In The Bleak Frozen Shadows of the Winter of Our Discontent
Ah, Gotham. The city so nice they named it...well, once. One and a half, Clark Kent figures, if you count that it's in Gotham County. Trust this city to be too good for a darn nickname. That was the secret truth behind Gotham City; the whole place was fascinated with its own bad reputation, to the point where Clark could see the rich trying to be a little more heartlessly decadent, the poor worked relentlessly on showing how calloused their souls were...it's like they'd be embarrassed if an outsider caught them breaking character. Heck, that's exactly what it is; Clark had just seen a pair of toughs looming menacingly over the homeless litter of kittens they were giving a warm blanket for the night, as though they were guarding some fell cargo to further the machinations of whatever crime boss has managed to be on top for the moment, and an older woman silently leave a brown paper bag out on her windowsill. The window's barred, and if the punks came up to it the old lady's pop out with a shotgun, but they'll discretely sneak the hot lunch away, just like they do every week, all three people never acknowledging the basic human kindness they're showing. No wonder Bruce can never turn it off, Clark reflects, resisting the urge to sigh. He's not here to wax maudlin, as much as the writer in him wants to, he's here to work. "And this looks like a job..."
Clark finishes pressing the false goatee to his chin, smiling a little and waggling his eyebrows. "For Cilantro Kestival..." he snaps his fingers, leaning back a little, "...licensed caterer!(Aw yeah.)"
Falling out of character for a second, Clark adjusts the jeff cap he's wearing and frowns. He really wishes he had time for brown colored contacts, but the cheap ones melt when he glares hard. Still, everything's okay, Clark thinks to himself, cracking his knuckles and looking seriously at the mirror. Okay. Time to find out what's what. Besides, his shift starts in five.
And that's the story of how Cilantro Kestival, licensed caterer, came to help the belabored staff out at Tamika Goyowitz's Eight Crazy Nights benefit. The fresh-out-of-debutantdom woman had gone the extra mile, Cilantro noticed as he carefully appeared to be haphazardly carrying a plate full of rum-and-matza balls, with a pair of paper mache statues of the brothers credited with making the eight night stand on the original festival of lights, and at least a dozen hidden menorahs for sharp-eyed guests to find. Say what you want about Gotham, they know how to throw a party; and the best place to get information, when you've got a pair of super-ears and years of experience at playing the fly on the wall, is a society party where no one's going to notice you snooping around.
Clark finishes pressing the false goatee to his chin, smiling a little and waggling his eyebrows. "For Cilantro Kestival..." he snaps his fingers, leaning back a little, "...licensed caterer!(Aw yeah.)"
Falling out of character for a second, Clark adjusts the jeff cap he's wearing and frowns. He really wishes he had time for brown colored contacts, but the cheap ones melt when he glares hard. Still, everything's okay, Clark thinks to himself, cracking his knuckles and looking seriously at the mirror. Okay. Time to find out what's what. Besides, his shift starts in five.
And that's the story of how Cilantro Kestival, licensed caterer, came to help the belabored staff out at Tamika Goyowitz's Eight Crazy Nights benefit. The fresh-out-of-debutantdom woman had gone the extra mile, Cilantro noticed as he carefully appeared to be haphazardly carrying a plate full of rum-and-matza balls, with a pair of paper mache statues of the brothers credited with making the eight night stand on the original festival of lights, and at least a dozen hidden menorahs for sharp-eyed guests to find. Say what you want about Gotham, they know how to throw a party; and the best place to get information, when you've got a pair of super-ears and years of experience at playing the fly on the wall, is a society party where no one's going to notice you snooping around.