the street, another small-time crew tried to push into a bodega. The owner, a wiry old man named Hector who had somehow been there even longer than Ray, watched them from behind the register. He knew their type. Knew what they wanted.
Once upon a time, he had no choice but to lower his head and let them use the prime real estate that was his shop, selling some dope where he sold groceries, bringing whores where children would come buy cheap candies.
It was humiliation, one he would never taste again if he could help it.
"Don't bother," he said as one of them stepped inside. "Ain't no room for you here."
The dealer, a skinny kid with too much confidence and too little experience, grinned. "C'mon, old man. We just wanna do business."
Business. Buy for a dollar, sell for two.
As if they were selling umbrellas and not an elixir capable of ruining your life for a few bucks.
Hector didn't move. "You want business? Buy something. Otherwise, get the fuck out."
The kid's grin faltered.
Behind him, two men stepped out of the backroom—neighborhood watch, armed but quiet, lacking in anger but intimidating like only disappointed middle aged men could be.
Their eyes were dead serious, challenging them to try and reach out for the iron tucked in their pants, charged and just waiting to blast off their own arse if they fell down the wrong way.
The kid hesitated. Then he left, his 'associates' in tow.
It was getting too common for Ray's liking
For a precious few months they would hardly see one or two fools trying to set up shop, and they would be driven out with vengeance.
But it seemed like people were getting greedy again.
Ray was old enough to smell the shit before it truly fell on them, and right now, it was stinking all over the place.
"Bloody Cunts..." He cursed, burning up his cigarette with one breath before sighing a whole cloud at the sky.
It was almost beautiful, in a very cancerogenic way.
"It's just some kids, they'll get scared and stop this nonsense," Matt tried to reassure him like the kind, foolish child he was.
Ray couldn't help but laugh.
"That's not how it works kiddo," His mates who were old enough to know better, and somehow calm enough not to be wheezing, explained to the twenty year old.
Matty boy was too young to remember the last time it happened, the way the circle of life had manifested in Gotham's stinky no good parts, the clusterfuck the rest of the city had long since given up on.
"Do you think kids get dope on their own? Middle schoolers? You had that kind of money, boy?" His old friend Pauli, no relation to the dinner, asked.
The kid couldn't get the opportunity to answer before another old sack of bones jumped on the opportunity to eat some fresh meat, a hobby the older members of the gothamite working class have earned.
"No they don't, but they don't have the balls to refuse easy money when they are offering." He shook his head, scoffing even while knowing that their own colleagues really are no better.
There was no need to say who they were, everyone with more than two functional brain cells could put two and two together.
Matt however, aimed to impress.
"Who?" He asked, brown eyes open wide like someone who has yet to be spat on the face or shanked in an alley because somebody wanted his ten dollars really bad.
The eyes of somebody who didn't belong here.
And that's what made it all the more tragic.
"Everyone, son." Ray told him almost kindly, "Everyone."
. . .
Yo! It's Hamtaro!
For the next little arc, John gonna take a step back from beating up Level 5 crooks and try his hand at whooping level 25 Mobsters. Deal with a kitten or two, try to endure the city's bullshit, develop new powers and eat a couple meta-humans if possible.
Batman's back in town though, so let's hope the Joker's bullshit is enough to keep him off Johnny Boy's case.
Hope you all have a nice day :)