growing up Gotham

You give yourself a name. You don't, this city gives you one.

I didn't.

Mister Cellophane. That's what they call me.

Yeah. Like the musical. Reporters, they can't think for themselves. Frankly, I'm amazed when those jackasses can even spell the word. Cellophane. With a PH. Not an F.

I never got an F.

Ever.

I was a smart fucking kid. Jumped ahead four grades. I was doing algebra when those other shits were still playing GI Joe in the dirt.

Nine years old, my folks were talking Harvard.

Meanwhile, I was getting my head shoved into toilets. Fights after school. That's what they wrote into my record, "fights." Really, it was five or six other guys laying into me with bats. Sometimes knives.

Once, a broomstick. They didn't hit me with it.

Think about that for a minute.

I'll be thinking about it for the rest of my life.

Yeah, I got to Harvard. I took the classes. For a while.

I went to the parties.

I took a few things. Made me feel good.

Gooooood.

Met a few girls.

Touched a few girls.

One time, a girl flipped her shit. Said later on she didn't want to be touched.

That was bullshit.

She didn't say much of anything that night.

But whatever.

Jail was just like school.

Bats. Knives.

No broomstick.

They didn't need it.

It came to me then, in the infirmary, under that fucking flourescent light.

Why don't they fix that damn thing? Always buzzing. Popping on and off.

Came to me, then. I could just disappear. Like cellophane, I guess.

That's what the reporters wrote, when I escaped. The blimps bathed the river in halogen light, the kind that didn't blink, never buzzed.

Never found me.

I tried to stay up to date on the newspapers after that.

They found one guy in the suburbs, skull crushed with a baseball bat.

Same with his wife. And kids.

Found another guy upstate. He had sixteen knives sticking out of him. 

His wife and kids all died of blood loss.

His mistress was found two days later.

They never found her head.

Third guy they found in a crack house.

They found him with a broomstick. You can probably guess where.

Funny thing? 

I went to school with all three of those guys.

No shit.

Tough luck, huh?

For a while, I worked on the docks. 

Foreman down there, he hires ex-cons.

Good guy.

Except when he drinks.

I learned when he drinks.

I called those times my "vacations."

One day, his vacation became permanent.
They questioned me, but I was in the shitter at the time.
Was it my fault the shitter had a loose chunk of drywall?
Was it my fault the light was out behind the loading platform?
Old bastard probably hit his head. That's all.

I kept up with the papers. As much as I could. 

I kept an ear to the ground.

Shoved a few bills into a few palms, especially at the halfway houses.

Couple parole officers happened to shoot pool where I shot pool.

Got chummy with 'em.

Kicked their asses at nine-ball. They owed me things.

I didn't want their money. Just names. Dates.

When the right names matched the right places, I paid some visits.

I didn't use a broomstick, either.

I cleaned up real good after that. At least I thought I did.

Got promoted to Boss. Then Foreman.

Big guy. Smoke break.
Too many smoke breaks.
Against the rules.
I put out his last cigarette in his eye socket.
I wasn't cruel about it.
He was dead before then.

The old man retired. Now it's me taking in the strays.

Taking in lots of things.

The first time the limousines came by, it was a courtesy call. The old man had just retired.

They brought me cigars. Expensive brandy. They all smelled of tomato sauce.

And heroin.

And then I was in.

Crates came in. Crates went out. Some of the crates didn't make it into the books.

But the envelopes made it into my hands.

Wasn't greedy. I greased up a few of the guys.

One or two wouldn't be greased.

They filed Worker's Comp claims shortly after.

Well, I filed for them.

None of them could speak, or write.

I take care of my guys, you see. Even when they don't take care of themselves.

The alley.
Club empties into the night.
Girls shouldn't go out like that.
They're asking for it.
I gave it to them good.
Then I kept them quiet.
Nobody ever found them.

Things were smooth.

I met a girl.

Black hair. Red lips. Lines like a Coke bottle. Gave as good as she got.

I gave it good.
 
Lot of suits at my wedding. Lots of bills in her bodice during the dance.

I was a made man.

Not all roses. Sometimes the suits came calling. Favors to be done.

I did them.

Every time.

Even that time when I should have been at the hospital.

Fat Tony gave me the news. It was a Boy.

I smiled at that, then shoved the bodies into the trunk.

Good smell. Big trunk.

Big house. My son had a big house to grow up in. His mom had everything she ever wanted.

She was the only person I knew who did.

Fat Tony got greedy.

The other guys got greedy.

Let's be honest, I got greedy.

The Old Man wanted to pull back. Go legit.

His funeral was beautiful.

I still kept up with the papers. They followed the war.

Yeah, a war. What would you call it?

Tony and me, we took care of Jimmy the Fish, Rossi Two-Times, even Hiram the Head.

Fucking Jews. Give 'em a few diamonds, they want to own your ass.

I buried him with a stick of bacon in his suit pocket. Wasn't an open casket anyway. I was a good sport about it. Even threw a shovel of dirt over him.

Back to business.

I ended up with the East Side. Tony got the Docks.

Fuck that shit. I came up in the docks. Those are my people.

I talked to my people. They felt the same.

A wedding came up.  Tony's daughter was gorgeous. She was marrying a fucking milquetoast, but that was Tony's problem.

Tony had a lot of problems.

My boy did the job. He's got his mother's eyes. Little Joey, he did me proud; didn't even leave a mess.

Goodbye, Tony. I gave him a good funeral. Took care of his wife. Set up his girl, and made sure her shithead husband could take care of her.

He didn't. Turned to the bottle.  Beat her up once.

Once.

Tony was business. This was personal. He liked the bottle so much, I broke one over his fucking head.

Tony's girl is single, now.

Can't worry about her. Suddenly, the city is mine.

Shipments. Rackets. Races. Incursions from north and south. Families from Metropolis sniffing around. Old world shit from overseas, too. And those goddamn capes, everywhere.

Barely enough time to take a walk now and then.

Clear my head.
Jogging helped.
I mean, it didn't help the jogger any.
Sure helped me.
I shoved her into a drain pipe. She stayed there for two whole winters.

I kept my nose clean. Hidden. Sometimes, an arm got pinched.  A few guys got sent up the river. I made sure they didn't talk.

New house. Look at this fucking place. The wife is happy. Little Joey toasted me at the party.

Back to business.

Business was good. Shipments every other week, keep it slow. Steady. Don't get greedy.

Keeping the boys happy, by keeping their wives happy.

I go to the weddings. Drop in on the kids' birthday parties. When a cousin gets sick, the hospital bills get paid. I take care of my people, and their people.

So what if I have a good time?

It feels good.

Takes the edge off.

Only the best shit anyway. I can handle it.

She can handle it. She's a tough bitch.

Yeah, so what if Little Joey has to come get me one night? Just once, right? Fuck it, I can buy a new car.

Except Little Joey gives me some lip one night. I take care of that.

Kills me, seeing the blood running down his face like that, but the fucking kid's gotta learn.

He didn't come up like me. He's got to learn.

I give him more responsibilities. You know, to make up for it.

He does me proud.

Lets me set my mind at ease. Gives me time to relax, to get my head in order.

Took one at a truck stop, outside of town.
Took one a few blocks from school, as she walked home.
Took another in the parking lot
at East Pine Mall.
Looked through her bags, but didn't take anything.
It's all Chinese crap anyway.

Yeah, sometimes I take a few things. My doctor's a good man. Gives me what I need when I need it.

She doesn't get it. Fuck that bitch, she never did.

Anyway, I got bigger fish to fry.

Stir-fry, it turns out.

New boys from Hong Kong.

New markets overseas.

City's glittering around me. Room is spinning.

Not feeling myself tonight.

Good thing Joey's here.

Joey's handling the meeting. He arranged everything.

Good boy, my boy. 

It's all arranged. First shipment next week.

Big fucking deal. Down by the docks.

The docks. My people. I hauled crates here.

The ship comes in.

Everybody is set.

Tonight makes my retirement.

Gonna leave all this to Joey. Kid's wife is expecting.

Twins. You believe that shit?

The Chinamen come down the ramp. I feel like kissing my boy, but I don't.

How would that look? Kid's old man, slobbering all over him?

So I walk up to the Chinks.

I stick out my hand. I wonder if this fucking yellow bastard will shake it or sniff it?

Then there's a whistle.

Wind blows over my hand.

Blood. My blood. From my hand. I look at the floor.

It cut my hand as it flew by. It stuck itself into the ground.

It's blinking. Fast.

It looks like a pair of...

...bat wings.

Then there's a bang, and smoke, and gas.

I'm coughing. Trying to cover my face with a silk handkerchief.

While yanking out my .45.

Then my hand is bent backward.

Bones snap.

I'm so fucking high, I don't even feel it.

Then I'm flying. Then I'm laying in the middle of a bunch of shattered crates.

Gunfire. Lots of it. Bullets everywhere.

Then sirens.

Then I'm flying again.

Don't even know I'm upside down yet, and he's got his face in mine.

Asking questions.

Questions he already knows the answers to.

Then he's gone.

I'm alone.

Upside down. Salt air blowing in my ears.

That was the last time I saw the moon.

After that, it was small, grey cells. One after the other. Lawyers that I paid way too much for.

Courtrooms.

Psychiatrists.

I guess the money was well spent.

I've got the room to myself at least.

The bed is soft.

No bars.

Just glass.

Like a fucking aquarium.

Only one visitor.

The doctor is nice.

Nice voice. Nice eyes. Nice ass.

She asks me things. I tell her things.

I smell her things.
She has nice things.

She writes things down.

Then it's back to the aquarium.

Aquarium Asylum.

Or whatever they call it.

Inside the glass.
Like a fish, drowning.

My money is well spent. Every once in a while, a guard drops by, and drops a little something in my cell.

A newspaper clipping (I still keep up).

A cigarette.

A hit of this and that.

A hint of what my boy is up to.

Turns out Little Joey is a big deal.

Special Agent Joseph.

They recruited him in college.

Tracked my money while paying his whole way.

Now I'm in Aquarium Asylum.

And he's chummy with the Attorney General.

Of the United States.

Photo of him in this edition.

Clinking champagne glasses with celebrities, politicians, and the likes of Bill Gates and Bruce Wayne.

Considering a run for the White House.

And here I am, looking into the mirror in my one-bunk hotel room.

Can't see the glass. Can't see myself.

What's a broken mirror between friends
or family?
Familylylyly
Fffffammmmm....
Ffffane....Mister Sell-o-Fayne,
Look right through me, Walk right by me,
And never know I'm there....