He Who Holds the Sugar #49

Nestled right in the glam heart of Gotham's Diamond District, the Iceberg Lounge flaunted itself as the VIP haven. Everyone wanted in, but only the chosen rich and the Penguin's henchmen got the golden ticket. The building's exterior screamed "classy with a touch of eccentricity," a style carefully curated by our dear Oswald Cobblepot. 

The entrance was guarded by two behemoths in black suits, radiating a vibe that practically screamed, "fuck around and find out!" 

Above, a flashy neon sign bathed the entrance in a blue light and boldly declared the joint's name, The Iceberg Lounge.

Taking it all in, I couldn't help but crack a grin. "Talk about exclusive," I muttered, glancing at Rattigan perched on my shoulder. "But you know what, they'd probably roll out the red carpet for royalty like you. What do you think, Your Majesty?" 

Rattigan responded with a chitter that could rival the disdainful chuckle of a tiny king looking down on his subjects. Basically, the cheeky rat said the whole city, Iceberg Lounge included, was beneath his royal sensibilities.

I rolled my eyes at Rattigan's regal display of indifference, his whiskers twitching with an air of royal arrogance. Bracing myself for the judgmental stares from the line, filled with Gotham's self-proclaimed elite, I sauntered up to the guards at the entrance. 

Honestly, who Can really blame the well-dressed folk? Here they were, all pomp and circumstance, waiting patiently, and then in strolls, a hoodie-wearing youngster with jeans and a rat on his shoulder, strutting past like he owned the joint.

The guards, much like the fashionable crowd, weren't thrilled by my bold entrance. One of them peeled away from his post and headed my way. Closing the distance, he loomed over me with an authoritative glare.

"Apologies, dear guest, but your attire doesn't quite match our establishment's dress code. I must request that you leave," he deadpanned, his tone suggesting this was just another routine interruption.

I half-expected a verbal lashing, maybe even an attempt to toss me out on my ear, but I guess this makes sense-- the Penguin was a cautious man and he wouldn't hire a pair of random thugs to guard his club, less they embarrassed him. 

"Well, as luck would have it, I'm not here for the swanky club experience," I quipped with a nonchalant shrug. "I'm on business. If you could be a good sport and direct me to Oswald Cobblepot, I'd owe you one," I tossed in with an exaggerated grin. 

The guard squinted at my request, then dismissed it with a shake of his head."Sorry, dear guest, but you seem to be mistaken. There's no one inside by that name," he declared, maintaining an air of calm certainty.

"Oh, really?" I raised an eyebrow, peering past the guard into the bustling entrance. "Looks like a full house. How can you be so sure Cobblepot's not hiding in there somewhere?" I continued, redirecting my gaze back to the guard, who responded with stoic silence. 

His expression subtly suggested it might be time for me to beat a retreat before his patience wore thin.

Feigning ignorance, I shot him an innocent look. "What's with that look, pal? You got a crush on me or something?" I teased, adding a touch of regret. "I appreciate the sentiment, but sorry, I don't swing that way. Keep your chin up, though. There's surely someone special out there for you," I consoled with a sympathetic headshake, watching a vein throb on the guard's forehead.

With the guard's patience hanging by a thread, he abandoned words for action, making a beeline for my shoulder with the clear intention of ushering me away, muscles flexing and all. Not one to let an opportunity for theatrics slip by, I intercepted his move with a swift wrist-grab, my face a canvas of exaggerated surprise.

"Easy there, Romeo. Like I said, not my swing," I quipped, barely holding back a chuckle as the guard wrestled with the futile task of reclaiming his arm with the most baffled expression a human being could display. 

"Handsome and irresistible as I might be, you can't just waltz around touching folks without a proper invitation! That's harassment 101!" I added with a mock reprimanding tone, enjoying the bafflement etched across the guard's features.

To clarify the situation, my impromptu display of strength wasn't courtesy of a snazzy system upgrade. No, it was all thanks to the sweat and tears shed during my relentless training sessions with Wildcat.

Throw in the nifty healing factor that enhanced my stamina and allowed me to push beyond any limit without fear of injuries, and I discovered this hidden strength during an unsuspecting bench press challenge. Life's full of surprises, and here I am, flexing my unexpected muscles.

Accepting the harsh reality that his burly arm wasn't escaping the grip of a scrawny youngster a whole foot shorter, the guard finally threw in the towel. 

With an exasperated sigh, he reached behind his back, sparking my curiosity – was it going to be a knife, a gun, pepper spray, a rape whistle, or maybe a confetti cannon? 

The suspense was killing me, but my hopes for a grand reveal were dashed as another one of Penguin's brawny goons came marching over, looking equally dapper.

"Hold up!" he barked, firmly placing a hand on his comrade's shoulder. The first guard shot him a bewildered look, but he abandoned the retrieval mission under the newcomer's stern gaze. 

The second guard then turned his gaze from his buddy to me, delivering a stoic line, "Mr. Cobblepot has asked me to take you to him." I promptly released the first guard's arm, enjoying the sight of him rubbing his wrist in disbelief.

"Well, what are we waiting for then? Lead the way, my good man," I chimed in with an impish grin. 

The second guard nodded silently, signaling for me to follow as he led the way to the entrance. Glancing back at the line of supposed elites, I couldn't resist taunting them with a smug grin. 

"Catch you on the flip side, losers. Enjoy the chilly sidewalk," I sneered before trailing the guard, blissfully ignoring the symphony of insults and threats hurled my way by the disgruntled douchecanoes.

Weaving through the expansive interior of the Iceberg Lounge, it dawned on me that the place was a lot roomier than it let on from the outside.

Much like the building's conspicuous façade, the décor within was as lavish as a billionaire's fantasy, and the joint buzzed with activity – gamblers, revelers, and, of course, those huddled in secluded corners engaging in discussions that undoubtedly spelled shady business.

After a few minutes of maneuvering through the crowd, we finally arrived at the Penguin's lair. The security guard halted at the door, turning to me. "Mr. Cobblepot is already expecting you. Please, go inside," he said, gesturing toward the entrance.

"Cheers, buddy. Here's a little something for your troubles," I remarked, slipping a crumpled dollar bill into his jacket pocket and giving his shoulder a solid pat. The guard shot me a blank expression, though the subtle irritation simmered in his eyes. 

"Don't spend it all in one place, now," I said, chuckling as I pushed open the door to the Penguin's office and strolled in.

Glancing into the room, I instantly locked eyes on the Penguin, and his presence alone triggered a grin of amusement. There he was, standing like some Gotham kingpin in front of a grand window that showcased the mayhem of the Iceberg Lounge below. 

Classic Penguin move. 

I'd bet my favorite pair of sneakers that he deliberately chose this office setup to relish in looking down on the supposed Gotham elite, even if it did make getting to his office feel like navigating a maze. Then again, maybe it served as a fortress of solitude. 

Dismissing these musings, I sauntered over to stand beside the Penguin, resolute in not letting him steer the conversation.

"Nice view you've got, Mr. Cobblepot... all those big shots crammed together, like a bunch of ants in a picnic basket..." I quipped, arching an eyebrow. 

The Penguin shot me a quizzical look and shook his head. "Ironically, they're not all that different from ants," he pondered, eyes still glued to the animated crowd below. "Sprinkle a bit of sugar, and you'll have a whole swarm of'em lining up for a taste..." he added, redirecting his gaze my way.

Without missing a beat, I gestured toward the window. "Guess that makes you the ant king, right? The one holding the sugar?" I quipped, a playful glint in my eye. 

The Penguin shot me a sidelong glance, a hint of amusement softening his usually stern expression. "Call it what you will, Mr. Foster..." He said, trailing at the end of his sentence. "Now tell me, what brings an 'off-worlder' like you to my humble abode?" 

...

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