The Goddamned Batwoman
Rupert Thorne hates these stupid interruptions. When one of the Batpeople gets lucky and manages to catch him in a bad spot. It's never anything permanent, never anything he can't slick his way out of by greasing the right palm somewhere in the chain of command. Unfortunately, Gotham City has had a relapse of that unpleasant disease called 'an incorruptible D.A.' Everyone has his price, and it's only a matter of time before Hudson's is found.
But the Batwoman fiasco is all water under the bridge, now, and Thorne has resumed control of his criminal empire as a free man for quite some time now. There are always a few stumbling blocks once you get out of the system and back into the life - some punk who thinks it's time to make his big play, a few morons who listen to that kind of talk - but they're usually not too hard to clean out. It's just dusting off the operation, getting rid of the excess build-up, and get back down to the polished shine it used to have. He treates his men well enough to ensure he'll get some loyalty when a problem like this flares up.
Now, he's ending the evening in his preferred manner - a glass of cognac, a good cigar, and that velvet smokers jacket he likes so much. It belonged to his father. They've both made good use of it. His feet are up on the table, and he's gazing out at Gotham through the magnificent view from his penthouse.
This time, no ill-advised dealings with the freaks of the industry. Business as usual. As it SHOULD be.
But the Batwoman fiasco is all water under the bridge, now, and Thorne has resumed control of his criminal empire as a free man for quite some time now. There are always a few stumbling blocks once you get out of the system and back into the life - some punk who thinks it's time to make his big play, a few morons who listen to that kind of talk - but they're usually not too hard to clean out. It's just dusting off the operation, getting rid of the excess build-up, and get back down to the polished shine it used to have. He treates his men well enough to ensure he'll get some loyalty when a problem like this flares up.
Now, he's ending the evening in his preferred manner - a glass of cognac, a good cigar, and that velvet smokers jacket he likes so much. It belonged to his father. They've both made good use of it. His feet are up on the table, and he's gazing out at Gotham through the magnificent view from his penthouse.
This time, no ill-advised dealings with the freaks of the industry. Business as usual. As it SHOULD be.