Bane

October 31, 1993

The Lockdown was one-hundred percent defensible, and staffed by some of the deadliest people the world would never know.

If only his son were by his side to rule this seedy underworld.

✟ ☧ ✟

3:33 AM

To say Gerald sat in his office, counting the absurd sum of wealth collected over the course of the week would be an absence of truth; Gerald woke in his office, showered in the dressing room shower, and washed his laundry in the housekeeping facilities.

He spent less time at home these days than he did running The Lockdown, and without any of the benefits afforded to workaholic club managers I'm his industry. He did not drink, or partake in any particular narcotics (not even aspirin for a headache); he didn't sleep with the merchandise - the dancers - and the money meant nothing. Meanwhile his "retirement" pittered along collecting arcane shards of infernal glass from the girls' prey.

The club was literally making a killing off whatever stray conjurers, or monsters walked in under the pretense of humanity. It was a service to the order, but somehow still a slap in the face.

Gerald yawned, stretched, and stood up, leaving the carefully stacked money to crowd his desk as he left his office, and made his way down the wrought iron spiral staircase.

The club was quiet still, empty, and would not open for another hour and a half. These were cherished times anymore. No grinding music bouncing off the concrete floors, or walls; no bickering dancers - because for some reason, dancers seemed to enjoy bickering - and no DJ reminding patrons to tip when they sat at the tip rail (that's why it's called a tip rail).

There was heavy pounding at the front door. Gerald Dean ignored it, at least until the heavy pounding began to sound more like heavy thunder. The front door, the fire exits, and the back door were all very strong, very thick vault doors.

Gerald hurried toward the entrance, and the pounding stopped. Gerald approached, one light slow step after the next.

No dagger on his hip. The shotgun was in the office.

The heavy steel door shook with another rhythmic assault. This time, Gerald could see convex dents the size of fists appearing every time the door shook.

Son of a bitch. It's him. "Son of a bitch. It's him."

Gerald turned on the heel of his dress shoes. They cost more than a mid-sized sedan. The pounding stopped for a moment, and so Gerald did as well. There was one more loud, groaning sound as the door shook of its hinges, metal tearing away from metal, the steel door frame, tungsten bolts stripped away from the hinges, tearing pieces of the door frame along with it. The door crashed into the concrete wall from across the doorway, bent it on itself, sliding down the concrete in a small shower of sparks.

Gerald ran as the silhouette stepped into the hallway through the doorway. Through the swirling motes of dust, concrete, and rust, Gerald saw his eyes, the fabled green eyes.

Fabled no more.

Gerald broke into a sprint, and the monsters was quickly behind him. Gerald dodged left, and right, weaving between bar tables, pulling chairs down behind him as he passed.

He reached the wrought iron stairwell, ascending as quickly as he could. He reached the top, stating down the spiraling metal steps. Bane moved toward the staircase, and stepped back.

Bane stared up at the second floor, staring Gerald in the eyes.

Gerald laughed. "You're too big?"