Mark Wooden brings Gotham City into his Birds of Prey fanfiction as the crime boss Gamble confronts his rival the Chechen.
Want to read from the beginning? CLICK HERE!
Gamble slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand for what was probably the twentieth time. His driver looked back at him through the sedan’s rearview mirror.
“You don’t have to go there, boss,” the driver said.
“The hell I don’t!” Gamble declared. “Motherfucker walks up into my church, gonna tell my people I’m a no-good criminal?”
Gamble palmed his first for the twenty-first time.
“The Chechen says he wants fireworks in Crime Alley? Oh yeah, there’s gonna be some motherfucking fireworks!”
“But, boss,” the driver began.
“What? I am a no-good criminal?” Gamble challenged.
Maurice, his driver, grew up in the Game with Gamble. He knew what Gamble was, and how he’d gotten to where he was now.
Knowing Maurice, he wouldn’t throw this in Gamble’s face — which made Gamble laugh.
“I was a no-good criminal,” Gamble said. “But that was the past. We may still sling weed, but that shit oughta be legal anyway. Numbers, the gambling, the loansharking… that shit doesn’t hurt the community.”
Gamble adjusted himself in his seat, taking a more aggressive stance.
“Now this asshole Chechen,” Gamble continued. “He and the other gangs been wanting to get into our turf and destroy it like Chicago. That ain’t happening. Not on my watch.”
“I heard that,” Maurice said.
Gamble and Maurice had grown up on Chicago’s South Side before coming to Gotham University on football scholarships.
They’d both seen how drugs and crime — most of it imported from neighboring states with less strict laws — could destroy their community.
When the men set up operations here in Gotham, they started small, working numbers in Cherry Hill. They expanded into weed, gambling, and loan sharking throughout the lower middle-class parts of the city.
They wisely kept out of the way of bigger crime families like the Falcones — before Batman took them to the woodshed, anyway.
Once they’d achieved a level of status as bosses in Gotham, they promised each other to protect the black community. Whatever happened outside of that was the other communities’ problems.
The men rode the rest of the way in silence.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived with their two other sedans at a stretch of derelict and abandoned buildings.
Twenty years ago, the area was called Park Row. This block housed small, local businesses, a thriving community.
Now boards covered the buildings left behind as the rest of the city expanded and modernized under the Wayne influence.
This area, where young Bruce Wayne lost his parents just over two decades ago, remained in the past like the dead Wayne parents.
Now, this was Crime Alley.
Four of Gamble’s men took up security positions. Once they determined the safety of the area (at least, as safe as it got), Gamble, Maurice, and two other men entered a derelict hardware store.
Moving through the store, they gagged at the smell. The stench led to two piles of burning materials in the back of the store.
The Chechen and his lieutenant Abram sat on piles of incomplete crates near the flames. Both men wore building contractor masks that helped filter the noxious smell.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Gamble asked, his arm covering his mouth and nose as he recoiled from the fumes.
The Chechen pointed above him. Off Gamble’s suspicious look, the Chechen said, his voice muffled by his mask, “Or we can stay here and overdose on weed and cocaine.”
Maurice nudged Gamble’s shoulder, motioned for them to go up. Gamble didn’t like it but nodded anyway.
Anything was better than the smell here.
Gamble signaled his consent to the Chechen. The mobster clapped his hands in excitement, then stood. He led the way to a flight of rickety stairs leading to the roof.
Two others of the Chechen’s men were already on the roof. One man held the leashes of the Chechen’s three ever-present Dobermans.
Gamble and his men eyed the dogs wearily.
The Chechen and Abram removed their masks.
Motioning to the dogs, the Chechen said, “They will not bite.” Petting one of the fearsome- looking dogs, he added, “Unless I tell them to. But you wouldn’t think of giving me a reason to tell them to, would you, Gamble?”
Gamble marched on the Chechen. “You came into my church, talking mad shit about me,” he said. “And you gonna threaten me with your motherfucking dogs? I oughta feed you to them!”
“But first,” the Chechen began, “let me tell you about the fires down below.”
Gamble inhaled deeply and rolled his shoulders back to put his anger in check. The Chechen pulled out a stub of a cigar, lit it.
“One burning pile was cocaine we collected from your upscale corner boys who run the Upper East Side,” the Chechen said between puffs. “The weed is from your stash here in Crime Alley.”
Maurice stepped up next to Gamble. “How the hell you even know about that?” he asked.
“He’s bluffing,” Gamble said.
The Chechen acted surprised. “Am I? Best check with your man Tyler. If you can find him.”
Gamble tensed. He looked at Maurice, who leaned to Gamble for a private moment. “Tyler ain’t been around for a few days,” he whispered.
Armed with this knowledge, Gamble glared at the Chechen. “What the hell do you want?”
The tension between Gamble and the Chechen rises. Maybe a couple of Gotham vigilantes can chill things out? Find out in the next chapter!
While writing this fanfiction, I used Green Ronin’s Mutants and Masterminds, 3rd Edition RPG, to leave some things to chance. Check it out!
Like this Birds of Prey fanfiction? Check out Mark’s original “Shadowdance” saga books!
