The second Adam realized what this place lacked, his brain sparked like jumper cables on wet pavement.
He didn't stick around to witness Ed's second-round embarrassment. He raced back to the car, yanked open the glove compartment, and pulled out a stack of unlabeled discs—his plan B, C, and D rolled into one.
Back inside the hotel lobby, the desk clerk—an aging man with too much hair in all the wrong places—was half-asleep, watching static dance across the TV screen like snow on broken glass. Adam approached casually, dropped the discs onto the counter, and slid over a cigarette like a man making an offer.
"Hey, buddy," he began, voice low, friendly. "I was in one of your rooms just now, tried the remote—nothing. No channels, no signal. You guys got TVs for decoration or what?"
The clerk didn't even look away from the screen. He plucked the cigarette like it was instinct and grumbled:
"Heh. What fun do you need a TV for? The street outside's full of girls ready to 'entertain' you. Think I don't wanna install cable? Used to be easy—one line, one building. But now that Gotham's under that damn copyright lockdown? Every set needs its own encrypted box."
He jabbed a stubby finger toward a bulky decoder box next to his own TV. "Sixty-eight rooms. One box per TV. Annual subscription fees on top. Do the math. Freakin' racket."
Adam nodded along, sympathetically.
"Right. And with your place being kinda tucked away in the ass-end of Arkham, not having basic cable just makes it worse. No one's sticking around long."
That got a sigh out of the man. He turned away from the TV just long enough to whine:
"You're telling me. I'm scraping by with street girls and nightshift loners. Pimps breathing down my neck, cops sweeping for IDs, and half my clients treating this place like a pit stop. You think I like running a motel that doubles as a brothel-slash-crack den?"
Adam smiled. He had him.
Time to play the card.
"Well," Adam leaned in, tapping the stack of discs on the counter. "What if I told you there's a workaround? One line, one player. Broadcast to every room. No copyright cops sniffing around. Just pure, uncensored… entertainment."
The clerk narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "You messing with me? Even pirated stuff costs money. Burn a stack a day and you'll still go broke."
Adam didn't answer. He just pulled one disc from the pile and slid it into the old DVD player behind the desk.
Thirty seconds later, moans and skin tones filled the screen in glorious low-res.
The clerk's eyes bulged. "Holy hell. Is this—this is unrated?"
"Triple-X, hotel optimized, zero overhead," Adam replied like a man giving a TED Talk. "Your girls? They get paid by the hour. You give the customers a little something-something to 'warm them up' and boom—time doubles, tips increase, everyone's happy. Especially your wallet."
The clerk snorted, letting out a dirty little laugh as he lit the cigarette Adam gave him.
"You know what? You might be onto something. These guys barely last ten minutes. Maybe a little pregame show'll keep 'em on the clock longer."
"So? How many do you want? I can deliver as many as you need."
But as soon as money entered the conversation, the clerk's enthusiasm evaporated. He laughed it off, waved a hand.
"Whoa there, kid. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. These discs? They're bootlegs. Who knows where they came from. If the police sniff this out, I'm the one who gets the shaft."
Adam's eyes narrowed. Here we go.
"You don't know the rules, kid," the clerk continued, puffing smoke. "You don't sell contraband on promises. Leave a few behind. I'll test 'em for ten days. If nothing goes wrong, we'll talk."
He lowered his voice, calm and dangerous. "You can hold the discs, but not without paying. I don't do credit. Don't make me regret showing you this offer."
The clerk rolled his eyes.
"Money, money, money—Jesus. That all you kids care about? What if I report this to the cops, huh? Watch them confiscate the whole batch, see how you like that."
Adam's smile vanished.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out his GCPD badge, and slapped it on the counter.
Then Adam reached under his arm, drew his sidearm, and pressed the cold steel against the clerk's crotch.
"Go on. Report it. Call the Gotham General, the local branch—hell, get Commissioner Loeb on the line. Tell him Officer Adam just showed you porn on DVD. See how that works out." Tʜe sourcᴇ of thɪs content ɪs NoᴠᴇFɪre.nᴇt
The clerk was silent. Shaking.
Adam leaned in, voice cold:
"If I walk out of here and you haven't paid in full? I'm not coming back to talk. I'm coming back to shoot. And you'll be sipping your dinner through a straw."
The clerk's hands trembled as he reached into the register.
"T-Ten bucks a disc. That's fair, right? Sixty bucks a set?"
Adam holstered his weapon, nodding slowly.
"Smart man. As for whether the police'll care that you're showing pirated content? Who knows. But if you don't buy… I'll personally send my unit to inspect this place. Every damn day. Let's see how many girls stick around when you're on Gotham PD's watchlist."
"You—You can't do that… I'm under Captain Foye's jurisdiction. You got no right to step in here—"
Adam's smile returned, this time deadly.
"I don't need jurisdiction. I just need time. And petty spite. I'll have patrol officers show up for 'random inspections' until this place is drier than a nun's diary."
Adam just lit another cigarette, grabbed his stack of DVDs, and dropped six into the drawer like nothing happened.
"Pleasure doing business. Enjoy the show."
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