The moment Harvey called him Penguin, Cobblepot's expression darkened. That nickname was one of his greatest taboos. Two things set him off instantly—insults about his mother, and anyone daring to mock his appearance by calling him Penguin.
After all, Oswald Cobblepot was short, round, and walked with a limp due to congenital deformities, his waddle resembling the very bird he hated being compared to.
"Watch your tongue, young man," Cobblepot's voice was cold, his sharp gaze locking on Harvey Dent like a predator sizing up its prey. Despite his anger, his tone retained a veneer of civility. "I am here as a legitimate businessman, the last scion of the honorable Cobblepot family. You would do well to mind your words. And as for this little crusade of yours—" He smirked. "Do you really think you can ban alcohol in Gotham? In this day and age?"
Harvey didn't flinch. He straightened, his tone firm, lawyer-like, and just a little biting.
"It's not a total ban, Cobblepot. The goal is targeted regulation. Criminals with records and alcoholics prone to violence will be blacklisted. Gotham's local wineries will still thrive, but we will cut off the flood of imports that fuel this city's criminal underbelly. It's nothing like the blanket ban of the 1920s. This is smarter. Fairer. And it will change the spirit of Gotham for the better."
Penguin only sneered, the corners of his beak-like nose wrinkling. The smugness in his expression was enough to make Harvey's blood boil.
"Listen to me," Harvey said sharply, his patience snapping. "This isn't just about alcohol. Next, I'll propose a gun control bill, followed by stricter anti-drug policies, and I'll push for a gambling ban. Mark my words, Cobblepot—one day, I'll see you and all the leeches corrupting Gotham behind bars. You won't get the chance to interfere in the alcohol business or anything else."
"Do you know how hard it used to be to get an investigation warrant against your Iceberg Club? Forty-six procedural steps. Once this law passes, that number drops to six. I'll be watching you, Penguin."
Cobblepot's smirk widened into a sly grin. He didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he gave Harvey a mocking little shrug and turned toward the exit.
"Then I look forward to the show, young man. Maybe when you run for mayor, I'll even give you a vote."
His umbrella tapped lightly against the polished floor as he walked out, his steps slow and deliberate.
Harvey watched his back, a strange unease settling over him. Something about that man always felt… wrong. He rubbed his temple, wondering why he'd been so on edge lately. Was it the lack of sleep? Or was there something deeper he wasn't seeing?
Outside, Cobblepot's personal driver, Ogilvy, waited dutifully with a black umbrella—his signature symbol.
As a boy, his mother insisted he always carry one, no matter the weather. Even when her mind began to crumble and she forgot almost everything, she would still repeat the same words: "Take your umbrella, Oswald." To keep her happy, he never abandoned the habit. It had become his trademark.
"Boss Cobblepot, that guy was way too cocky just now," Ogilvy muttered as he opened the car door. "Should we… take him down? A little Iceberg Club hospitality?"
Cobblepot slid into the back seat, chuckling darkly.
"What nonsense. The Iceberg Club isn't for everyone, boy. Only rats and traitors get fed to the fish. Harvey Dent? No, he's off-limits for now."
Beneath the Iceberg Club's shimmering facade was an artificial saltwater pool—a private feeding ground for Cobblepot's prized great white shark. It wasn't just for intimidation; it was a brutal reminder of what happened to those who crossed him.
Ogilvy frowned. "Boss, Dent's making waves. Free legal aid for the poor, refusing bribes, taking down crime cases like some kind of hero… If he passes this alcohol ban, our club will bleed money. No booze means no high rollers, and no casino traffic."
Cobblepot puffed on a cigar, the smoke curling around his round face like a dark halo. After a long, contemplative drag, he let out a sharp laugh.
"Hahaha… Kid, you're worried about the wrong thing. The new alcohol prohibition? I'm not scared of it." He leaned forward, eyes glinting with cunning. "I engineered it."
Ogilvy's jaw dropped. "You… what? You pushed for this ban? But… why? This will kill the club's revenue—"
Cobblepot waved his hand lazily, cutting him off.
"Think bigger, boy. Do you know why I own Gotham's smuggling routes? Why I'll crush Black Mask one day? It's not because I make pennies selling overpriced cocktails. It's because I know this city. Prohibition is the golden ticket."
He smirked, his voice low and sharp.
"The more you ban something, the more people want it. When the tap runs dry, Gotham's hundreds of drunks won't stop drinking, they'll just come to me. I'll control the black market. My smuggling empire will explode overnight."
The car drove slowly through the icy streets, the neon signs of Gotham's underworld reflected in Cobblepot's sharp eyes.
"The drug trade? Black Mask owns that. But if I monopolize illegal alcohol, my profits will skyrocket, and my routes will double in value. Dent thinks he's the hero? He's just another pawn on my board."
Ogilvy swallowed hard. He'd known his boss was cunning, but this was something else entirely.
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