"In 20 seconds, they will begin to receive phone calls from their friends, their partners and their loved ones detailing the horrifying fiery destruction of all their front businesses. No one will be harmed, but whether or not that tenet remains depends entirely on the decisions these gentlemen make before the minute is up."
"Yo, man, what?!" comes the posturing, like clockwork. "Don't you NEVER try to threaten a motherfucker like me! I will bust so many caps in your ass you'll use your cock for a pencil!"
"This is bullshit, you ugly-ass freak!"
And so on.
Until their phones begin to light up. The room freezes over.
"All you pithy degenerates have to do to prevent your families and your organizations from being reduced to ash, in the same way this corpulent slug you're trying to get into bed with has done to so many other people in his decades of death, is to step back from the table, forget anything he's told you, and spread the word that Rupert Thorne is a pariah in Gotham City. He's ratted to the cops and his word isn't worth the breath he takes to spit it out. There is no more Rupert Thorne."
His face is cold as stone, and his eyes don't leave Thorne's.
"I believe you can muster enough cognitive capacity between the lot of you to do as your told."
Slick doesn't waste any time. His troops are rounded up and he's immediately bee-lining towards the door.
Joey spends a few seconds giving Two-Face an angry look, grunting in annoyance at what he's been forced to do - or rather, that he was forced to do anything. But his crew heads toward another door.
Big Sal looks utterly defeated.
"They got my mother, Rupert..." he says, apologetically. "My 95-year-old sainted mother... she can't go out like this.. she just can't..."
Footsteps echo through the drafty warehouse.
"Disrespect?" comes the D.A.'s voice.
"Thorne doesn't know the meaning of the word."
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Thorne raises a hand to keep them in check.
He doesn't like the sound of that voice.
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He's not flipping a coin.
His hands are clasped behind his back as he walks out of the shadows.
Those faces are unmistakable.
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"I see Arkham gave you the treatment you deserved."
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"And I left them a dead clown as a parting gift."
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Nervous looks.
He killed the JOKER?
Thorne doesn't like the credibility that assertion gives him with these idiots he's trying to control.
"Give me a reason not to let these men add another stiff to the freak pyre."
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A glance at his watch.
"In 20 seconds, they will begin to receive phone calls from their friends, their partners and their loved ones detailing the horrifying fiery destruction of all their front businesses. No one will be harmed, but whether or not that tenet remains depends entirely on the decisions these gentlemen make before the minute is up."
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"This is bullshit, you ugly-ass freak!"
And so on.
Until their phones begin to light up. The room freezes over.
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"All you pithy degenerates have to do to prevent your families and your organizations from being reduced to ash, in the same way this corpulent slug you're trying to get into bed with has done to so many other people in his decades of death, is to step back from the table, forget anything he's told you, and spread the word that Rupert Thorne is a pariah in Gotham City. He's ratted to the cops and his word isn't worth the breath he takes to spit it out. There is no more Rupert Thorne."
His face is cold as stone, and his eyes don't leave Thorne's.
"I believe you can muster enough cognitive capacity between the lot of you to do as your told."
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Joey spends a few seconds giving Two-Face an angry look, grunting in annoyance at what he's been forced to do - or rather, that he was forced to do anything. But his crew heads toward another door.
Big Sal looks utterly defeated.
"They got my mother, Rupert..." he says, apologetically. "My 95-year-old sainted mother... she can't go out like this.. she just can't..."
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"Now that is the meaning of disrespect."
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